GIFT OF 
 Ella Sterling 
 
APRIL , 
 WJANC1SCO, CALIF, 
 
" MARROK, SAID THE LADY, IT is YOU IN SOOTH? " 
 
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmUmmmun 
 
 ST NICHOLAS BGDKS 
 
 S1IR MARROK 
 
 A TALE OF THE 
 DAYS OF 
 
 ARTHURS 
 
 ALLEN FRENCH 
 
 NEWYORK-THECENTURYCO M.CMII 
 
 
.Copyright, 1902, by* " 
 
 Published October, 1902 
 
 GIFT OP 
 
 
 
 
 THE DEVINNE PRESS 
 
//O 
 
 IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF 
 FREDERICK WILLIAM FRENCH 
 
Note on the diction of "Sir MarroJc." 
 u Thee" and "you" are used inter 
 changeably in the singular, follow 
 ing the example of Malory, a sin 
 gle sentence in whose "Morte d j Ar 
 thur" suggested this story, except 
 that for euphony "you " is occasion 
 ally employed in the nominative, as 
 well as in the dative and accusative 
 cases, rather than Malory s "ye." 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 i How MARROK WAS CHOSEN FOR A 
 
 GREAT TASK 3 
 
 ii How MARROK JOURNEYED TO BEDE- 
 
 GRAINE 14 
 
 in OF THE BEGINNING OF MARROK S 
 
 TASK 23 
 
 iv How THE LAND OF BEDEGRAINE 
 
 WAS CLEANSED 32 
 
 v OF THE HONOR WHICH WAS GIVEN 
 MARROK AT THE COURT OF THE 
 KING, AND OF DIVERS OTHER 
 MATTERS 38 
 
 vi How MARROK WAS SUMMONED BY 
 
 AN HERALD 49 
 
 vn How AGATHA THE NURSE ADVISED 
 MARROK, AND OF WHAT THE 
 KNIGHT DID . 63 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 vni OF THE DEPARTURE or MARROK 
 
 TO THE WAR 75 
 
 ix HOAV IT FARED IN BEDEGRAINE 
 
 WITH MARROK AWAY .... 81 
 
 x YET MORE OF WHAT HAPPENED IN 
 BEDEGRAINE IN MARROK S AB 
 SENCE 93 
 
 xi WHETHER SIR KOGER OR THE 
 LADY BROKE THE OATH WHICH 
 THEY SWARE TO SIR MARROK . 101 
 
 xn OF MARROK S KETURN, AND OF THE 
 
 MAGIC OF THE LADY IRMA . . 108 
 
 xin WHAT MARROK FOUND IN BEDE 
 GRAINE 117 
 
 xiv How THE GREAT OPPORTUNITY 
 
 CAME TO MARROK 123 
 
 xv OF MARROK AND THE WOLVES, AND 
 
 OF OTHER MATTERS 136 
 
 xvi How THE DOINGS OF THE WOLF 
 
 CAME TO THE EARS OF IRMA . 144 
 
 xvn THE STORY OF ANDRED, WHO WAS 
 
 TAKEN BY THE EOBBERS . . . 150 
 
 xvin THE STORY OF THE SWINEHERD 
 
 BLAISE. . 157 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIX OF NORRIS THE MONK, AND HOW 
 
 HE WAS SENT INTO THE FOREST, 
 AND WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM 
 THERE 1. . . . 1G8 
 
 xx How WAT, THE SON OF WAT, TRIED 
 
 TO TRAP THE GREAT WOLF . . 182 
 
 xxi THE STORY OF THE SON OF SIR 
 SlMON, AND OF THE QUESTING- 
 BEAST 192 
 
 xxn How BENNET AND FATHER JOHN 
 WERE DRIVEN FROM THEIR 
 HOMES 206 
 
 xxin How ANSELM FELL SICK UNTO 
 DEATH, AND WHO BECAME AB 
 BOT IN HIS STEAD 216 
 
 xxiv THE HUNTING OF SIR MARROK . 228 
 
 XXV HOW SIR ROGER OF THE KOCK 
 
 QUIT HIM OF SIR MORCAR . . 240 
 
 xxvi OF HUGH, WHO WOULD HAVE SLAIN 
 
 THE WOLF, AND OF AGATHA THE 
 
 NURSE 255 
 
 xxvii OF THE STRANGER KNIGHT WHO 
 CAME FROM THE NORTH, WHICH 
 BRINGETH AN END TO THIS 
 TALE . 263 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "Marrok," said the lady, "it is yon in 
 
 sooth?" Frontispiece 
 
 Sir Marrok receives the herald of the king 53 
 
 But there, as he turned to the altar, stood 
 
 a great gray wolf and looked at them 211 
 
 The wolf spread the letter out, and stood 
 with wrinkled forehead, scanning the 
 lines 221 
 
 Hugh was hurled into the depths . . . 259 
 
 Marrok turned to his son, dropped his 
 
 sword, and held out his arms . . .277 
 
 xiii 
 
SIR MARROK 
 
SIR MARROK 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 HOW MARROK WAS CHOSEN FOR A 
 GREAT TASK 
 
 As Uther sat within his hall 
 And looked around upon his men, 
 
 He chose the youngest of them all 
 To cleanse the land of Bedegraine. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 THIS is the story of Sir Marrols, known 
 as well as we *caii V k n6*w it from the 
 Lay of Sir Marrok^ -Which 1 * i ?knft ; -e^rly 
 English times has come down to us in 
 fragments. Older than the Lay was the 
 Chronicle of Sir Marrok, written by 
 the Abbot John, and read only by the 
 clerkly. But the unlettered people learned 
 the story from the mouths of minstrels 
 singing the Lay; and all we know of it is 
 3 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 also from the Lay, for the Chronicle is 
 lost. Such of the story as has come 
 down to us, with many gaps and breaks, 
 is written here. 
 
 In the old, old days, when the religion 
 of the gentle Christ was still young in the 
 land of Britain, and the love of God had 
 not everywhere come to the hearts of men, 
 there lived and ruled in England the noble 
 Uther Pendragon. A wise king was he 
 in his generation, ruling by right as well 
 as might, and gathering about him that 
 body of true knights who were called the 
 company of the Table Hound, whose oath 
 was to do justly and to succor the op 
 pressed. All have read how, in the days 
 of. Art (ii>r, the Round Table set example 
 to all the world of chivalry and prowess. 
 Yet it was Uther who first assembled the 
 noble company, meaning with its help to 
 redeem the fair kingdom from the sad 
 barbarism which had existed before his 
 day. Far and wide, to the extent of his 
 power, did Uther right the wronged and 
 4 
 
Marrok is Chosen for a Great Task 
 
 set the land in order. Yet Britain was 
 great, and in its many remote places still 
 flourished the old wrong-doing. And of 
 all the canker-spots that disgraced his 
 realm, Bedegraine was the worst. 
 
 For the land of Bedegraine, fair and 
 fertile, held that great forest which in the 
 days of Uther was called the Forest of 
 Bedegraine, but in later days was named 
 the Forest of Sherwood. And that great 
 wood of oak and beech was as a strong 
 hold in which wrong-doers were safe. 
 Large were the trees and beautiful the 
 glades, and lovely as cathedrals, not 
 built by men, were the aisles of the pri 
 meval forest. Through it ran, from south 
 to north, the ancient Roman road, turf- 
 grown yet broad and unencumbered, a 
 highway still from London to the realm 
 of Scotland. Men might have lived in 
 Bedegraine in peace, and trade have sent 
 her trains of merchants through the forest. 
 Yet in the unknown fastnesses of the 
 wood lurked robbers, and preyed upon 
 5 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 the country round about. There lived 
 beasts: wolves in packs, a menace to all 
 solitary travelers; and boars in herds, 
 which, issuing from the forest in the 
 night, laid waste the fields of the peas 
 ants. Only those who could fence 
 strong!} 7 might subsist upon a farm; only 
 those who were well armed could brave 
 the wolves alone; while neither fences 
 nor arms could check the robbers as they 
 assaulted merchant trains or burned and 
 wasted the homesteads of the peasants. 
 
 Hard was the lot of the man who, 
 peaceable and steady, wished but to 
 bring up his family in peace. For the 
 boars rooted in his fields; the wolves 
 killed his cattle when they strayed; and 
 the robbers, if in their raids they did not 
 burn his house, at least took the wheat 
 that would have fed his family. So, half 
 starved, the children grew to stunted 
 manhood, haggard women worked within 
 houses which were but huts, and fearsome 
 men toiled by day in the fields, or tightly 
 6 
 
Marrok is Chosen for a Great Task 
 
 barred the door at night. Bedegraine 
 was like a fertile land laid waste. True 
 religion was not there, for Druid priests, 
 strange men whom even the robbers held 
 in awe, alone held rites within Bedegraine, 
 and at the great stone ring within the 
 forest, upon their rugged altar, made 
 sacrifice. And witches and warlocks, un 
 holy people, worked ill on all the country 
 side. Peace was not in Bedegraine, nor 
 any content; while deeds of violence made 
 the forest, and the open land that fringed 
 it, a place to be avoided. 
 
 Only one man in Bedegraine strove to 
 do justly and to live uprightly: Sir Simon 
 of the Lea, ancestor of that gentle knight 
 Sir Richard of the Lea, of whom we read 
 in the Lay of Robin Hood. Sir Simon 
 lived in his wooden grange, which stood 
 upon a knoll almost within the shadow of 
 the forest; and round about him were the 
 glebes of his peasants, and their houses, 
 the best in Bedegraine. For the strong 
 hand of Sir Simon, no longer young 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 though the knight was, kept at some dis 
 tance the robbers, and in greater peace 
 than elsewhere men might till their fields 
 and reap their crops. And Sir Simon, 
 with his two young daughters and his 
 son, lived almost in -quiet until that rob 
 ber raid which begins this story. 
 
 For in one dreadful night uproar and 
 alarm roused the knight from his bed, 
 and from the upper windows of his grange 
 he beheld the burning houses of his peas 
 ants, while from the barns the robbers 
 were gathering the stores into carts, and 
 were collecting the cattle together to 
 drive into the forest. And when Sir 
 Simon, in wrath and haste, armed his 
 retainers and sallied forth against the 
 robbers, they turned upon him, and soon 
 with arrows slew the foremost of his men, 
 and drove him back again within the 
 grange. Nay, they even threatened to 
 burn with fire the wooden house, and only 
 when day came departed to the forest. 
 And when the bright sun was high, Sir 
 8 
 
Mar r ok is Chosen for a Great Task 
 
 Simon looked upon farms laid waste, 
 with many buildings, burned; then, when 
 one by one his vassals crept from their 
 hiding-places, and the knight gathered 
 them all at the grange, twelve there were 
 who answered not to the call of their 
 names. 
 
 Sir Simon was in despair, and he said 
 to himself: "Truly the outlaws are 
 stronger than I. More and more nu 
 merous grow they every year. How can I 
 longer protect my people, or save even 
 this corner of Bedegraine from misery?" 
 Then, as he cast about in his mind for a 
 means of succor, a thought came to him, 
 and he said: "I will beg help from the 
 king." 
 
 So Sir Simon called his daughter, who 
 had some clerkly knowledge, and bade 
 her write the words he spoke. He sent 
 the letter to Uther by a trusty messenger, 
 and the parchment was delivered to Uther 
 in his hall. The king sat on the dais, 
 before him his knights in their order, and 
 9 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 an old squire came into the hall and laid 
 the letter in the king s hand. And the 
 king, when the letter had been read to 
 him, frowned. 
 
 "Much have I heard," he said, "of 
 Bedegraine, where none respect my laws. 
 And I remember Sir Simon, who in years 
 past was a hardy fighter and not given to 
 complain groundlessly. For his sake, 
 and for mine honor, shall his land be 
 purified." This he said in the hearing 
 of his chamberlain Ulfius, who stood by 
 him on the dais. Then he looked upon 
 his knights and said: "Which shall I 
 send?" 
 
 There sat before him many fair knights 
 and men of great prowess. Some had 
 killed dragons, and some had killed giants, 
 and most had fought many battles against 
 great odds. Only one among them was a 
 young unproved knight, and he sat at the 
 very lowest seat of the great table. Uther, 
 for all that his other knights were well 
 tested, felt his heart go out greatly to the 
 10 
 
Marrok is Chosen for a Great Task 
 
 young untried knight, but at his side 
 Ulfius suggested: 
 , " Send Brastias." 
 
 "Nay," answered Uther, "for he is 
 hasty and overbold." And he looked 
 upon the young knight s brow and saw 
 great caution written there. 
 
 "Then," send Ulfius, "send Colgre- 
 
 vance." 
 
 " Nay," replied Uther, " for cautious is 
 he indeed, but of great patience is he not; 
 and this is no task to be performed lightly, 
 in a little space." And Uther looked 
 upon the young knight again, and saw in 
 his face the signs of perseverance. 
 
 " Then," said Ulfius, yet once more, 
 " send Fergus." 
 
 "Nay," answered the king, "for cau 
 tious is he, and knoweth never that he is 
 beaten, but he hath not the knowledge to 
 raise a people up." And Uther looked 
 yet once more upon the young knight, 
 and saw in his countenance kindness and 
 great sympathy. 
 
 11 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 " Then," said Ulfius, for the last time, 
 " if this be so great a task, why send ye 
 not King Pellinore, who ruleth the west 
 ern marches?" 
 
 But Uther shook his head, for Pellinore 
 could not be spared from defending his 
 kingdom. And the king looked for the 
 last time of doubt upon the young knight. 
 He liked the strong frame, and the firm 
 mouth, and the black hair, and the 
 kindly brown eyes. And he said: U I 
 will send Marrok ! " 
 
 " 1ST ay," cried Ulfius, "for he is young 
 and poor, and hath not even a squire to 
 his following. First ask advice of Mer 
 lin." He persuaded the king to send for 
 the magician, and Merlin came. 
 
 But before ever word was spoken to 
 Merlin, he said to the king: "Send 
 Marrok." 
 
 Then was the king astonished, and Ul 
 fius beyond measure. And Uther said: 
 This passes belief. How knewest thou 
 what I wished to ask?" But Merlin 
 12 
 
Marrok is Chosen for a Great Task 
 
 smiled in his great white beard, and turned 
 away and went again, among his books 
 and studies. But Uther commanded Mar 
 rok to stand before the throne. 
 
 " Marrok," said Uther, "thou hast asked 
 a quest." 
 
 " Yea, my liege." 
 
 " Instead, take thou a fief. Go, set in 
 order my land of Bedegraine ! " 
 
 Then Marrok bowed, and kneeling be 
 fore the king, took into his keeping the 
 land of Bedegraine. Twas banishment; 
 what of that? Kings in those days were 
 the instruments of God, men but the in 
 struments of kings. So Marrok went 
 to prepare for the journey. 
 
 13 
 
CHAPTEE II 
 
 HOW MAKROK JOURNEYED TO 
 BEDE GRAEME 
 
 Oh, fair to see is the green ivy, 
 And oh, the thorn doth blossom sweet, 
 
 But neither weed nor wilding tree 
 Is half so good as the springing wheat. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 TO Marrok, as he armed himself 
 within his lodging, came the noble 
 King Pellinore, he who was hardiest 
 fighter of all the knights of Uther, and 
 who kept the boundaries to Uther 7 s do 
 mains against the enemies of the north 
 west. And he would not let the young 
 knight arm himself, but held for him his 
 armor, and buckled it on, and girt him 
 with his sword, and led out the horse 
 from the stables. Then he took the 
 young man s hand and said: 
 
 I know to what task thou goest, and 
 14 
 
Of Mar r ok s Journey to Bedegraine 
 
 I know the kind of enemy that thou must 
 fight. One thing do thou remember al 
 ways in thy fighting : ""Strike first ! " And 
 he pressed the young man s hand and 
 wished him good speed, and they parted. 
 
 Marrok rode away out of the town of 
 London and set his horse s head to the 
 north. He had lived always in the south ; 
 he loved the peaceful towns and hamlets 
 which Uther had made secure; he knew 
 not to what he was going. But he hung 
 his helmet on his saddle-bo^f, and eased 
 his horse s pace, for the journey would 
 take many days. And as he rode, there 
 stood in the way an old, old man, and 
 asked an alms. Marrok looked within his 
 purse. He had but a single piece of money, 
 and that was a piece of gold ; but he gave 
 it to the beggar. 
 
 Then the old man smiled and thanked 
 him, and said : " Once was I young as 
 thou, and had the world before me. And 
 never have I taken gift without return. 
 Take thou this my purse, which once was 
 15 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 filled." And he gave to the knight an 
 empty leathern purse, and said yet more : 
 
 " In this task which thou goest to ful 
 fil there is preparation for a yet harder 
 task to come. In the one shalt thou suc 
 ceed according as thou succeedest in the 
 other. But in neither shalt thou prosper 
 if thou failest in thy duty to thy king." 
 
 Then Marrok cried: "If I fail in my 
 duty to King Uther, may all my desires 
 fail me!" 
 
 But the old man answered, "I speak 
 not of this king, but of the king that shall 
 come after him." He seemed to grow 
 taller and more majestic; then suddenly, 
 as the young man looked in wonder, he 
 was alone on the white and sunny road. 
 
 That was Merlin," he said, astonished. 
 Anon as he looked at the purse within 
 his hand it became heavy and was filled 
 with gold, enough for a long journey. 
 But Marrok, as he rode northward, thought 
 not of the gold, but pondered on the say 
 ing of the wise man. Yet not till after- 
 16 
 
Of Mar r ok 9 s Journey to Bedegraine 
 
 years did he understand who the king 
 should he that should come after Uther, 
 nor learn that Merlin was preparing the 
 throne for Arthur, who as yet was but a 
 boy and unknown. 
 
 The knight rode upon his journey, and 
 for many days pressed to the northward. 
 If Merlin s gold helped him, so also did 
 the advice of the crafty Pellinore. For 
 the young man learned that, whether in 
 the daylight or the dark, the hostel or the 
 open road, so long as they were ruffians 
 with whom he had to deal (and as he 
 went ever farther from London, ever he 
 found more lawless men), it was wise to 
 strike first and briskly begin. But with 
 knights and men of experience it was 
 wiser to wait and make a plan. And he 
 came into places where he could trust no 
 man, where he lay down in his armor and 
 slept with his sword by his side. But 
 ever he heard, as he inquired the road, 
 that the outlaws of Bedegraine were the 
 worst in all England, and that in the land 
 
 2 17 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 was neither inn nor church for man to get 
 either bodily or spiritual food ; where was 
 always famine, and violence, and death. 
 But the young man strengthened his heart. 
 
 At last upon a day, as he inquired his 
 road, a man said to him : " Beyond that 
 ridge lies Bedegraine, and you can look 
 down upon a waste." Then Marrok knew 
 that the land was but two leagues off. 
 Yet he asked his informer more. 
 
 " In Bedegraine," he said, " go all 
 men as here, with swords and leathern 
 jerkins? " 
 
 The man laughed. "Nay," he said. 
 And yet he checked his laugh and low 
 ered his voice. "Here we go armed 
 against the robbers of Bedegraine, who 
 once in a while come over the ridge and 
 fall upon us. But in Bedegraine no peas 
 ant dares to bear arms, lest the outlaws 
 kill him. For if he works in peace they 
 rob but do not slay; and so they live 
 upon the land. But if the peasants but 
 bear knives are their farms raided, as 
 18 
 
Of Marrok s Journey to Bedegraine 
 
 were those of the men of Sir Simon, these 
 six weeks gone." *& 
 / Then Marrok thanked the man and rode 
 on, but his heart was heavy, for never 
 had he met men so spiritless that they 
 dared not rise up against tyranny. And 
 he pictured himself Bedegraine as a very 
 desert; but when he reached the ridge 
 and looked, he cried out in astonishment. 
 
 For he looked upon a prospect as won 
 derful as his eyes had ever beheld. The 
 land fell away to a great plain, in the 
 midst of which rose a forest, a paradise 
 of green, dark and glistening in the sun, 
 for the rain had recently washed all things 
 clean. The forest rolled away to the 
 north; leagues long was it, and leagues 
 broad, as mighty abode of beasts of the 
 chase as ever stood upon the earth. And 
 it looked cool and inviting, as if in its 
 depths one could find but peace and 
 pleasant thoughts, so that Marrok mar 
 veled at the beauty of it. 
 
 Around the forest were the fields, and 
 19 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 they, in the distance, seemed to smile and 
 beckon. For men said that, the length 
 of a human life before, Bedegraine had 
 been prosperous, and since then the forest 
 had but made a beginning of invading the 
 lands. It seemed to Marrok as if the 
 riches of Paradise lay there in the fields 
 more brightly green than the forest. He 
 said to himself: "Can misery dwell in 
 any such place?" But he spurred his 
 horse down into the plain, and he saw. 
 
 The green of the fields was but the 
 green of weeds, of thorny shrubs, and of 
 wild vines. The creepers overran old 
 fences which had long since fallen in 
 decay. Little oak and beech trees were 
 pushing out from the fringes of the for 
 est, and where once had been richness all 
 was desolate. And here and there stood 
 the frames of houses shattered by man or 
 gutted by fire. Only here and there 
 could Marrok see, hedged from the larger 
 fields by thickset lines of thorn and yew, 
 little inclosures where it would seem as if 
 20 
 
Of Marrok s Journey to Bedegraine 
 
 men still cultivated the ground, for they 
 held lines of young green plants, or 
 showed the tender hue of the springing 
 wheat. But whether the men heard the 
 tramp of his horse and therefore hid, or 
 whether there were no people abroad on 
 that day, not one human form did Marrok 
 see until he came to a hamlet. 
 
 He saw a street once broad and fair, 
 now overgrown with weeds. There, since 
 the men no longer dared to live alone 
 upon their farms, the peasants of this part 
 of Bedegraine had drawn together for 
 their defense, going to their fields by 
 secret paths, concealed like rabbit-run 
 ways in the shrubbery. And at the ham 
 let, whether in the old houses rudely 
 repaired, or in huts made of wattles and 
 plastered with mud, they dwelt in the 
 slight security one another s presence 
 gave. Yet even there they were like the 
 rabbits, vanishing into their burrows at 
 any sound, as the knight saw when he 
 reached their street. For he glimpsed 
 21 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 two flying figures, that was all ; he heard 
 the slamming of doors and the sound of 
 bars falling into their places ; and then the 
 place was silent as a village of the dead. 
 
 But the knight knew that behind each 
 door were beings with panting breaths, 
 beating hearts, and eyes bright with fear. 
 Never in his life had he met with such 
 an experience, and his heart sank within 
 him. 
 
 " And this is Bedegraine! " he cried. 
 
 22 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 OF THE BEGINNING OF MARROK S TASK 
 
 Now Bennet was the robbers bane, 
 For well they feared his trusty sword ; 
 
 And Father John was as true a man 
 As ever labored for the Lord. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 AS Marrok, dismayed, was sitting there 
 J_rV_ on his horse, he heard a commotion 
 at the end of the village street. Men 
 were shouting, there was crashing of 
 broken fences and loud battering at doors, 
 then the screams of women came. And 
 Marrok thought that the shouts of the 
 men were like cruel laughter, but the cry 
 of the women was despair. He looked 
 and saw that at the village-end were 
 women cowering, and children running, 
 and men of the village, driven from their 
 houses by flames, fighting silently with 
 clubs and staves against others who 
 23 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 laughed against them. For the men of 
 the village were but in their smocks, but 
 the others wore leathern jerkins and iron 
 caps, and bore swords. Marrok saw that 
 it was a surprise, for the armed men were 
 the robbers, who even in broad day, in 
 sheer wantonness, were destroying the 
 homes- and taking the lives of the 
 peasants. 
 
 Then Marrok remembered again the 
 word of shrewd King Pellinore, who had 
 said, " Strike first! " He closed the vizor 
 of his helmet, and leveled his lance, and 
 rode swiftly against the robbers, not even 
 raising his war-cry. The noise of the 
 horse s hoofs was muffled in the weeds of 
 the street; the robbers heard him not until 
 he was upon them and had thrust their 
 leader through the body. Then, while for 
 one moment they stood amazed, he cast 
 down his lance, drew his sword, and 
 raised his terrible war-cry. With the first 
 stroke the broad blade bit through a steel 
 cap, and brained a man. 
 24 
 
Of the Beginning of Marrok s Task 
 
 The knight was cool, the horse was 
 trained, and the chances were even, though 
 in numbers they were twenty to one. A 
 third man fell lifeless, and the horse, rear 
 ing, trampled another to the ground. 
 Three robbers, gaining their wits, rushed 
 upon the knight from front and side, but 
 with the speed of light he cut them down. 
 
 And there for five more minutes swirled 
 the eddies of a little fight no fiercer, it 
 may be, than many a border- struggle, yet 
 more important in its results than a battle 
 of armies. For while the knight fought, 
 the peasants looked on, and for the first 
 time in years saw a rescuer. Watching 
 him, they gained heart. Weak and down 
 trodden as they were, they yet were 
 men; they could not idly watch one 
 fight for them; and encouraging one an 
 other by word and action, they came 
 again to the fight, and fell upon the rob 
 bers rear. At the first hoarse cry of 
 their new assailants the outlaws lost heart 
 and turned to flee. 
 
 25 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Then the peasants, perforce, again 
 watched the fighting, for they had no 
 strength to chase their oppressors. But 
 the knight, on his horse, followed on the 
 robbers rear, and one by one cut them 
 down. And though he had no knightly 
 antagonists against him, but was even 
 slaying churls in flight, which was against 
 the practice of knighthood, Marrok knew 
 that this fight was better, nay, even holier, 
 than the combats of knights-errant fight 
 ing for trifling causes. And the peasants 
 blessed him as they watched, and cried 
 encouragement until the last outlaw, even 
 as he reached the shelter of the forest, 
 fell to the knight s sword. 
 
 But what was their delight when, call 
 ing the whole village from their houses 
 to his welcome, they asked his name and 
 were answered: "I am the Lord of Bede- 
 graine, sent by Uther the king to purge 
 this land " ! And what was their wonder 
 when they learned that he would live 
 among them there, to rule, foster, and 
 26 
 
Of the Beginning of Marrok 9 s Task 
 
 protect them! They kissed his hands, 
 promising to serve -him with all the 
 strength of their bodies and all the cour 
 age of their hearts. They quenched the fire 
 of the burning houses and brought in the 
 fleeing cattle ; with shouts they gathered 
 the bodies of the robbers for burial in a 
 pit; and on the side of the village toward 
 the forest they erected poles, and on 
 them hung as the farmer hangs the 
 bodies of hawks the cleft head-pieces 
 and battered shields of the outlaws, grim 
 warnings to their fellows. And joyfully 
 the men arrayed themselves in the armor 
 of the robbers, the leather or quilted jack 
 ets, and girt themselves with the swords. 
 But while Marrok was observing that 
 these, now his people, had the hearts of 
 men, that they had courage, willingness, 
 and above all gratitude, there came a cry 
 from a little distance, and Marrok per 
 ceived, halted on a panting horse and 
 watching them, a man in an esquire s arms, 
 who looked upon the bodies not yet bur- 
 27 
 
Sfr Marrok 
 
 led, the smoking houses, and the bloody 
 ground, with a face of despair. Then the 
 man set spurs to his steed, brandished the 
 javelin that he carried, and rode at the 
 group of peasants who w r ere armed. But 
 they, scattering at his approach, cried: 
 " Hold, Bennet, hold!" 
 
 He reined up again, even almost among 
 them, and looking from one to the other 
 said: "Jenkin! Wat! Kichard! How 
 is this? I took ye for the robbers. How 
 are ye all alive, and is my daughter 
 safe?" 
 
 They led his daughter forth from the 
 crowd and showed that she was safe; 
 they told him of the assault and the res 
 cue ; they brought him to the knight, and 
 the two stood face to face. 
 
 Marrok saw a man of middle age, brown 
 with the weather and marked with scars, 
 sturdy of frame, honest of face. And 
 Bennet saw a young leader of men, into 
 whose keeping, for all deeds of good, one 
 might give his life. 
 
 28 
 
Of the Beginning of Mar r ok s Task 
 
 " "Now God be praised!" the squire 
 cried. " For as I was with Sir Simon 
 there came to me news that the robbers 
 were here, burning 1 and slaying. Then I 
 blamed myself that I had ever lived away 
 from my daughter, and came hither in 
 hot haste, to save her or die. And now, 
 Sir Knight, sith ye say ye are come here 
 to live among us and to cleanse this land, 
 offer I myself to you as your esquire of 
 the body, to keep your horse and arms 
 and to guard your back in fight. True 
 servant will I be of yours until I die." 
 
 And Marrok thanked him and accepted 
 his service gladly. 
 
 Yet even then were the events of the 
 day not done ; nay, far from done. Into 
 the village from the other end strode a 
 man never yet seen in those parts, a man 
 in a friar s habit, with shaven crown, yet 
 well-made and strong, and of a manly 
 face. Before they knew of his coming 
 he drew near and rebuked them. 
 
 " O man," he said to Marrok, " stand- 
 29 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 ing there in thy armor, a figure of pride ; 
 and you others in warlike garments, 
 workers of evil: leave, all of you, this 
 oppressed village, and come not hither 
 again ! " 
 
 Then Marrok saw that the priest mis 
 took even as Bennet had done, and he 
 spoke to test him: 
 
 4 Lo you now, Shaven-Crown, darest 
 thou here among us?" 
 
 "Yea," said the friar, "I dare, and I re 
 buke thee. Man of blood, yield this place ! " 
 
 "Nay," answered Marrok; "knowest 
 thou not it were easy to slay thee? What 
 madness brought thee here?" 
 
 "I am in God s hands," answered the 
 friar. "Hither am I come for his pur 
 poses to this land, which, being oppressed, 
 needeth a priest of God." 
 
 "What is thy name, friar?" asked 
 Marrok. 
 
 " My name is Father John." 
 
 Then Marrok kneeled in the dust before 
 the friar, and he said: "Bless, O man of 
 30 
 
Of the Beginning of Mar r ok* & Task 
 
 God, the work of my hands which has 
 this day begun, and stay here with me, to 
 help in the uplifting of this my people." 
 
 And the priest, when all was explained 
 to him, blessed Marrok, and Bennet, and 
 all the peasants, and the work of which so 
 brave a beginning had been made. There 
 was much rejoicing in that place. And 
 there began that fellowship of Marrok 
 with Bennet and Father John which was 
 so much to the good of that people. 
 
 31 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 HOW THE LAND OF BEDEGRAINE WAS 
 CLEANSED 
 
 Then for the wicked was no zest, 
 
 For Marrok left no place of rest 
 
 For warlock, witch, or pagan pest, 
 
 And burned to the ground each robber-nest. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 NOW all that we have told was but the 
 beginning of Marrok s task, and to 
 tell all were too tedious. But on that very 
 day Marrok gathered all the peasants, 
 and divided among them what arms were 
 to be found, while even the friar girt him 
 self with a sword. Then they went to 
 the grange of Sir Simon. Of the meet 
 ing of Sir Marrok with Sir Simon it is not 
 necessary to write, though the joy of the 
 old knight was great. Of the meeting of 
 Marrok with the daughters of Sir Simon, 
 that is more to the purpose of this story, 
 32 
 
The Land ofBedegraine /-<? demised 
 
 since from that moment the elder daughter 
 became to Marrok as a guiding" star. Yet 
 there is space but for mention of this. 
 Marrok led his men and those of Sir 
 Simon into the forest, and they struck 
 upon a robber-stronghold. From that 
 surprise, from the knights who, with the 
 better armed of their followers, forced 
 their way in, and from the ring of venge 
 ful peasants who waited without, but few 
 of the robbers escaped to carry, to the 
 other robber-bands, the news that there 
 had come to Bedegraine one whose 
 thought was quick and whose hand was 
 sure. 
 
 Thus did Marrok strike first upon the 
 outlaws, frightening them so that they 
 dared not attack him. Then for a space 
 he abode in peace with his peasants, and 
 advised them in all that they did. And he 
 rebuilt houses, and saw to the strength 
 ening of fences; also he enlarged barns, 
 which was necessary, for the harvest was 
 greater than in many years. And the 
 3 33 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 men of Bedegraine built him a house, a 
 wooden grange, between them and the for 
 est, where he could guard them. Then when 
 his men were stronger and better fed he 
 gathered them and the men of Sir Simon, 
 and destroyed a second robber-haunt. 
 
 And so from season to season he in 
 creased his work. Fewer grew the rob 
 bers in the forest, and stronger and hap 
 pier became the people of Bedegraine. 
 Father John, who was a good leech, 
 tended them in their illnesses and healed 
 their spiritual troubles ; he was to them a 
 comforter and consoler, while Bennet was 
 a friend, and Marrok was a strong sup 
 port. And the fields grew broader, and 
 men began to go again to the outlying 
 farms and live alone. Moreover, men 
 from beyond Bedegraine came to Marrok, 
 hearing that he promised farms to those 
 who were good vassals; they stayed to 
 fight for him, in three years to have a 
 holding of land. And the robbers in the 
 forest grew afraid, nor ventured they any 
 34 
 
The Land of Bedegraine is Cleansed 
 
 more beyond the wood; and some even 
 slipped away in fear, Jest they should fall 
 to Marrok s sword, or be hung from their 
 own roof -tree. And before the third 
 harvest came Marrok knew that the worst 
 part of the work was over. 
 
 But Father John came one day and 
 stood before him, saying : " For a long 
 time have I been patient." 
 
 "What," asked Marrok, in astonish 
 ment, "is there anything I have failed 
 todoforthee?" 
 
 Father John replied: "There yet are 
 Druids in the wood." 
 
 Before the week was gone were the 
 great stones of the Druids Ring over 
 thrown, and the altar cast down and 
 broken. The Druids took the warning, 
 and fled. And Marrok, not knowing 
 whom the Ring was yet to shelter, said: 
 "Desolate shall this place be henceforth." 
 Desolate it was, though he himself one 
 day dwelt there, a fugitive. But no 
 Druid lived in the land again. 
 35 
 
Si? 1 Marrok 
 
 And the day came when, in all his land, 
 Marrok knew there was no robber left. 
 With the Druids the witches and the 
 warlocks also fled away. Then through 
 out Bedegraine were to be seen here and 
 there the empty dwellings of witches, and 
 the charred logs of the houses of the rob 
 bers. But at the forest s edge the hamlet 
 of Bedegraine grew into a flourishing vil 
 lage, and new hamlets rose here and there. 
 And the fields were made ever wider, and 
 the forest was once more restricted to its 
 ancient boundaries. 
 
 Then Marrok took to hunting, and the 
 beasts of prey were his quarry. He laid 
 aside his armor, and took a lighter and a 
 speedier steed. He sent for dogs, great 
 hounds that feared neither the wolf nor 
 the boar. And the knight hunted merrily 
 in the forest, coming back at night with 
 the skins of wolves or with the bodies of 
 the fat wild swine, on which the peasants, 
 in their turn, grew stout and hardy. And 
 by degrees Marrok swept a wider circle 
 36 
 
The Land of Bedegraine is Cleansed 
 
 through the wood, until the boars were 
 gone. Beneath the^ branches of beech 
 and oak no w r olf lurked, but far to the 
 north the harried packs fled at Marrok s 
 coming. 
 
 All this was not a task swiftly done 
 nor easily accomplished. Much patience 
 was necessary, with long waiting; much 
 planning was needed before the end was 
 reached. And seven years passed away 
 before Marrok, looking about upon all 
 that he had done, could feel satisfied. 
 Then, as his duty was, since he had not 
 looked upon the face of his king in all 
 that while, he gathered a retinue and 
 journeyed to London. 
 
 37 
 
CHAPTER Y 
 
 OF THE HONOR WHICH WAS GIVEN M AR 
 BOR AT THE COURT OF THE KING, 
 AND OF DIVERS OTHER MATTERS 
 
 Now Irma was a lady wise, 
 
 And Irma was a lady fair, 
 And unto Bedegraine she came, 
 
 To live within the forest there. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 MOST joyously did Uther receive 
 Marrok, and he gave him great 
 honor. He commanded that the knight 
 should be given new robes of silk, and he 
 sent rich presents to Marrok s lodging. In 
 the audience-hall he spoke with the knight, 
 and those of the company of the Table 
 Round heard what was said in Marrok s 
 praise. For the king prized him only 
 lower than Pellinore. Then at the end the 
 king said: " Tell me, Sir Marrok, is there 
 naught that I can do to serve thy people? " 
 38 
 
Honor is Given to Marroh at the Court 
 
 " My lord," said Marrok, " this I beg 
 of you, to send to Bedegraine a company 
 of monks. For my land is wide, and my 
 people are becoming many, and there is 
 but one friar to serve their souls needs. 
 Therefore send me monks, O king, who 
 are holy men and good leeches, that they 
 may administer to the people in body as 
 well as in spirit. And I will build them an 
 abbey, and they shall live well, and do us 
 good." 
 
 " Truly," said the king, " that pleaseth 
 me." 
 
 " And I pray you," said Marrok, " to 
 give me credit with the merchants of 
 London, for I must buy many things, such 
 as my people need but cannot make." 
 
 " Truly," answered the king, " that also 
 shall be done." 
 
 Then said Marrok: "And pray, King 
 Uther, apprise the merchants of London, 
 that the way is again open to the north 
 the old Roman road that leadeth through 
 Bedegraine to Scotland. And I will give 
 39 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 safe conduct to all who would pass 
 through the forest, that no robber shall 
 molest them." 
 
 " Mow," cried the king, " this pleaseth 
 me best of all, that my kingdom is re 
 lieved of a disgrace. And this, Marrok, 
 give I thee for a device: a lion couchant, 
 as one guarding a pass, to bear upon thy 
 shield and carve within thy castle. For 
 surely thou buildest thyself a strong 
 hold?" 
 
 4 Yea," answered Marrok, " and here 
 in London I seek stone-masons and good 
 artisans to build the abbey, and to make a 
 castle for me and my wife." 
 
 c Thou art married, man?" asked the 
 king. 
 
 Five years since," answered Marrok, 
 " I married the daughter of Sir Simon." 
 And that was the elder daughter, for the 
 younger was still but a child. 
 
 Before Marrok left London all was 
 
 done which he had asked of the king. A 
 
 company of monks were chosen from the 
 
 southern monasteries and bidden to fol- 
 
 40 
 
Honor is Given to Marrok at the Court 
 
 low Marrok to the north. The merchants 
 gave him credit, and they planned new 
 ventures, sending their goods to the north 
 through the Forest of Bedegraine. The 
 knight found good workmen, workers of 
 wood and stone, who would go with him 
 to build his castle. And ever was he 
 treated with much honor, both by kings 
 and knights, until at last he was about to 
 journey home. 
 
 On that day Merlin came to the knight 
 Merlin the magician, whose w^orks were 
 all for the good of Uther and the kingdom 
 of Britain. Merlin had strange eyes, 
 which sometimes seemed so keen that they 
 could read the very thoughts of men, 
 yet sometimes appeared sightless, or as 
 if they looked beyond human things. 
 And this time they were thus, rapt in a 
 vision. 
 
 "Marrok," said Merlin, "thy task is 
 done. Yet it must be done again." 
 
 " Once before," answered Marrok, " thou 
 spakest of two tasks. Declare thy mean- 
 
 ing." 
 
 41 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 " Beware," said Merlin, not heeding, " of 
 whom thou trustest." 
 
 " What mean you? " cried the knight. 
 
 But still Merlin appeared not to hear. 
 " Thou buildest a castle, yet it will not 
 keep the enemy out. Marrok, listen to me 
 well ! " And by the strange look in Mer 
 lin s eyes the knight was awed. 
 
 " I listen," he responded. 
 
 " Build thou," said Merlin, " a passage 
 from thy castle to the wood. Let the 
 passage be underground; let few know of 
 it save thyself, and let its end be concealed 
 in a thicket." 
 
 "So," cried Marrok, "I shall be besieged 
 in my castle, and thus shall I be free? " 
 
 " Nay," answered Merlin ; " thus shalt 
 thou enter, and free thyself so." 
 
 Then he nodded as if rousing from 
 sleep, and his eyes cleared, and he turned 
 to go. 
 
 "Merlin," cried Marrok, staying him, 
 " what is this that will come to me? " 
 
 But Merlin shook his head. " I can- 
 42 
 
Honor is Given to Marrok at the Court 
 
 not read the future, but it is given me to 
 say these things. Heed them if thou art 
 wise." And he left Marrok and went 
 away. 
 
 Then Marrok returned to Bedegraine, 
 rich with presents from the king. And 
 his workmen built him a castle large and 
 strong, with a passage such as Merlin had 
 directed, leading from an inner chamber 
 of the keep to a thicket in the forest, 
 where junipers grew dwarfed and close. 
 When the monks came was their abbey 
 built, three miles away, and they lived 
 within it and did good. 
 
 And merchants came with their pack- 
 trains, and traffic once more flowed along 
 the leafy arteries of the forest. Traders 
 came to the villages to barter with the 
 peasants, and knights came to build castles 
 for them sel yes, each like an outpost of 
 Marrok s own. Two knights there were; 
 one was Moris de la Roche; as we would 
 call him to-day, his name was Moris of 
 the Rock. He built his castle to the east 
 43 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 of the forest, beyond the abbey, and 
 guarded all that region. And to the 
 west of the forest, beyond the grange of 
 Sir Simon, built the second knight, Sir 
 Brian, a strong man and a good fighter, 
 but hasty and rough. 
 
 But Marrok lived in his own castle, and 
 his wife bore him a son, and she died. 
 Her loss was his one grief, but his son, as 
 he grew from infancy to childhood, was a 
 solace. And his people grew dearer to 
 him. He became to them ever more of a 
 father. He took them closer to his heart; 
 their cares were on his mind, and he di 
 rected their affairs with such wisdom as 
 they needed. All was in order within 
 Bedegraine, and the land that was once a 
 desert became an Eden. People flocked 
 there to live on the fertile lands, and the 
 broad fields were delightful to see. And 
 Father John, and also the monks of the 
 abbey, labored among the people to cure 
 their ills of body as well as to instruct 
 their hearts. Such peace and comfort 
 44 
 
Honor is Given to Marrok at the Court 
 
 were not known elsewhere in England; 
 in those dark days of ..the early world, at 
 least one corner held light. 
 
 A third neighbor came to Marrok, with 
 whom this story has much to do. One 
 day, hunting in the forest, he came to the 
 old grange which, in a little clearing, for 
 many years had stood unoccupied. Its 
 ditch was filling up, its palisades were 
 falling, and in places its roof was sagging. 
 Evil legends were told of the place, so 
 that the peasants feared it. Owls and 
 bats had long made it their home. But 
 Marrok saw that the windows now were 
 stopped with oiled linen, and that smoke 
 rose from the chimney. The place was 
 inhabited. He tied his horse to a tree, 
 crossed the old bridge of the ditch, and 
 struck upon the door. 
 
 It was strange to see servants come, 
 who, silent and respectful, led him into 
 the house. They brought him to a room 
 hung with strange tapestries, the like of 
 which were not in all the north of Eng- 
 45 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 land, and they said that the lady would 
 presently come. 
 
 "The lady!" thought Sir Marrok. 
 "Lives a woman here alone?" 
 
 She came a woman tall and dark, rus 
 tling with silks and rich with laces. Her 
 dress was strange and fine, as was her 
 beauty. She bowed before Marrok and 
 called him by name. 
 
 "How knowst thou me? " he asked. 
 
 " Thou art my lord," she said. " I am 
 thy vassal. I know thee by report. And 
 I ask thy pardon that before now I have 
 not made my visit to beg of thee this 
 holding in the forest." 
 
 " Nay," he said ; " to live here all alone 
 in the dark wood? There are good acres 
 in the open lands which as yet have no 
 possessor." 
 
 But she answered: "Dearer is the for 
 est to me than the open lands. Here can 
 I live in happiness, under the shelter of 
 thy name, if but my lord permit." 
 46 
 
Honor is Given to Marrok at the Court 
 
 She smiled upon him and pleased him. 
 He said: " Tell me thy name." 
 
 " I am," she said, " the Lady Irma." 
 
 Then," he answered, " live thou here 
 in my lands, so long as shall please thee, 
 without tithe or payment; and if in any 
 way I can help thee, send and ask for aid." 
 
 Thus did the Lady Irma come to live in 
 the forest, and she was seen by few. For 
 the peasants still said that the old grange 
 was evil, and avoided it. But she sent 
 frequently to Marrok, asking at one time 
 advice and at another assistance, and in 
 all ways in his power he helped her. He 
 came to know her as a learned woman, 
 familiar with books and the uses of herbs; 
 and he learned to love her little daughter, 
 who was two years younger than his 
 own son. 
 
 And time passed by with Marrok, while 
 
 he became ever more the father of his 
 
 people. A kind ruler was he. Mornings 
 
 in the castle hall he judged causes, lis- 
 
 47 
 
/> Marrok 
 
 tened to the reports of his underlings, 
 and directed what should be done. After 
 noons he rode out, looked at the farms 
 and the buildings, saw that everything 
 was in order, planned changes, remedied 
 defects; or he rode far through the 
 wood, hunting the deer. And in the 
 evening, by the great fireplace in the hall, 
 he listened to the songs of minstrels, or 
 heard the tales of travelers, to shelter 
 whom was his delight. So the time 
 slipped by until Marrok s son was seven 
 years old. In that year King Uther died, 
 which was the beginning of Marrok s 
 troubles. 
 
 48 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 HOW MAKROK WAS SUMMONED BY AN 
 HERALD 
 
 Now in that season there befell 
 Worse war than Britain yet had known, 
 
 And Arthur needs must keep him well 
 Ere he could win unto his own. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 OF the coming of Arthur many songs 
 and legends tell, wherefore little 
 need be written in this book. Only that 
 Uther died, after long sickness during 
 which his enemies waxed strong against 
 him; and Arthur, who till that time was 
 unknown, came before the realm of Brit 
 ain by a great marvel the sword in the 
 stone, which none could draw forth but 
 he. Many of the knights and kinglets 
 of Britain knew him by that token, and 
 by Merlin s declaration, and made him 
 their king. But others of the northern 
 4 49 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 lands, and of the islands of the sea, and 
 of Cornwall, and of Ireland, would not 
 accept him, and refused his gifts, threat 
 ening him with gifts of hard swords be 
 tween the neck and shoulders. They 
 besieged him at Carlion, but he drove 
 them away. Then both they and he sent 
 forth to gather armies. 
 
 One morning Marrok sat in the great 
 hall and judged the causes of his people. 
 Small quarrels and great were brought 
 before him; he settled them all. Before 
 his keen eye and quiet smile truth w^as 
 laid bare. When he spoke all listened, 
 all agreed. His word was law because 
 it was right. His calm face, his hair just 
 turning gray, his great, strong frame, and 
 his sinewy hand, seemed to his people the 
 very tokens of his justice. 
 
 There sounded a bugle at the gate. 
 The porter announced a herald. The 
 travel-stained man stood before the dais, 
 bearing on his tabard the insignium of 
 the king, the fabled beast Pendragon. 
 50 
 
Marrok is Summoned by an Herald 
 
 Marrok commanded to bring meat and 
 drink. 
 
 "Nay," said the herald. "To Sir 
 Marrok, knight of the Table Bound, 
 bring I a message. Then must I forward 
 on my journey." 
 
 " Say on." 
 
 The herald drew himself up. " Arthur 
 Pendragon " 
 
 "Arthur?" cried Marrok. "Not 
 Uther?" 
 
 "Arthur Pendragon, King of England, 
 to Marrok, knight, sends greeting. Son 
 am I to Uther, lately dead. Since lords 
 and knights in evil council do deny my 
 kingship and combine against my king 
 dom, now I, Arthur, do command thee, 
 Marrok, straightway to London. Take 
 arms and arm thy men; set thy affairs in 
 order ; leave in thy lands some sure stew 
 ard; bring with thee those two knights 
 who are thy vassals; and come thy 
 self, with all force and speed, to join my 
 army." 
 
 51 
 
Marrok 
 
 There was silence in the hall. The 
 herald stood waiting. 
 
 "Of Arthur," said Marrok at last, 
 " heard I never." 
 
 " Merlin the magician," said the herald, 
 " also sends thee greeting. By the great 
 Pendragon, by thy knighthood, by thy 
 vow as member of the Table Round, he 
 bids thee come. By every sacred sign 
 doth he swear: Arthur is son of Uther, 
 by his wife Igraine, long kept in secret, 
 bred under Merlin s eye. And if thou 
 comest not " 
 
 " Peace ! " said Marrok. " Against 
 Arthur who are arrayed?" 
 
 " King Lot of Orkney, the King of the 
 Hundred Knights, King Carados, King 
 Nentres of Garloth, and seven other 
 kings." 
 
 "And with Arthur?" 
 
 " King Bors of Gaul and King Ban of 
 Benwick." 
 
 " I will come." 
 
 One stood ready with a salver and a 
 
SIR MARROK RECEIVES THE HERALD OF THE KING. 
 
Marrok is Summoned by an Herald 
 
 goblet of wine. The herald took the ves 
 sel. "To the king,, and to thee, Marrok, 
 I drink." He set the empty goblet down, 
 turned, and was gone. 
 
 Dead silence reigned in the crowded 
 hall. Suitors and henchmen stood wait 
 ing. Marrok, his head sunk upon his 
 breast, his hands gripping the arms of his 
 chair, sat long. But then he groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 His people answered with a sudden 
 cry. Some kneeled, all began to pray 
 him : " Sir Marrok, go not ! Stay with us ! 
 Let war go on. Stay thou here ! Defend 
 us, thyself, thy son, and leave us not ! " 
 
 Marrok rose and raised his hand. 
 There was silence. They gazed with 
 wonder and fear upon his face, where pain 
 sat visible. 
 
 " It has come," he said. " War has 
 come. Our peaceful fields, our happy 
 homes, will be swept upon, trampled down, 
 destroyed. But I must go else were I 
 no true knight. Go now. Go all. Let 
 55 
 
Sit* Marrok 
 
 every man set his house in order. On 
 the third day each who can bear arms, 
 bringing sword or shield, bow or spear, on 
 horse or foot, shall come here to the castle, 
 ready to go or stay as I direct." 
 
 They left the hall with sobs and tears, 
 hastening to their homes, and Marrok 
 gave order that the news be sent to the dis 
 tant knights, his vassals, and to Sir Simon. 
 And much he wished that one at least of 
 those two knights might stay behind, for 
 there would be great need of him. But 
 the order would not permit it. Then 
 at noon Marrok gave order that his horse 
 be saddled, and he rode to the grange of 
 Sir Simon. There all was in confusion. 
 
 " Marrok," said the old knight, " thou 
 goest to the war, and Brian and Moris 
 also?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 Sir Simon looked sadly upon his fields. 
 
 " Then," he said, " my best bulwark is 
 
 gone. Too old am I to fight, my son is 
 
 but a lad, and my peasants need protec- 
 
 56 
 
Marrok is Summoned by an Herald 
 
 tion. I must gather wheat into my 
 garners and strengthen my house; and 
 vigilant must I be day and night until 
 you return." 
 
 Now Marrok had come there with the 
 hope that Sir Simon could help him, but 
 he saw plainly that the old man had too 
 much to do of his own part, since he him 
 self might be in danger. For in those 
 days the chances of war were terrible, 
 and each lord who loved his peasants felt 
 it a duty to live among them to protect 
 them; so that Sir Simon must live at the 
 grange and shelter the peasants should 
 an enemy come. And Marrok said : " Ye 
 should have built your house afresh, of 
 stone, as I advised." 
 
 " Yea," answered Sir Simon, with a sigh. 
 " And now is too late, for the stone-masons 
 have returned to London, and in war-time 
 none will risk the journey hither." 
 
 Then Marrok took his leave of Sir 
 Simon, and rode to the castle of Sir Brian, 
 which was full five miles beyond, standing 
 57 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 near the forest. And Sir Brian, like Sir 
 Simon, was putting his lands in order. 
 
 " And who," asked Sir Marrok, " is to 
 stay here in your place?" 
 
 " My son Morcar," answered Brian. 
 
 Then Marrok looked upon Morcar, who 
 was but eighteen, and was like his father, 
 rough and hasty; and Marrok saw that 
 there was no hope that the young man 
 might be able to bear a larger task than 
 ruling his father s peasants. Moreover, 
 he was not of the right cast of mind, so 
 that there was no help from him. 
 
 lC Thou wilt be at my castle on the third 
 day," Marrok asked of Brian, " thou and 
 thy men, ready to ride with me?" 
 
 " Ay," answered Brian. 
 
 "Bring thy son with thee," directed 
 Marrok, "for I must give my vassals 
 charge concerning my lands in my 
 absence." 
 
 Then Marrok rode straight through the 
 forest at a gallop, a long two hours ride, 
 and ever his thoughts were of unpleasant 
 58 
 
Marrok is Summoned by an Herald 
 
 things, until he came to the other side, 
 and saw again in the open fields a castle, 
 which was the dwelling of Sir Moris of 
 the Rock. Sir Moris welcomed Marrok 
 warmly, as a vassal should, and offered 
 him meat and drink. Moreover, the two 
 loved each other, for both were courteous 
 and kind. 
 
 " Nay," said Marrok, " I will make no 
 trouble, for I see that you are planning 
 for the war. On the third day wilt thou 
 ride with me to join the king? " 
 
 " I will ride," answered Sir Moris. 
 
 "And whom leave you in your stead?" 
 
 "My son Roger," said Sir Moris. 
 
 Then Marrok looked upon that youth, 
 who was but a stripling of seventeen, 
 being a year younger than Morcar. And 
 on account of his youth was no hope that 
 he would be able to do more than admin 
 ister his father s lands, and even that 
 work would be great, though the youth 
 was serious of mind and good of heart. 
 So Marrok rode again away along the f or- 
 59 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 est s edge toward home, until he reached 
 the abbey. There he was admitted to the 
 Abbot Anselm, who was not so old as Sir 
 Simon, yet was weaker, so that his au 
 thority was no longer firm. And the 
 Prior Richard, who was second to Anselm 
 in the abbey, and one day might be abbot 
 in his stead, stood in the room, while to 
 them came through the open door the 
 clamor of the monks in confusion. 
 
 "Anselm," said Marrok, "is thy house 
 so little under control that the monks 
 are like women, crying at the news of 
 war?" 
 
 " I will go," said the prior, " and still 
 them." 
 
 " Do thou so," answered Marrok, "for 
 I would speak with the abbot alone." 
 
 Prior Richard went out, and Marrok 
 heard his voice in the corridors, sternly 
 rebuking the brothers, who settled into 
 quiet. " That man is firm of will," thought 
 Marrok. And when he had shut the 
 door, and had talked with the abbot upon 
 60 
 
Marrok is Summoned by an Herald 
 
 the affairs of the abbey, at parting he 
 said: 
 
 < "Anselm, take heed to thy prior, lest 
 he usurp thine authority." 
 
 " Nay," answered the abbot. " In truth 
 he is as my right hand, but mine is the 
 direction of everything." 
 
 "Be not so sure," said Marrok. But 
 he saw no harm that could come from the 
 prior, and he went away. 
 
 As he rode home to his castle Marrok 
 looked upon his fields and farms. Far as 
 he could see, even to the ridge which was 
 the boundary of Bedegraine to the south, 
 all was fair and fertile. The land teemed 
 with prosperity, and the peasants were 
 well fed. The village, as he rode through 
 it on his way, was well kept and large, 
 far different from the wretched hamlet of 
 so many years before ; and the castle, when 
 he neared it, seemed so strong that no 
 force could master it. Yet Marrok was 
 humble, and when from the window in 
 the hall he looked abroad once more upon 
 61 
 
*SY/ Marrok 
 
 lis lands, his heart was heavy. He went 
 sadly to his seat upon the dais. Sitting 
 there, he turned his eyes upward. 
 
 " O God," he prayed, " wilt Thou send 
 me one to guard this land, this people, 
 and my son?" 
 
 
 
 / 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 HOW AGATHA THE NURSE ADVISED 
 
 MAKROK, AND OF WHAT THE 
 
 KNIGHT DID 
 
 Morgan le Fay was a princess wise, 
 And sister half of Arthur s blood ; 
 
 But in that day none did surmise 
 That for the evil part she stood. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 MAREOK sat thoughtful, even sad. 
 He knew what was to come. For 
 himself he cared not. To go where he 
 was sent, to do as he was bidden, to 
 fight, even to die, were parts of his 
 duty toward his lord. But to leave his 
 people, whom he regarded as his children, 
 was hard. He had reclaimed Bedegraine, 
 he had made happiness possible in the 
 land. Should war in his absence sweep 
 over the region, all which he had built up 
 would be destroyed like tender plants 
 63 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 stamped into the ground. And to leave 
 his son that was the hardest of all! 
 
 Some one came into the empty hall 
 Agatha the nurse, leading his seven-year 
 son. " Oh, my lord," she cried, " what is 
 this I hear? You will leave us?" 
 
 "I must." 
 
 She ran and knelt at his feet; she made 
 the boy, who knew nothing of it all, kneel 
 and clasp his little hands. She knew it 
 was of no use knew that Marrok must 
 go; but Agatha was ever an actress. 
 And Marrok, irritated at the useless plea, 
 took the child in his arms. Wise man 
 that he was, in only one thing was he 
 ever at fault in his judgment of women. 
 Good women he knew, thanks to his wife. 
 But of Agatha sometimes he felt a vague 
 distrust. 
 
 " Peace, woman ! " he said. 
 
 She rose and stood before him humbly. 
 " Oh, my lord," she said, " now truly I see 
 that thou must go. Tell me, then, what 
 64 
 
Agatha the Nwse Advises Marrok 
 
 wilt thou do for the safety of us here left 
 behind, and of thy little son? " 
 ,. "Agatha," said Marrok, "even that it 
 is which troubles me sorest. There is 
 Father John, and Bennet who waxeth old, 
 and I can perhaps leave behind one of my 
 men-at-arms/" 
 
 Thy neighbors?" asked Agatha. 
 
 c Nay," said Marrok. " Brian and Moris 
 must do as I gird on armor and fight 
 for the kin< . And their sons are young, 
 and Sir Si ion is old. There is no one of 
 firm hand to rule in my place." 
 
 " T is true," said Agatha. 
 
 "If but my wife were alive!" said 
 Marrok. "She had the mind of a man. 
 I can leave behind none but a priest and 
 an old man to guard my people. But 
 Agatha, thou art wise, and thou art of the 
 council of Morgan le Fay. I pray you, 
 think and devise a scheme." 
 
 Now in those early days, before the 
 coming of Arthur to his own, it was not 
 5 65 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 known what Morgan le Fay truly was. 
 Daughter was she to Igraine, and there 
 fore half-sister of Arthur, yet much his 
 elder. A princess and powerful, deeply 
 learned in necromancy, she was held 
 almost in like honor with Merlin, as one 
 who wished the realm nothing but good. 
 But in truth she was a sorceress of great 
 and terrible powers, whose magic arts, in 
 after-years, were like to wreck the king 
 dom of Britain. And already she was 
 spreading her nets throughout the island. 
 Her council was formed of women, widely 
 scattered that they might give her every 
 information, and, like herself, learned in 
 the black arts, though to others they 
 seemed healers and good leeches, well to 
 have in any gentle household. Such was 
 Agatha, the nurse of Marrok s son, a 
 woman skilled in the use of herbs in ill 
 ness, and well read in books. She di 
 rected the women of the household, and 
 had, with Father John, the care of the 
 upbringing of the boy. 
 66 
 
Agatha the Nurse Advises Marrok 
 
 "Ah," said Agatha, sighing, "if but 
 my lady were alive, then should we all 
 fyave safety in thy absence. Truly could 
 she defend the castle and administer the 
 lands. And, my lord, I see but one way 
 to leave us in equal safety; for Father 
 John and Bennet are but weak bulwarks 
 against misfortune." 
 
 "What is thy plan?" 
 
 c Thou shouldst marry again." 
 
 "Marry? But whom?" 
 
 " The Lady Irma." 
 
 Then Marrok rose to his feet and cried, 
 "Never!" For when Agatha first pro 
 posed he should marry he smiled in con 
 tempt, but when he heard the name, and 
 saw that the Lady Irma was the one person 
 who in his absence could take his place, 
 he rebelled at the idea of placing her in 
 his wife s seat. 
 
 " Truly," said Agatha, " the idea seems 
 
 to me good. The Lady Irma is discreet 
 
 and wise. Moreover, she hath a firm 
 
 hand to keep thy lands in order. And 
 
 67 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 again, she liveth alone in her moated 
 grange within Bedegraine, where is no 
 protection against danger. It would at 
 least be courteous to offer her the shelter 
 of this castle." 
 
 One more reason Agatha had, which 
 she did not offer, namely, that Irma was 
 also of the council of Morgan le Fay. 
 
 Then Marrok bowed his head and said : 
 " Leave me, and the child with me." 
 Agatha, turning at the door of the hall, 
 saw how his fingers drummed upon the 
 arm of his chair, and went away smiling, 
 content. But Marrok sat and thought, 
 moving not and saying nothing, until his 
 child slept in his arm. At last, when it 
 was near sunset, he rose from his seat. 
 Sorely against his will, he had decided to 
 give his son another mother and his peo 
 ple a protectress. He laid the sleeping 
 child in Agatha s arms, ordered his horse 
 to be saddled, and rode away in the won 
 derful summer evening. 
 
 Beautiful was Bedegraine with the last 
 68 
 
Agatha the Nurse Advises Marrok 
 
 light lingering among its leaves. But 
 Marrok, thoughtful, saw nothing of the 
 beauty as he guided the horse along 
 the little-used path. He stopped before 
 the lonely dwelling of the Lady Irma. In 
 the dusk it seemed gloomier than ever 
 before, and its tottering palisades, its 
 sunken ridge-pole, made it seem heavy 
 with the secrets of centuries. When he 
 was admitted and stood waiting, the dim 
 shapes and shadows were strange and 
 even awesome. 
 
 And had Marrok cared to think upon 
 these things, or had he known what he 
 looked upon, he might have felt some 
 such dread as those peasants felt who 
 shunned the building. The tapestries on 
 the walls represented the sorceries of 
 Medea, the magic of Circe, and the 
 strange, mysterious rites of Isis. Vessels 
 of curious shapes hung from the rafters, 
 books stood on shelves, and vials with 
 many-colored contents were ranged 
 against the walls. These were not holy 
 69 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 things. Yet their use and meaning he 
 could not interpret with his unlettered 
 skill; he looked upon Irma as a wise 
 woman to whom these things were but as 
 playthings, and he puzzled not over their 
 use. In truth, before he had long time 
 to think, a bright little figure, like a dart 
 of sunshine in the gloomy place, ran into 
 the chamber and caught him by the knees. 
 It was Irma s daughter Gertrude. 
 
 Then Irma herself stood before him, 
 grave and beautiful and tall. Dark 
 were her hair and eyes; her skin was as 
 the olive of the South. Graceful was her 
 form, and courteous the words and ges 
 tures with which she bade him welcome. 
 Marrok, as he stooped and lifted the child 
 from the ground, noted that she was dif 
 ferent from her mother in everything in 
 golden hair, blue e}^es, and cheek as 
 fair as a rose-petal. He held her within 
 the crook of his arm, and spoke to her 
 mother from out his open, manly nature. 
 
 "My Lady Irma," he said, "this day 
 heard I news, the saddest for this king- 
 70 
 
Agatha the Nurse Advises Marrok 
 
 dom that has come in many years. Uther 
 is dead, and over his throne has arisen 
 strife. The realm of Britain will be rent 
 in twain." 
 
 "Sir Marrok," cried the lady, as in sur 
 prise, "I grieve!" But in truth she was 
 not surprised, nor did she grieve: for as 
 to the news, she had known it many days ; 
 and as to what Marrok should say to her, 
 she had wished it long. 
 
 " My lady," said Marrok, " we may all 
 grieve, for war is the most dreadful thing 
 on this earth, and of what may happen to 
 our poor people here in Bedegraine I 
 tremble to think. Two days hence must 
 I forth to the war, and leave behind all 
 that I love." 
 
 "Nay," said Irma, "is it sooth? And 
 who, Sir Marrok, will guard your people 
 and your lands till your return?" 
 
 " My lady," answered Marrok, " let this 
 child, your little Gertrude, appeal to your 
 own heart, and let you know my fears 
 for my son, and for my vassals, who are 
 as my children. And as for what I shall 
 71 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 say to yon, if it come hastily and blunt, I 
 beg you to pardon my lack of courtliness, 
 remembering that I am but a rough knight, 
 and that there is no time for delay." 
 
 "Sir Marrok," replied the lady, "I pray 
 you speak without fear of my opinion." 
 
 She stood waiting for his words. But 
 Marrok, as he tried to speak, felt that 
 something tied his tongue. Beautiful as 
 Irma was, and strong of character like 
 wise, he could not ask her to be his wife. 
 Marriage without love was impossible to 
 him, and this was not at all a matter of 
 love. Remembering how, years before, 
 on bended knee, he had begged Sir Simon s 
 daughter for her hand, he grew red and 
 stood speechless. 
 
 The lady glanced at his face quickly, 
 and thought that she read all that was 
 written there plainly as in a book. Then 
 she dropped her eyes and stood waiting, 
 while the little girl cooed and stroked with 
 her soft hand Marrok s face. Then finally 
 he found voice and spoke. 
 72 
 
Agatha the Nurse Advises Marrok 
 
 " My lady," he said, " I beg you to leave 
 this place and come .to my castle, and in 
 my absence rule over my people and my 
 lands. It is much that I ask, but in the 
 castle is safety, and this will be a place 
 of danger. Also will you earn much 
 gratitude from all." Remembering what 
 he had come to say, his voice died away 
 and he looked upon the floor. 
 
 But the lady s face flushed, and her 
 eyes flashed, for she had expected a pro 
 posal of marriage. Had he been looking 
 at her he must have perceived her anger. 
 But she controlled it quickly, and thought 
 how she should answer: whether (and 
 here her anger would rule), with irony, 
 that she was his vassal and would obey; 
 or (and this would be with craft) that she 
 was thankful for his thought of her. And 
 she said to herself: "To wait is wise, for 
 to those who wait power comes in the end." 
 So she answered him humbly and sweetly: 
 
 " You honor me much, Sir Marrok, and 
 in deep gratitude I accept your offer." 
 73 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Then Marrok bowed and thanked her 
 from his heart, and for a while they spoke 
 together, planning when she should come 
 to the castle. The knight was much 
 pleased, for in all she said Irma showed 
 great understanding, and he thought that 
 now everything would go well. As he 
 took his leave he said (for the lovely 
 child had touched his heart, and the hope 
 of good to his people made him speak 
 freely) : Who knows the future, my 
 lady? Perhaps after us our children may 
 marry, and rule long happily in Bede- 
 graine." Then he mounted his horse, and 
 rode homeward cheerfully. 
 
 74 
 
GHAPTEE VIII 
 
 OF THE DEPARTURE OF MARROK TO 
 THE WAR 
 
 And ere the knight his farewell spoke, 
 Leaving his land, his place, and pelf, 
 
 He asked the pledge that many broke : 
 They should serve Irma as himself. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 O~N the morning of the appointed day 
 the vassals of Marrok came to the 
 castle. Great and small, knight, squire, 
 and peasant, all were stirring before the 
 break of day, those first who came from 
 the greatest distances. Long lines of 
 men, in armor and with weapons, horsed 
 or on foot, thronged the ways that led 
 to the castle. Even the women of the 
 nearer hamlets came, to take farewell 
 of their lord. There came Moris of the 
 Rock and his son, and Sir Brian with 
 his son, and Sir Simon with his son, 
 75 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 and Richard, the prior of the abbey ; and 
 all that were to go were properly equipped. 
 But most conspicuous of all was the Lady 
 Irma in a horse-litter, with -her daughter 
 on a little ambling pad, and with horses 
 and wains laden with the possessions of 
 the lady her books and her strange 
 utensils. 
 
 And Marrok with sad heart welcomed 
 them all, from the knights even to the 
 peasants; and as the poorer sort came in 
 he separated them in companies, some to 
 go and some to stay. To the Prior Rich 
 ard he said: 
 
 Where, then, is Anselm, and why has 
 he not come?" 
 
 Anselm the abbot, as the prior said, 
 was not well on that day, so Richard had 
 come in his place. But all else who 
 should be there were there, and Marrok 
 did the Lady Irma the greatest honor be 
 fore them all, for he sat her on the dais 
 in the hall, and himself stood. Then 
 Father John appeared, all in his richest 
 76 
 
Of Marrok s Going to the War 
 
 priestly robes, and where an altar was 
 erected in the hall he conducted service, 
 asking God s blessing on Bedegraine and 
 upon the realm of England, that neither 
 should come to harm. Then, when the 
 prayer and the service were concluded, 
 Marrok and the lady stood side by side 
 upon the dais, while all were attentive. 
 
 Now these were the oaths that were 
 sworn to Marrok. 
 
 First he asked of Irma: "Do you now 
 promise, my lady, honorably and truly to 
 administer my lands in mine absence, in 
 the interest of me, and of my people, and 
 of my little son?" 
 
 And Father John held up the Holy 
 Book, and the lady placed her hand upon 
 it, saying: " I promise all that thou askest, 
 and if I fail of my promise, may God 
 punish me! " 
 
 And Marrok asked her again, out of his 
 great fatherly anxiety : " And dost thou 
 promise, Irma, to cherish my little son, 
 and keep him in my absence?" 
 77 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 The lady swore again on the Book: "I 
 promise, and according as I fulfil my 
 promise or as I fail, may God repay me ! " 
 
 Then Marrok led forward Walter, his 
 silent son, and placed his hand in the 
 lady s, and solemnly intrusted him to her. 
 Next the knight called up his vassals one 
 by one, the chiefest first. And Roger of 
 the Rock, who was not yet knight, vowed 
 to obey the lady truly, even as she should 
 obey Sir Marrok. And Morcar, the son 
 of Sir Brian, who also was not yet knight, 
 vowed to obey the lady truly, even as she 
 should obey Sir Marrok. And Richard 
 the prior, who spoke in the place of 
 Anselm the abbot, vowed to obey the lady 
 truly, even as she should obey Sir Marrok. 
 And Bennet the squire, who held no land 
 but stood over those who did, swore to 
 obey the lady truly, even as she should 
 obey Sir Marrok. But Father John, who 
 was vassal to no man, took no oath. 
 
 Also one by one the other vassals came, 
 men of small holdings or of great, and 
 78 
 
Of Marrok s Going to the War 
 
 placed their hands on the Book, swearing 
 to obey the lady, even, as she should obey 
 Sir Marrok. And she, standing upright, 
 said no word, but looked with ever 
 brighter eyes. Yet she asked at the end: 
 " Wherefore stands Sir Simon aside and 
 swears no oath? " 
 
 Therewith Marrok went to Sir Simon, 
 and led him to the lady, and placed his 
 hand in hers. " My lady," he said, " Sir 
 Simon is no man s vassal save the king s, 
 and to me he is a very good friend. Here 
 recommend I him to you as a sage coun 
 selor in all difficulties." 
 
 Then the lady smiled, and said to Sir 
 Simon such words of courteous welcome 
 that the old knight was greatly pleased. 
 
 Anon came the time for departure. Sir 
 Marrok kissed his son and little Gertrude, 
 and pressed his lips to the hand of the 
 lady. Quickly he gave the word and 
 sprang into the saddle. Then he rode 
 forth, and man and horse followed, even 
 to the animals with packs, bearing food 
 79 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 and arms for the campaign. Women 
 wept and cried farewell, and, with their 
 hearts full of fear for the future, both 
 those who went and those who stayed said 
 good-by. Within the castle all hastened 
 to the battlements, to catch the last glimpse 
 of those departing. The train slowly 
 climbed the ridge to the southward, while 
 on the highest turret the Lady Irma and 
 Agatha the nurse and the two children 
 waved their hands. Little Gertrude 
 laughed and did not understand. Yet 
 Walter knew, and while from his habit 
 he said nothing, he wept. But the Lady 
 Irma seemed to smile. 
 
 80 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 HOW IT FARED IN BEDEGRAINE WITH 
 MARROK AWAY 
 
 Now Hugh was lissome, tall, and strong, 
 
 And he had much of hardihood ; 
 Yet were his ways the ways of wrong, 
 
 And he was come of peasant s blood. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 T I THERE was great war in Britain. 
 J- The kings of Gaul and Benwick, 
 Bors and Ban (whereof the latter was 
 father to the good knight Sir Launcelot, 
 who yet was but a lad), came to- England 
 and fought for Arthur against his enemies. 
 And a great battle was fought in Bede- 
 graine, wherefrom many drew wounds and 
 death, and among them were Moris of the 
 Rock (who was slain by King Agwisance 
 of Ireland) and Sir Brian. But in the 
 battle, which lasted from midnight until 
 dark of the second day, many gained 
 6 81 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 honor, and among them Marrok, who de 
 vised the ambushments for the king, see 
 ing that he knew the country. And yet 
 this battle was fought far from Marrok s 
 castle, for that stood on the southern 
 border of Bedegraine, and the battle was 
 on the northern border of the forest, five 
 leagues. Also the castle of Bedegraine, 
 of the siege of which we read in Malory, 
 was but a watch-tower near the field. 
 
 Now when Merlin had promised Arthur 
 peace after all that fighting, because so 
 many of the northern host were slain, 
 Marrok sent a messenger southward to 
 say: " Sir Moris and Sir Brian both are 
 dead. Let Roger and Morcar, therefore, 
 come to me, that they be knighted." And 
 the two young men rode to the camp 
 which was near the battle-field, and, at the 
 request of Marrok, Arthur knighted them. 
 But always Marrok gave Roger, though 
 the younger, the greater honor, because 
 his father was the gentler knight; and 
 the stripling was gentle, but Morcar was 
 82 
 
How it Fared in Bedegraine 
 
 rude. There began that rivalry between 
 the two young men which was so greatly 
 increased by their love of Agnes, the 
 daughter of Sir Simon. The new-made 
 knights traveled to their homes, but first 
 each had sworn again before the king to 
 be true vassals to Sir Marrok. 
 
 Then Arthur, having made himself se 
 cure in Britain, led his army overseas and 
 marched upon Rome. 
 
 How he sped, and what wonders he ac 
 complished, read in Malory. Marrok was 
 with him, and won much praise. And 
 in the great battle in the vale of Sessoyne 
 King Arthur gave Sir Marrok high 
 honor, choosing him to be of his body 
 guard. But let us turn our eyes upon 
 Bedegraine, where, though there was 
 peace, greater harm could not have come 
 in war. 
 
 When Marrok had departed there was 
 
 great welcoming and many kisses between 
 
 Agatha and the Lady Irma. The strange 
 
 books of the new mistress of the castle, 
 
 83 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 with her vials and mysterious implements, 
 they locked in a little room within the 
 keep, where the thick walls gave greatest 
 safety. None but Irma and Agatha might 
 enter therein, and at times often in the 
 night at the dark of the moon they re 
 tired there for hours. Yet at first, when 
 the armies of the king were still within 
 England, the lady ruled in Bedegraine as 
 Marrok himself, with such clear judgment 
 and steady hand that the people marveled 
 at her. 
 
 At these times the Lady Irma consulted 
 much with Father John the priest and 
 with Bennet the squire, the trustiest of 
 the servants of Marrok. From them she 
 learned all the ways of Bedegraine, its 
 riches and its people. With Agatha she 
 spoke much in secret, and with her she 
 went publicly among the people, until, 
 like Marrok, she knew each house and its 
 inmates. Also she consulted with Sir 
 Simon, or rode to the abbey, where always 
 she was received with gladness and re- 
 84 
 
How it Fared in Bedegraine 
 
 spect. With Anselm the abbot she was 
 friendly, but with the prior she became 
 intimate, so that he rode often to the 
 castle. Likewise the lady invited thither 
 Morcar, the son of Sir Brian, and Roger 
 of the Rock. And the lands prospered 
 under Irma, so that the peasants did not 
 miss their lord. 
 
 But when Arthur sailed for Brittany, 
 and left deputies to rule England, there 
 came a change at Bedegraine. Slowly 
 the Lady Irma began new ways. She 
 sent away, one by one, the old castle 
 servants; and cooks and serving-maids, 
 grooms and men-at-arms, were turned 
 out to seek their living elsewhere. New 
 servants took their places, and some had 
 not lived before in Bedegraine. Yet 
 some were from the region, and, oddly, 
 were those who had never found favor in 
 the eyes of Marrok. Among these was 
 the cup-bearer, Hugh. 
 
 It happened, one day when Richard the 
 prior, Sir Morcar, and Sir Roger were at 
 85 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 the castle, that Hugh first appeared in his 
 new duties. And the lady said, when he 
 was out of the hall: "What think you all 
 of my new cup-bearer?" 
 
 Then Richard laughed and said: "He 
 is well chosen." And Morcar, smiling, 
 replied: "He will make a good servant." 
 But Roger answered merely: "He is 
 handsome and graceful," and he showed 
 no further interest. 
 
 It seems, Sir Roger," said the lady, 
 that you have more which you could say. 
 I pray you, speak." 
 
 Then, my Lady Irma," answered 
 Roger, "this is in my mind: that the lad 
 is not suited to be here. Not only is he 
 a peasant s son, but he has a peasant s 
 mind and a peasant s heart, for I know 
 him well. Only one of gentle nature 
 should serve in this place." 
 
 Then Morcar spoke quickly and with 
 irony: "Such as is he who gives this 
 advice." 
 
 And Irma said half -mockingly, yet 
 86 
 
 u 
 a 
 
How it Fared in Bedegraine 
 
 sweetly: "Wilt thou serve here as my 
 cup-bearer, Sir Roger?" 
 
 Roger rose and said: "You honor me, 
 my lady, but my duties prevent, and like 
 wise call me home now." And he took his 
 leave, cut deeply in his pride; for he was 
 young, and felt such things keenly, as 
 Morcar knew who designed the insult. 
 And Roger came there seldom after that. 
 But the lady continued to do as she 
 had begun, putting new servants in the 
 place of old. When the second year was 
 but half gone, of the former servants 
 there remained but Agatha and Bennet 
 and Father John. 
 
 Bennet was growing old, but like an 
 oak he was sturdy. Cross was he, but 
 like a watch-dog was honest and kind at 
 heart. His advice had ever been heeded, 
 and in the ordering of the men of the 
 castle he had always been the chief. In 
 devotion to the duties of his place, he 
 never failed, even to the peril of his life ; 
 and once he saved the Lady Irma when 
 87 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 a caged bear in the courtyard broke loose 
 and would have killed her. From that 
 encounter old Bennet lay a month in his 
 bed, and for the rest of his life could use 
 his left arm but stiffly; and yet his devo 
 tion helped him nothing. 
 
 For the loose manners and reckless 
 words of the new servants angered him 
 much. Most of all, Hugh, the young and 
 careless cup-bearer, irritated Bennet, so 
 that one morning the old man gave the 
 younger a cuff on the ear. Hugh went 
 bawling to the hall, and soon Bennet was 
 summoned before the lady. 
 
 "What hast thou done?" asked Irma, 
 with bent brows. "This man is my ser 
 vant, subject to the orders of none but me." 
 
 "Nay," said Bennet; "he came among 
 the grooms in the courtyard, and gave 
 orders contrary to mine. If such things 
 are to be, then serve I no longer in the 
 castle." 
 
 This he said with confidence, for he 
 believed he could not be spared. But the 
 88 
 
How it Fared in Bedegraine 
 
 lady answered quickly, glad at heart: 
 " Then pack thy belongings and go. Old 
 art thoti and useless, and shalt stay no 
 longer here." 
 
 Bennet stood open-mouthed, staring. 
 All the new servants winked and nudged 
 one another, and even Hugh, despite his 
 aching jaw, smiled with delight. Only 
 Father John started out to protest, and 
 cried: "My lady!" 
 
 But Irma answered: "Peace! The 
 man shall go ! " 
 
 Then Bennet, with angry head held 
 high, said: " Well, I will go." He packed 
 his few possessions and left the castle; 
 but when he crossed the drawbridge his 
 head drooped, and he sought his daugh 
 ter s home in the near-by village, nigh 
 heartbroken. 
 
 Father John stayed behind at the castle, 
 and sought still to move hearts to the 
 good. But among the new servants he 
 found none that heeded him, and at last 
 it happened that at the hour for daily 
 89 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 prayers no one came. Mindful of the 
 fate of Bennet, he made no complaint, 
 but turned his hopes toward the two chil 
 dren, Gertrude and Walter. And them 
 throughout a month he taught the rudi 
 ments of knowledge and the principles of 
 religion. But once, as he was teaching 
 them, and they at his knee attended, each 
 according to character, for Gertrude 
 asked many questions; and Walter said 
 nothing, but thought, once he turned, 
 and saw behind him the Lady Irma, with 
 Agatha and Hugh the cup-bearer, listen 
 ing at the door. 
 
 The lady came forward and spoke, and 
 in her eyes Father John saw the light 
 that was in them when she dismissed 
 Bennet. "Father John," she said, "I 
 have listened to thy teaching, and it is not 
 good. Saidst thou not: c We all should 
 love the commands of God above the 
 desires of men, and obey God even rather 
 than a parent ?" 
 
 " Ay," said the priest, and he saw what 
 was coming. 
 
 90 
 
How it Fared in Bedegraine 
 
 Then the lady stamped her foot, and 
 her eyes flashed. " But I say that sub 
 mission is the virtue of a child, to every 
 word that its parent commandeth. How 
 shall a child think for itself against the 
 wishes of its parent? False priest, begone, 
 and take thy teachings elsewhere!" 
 
 Father John saw on the lips of Agatha 
 and Hugh smiles such as he saw when 
 Bennet went away. But the kindly fa 
 ther stooped and kissed each child, and, as 
 he was, with neither scrip nor cloak, went 
 down the stairs to the gate of the castle. 
 There, with sign and word, he blessed it 
 and its inmates, and went away. 
 
 Thus Bennet and Father John went to 
 the village outside the castle, there to 
 dwell. To the people Bennet became a 
 great helper, being wise in all things 
 worldly, whether the work in the fields, 
 or the building of houses, or the care of 
 animals, or the making and use of arms. 
 But Father John soon became a guide in 
 other troubles, and people came to him 
 every day for help and counsel. They 
 91 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 built him a church and a manse. Because 
 in the castle the lady now seldom sat to 
 judge causes, and her justice had become 
 injustice, the disputes of the vassals were 
 at last brought to the father for settle 
 ment, and by him wisely adjudged. 
 
 And daily in the castle were music and 
 singing and great merriment. Yet on the 
 face of the child Walter were seldom 
 seen smiles, for, though but nine years of 
 age, he was not happy, with his father 
 and Bennet and Father John all away. 
 Only with Gertrude, when they two were 
 alone, could he be merry. And the Lady 
 Irma, viewing his sober face, felt as if he 
 were watching her acts to remember them 
 against her. She grew to hate him. 
 
 92 
 
CHAPTEE X 
 
 YET MORE OF WHAT HAPPENED IN 
 
 BEDEGRAINE IN MAKROK g 
 
 ABSENCE 
 
 The news came flying from the south, 
 
 A fearful word for all, I ween ; 
 In haste it passed from mouth to mouth, 
 
 And sadder folk were never seen. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 THERE came at last the autumn of the 
 second year since Marrok s depar 
 ture. There was uneasiness among the 
 peasants of Bedegraine, and mistrust of 
 the lady was changing to hostility and 
 fear. Also parties were rising. For Sir 
 Simon came seldom to the castle, and Sir 
 Roger only when he must; but Sir Mor- 
 car and Richard the prior were often with 
 the lady. And men looked forward to 
 an unpleasant future, longing for the 
 return of their lord. Yet all the time 
 93 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Marrok was with Arthur in France, fight 
 ing in great battles against Lucius the 
 Emperor of Rome. 
 
 One day the lady sent a messenger to 
 Sir Simon, begging him to come to the 
 castle, and when the knight came he 
 found Sir Morcar there. 
 
 " Sir Simon," said Irma, " here is Sir 
 Morcar, who has come to me suing that I 
 help him in a matter which is near his 
 heart. Therefore I have sent for you to 
 help us both." 
 
 " My lady," answered the white-haired 
 knight, " in whatever way I may serve 
 you, being mindful of the duties that I 
 owe to others, I will." 
 
 Then Irma saw that Sir Simon guessed 
 her purpose, since he spoke of his duties 
 "to others." But she smiled winningly, 
 and said: 
 
 " Behold, Sir Simon, one who languishes 
 for love; for Sir Morcar desires greatly to 
 marry your daughter Agnes. And I pray 
 you, give her to him as his wife." 
 94 
 
Of What Befell in Marroh s Absence 
 
 But Sir Simon had his answer ready, 
 for he desired not Sir Morcar as a son-in- 
 law; moreover, young though the maiden 
 was, he thought her already inclined 
 toward Sir Roger. 
 
 " My lady," he said, " and you, Sir 
 Morcar, who honor me greatly, pardon 
 me if I answer not to please you. But 
 my daughter is over-young to marry; 
 there are some years yet before she need 
 make her choice. And I have promised 
 her that her own choice shall she make, 
 even as her sister did when she chose Sir 
 Marrok." 
 
 That was all that was said at that time 
 of this matter, but Sir Simon was sorry 
 of it as he rode home alone. He wished 
 that his lands bordered on those of Sir 
 Roger; yet instead Sir Morcar was his 
 neighbor, and the old knight was between 
 two who were becoming enemies of his, 
 while Sir Roger lived three leagues away 
 across the forest. Sir Simon longed 
 greatly for a house of stone, and wished 
 95 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 again that he had followed the counsel 
 of Sir Marrok. And going home, he 
 strengthened his wooden grange anew, 
 and kept his granaries always full; but 
 nothing happened for a long while, and 
 in the end all his care did not avail him. 
 
 But Morcar and the lady talked long 
 together, and she told him plainly he 
 must wait. Yet she said: "I will hire 
 me archers to serve me. And do you 
 strengthen your following. Some day 
 we shall do as we please." 
 
 So the Lady Irma sought to hire archers, 
 and she sent word round all Bedegraine 
 that good bowmen would be paid w r ell. 
 Yet, save one or two, none of the vassals 
 offered themselves, since they liked her 
 ways less and less, and were afraid to 
 trust her. Then she sent farther away, 
 and got men from otherwhere, who would 
 obey her in everything. She armed them 
 well, and .soon it came to pass that the 
 peasants dreaded to see them riding from 
 the castle, whether to trample in the fields, 
 96 
 
Of What Befell in Marrok s Absence 
 
 or to demand food and drink in the vil 
 lages. The vassals thought of the days 
 before Marrok came. 
 
 It drew toward winter. One day the 
 lady, with her archers, was outside the 
 castle wall, and, to do her pleasure, the 
 men shot at a mark. Of them all Hugh, 
 now their captain, was the best, and, as 
 the lady s favorite, received many smiles. 
 Gertrude and Walter played near, from 
 the edge of the forest gathering colored 
 leaves to make themselves garlands. At 
 a little distance, above the tres, rose the 
 smoke from the village chimneys. 
 
 Along the southern road came spurring 
 a rider on a jaded horse, and as he neared 
 he blew a horn. Archers and women, 
 even the children also, gathered around 
 the Lady Irma, and all heard the words of 
 the messenger as he sat upon his steed. 
 
 "My Lady Irma," said the messenger, 
 "I crave the guerdon of a bearer of 
 
 news. 
 u 
 
 Thou shalt have it," said the lady. 
 7 97 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 "But give it me now," said the rider, 
 " for my news is ill, and thou mayst for- 
 get." 
 
 Then the lady, smiling lightly, gave 
 money from the purse at her belt broad 
 silver pieces. From a cask of wine that 
 stood near for refreshment, she com 
 manded to bring drink for the man. He 
 thanked her, and drank, and delivered the 
 message. 
 
 " My Lady Irma," he said, " my news is 
 dire, and all London weeps at it. In 
 Lombardy, hard by Pavia, Arthur the 
 king was slain, and all of his great lords. 
 And Marrok thy lord was among the 
 slain." 
 
 Then the lady rose and laughed aloud. 
 From her girdle she took her purse, all 
 bejeweled, and gave it to the messenger. 
 "CalPst thou such news ill?" she cried. 
 "Better heard I never! " 
 
 The messenger smiled, for he was 
 shrewd and loved money. The archers 
 that stood about smiled also, and nudged 
 98 
 
Of What Befell in Marrok s Absence 
 
 each the other and whispered: ".Now our 
 good times begin." But Agatha and 
 Hugh smiled broadest of all, and Hugh 
 fell upon his knee and kissed the lady s 
 hand, saying: " Fair lady, I give you joy." 
 
 At these words the children, who had 
 stood staring, began to cry. At first none 
 noticed them, till the Lady Irma, hearing 
 the sound of weeping, called them to her. 
 Gertrude s chin she took between thumb 
 and finger, and raising the child s face 
 upward, Irma looked into her daughter s 
 eyes. Quiet fell upon the girl. 
 
 "Gertrude," said Irma, "this news is 
 naught to thee. Go to the castle until 
 thou art thyself again." And Gertrude 
 went. 
 
 Then the lady called Walter, and she 
 looked into his face as she had into her 
 daughter s. He looked into the lady s 
 eyes manfully, and she saw that she had 
 over him no such power as over Gertrude. 
 With her glance she insisted, trying to 
 conquer his spirit; but still his eyes looked 
 99 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 at her unsubdued. No word passed be 
 tween them, but she knew herself beaten, 
 and grew angry. 
 
 "Come down, Sir Messenger," she cried, 
 " from your jaded steed. He is spent and 
 spoiled; you shall have another." The 
 messenger dismounted. Then the lady 
 cried to her men: "Bind this boy upon 
 the horse s back! Tie his feet beneath 
 the saddle, his hands behind him ! " 
 
 It was done. Walter made no protest, 
 uttered no cry. When he was bound 
 upon the horse he looked at the lady, and 
 the glance of the silent boy was more than 
 she could bear. "Whip the horse into 
 the wood ! " she cried. 
 
 And the archers urged the beast toward 
 the forest; but it moved only slowly. 
 At last Hugh, taking his bow, shot an 
 arrow into the horse s flank. With a 
 great cry of pain, the steed sprang forward 
 into the wood. He disappeared; but all, 
 listening, heard his hoof -beats upon the 
 turf until at last they died away. 
 100 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 WHETHER SIR ROGER OR THE LADY 
 
 BROKE THE OATH WHICH THEY 
 
 SWARE TO SIR MARROK 
 
 Who breaks the oath he sware his lord, 
 
 He doth a bad and wicked thing, 
 By Heaven accurst, by men abhorred : 
 
 List to the tale which next I sing. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 OF her great cruelty to Walter ;Irma 
 commanded that nothing should be 
 said. Yet the news;, that; the -i iirtgi ,was 
 slain, and with him Marrok, was spread 
 through the country. On the following 
 day came Sir Simon to the castle, and Sir 
 Roger, and Sir Morcar, and Richard the 
 prior. They inquired if the news were 
 true. 
 
 "Alas!" answered Irma, "the news is 
 true." 
 
 Then Morcar and the prior looked at 
 101 
 
Sir Mar r ok 
 
 each other, and their glances held much 
 meaning. And Sir Simon turned sorrow 
 fully to go away. But Sir Roger detained 
 him, saying privily : " I pray you, remain, 
 and uphold me in what I do." Then Sir 
 Roger required of the lady to bring forth 
 the boy Walter. 
 
 "What will ye with the boy?" asked 
 Irma. 
 
 " He is son to Sir Marrok," answered 
 Roger, " and since Marrok is dead, Walter 
 is lord in Bedegraine. I desire to put 
 my hands in his -and declare myself his 
 vassal." 
 
 A; Yea;. sard Sir Simon; "that is right." 
 
 But the lady said nay to that. " For," 
 she declared, "until the new king shall 
 instal a new lord in Bedegraine in the 
 stead of Marrok, am I still mistress here, 
 since Marrok put me in his place." 
 
 Sir Simon was silent, for he was un 
 versed in the law, and he thought that 
 the lady was right. And, indeed, it was 
 the law in those days that no heir should 
 102 
 
Of the Oat/is of Allegiance 
 
 succeed his father in his fief until he had 
 put his hands in the king s and sworn 
 fealty. Therefore Sir Morcar and the 
 prior said together, the lady was right. 
 
 " Come, now," said Irma, " since Sir 
 Marrok is dead, ye shall do this. Ye 
 shall swear obedience to me until such 
 time as the king shall make Walter lord 
 of Bedegraine." 
 
 And again Morcar and the prior de 
 clared together they would do so. Then 
 Roger stood a minute in doubt, not know 
 ing what he should do, for he was but a 
 young man, and the situation was grave. 
 But he was quick in his resolves, and, go 
 ing to the window of the hall, looked 
 down in the courtyard. There were his 
 men, and Sir Simon s, and Sir Morear s; 
 but the prior had brought no following, 
 save three or four monks. And Roger 
 counted, and saw that Morcar in his haste 
 had brought but six men, but that he and 
 Sir Simon, not knowing what might hap, 
 had brought twenty each. And all the 
 103 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 men of Sir Koger were in full armor, and 
 being already within the castle, they could 
 have mastered it, spite of the men of 
 Morcar and the archers of the lady, if 
 only Sir Simon would help. 
 
 "]S T ow," demanded the lady, scornfully, 
 "why answer you not, Sir Roger of the 
 Rock?" 
 
 Sir Roger spoke to Sir Simon: "Will 
 you uphold me?" 
 
 " Ay," answered the old knight. 
 
 Then Roger answered Irma boldly: 
 " My lady, I will not promise you obedi 
 ence, for I doubt your purposes." 
 
 In great anger, Irma rose up from her 
 seat on the dais. "Fie on you!" she 
 cried. " Fool, you shall know the weight 
 of my power!" And she was about to 
 call her archers. 
 
 But Roger said: " Lady, beware of what 
 you do, since, if I command it, this castle 
 is mine, with the help of Sir Simon." 
 
 And Sir Simon said: "I will uphold 
 Sir Roger." 
 
 104 
 
Of the Oaths of Allegiance 
 
 For a moment the lady stood in great 
 dread, and, between dread and anger, her 
 face was strange to see. 
 
 Where is the promise," she cried, 
 "that you made here in this hall to serve 
 me truly?" 
 
 And the prior cried also: "Yes; what 
 of that promise?" 
 
 "My lady," answered Koger, "of that 
 promise I make nothing any more. For 
 my oath was to be true to you, according 
 as you were true to Sir Marrok and 
 all loyalty to Sir Marrok you cast aside 
 long ago. Therefore your own acts have 
 freed me from my promise." 
 
 She was silenced by the truth of his 
 words. Then Sir Roger left the hall, his 
 hand upon his sword, and Sir Simon like 
 wise. As they mounted their horses in 
 the courtyard, Irma said from the window 
 on high: "A strict account, Sir Roger 
 and Sir Simon, shall you give me for this 
 day!" 
 
 " I can keep myself," answered Roger. 
 105 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 But Sir Simon answered only : " I will do 
 my best against you." Then they rode 
 out together with their men, and the 
 drawbridge was raised against them. 
 
 " Sir Simon," said Sir Roger, " now 
 what will happen? For I greatly doubt 
 the future, yet in my strong castle I will 
 keep myself. But you live between two 
 enemies. Come now and live with me." 
 
 "Nay," answered Sir Simon; "I cannot 
 leave my peasants. And war cometh not 
 always from hard words. If I need thee I 
 will send for help, so fear not for me." 
 
 They separated and rode homeward, 
 and neither went to the castle again. But 
 Irma took counsel with Morcar and Rich 
 ard, and they concluded that they should 
 do nothing at that time. Morcar rode 
 home, past the grange of Sir Simon, and 
 sought to hire himself more men-at-arms. 
 And Richard returned to the abbey, and 
 grew bolder in his ways, strengthening 
 himself in authority. 
 
 But word of all this went out into the 
 106 
 
Of the Oaths of Allegiance 
 
 villages, and it was said that Walter was 
 not at the castle when the knights were 
 there. A whisper of the truth went round 
 about. Then Bennet and Father John, 
 with what few able-bodied men remained 
 from the war, with old men, boys, and 
 even women, went forth into Bedegraine 
 to search for Walter. They found him 
 not. Snow came and drove them home 
 ward ; the night was bitter cold. Hugh, 
 mounted upon his horse, guarded by the 
 archers, met them on their return. He 
 spoke scornfully. 
 
 "Fools, know ye not that wolves have 
 come again to Bedegraine?" 
 
 And in proof came a long howl from 
 the forest. 
 
 107 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 OF MARROK S RETURN, AND OF THE 
 MAGIC OF THE LADY TRMA 
 
 She mixed the spices and the wine, 
 She made the waxen image small, 
 
 She lit three candles at the shrine, 
 And on the evil powers did call. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 IT was the seventh year since Marrok s 
 departure. And all that news was 
 false that had come to Bedegraine, for in 
 the battles in France and Italy Arthur 
 always won, and in the great battle in the 
 vale of Sessoyne he slew the emperor of 
 the Romans with his own hands. And 
 the king returned at last to Britain, and 
 once more assuming the throne, first saw 
 that all was in order, then permitted those 
 of his knights who wished it, to return to 
 their homes. 
 
 A little train, much smaller than that 
 108 
 
Of Mar look s Return 
 
 which had left Bedegraine, rode toward 
 the north. Its leader, spurring out before 
 the others, reached first the ridge which 
 gave prospect over all Sir Marrok s land, 
 and paused to look upon Bedegraine. 
 Green w r as the land, as always, like a very 
 Eden, and the dark mass of the forest, 
 which* once had held robbers, seemed to 
 the knight as a home. He hastened down 
 into the valley. 
 
 But as he passed along the road his 
 countenance overclouded and his heart 
 grew heavy. Gone were the waving 
 fields of grain, the acres of prosperous 
 crops. Again were the fields green with 
 the luxuriance of weeds, and hosts of sap 
 ling oaks and beeches invaded lands which 
 the peasants once had plow r ed. Changed 
 indeed were the neat and smiling villages. 
 The houses were squalid, the streets dirty 
 and overgrown. And the human beings 
 were again different from what they had 
 been. At his coming the knight saw 
 people look, then hide from sight; nor 
 109 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 would they come at his call. The warrior 
 bowed his head. 
 
 "Woe is me!" he cried. "War hath 
 swept over Bedegraine ! " 
 
 Then he spurred faster, anxious for 
 sight of the castle. " My son ! " he 
 thought. But presently he cried: "God 
 be praised ! " Serene and strong, the cas 
 tle lifted its rugged head above the trees. 
 When he had it in full view he knew no 
 harm had come to it. " At least," he 
 thought, "that hath been spared. But 
 oh, my poor people ! " 
 
 It was evening; the castle drawbridge 
 was raised. The knight blew his horn, 
 and a warder looked over the battlement. 
 "What aileth you all?" cried the knight. 
 "Hath no news of peace come to Bede 
 graine? Let down the bridge." 
 
 "Who are you," asked the churl, "that 
 you speak so high?" 
 
 " Go to the lady," answered the knight. 
 "Tell her that Sir Marrok hath re 
 turned." 
 
 110 
 
Of Marrok s Return 
 
 The warder laughed. "Go to!" he 
 cried. " Sir Marrok is dead." 
 
 "Send for the lady," said the knight, 
 again. "Tell her that one who calls 
 himself Sir Marrok is at the gate." 
 
 The warder would have laughed again, 
 but from the knight spoke dignity and 
 authority. "If it should be true," he 
 muttered, "then are we all sped! I 
 go," he said, and went. 
 
 The knight waited. " They have sup 
 posed me dead! But what of that? My 
 poor people ! Fire and sword hath swept 
 my fields." 
 
 And yet that desolation in Bedegraine 
 came not from the torch and ax of a pil 
 laging army. The wicked, careless wo 
 man within the castle had caused it all, 
 with over-great tithes, with seizure of 
 cattle, and with exaction of severe labor. 
 
 At last upon its hinges creaked the 
 
 bridge, and the chains rattled. The 
 
 bridge sank, the portcullis rose, the great 
 
 gate opened, and the knight rode forward. 
 
 Ill 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 The courtyard was bright with torches; 
 the archers stood about, each with a 
 flaming knot. In their midst stood the 
 Lady Irma, with white face. 
 
 The knight drew rein and looked about 
 him. The lady he saw, Agatha he saw. 
 The rest were strangers all. " My lady," 
 he said, " gladly I see you again. Agatha, 
 too. But where are Bennet and Father 
 John, and where is my little son? " 
 
 " Marrok," said the lady, " it is you in 
 sooth?" 
 
 " It is I," said the knight. " But where 
 is Walter?" 
 
 "Nay," answered Irma, "would you dis 
 turb him in his slumbers? And Father 
 John and Bennet are in the village. But 
 rest thou here. Hast thou no word for 
 me?" 
 
 Then Marrok kissed the lady s hand, 
 and spoke to Agatha, and began to in 
 quire of the castle servants. For Hugh 
 he knew not, but he missed Christopher 
 and Ronald and a dozen others of those 
 112 
 
Of Mar r ok s Return 
 
 he had left behind. But the lady inter 
 rupted, and ordered the servants to unarm 
 him. They hastened to remove his helmet 
 and his armor ; they bore away his sword, 
 and led the steed to the stable. And 
 Marrok gladly gave up his arms, and 
 wrapped himself in the rich mantle which 
 Agatha brought. Anon the lady ordered 
 food. With much talk and laughter she 
 led him to the table in the hall. 
 
 But a thought was heavy on Marrok s 
 mind, and he broke into her talk. "My 
 Lady Irma, my heart was sad as I rode 
 hither. For I perceived clearly that war 
 hath visited my lands and spoiled my 
 vassals of prosperity. Tell me, I pray 
 you, when it happened, and who were 
 killed, and how many are left. And who 
 hath wrought all this ruin? Was it the 
 army of a distant prince, or has a bad 
 neighbor come to us here? It seems to 
 me as if it were the latter, else is the thing 
 recent, for the folk yet fear a stranger. 
 And were ye besieged in the castle?" 
 8 113 
 
Sir Mar rok 
 
 But she hung upon his arm, and smiled, 
 and said: "Nay, my lord; of these things 
 ask not to-night. To-morrow will be 
 time for sorrowful tidings. But now let 
 me go and with my skill brew thee a 
 drink that will cure thy fatigue, and make 
 thee glad to be once more in thine own 
 castle." Then she kissed his hand, and 
 slipped away, laughing back over her 
 shoulder, so that Marrok was pleased, 
 and with a smile sat in the hall, watching 
 the servants spread a table, and waiting 
 her return. 
 
 The lady went quickly to her chamber, 
 and shut herself in. To that little inner 
 chamber she went where were her strange 
 tapestries, her books, and her vials. And 
 there hung a little cabinet on the wall, 
 made almost in the manner of a shrine; 
 yet it bore no holy signs. The lady took 
 three candles and lighted them, and they 
 burned with strange flames, one red, and 
 one green, and one blue; and she set all 
 of them before the shrine. Then she took 
 114 
 
OfMarrok s Return 
 
 wax, and softened it over a brazier; with 
 deft fingers she kneaded it, and made of 
 it a figure. A wolf she made, so small as 
 to stand upon the hand, and she set the 
 figure within the little cabinet. Then she 
 took her vials, and quickly compounded a 
 drink, mixing it in a golden chalice. And 
 all the time she said strange words for 
 spells and charms. 
 
 When this was done she left the room, 
 and gave orders that the servants should 
 leave their work and all go into the ser 
 vants hall. Agatha she sent to see that 
 the gate of the castle, and the drawbridge, 
 stood free. Alone she entered the hall, 
 and kneeling before Marrok, offered him 
 the golden chalice, that he might drink. 
 
 He took it, and pledged her. "May 
 thy wishes prosper," he said. 
 
 "May thy wish come true," she an 
 swered, and she watched him keenly. 
 
 He sipped the wine, and smiled at the 
 lady. " A noble taste ! " he cried. 
 
 "Drink it all!" she said. 
 115 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Then he drank the drink, glad at heart. 
 But as he took the chalice from his mouth, 
 smiling and about to speak, lo! words 
 would not come! And a strange change 
 came over him. For gray hair sprang on 
 his hands and face, and his face became a 
 snout, and his arms and legs were as those 
 of an animal. The chalice fell to the 
 ground. Then the Lady Irma struck at 
 him with her hand, and laughed, and 
 cried : " Down, beast ! " 
 
 Then Marrok fell upon all fours, and 
 behold, he was a wolf, long and lank and 
 gray. The lady, with delight, pointed 
 him to a mirror. There with horror he 
 saw himself. Then she cried: "Out!" 
 
 Amazed, he fled from the hall, down the 
 stairs, over the drawbridge, and out into 
 the night. In deadly fear he sought the 
 forest, and hid in its depths. And though 
 his men came home, and his people watched 
 and waited long, Marrok came not again, 
 and none knew w r hat had befallen him. 
 
 116 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 WHAT MARROK FOUND IN BEDEGRAINE 
 
 Oh, wild again the thorn grows free, 
 
 And all abroad the ivy climbs ; 
 And, Bedegraine, I weep for thee, 
 
 Fallen once more on evil times. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 it seems sometimes that injus- 
 JL tice and cruelty triumph in the world, 
 and innocence and right are trampled. 
 And now, when the Lady Irma and her 
 minions carried it with a high hand in the 
 castle, and Marrok, in wolfish shape, cow 
 ered in the forest, did it especially so seem. 
 Never, indeed, had more terrible fate 
 come to a man while living. It is hard to 
 die; but there is life after death, with re 
 ward for virtue. And it is hard to be 
 sick and imprisoned; yet is one still a 
 man. But Marrok was very beast indeed, 
 with a beast s form, yet with a man s heart. 
 117 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Sad and pitiful were his feelings. Deep 
 in the wood he hid himself, and with 
 shame and dread avoided the sight of all 
 living things. Even the birds that sang 
 in the branches caused him to start, and 
 as for the deer that fled at his coming, 
 their fear could not be greater than his. 
 For weeks he lay close, living on the 
 scantiest of food, and grew thin with 
 starvation and hatred of himself. 
 
 What was there left him in the world? 
 Only as a wolf to hunt food in the wood, 
 miserably to live as a beast in the forest, 
 hated of men. And he cried to God from 
 the depths of his heart: "Kill me and 
 let this life finish! " But no such merci 
 ful end was sent. 
 
 Long time he lay thus hidden, himself 
 as in a stupor at the calamity that had 
 befallen him. And yet the nature of 
 Marrok was not the nature of a selfish 
 man, and this could not last forever. 
 So finally, when he had learned to 
 find food for himself, and had gained a 
 118 
 
What Marrok Found in Bedegraine 
 
 little strength, his true nature came to 
 him. He said to himself: "Let me view 
 the place that I have loved, and under 
 stand what has happened to this my land." 
 And he began to come forth from his 
 coverts. First of all he viewed the 
 forest. 
 
 Already he knew the unhappy truth 
 that wolves had come again to Bedegraine/ 
 He had heard their distant calling, and 
 had listened to the cry of the pack as it 
 swept near his hiding, chasing the deer 
 for food. Now he spied upon them, 
 counting their numbers. There were 
 many packs, large and small. And it 
 seemed to Marrok that the wolves were 
 as many as when first he came to Bede 
 graine. 
 
 He found little dwellings that had 
 sprung up within the forest here and 
 there, and he wondered who lived in 
 them. One day he lingered near a hut 
 that stood by a marsh not far from the edge 
 of the forest, for he wished to find out 
 119 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 who dwelt there. The door was tightly 
 shut, yet at dusk it opened, and there 
 came out an old woman, attended by a 
 black cat. She was called the Witch of the 
 Marsh, whom the peasants greatly feared. 
 Marrok feared her too, for all in those 
 days thought that witches had great 
 power; and in dismay he crept farther 
 away into the forest. And he learned 
 that the other little huts in the forest held 
 other such creatures, men or women, and 
 one, the man most powerful of them all, 
 lived among the fallen stones of the 
 Druids Ring. So many seemed these 
 workers of evil that Marrok was greatly 
 cast down. 
 
 Then he yearned to look upon men, 
 even though they should see and slay him. 
 He would steal to the edge of the forest 
 and look out upon their homes. Some 
 times he would creep close to the castle, 
 and lie long in wait, hoping for a sight 
 of his son. But though he saw the lady 
 and her retainers, richly clad and making 
 120 
 
What Marrok Found in Bedegraine 
 
 merry, he saw never the boy Walter, nor 
 Bennet, nor Father John. And some 
 times Marrok would look upon the vil 
 lages; but all he saw was the poverty of 
 his vassals. I^o longer sent they into the 
 forest rich herds of swine to feed upon 
 acorns. Many swine had been killed by 
 the wolves, and the others were kept close 
 within pens at the farms. And only in 
 little hidden patches did the peasants till 
 the soil, as long ago they did; for the 
 lady sometimes sent her archers and 
 seized the greater part of all they had. 
 And the peasants, Marrok saw, were fear 
 ful of what might happen to them any 
 day death or the loss of all their posses 
 sions; and they were thin as their own 
 cattle. 
 
 Yet one day Marrok heard voices of 
 men talking in the forest, and looking 
 from his thicket, he saw a dozen going 
 boldly, men strong of body and well fed. 
 They were not archers from the castle, 
 though they went armed, but were like 
 121 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 men of the lower class. And Marrok was 
 glad at the thought that some of his peas 
 ants were prosperous. He followed after 
 them as they went. 
 
 They went to the edge of the old Roman 
 road, and waited within the bushes, as 
 if for some one to come. But when he 
 sought to creep up close to hear their 
 speech and comfort himself with the 
 sound, one of them saw him, and Marrok 
 ran away. Only on the next day did he 
 return to see if, on the place where they 
 had been, they had left anything which, as 
 once belonging to man, he could look upon 
 with pleasure. Alas, he saw too much ! 
 
 For by the roadside men lay dead upon 
 the ground, and horses and mules strayed 
 masterless, and chests lay strewn, open 
 and plundered. And Marrok knew that 
 the men had been robbers. 
 
 Then his heart almost burst within him, 
 and he cried: "Woe is me! Bedegraine 
 is again but a savage place, and all the 
 work of my life is made nothing! " 
 122 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 HOW THE GREAT OPPORTUNITY CAME 
 TO MARROK 
 
 By baleful deed, on woeful day, 
 Sir Morcar thought to win a bride, 
 
 And thus to Marrok showed the way 
 For him to help the weaker side. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 WHEN Marrok had learned all these 
 things, he struggled with despair; 
 but always he said to himself: "Despair 
 is not made for man." And something in 
 his heart said to him: "Wait and trust." 
 But he saw nothing that he could do. 
 Yet even to better his people a little he 
 longed for the opportunity. And the 
 opportunity came. 
 
 One day he lay upon a height. Bede- 
 
 graine lay before him like the green 
 
 ocean, the wind moving the leaves like 
 
 waves. In one place he could see the 
 
 123 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 towers of his own castle, and in another a 
 village, and in another the open land and 
 wooden house of old Sir Simon, once his 
 friend. 
 
 And as Marrok watched, behold, he 
 saw new proof that evil reigned. For he 
 saw fighting before the house of Sir 
 Simon, and the servants of the old knight 
 driven within pell-mell. And men-at- 
 arms, with archers on their horses croups, 
 came rushing up to enter with the others, 
 but the gate was shut in their faces. Yet 
 in a twinkling the archers sprang from 
 the horses, and ringed themselves about 
 the house, ready to shoot at those within. 
 And Marrok was greatly astonished, for 
 he recognized the banner that was borne 
 by one of the men-at-arms. 
 
 x Those," he thought, " are the men of 
 Sir Morcar!" 
 
 They were indeed the men of Sir Mor 
 car who had attacked Sir Simon s house. 
 And the reason was that Agnes, the 
 daughter of Sir Simon, was betrothed, and 
 124 
 
Of Marrok s Opportunity 
 
 was about to marry Sir Koger. There 
 goes with this a story of treachery un 
 pleasant to relate: how Sir Morcar, by 
 advice of the Lady Irma, pretended such 
 gladness at the happiness of the maiden 
 that Sir Simon forgot his caution. Then 
 Sir Morcar, hoping to seize the maiden, 
 set his men in an ambushment, and at 
 tacked Sir Simon by sudden force. Sir 
 Simon closed the gates in time, but the 
 end was not far off. 
 
 For Marrok, as he watched, saw arrows 
 tipped with fire fly to the roof of the 
 house, and marked the besiegers battering 
 at the door. Before long the gate was 
 falling from its hinges, and the ancient 
 grange was burning brightly at all its 
 four corners. Marrok cried to himself: 
 " They must flee ! " Then suddenly those 
 within came rushing out, in the attempt 
 to save their lives by flight. 
 
 Marrok saw women in the midst of a 
 valiant little band. On horseback they 
 pushed their way, and made for the wood. 
 125 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 ISTobly the men fought, and their leader, 
 who from his vigor scarcely seemed to 
 be the old knight, was opening a way 
 through the opponents. Some one struck 
 at him with a mace, and cracked the hel 
 met that he wore, so that it broke in two 
 parts and fell to the ground. Then Mar 
 rok saw the white hair of the old knight. 
 But Sir Simon was dismayed no whit, and 
 fought on as before. Yet another by 
 guile got behind him, and struck him on 
 the head with a sword, and the old knight 
 fell from his horse. There he died, who 
 had been kind master to his people and 
 good friend to Sir Marrok, and ever a 
 doer of the right since he was a boy. 
 And Marrok groaned, for the blow that 
 killed the old knight seemed to pierce 
 himself. Moreover, he saw no hope for 
 the others. Yet, after all, they burst their 
 way through the ring of Sir Morcar s 
 men, and made for the forest. 
 
 Then suddenly the distant panorama 
 became flight and pursuit along the forest 
 126 
 
OfMarrok s Opportunity 
 
 road. A girl, as it seemed, was ahead on 
 her steed, and Marrok saw her golden 
 hair. A young man, who was but a strip 
 ling, followed her close, ever turning in 
 his saddle, ready to strike at those behind. 
 Men-at-arms came thundering after, with 
 the knight Sir Morcar at their head, eager 
 to reach the fugitives. And thus they 
 disappeared within the screen of leaves. 
 
 Marrok rushed from his place and 
 plunged into the wood. 
 
 Now it was Agnes, the daughter of Sir 
 Simon, who led the flight, and her brother 
 who defended her. Their escape was sure 
 if only their horses could endure ; and on 
 that road they might speed a long way, 
 then by cross-roads and bridle-paths reach 
 the castle of Sir Eoger. And her brother 
 bade Agnes not fear. Yet she knew by 
 the laboring breath of her horse that the 
 poor beast was wounded and could not 
 run far. In fact, when they were scarce 
 a mile within the forest, the horse stopped 
 and stood trembling, ready to sink. The 
 127 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 pursuers shouted and spurred the faster. 
 Her brother cried: "Into the woods!" 
 and turning, rode to meet his fate. Eight 
 at Sir Morcar he rode, hoping he might 
 slay the knight. But Sir Morcar, rising 
 in his stirrups, struck terribly with his ax, 
 and dashed the boy from the saddle. 
 
 Agnes waited till she saw her brother 
 fall, then sprang to the ground and slipped 
 into the covert. Where the bushes were 
 thick she ran, as she had hidden a hun 
 dred times when playing with her com 
 panions ; yet a far different chase was this. 
 Behind her she heard shouts, and men 
 crashing in the bushes. Carefully she 
 saved herself, and ran, not with speed but 
 with caution, seeking always to keep hid 
 den, while still the noises sounded behind 
 her. Then pattering on the leaves came 
 steps at her very side, and she thought: 
 >c I am caught! " She looked, and it was 
 a wolf that was running with her. 
 
 But she feared him less than the men. 
 Nay, he was welcome to her; for she 
 128 
 
Of Mar r ok s Opportunity 
 
 dreaded Morcar, and would rather be slain 
 by the wolf. She ran on, and the wolf 
 kept at her side, nor offered to molest her. 
 But at last she stopped breathless, and 
 sat on a stone, for she was spent. She 
 looked at the long and terrible fangs of 
 the beast, and thought: "Now let me 
 die ! " Yet the wolf looked at her not at 
 all, but placed himself before her, listen 
 ing to the sounds of her pursuers. And 
 they two were in a thicket, very small 
 and close. 
 
 Men beat the forest to right and left, 
 and to her every sound was a torture. 
 But only one man came where they lurked, 
 pushing his way into the thicket. Then 
 he died with the wolf at his throat, and, 
 as the Lay saith, he was the first man 
 that Marrok the wolf killed. Of that 
 short, silent struggle no sound was heard 
 by the other men, and at last the maiden, 
 gaining breath and with it courage, said 
 to the wolf as if to a friend: "I can go 
 on." And he, understanding her, led her 
 9 129 
 
Sir, Marrok 
 
 away. Deeper and deeper they went 
 among the trees, until no sounds came 
 from behind. Safe, the maiden fell on 
 her knees, and wept and prayed. 
 
 There, as they delayed, night fell, and 
 Marrok watched her troubled sleep. He 
 heard a human voice again, and from her 
 broken words learned her story. " Nay, 
 father," she cried earnestly, " not Morcar 
 Roger do I love. Him only can I 
 wed." Then words of thanks, as to the 
 kindness of a father; and then, waking to 
 the forest night, she clung eagerly to her 
 preserver, wet his fur with her tears, and, 
 lying close, slept again, only to wake once 
 more, crying : "Mercy, Morcar ! Spare my 
 father ! " Then she lay long awake, moan 
 ing: "Roger Roger! Oh, how shall I 
 find him?" 
 
 And Marrok, once more appealed to, 
 once more trusted, trembled with joy at 
 the touch of her arms, the moisture of her 
 tears. And, understanding the story, he 
 knew what to do. 
 
 130 
 
Of Marrok s Opportunity 
 
 Now. at this point in the Lay are given 
 two tales, the one entitled " The Adven 
 ture of Marrok and the Lady Agnes with 
 the Bobbers," and the other entitled 
 " How Marrok Gat the Lady Safely from 
 the Wolves." The first tells how six rob-, 
 bers, coming upon Marrok and the lady 
 as they journeyed, took the lady and kept 
 her until night; but in the dark Marrok 
 came and stole her away, and slew four 
 of the robbers who followed. And the 
 other relates a tale of the wolves of 
 Bedegraine, how some would have eaten 
 the Lady Agnes, but others would have 
 kept her among them to rule over them, 
 as it has been said that wolves sometimes 
 do. But Marrok rescued her from this 
 danger also. These are the two tales 
 which the Lay gives here. But learned 
 men dispute over them, many being in 
 clined to believe that they are additions 
 by later writers, and not a part of the 
 true Lay. Indeed, parts of the stories 
 seem not true; therefore they are not 
 131 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 given here in all their length, but only 
 mentioned. Then the Lay turns to speak 
 of Sir Roger of the Rock. 
 
 On the third morning after the burning 
 of the house of Sir Simon, Sir Roger 
 went forth early into the wood, wishing, 
 in the happiness of his heart, to see the 
 coming of bright day and to hear the 
 birds sing. And no news whatever had 
 come to him of the sad hap to Sir Simon, 
 but the knight was merry at the thought 
 of his coming marriage. He wandered 
 on the turf under the trees, and made 
 himself a song and a tune thereto. The 
 tune to the song is lost; but the words, 
 say the wise men, are older than the Lay, 
 being taken from the Chronicle. And 
 the song reads thus: 
 
 "My Lady Agnes, fair and bright, 
 Happy I who am your knight ; 
 Happy that to-morrow morn 
 I shall no more be alone ; 
 
 For to-day I ride to marry 
 My lady fair 
 With golden hair, 
 And shall no longer tarry." 
 132 
 
Of Mar r ok 9 s Opportunity 
 
 Thus ever smiling to himself, and at 
 times singing, Sir Roger went farther 
 into the wood, until he was nearly a mile 
 from his castle. Thinking upon his lady, 
 and how fair and sweet she was, he went 
 farther than he meant. But at last he 
 remembered the hour, and that soon he 
 must ride to the house of Sir Simon, and 
 there take the Lady Agnes to wife. So 
 he turned himself about and started to 
 return. 
 
 But there, right there under an oak-tree, 
 lay a lady, young, it seemed, and perhaps 
 fair, but he could not see her face. At 
 her side couched a wolf, the largest ever 
 seen, grim and terrible of aspect, but fast 
 asleep. Sir Roger thought: "The beast 
 hath slain the lady!" But on looking, 
 lo ! her breast was moving gently, and she 
 also slept. Sir Roger stood marveling. 
 
 At last he thought: "I must slay the 
 wolf and save the lady." With all quiet 
 ness he drew his sword and stole upon 
 the beast, meaning to strike. The eyes 
 of the wolf opened, and he rose to his 
 133 
 
A S Marrok 
 
 feet, and Sir Roger was astonished at his 
 size. But seeing the lady move, he said 
 to himself, "Haste!" and gripped his 
 sword for the attack. Then he heard a 
 voice cry, " Roger ! " It sounded as the 
 voice of his love. In truth, the lady who 
 had been sleeping stepped between him 
 and the wolf, and it was Agnes, his 
 betrothed. 
 
 Then doubly he feared for her life, and 
 cried: "Agnes, beware the wolf at your 
 back ! " He sought to pass her, and 
 struck eagerly at the beast. But the lady 
 caught his arm, and the wolf, turning 
 away, vanished among the trees of the 
 forest. 
 
 "Oh, Roger," said Agnes, in tears, 
 "now is he gone! My life hath he saved; 
 leagues hath he led me in the forest, even, 
 when I was tired, bearing me upon his 
 back." And she told him her story. 
 Then Sir Roger joined her in searching 
 for the wolf; but he was indeed gone. 
 
 Now as to the revenge which Sir Roger 
 134 
 
Of Mar r ok s Opportunity 
 
 took upon Sir Morcar that may be read 
 later in this book. But Marrok went 
 away rejoicing. Once more he had been 
 of use in the world. And since he had 
 defended Agnes against the men of Mor 
 car, at last he knew his power, and knew 
 how he should use it. 
 
 135 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 OF MARROK AND THE WOLVES, AND 
 OF OTHER MATTERS 
 
 For what is Brute but body strong ? 
 
 And what is strong in Man but brain ? 
 And, Marrok, to thee still belong 
 
 The powers to make thee man again. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 MANY were the wolves of Bedegraine, 
 and fierce. They hunted in great 
 packs, and to them day and night were 
 the same, for none opposed them. That 
 Marrok, alone, should war upon them, 
 seemed madness. 
 
 But one day, where more than twenty 
 wolves lay sodden, gorged upon two does 
 and their fawns, Marrok walked into their 
 midst. Slowly, with anger at the intru 
 sion, but with no alarm, they straggled to 
 their feet and faced him. One by one he 
 measured them with his eye. He was 
 136 
 
Of Marrok and the Wolves 
 
 longest of limb, deepest of chest, firmest 
 of muscle; but he knew that he could 
 do little against twenty, without his 
 human brain. The plan of his brain was 
 ready. 
 
 He singled the leader as the wolf who 
 growled quickest and loudest of all. 
 Now animals have no speech, and no 
 words could pass. But signs are much, 
 defiance is easy of expression, and the 
 cool, slow stare of the intruder enraged 
 the leader-wolf. He challenged first, 
 then sprang, and in an instant lay with 
 broken back. 
 
 Marrok moved slowly from the circle, 
 contemptuous. Another of the pack 
 leaped at him, to be flung bleeding. 
 Then the whole, recovering from their 
 amazement, hurled themselves blindly on 
 his footsteps, and followed him furiously 
 into the bushes as he began his easy run. 
 In the long chase that then commenced, 
 again and again the fugitive turned, and 
 the first pursuer, from a single snap of 
 137 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 iron jaws, gasped out his life amid the 
 leaves. From the pursuit but ten returned. 
 
 So began Marrok s hunting. On the 
 second day the terrible wolf sought out 
 the remnant of the pack, attacked, fled, 
 and killed the pursuers singly, till at the 
 last three in their turn fled before him, 
 and but one escaped. Confident, Marrok 
 sought the survivor in the very center of 
 the pack in which it had found refuge, 
 killed it there, and then the leader also of 
 this new band. That night he lay down 
 wounded ; but six more wolves were dead, 
 and the shuddering rumor of his deeds 
 passed through the forest. Two months 
 more, and a pack of thirty fled at sight of 
 him. 
 
 Then gradually he herded them north 
 ward, from side to side ranging the forest 
 and sweeping it clear. He was not as 
 other wolves, and nothing could deceive 
 him. Here a band of six, there a pack of a 
 dozen, broke back to their old haunts. He 
 hunted them down, every one, and again 
 138 
 
Of Marrok and the Wolves 
 
 commenced his northward drive. Each 
 time, when their panic left them and the 
 wolves sought to return, he appeared 
 among them, however numerous, and slew 
 without mercy. Neither spared he him 
 self. Gaunt, haggard, sore from wounds, 
 stiff from hard fights, tired from long 
 running, his hunt began each morning 
 at dawn, rested only at dark, and ceased 
 not day after day. At last, and for good, 
 the wolves fled across the open lands to 
 the forests far beyond. Forever it was 
 known among them: no wolf might live 
 in Bedegraine. 
 
 The year came round again, and Bede 
 graine was free of wolves. Yet Marrok, 
 scarred and weary, might not rest. The 
 second pest of his lands must go. He 
 had marked each house of warlock or 
 witch, and had watched their actions. 
 Necromancers might they not be; he 
 could not tell ; but this they were: spies for 
 Irma, revealing to her the hidden stores 
 of the peasants. The beldame who was 
 139 
 
Marrok 
 
 called " the old Witch of the Marsh " was 
 the most active of all. To her abode he 
 went. Within, she crooned a spell. 
 
 Listening, Marrok cowered. The sounds 
 in the air seemed from the invisible wings 
 of spirits, whose powers might blight him 
 where he stood. Yet with all his force he 
 pushed at the door. 
 
 The Witch of the Marsh saw a wolf on 
 the threshold, and forgot her spells. Her 
 herbs fell from her hands into the fire, 
 and flamed out; she retired into the cor 
 ner. The white fangs of the wolf showed 
 as in a smile. "She fears me," thought 
 Marrok, and advanced. He seized a brand 
 from the hearth. 
 
 The witch screamed. "Out!" she 
 cried. " Imp of Satan beast of the pit 
 out! Will ye fire my house? Out!" 
 Feebly she threw at him a dish. 
 
 "If I am of Satan," thought Marrok, 
 "why should she fear me? She throws 
 but a dish. I had feared spells. Is a 
 witch, then, not able to harm me?" 
 140 
 
Of Mar r ok and the Wolves 
 
 But he paused not to puzzle; instead, 
 he thrust the brand into a heap of tow in 
 the corner. Barely did the Witch of the 
 Marsh escape with her life from the 
 destruction of the hut. Marrok left her 
 wailing in the night. 
 
 That night three other huts went up in 
 flames. The next night others followed. 
 Only the warlock of the Druids Ring, 
 who lived among the fallen stones of the 
 ancient altar, could retire into his house 
 and defy fire. Marrok scratched at the 
 stone slab that made the door, but could 
 not seize to lift it. Then he pushed at a 
 tottering stone that stood near, until it 
 fell across the slab. Imprisoned for days, 
 the warlock at length dug his way out, 
 then fled far from.Bedegraine. 
 
 But his fellows gathered at the castle 
 and begged protection of the Lady Irma. 
 " We have served you," they said with 
 quavering voices and shaking hands. " Do 
 thou now help us." 
 
 The lady in her silken robes looked at 
 141 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 the witches and warlocks dressed in rags. 
 Long hair and matted beards, lean bodies 
 and shrunk limbs she sneered at them. 
 
 " Get ye hence," she said. " Out of my 
 castle!" 
 
 They fell on their knees. " We are all 
 of the same source," they cried. " The 
 great should help the small." Their shrill 
 cries smote upon the lady s ear. 
 
 "You offend me," she answered. "Get 
 ye forth ! Ho, archers, drive them hence !" 
 
 As the archers whipped them away, Aga 
 tha plucked the lady s sleeve. " Truly," 
 she said, " we are as much witches as are 
 they. And they have served us." 
 
 " But can do so no longer." 
 
 "But this wolf of which they speak?" 
 
 "Believe you such a tale? The forest 
 wolves are hungry and bold. The witches 
 have been frightened; that is all." 
 
 So the witches were driven forth, and 
 wandered up and down the roads, sleep 
 ing in the ditches, till at last, in other 
 regions, they found new homes. 
 142 
 
Of Marrok and the Wolves 
 
 And yet their story of the wolf! 
 Irma could not forget it. 
 
 Outside, in the forest, Marrok hesitated 
 before beginning his next task. To fight 
 men ! But one day he met a robber alone 
 in the wood. 
 
 The man laughed. "A royal wolf!" 
 he cried. " Standeth at gaze ! Sith he 
 runs not, I must e en have his skin." 
 And he began to string his bow. 
 
 The distance was short between them; 
 the man had no sword. Marrok saw his 
 chance, and on his third task made a 
 beginning there and then. 
 
 143 
 
CHAPTEK XYI 
 
 HOW THE DOINGS OF THE WOLF CAME 
 TO THE EARS OF IRMA 
 
 "Peter the Robber," the lady said, 
 " What of the tribute you used to pay? 
 Speak the truth or beware thine head ! " 
 But at his tale she was in dismay. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 IEMA sat m the hall, and her vassals 
 paid their tithes. The peasants, one 
 by one, brought in their produce and laid 
 it, sighing, at her feet. Servants bore it 
 away to the store-rooms, after the lady 
 with keen eyes had measured each man s 
 share. 
 
 To none she gave praise, to none thanks. 
 Glad were they to step aside without an 
 order to bring more. But when all was 
 finished, she commanded them to stand 
 before her again. 
 
 "Knaves," she cried, "your produce 
 144 
 
Irrna Hears of the Wolf s Doing s 
 
 is still bad. What oats are these ? 
 What fruit ? What meat ? Lean meats 
 and musty grain have ye brought now 
 for the fourth year. For the last time I 
 say it, bring better, or ye leave your 
 farms!" 
 
 With the cold hand of fear on their 
 hearts they went away. Then from where 
 he stood within a bay she beckoned for 
 ward one who had been waiting a 
 strong man, fierce of face. 
 
 "Peter," she said, "thou also hast 
 come. Little hast thou brought of late. 
 How much bringest thou now?" 
 
 " My lady," he said, and he bowed low 
 even as the peasants. " Here is the tale 
 of my tribute: forty golden crowns, and 
 two hundred of silver; seventy yards of 
 silken cloth, ninety of woolen, a hundred 
 ten of linen bleached, and a packet of fine 
 lace." 
 
 A smile came upon the lady s face a 
 smile at which her archers were uneasy 
 and the man before her quailed. 
 10 145 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 "Peter," she said, "Peter the Eobber! 
 Thou hidest in my woods, thou robbest 
 travelers on my lands. Half thy gains 
 are mine. I laugh at the trifles you bring. 
 Seek you to deceive me?" 
 
 " Lady," said the surly robber, " I bring 
 you fair half nay, more. For misfor 
 tune has come among us. My men are 
 frightened; they will scarcely forth to 
 rob even a rich train. One hardly dares 
 go forty yards from another for fear of 
 the wolf. Even I, lady " 
 
 The lady bent forward. "The wolf, 
 sayst thou?" She waved her hand to 
 her archers. " Clear the hall ! " 
 
 The hall was cleared. Irma, Agatha, 
 Peter, alone remained. "Now," said the 
 lady, " speak plainly. If thou liest, t is 
 at peril of thy head. A wolf, thou 
 saidst?" 
 
 "Ay," said the robber, "a wolf. My 
 
 lady, t is two months now since my men 
 
 began to fail me, going out to hunt, 
 
 returning not. Three, then six, were 
 
 146 
 
Irma Hears of the Wolf s Doings 
 
 missed. Then we came on one lying 
 dead. A beast had slain him as with 
 one leap. More men were missed; we 
 found more bodies. Then, one day, I 
 saw it with my own eyes, as my best 
 man walked not the length of this hall 
 away from us, a wolf rose out of a thicket 
 and killed him on the instant." 
 
 "Nay!" said the lady. 
 
 "We were all there," cried Peter. 
 c Forty of us within a javelin s cast. 
 Since then more men are lost. He fol 
 lows, attacks even openly. The men 
 fear. I fear I myself." 
 
 "A single wolf?" 
 
 "One wolf alone. Lady, there has 
 been war among the wolves. Many have 
 died. Now see we none except this wolf." 
 
 "He is large?" 
 
 " The largest of any." 
 
 "And strong?" 
 
 " Can break a man s neck. And cun 
 ning as a cat." 
 
 "And so," said the lady, "ye fear him 
 147 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 as old women fear the tale of a witch! 
 Call ye yourselves men? " 
 
 "Men are we," said Peter, stoutly. 
 >c Naught human do we fear. But, my 
 lady, listen. This fortnight past, heard 
 we news of the coming of a train of 
 wealthy merchants through from the 
 south. Them had we seized, we all were 
 rich. I laid my men in ambush on the 
 road ; the trap was sure. I heard the dis 
 tant bells on the mules coming along the 
 road, when sudden fell a panic among our 
 men. My lady, t was the wolf ! " 
 
 " Ay ! " cried Irma, angrily. 
 
 " Hear me, my lady," cried Peter. 
 " He slew the farthest quietly ; three were 
 dead before the rest were ware. Then 
 sprang he right among us. 5 
 
 "And you fled?" 
 
 "Ay, quickly, and he on our heels. 
 T was twenty minutes before we drew 
 together against him." 
 
 "And the merchants?" 
 
 " Passed through scatheless." 
 148 
 
Irma Hears of the Wolf s Doings 
 
 The lady rose and stamped her foot. 
 "Peter," she said, "ye may speak sooth. 
 But go. Bring me the skin of the wolf! " 
 
 "My lady!" cried he. 
 
 " Go ; come not again without it." 
 
 "He is a werewolf!" gasped Peter. 
 " We cannot slay him." But he went. 
 
 Then Agatha and the lady looked at 
 each other long without speaking, and in 
 the faces of both was alarm. 
 
 149 
 
CHAPTEK XVII 
 
 THE STORY OF ANDRED, WHO WAS TAKEN 
 BY THE ROBBERS 
 
 " Now fare ye well, my loving wife ; 
 
 And fare ye well, my children three! 
 Lest robbers take from you the life, 
 I go with them to the greenwood tree." 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 was a man in Bedegraine 
 named Andred, and he was of those 
 who came to the land after Marrok s first 
 coming, to settle there. He had been to 
 the great war with the knight, following 
 him even to Italy; and returning after 
 him, found him gone. And though An 
 dred was a hardy man and a good worker, 
 he was discontented since his lord was 
 gone and matters were in such a state, 
 and he thought of moving away from 
 Bedegraine to the southward, to live on 
 the lands of some other lord. For he, 
 150 
 
The Storj" of Andred 
 
 being experienced and adventurous, was 
 different from the men of Bedegraine, 
 who, like most in those days, abided where 
 they were born, nor lived in new places 
 all the days of their lives. Now Andred 
 began to speak with his friends of his 
 desires. 
 
 But they said : " Here are Bennet and 
 Father John living among us now, and 
 our lot is better than before." 
 
 He answered: "Ay; but it is the life 
 of a dog, and I will go." 
 
 Then they said: "But your wife is sick 
 and cannot travel." 
 
 " Yes," said Andred ; " but when she is 
 well shall I go. Come you with me." 
 
 They answered: "The lady would 
 prevent." 
 
 But he replied : " Then let us go out 
 by families, not together ; and in the night, 
 so that we shall not be seen." 
 
 Yet they were unwilling, since in that 
 ancient time was strong in a man the love 
 for the place where he was born, and 
 151 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 other places seemed strange and barbar 
 ous, even beside Bedegraine. And for a 
 long time Andred s wife remained sick, 
 so that he could not move her. 
 
 It came to a day when the robbers 
 issued from the wood and descended 
 upon the village of Bedegraine for mere 
 pastime. And all the peasants barred 
 their doors. But the robbers went to the 
 house of Andred, whom they knew, and 
 called to him : " Thou Andred, come out 
 and fight with us, and we will spare thy 
 barn. Or give thyself up to us, and we 
 will spare thy house also. And if ye shoot 
 with arrows upon us from loopholes, then 
 will we fire both thy house and thy barn." 
 
 Now Andred was a bold man, and for 
 himself even desperate. He had built 
 him a house with loopholes, and was a 
 good archer, and could have done the 
 robbers much mischief, dying gladly at 
 the end, being weary of life. But he 
 could not doom his sick wife to death, 
 nor his children. And so he agreed with 
 152 
 
The Stoi^y of Andred 
 
 the robbers, that they should leave the 
 village unpillaged, but he should give 
 himself up. So he did, and the robbers 
 took him away into the forest. 
 
 They kept him with them three days, 
 and always they tried, in one way or an 
 other, to make him one of them. But 
 he was stanch, and said always : " Ye are 
 wicked, and wicked will I be never, so 
 long as I draw breath." So at last they 
 were weary of him, and one day, being 
 cruel from much drinking of wine, they 
 set him away to die, horribly and alone. 
 
 For they took him into the forest far 
 from their stronghold, and tied him to a 
 tree. They put food before him on the 
 ground to tantalize him, and saying to 
 him, " Now, be good, Andred, so long as 
 ye draw breath," they left him. 
 
 Two days and two nights he remained 
 there, with the cords cutting him deeply, 
 and feeling himself ever growing weaker 
 from hunger. And he thought of his 
 children and wife who was to support 
 153 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 them; and of this as a reward for a life 
 of right living. But he said then: " Soon 
 shall I be with my lord Sir Marrok in 
 heaven ! " Anon he fell into a fever, and 
 forgot where he was, but thought he was 
 again at the wars, fighting at his lord s 
 side. And he shouted with all his force, 
 so that the woods rang with the war-cry 
 of Sir Marrok. And then, as he stopped 
 for breath, he saw a great gray wolf 
 looking at him, close at hand. 
 
 All Andred s fever fled away, and he 
 gazed at the wolf, but not with fear. For 
 he thought : " Now Heaven be praised ! I 
 shall die quickly. Come," he called to 
 the beast. " Come and kill me ! " And 
 the wolf came. 
 
 And the beast came close, and reared 
 up, putting its paws on Andred s shoul 
 ders. It looked into the man s eyes, and 
 its own eyes seemed as those of a man, 
 kindly. Then it laid its cheek against 
 Andred s own, as a dog caresses a friend. 
 But then it dropped again on all its four 
 154 
 
The Story of Andred 
 
 feet, and in a trice set Andred free from 
 all the cords that bound him. 
 
 -So weak was Andred that he fell at 
 once to the ground ; and so far gone was 
 he that he lay a long time in a faint. 
 When he came to himself the wolf was at 
 a little distance, watching. Andred said : 
 " The beast doth not intend harm to me " ; 
 and so thinking, he ate of the food which 
 the robbers had left. Then, after resting, 
 his strength came back, and he rose and 
 walked toward his home, the wolf follow 
 ing. And Andred met no robbers, nor 
 feared he any, since God, who had saved 
 him thus from death, surely meant that he 
 should live. When he came to the edge 
 of the forest, he looked behind, and the 
 wolf was gone. But Andred walked joy 
 fully to his home. 
 
 They welcomed him as one from the 
 dead, and he told his story. Then they 
 called Father John, and Andred must tell 
 the story all over again. Then said the 
 friar: "Let us go to the church and 
 155 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 there thank God for this strange deliver 
 ance." So they did as he said. 
 
 And when the service was finished, and 
 Father John had left the chancel, he said 
 to Andred at the church door: "Now, 
 Andred, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou 
 leave Bedegraine as thou designedst? " 
 
 Andred answered: : Nay; for light 
 has been given to me, and I understand. 
 My life is saved that I may stay here and 
 work among my friends until such time 
 as men in Bedegraine shall be as kind as 
 are the brutes." 
 
 So Andred remained in his house, and 
 went much with Bennet and Father John, 
 learning from them how to uphold the 
 courage of the people; and though his 
 wife shortly after became well, he removed 
 not from Bedegraine. 
 
 Now this was the first that the peasants 
 learned of the great gray wolf. 
 
 156 
 
CHAPTEE XVIII 
 
 THE STORY OF THE SWINEHERD BLAISE 
 
 Oh, little I reck of land or of pelf, 
 
 And little care I if I live or I dee ; 
 But dear to the heart of the lone werewolf 
 
 Are the tunes that you pipe here under the tree. 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 A PEASANT in Bedegraine had a 
 J_T_L_ son named Blaise, whom the people 
 regarded as simple; yet he was only a 
 dreamer, being still a lad. He was fond 
 of the pipe and flute, and often made 
 himself verses. Also from Father John 
 he had learned to read, and secretly was 
 ambitious to be a clerkly man. Yet to 
 his father he was of little service beyond 
 tending the swine, because of his ab 
 straction. 
 
 Now the father of Blaise had been a 
 notable breeder of swine, and once had 
 owned the greatest herd in all Bedegraine. 
 157 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Therefore he lost many of them when 
 the wolves came, and more by the seizures 
 of the Lady Irma, so that at last he had but 
 a dozen, which he kept in a strong inclo- 
 sure on the edge of the forest, where few 
 were likely to pass and see it. And while 
 he himself worked in the fields each day, 
 he set the lad Blaise to watch the swine. 
 And there the boy -piped to himself all 
 day long, being happy with the beasts 
 and the open air. 
 
 But Blaise had pity for the poor swine, 
 since for all their rooting they found but 
 little food, and were very thin. Some 
 times he would gather for them fresh 
 weeds, which they ate eagerly; yet some 
 of the weeds were poisonous, so that his 
 father forbade him. And as time went 
 on the swine grew thinner, so that some 
 of the young ones died. 
 
 One evening at his supper, Blaise, being 
 downcast over their losses, asked of his 
 father : " What is the food which the swine 
 best like, and which is best for them?" 
 158 
 
The Story of the Swineherd Blaise 
 
 His father sighed and said: "In the 
 good days when Sir Marrok was still 
 with us, fed we the swine in the forest; 
 but then you were very young. The 
 beasts ate the acorns and beech-nuts, and 
 were fat on them, and their flesh was 
 wonderful. No food could be better for 
 swine." 
 
 Now he did not forbid his son to take 
 the swine to the woods, for he had no 
 thought that the boy would be so careless, 
 since all in Bedegraine dreaded the forest 
 as a deadly thing. But Blaise had a love 
 for the great trees, and their soft, cool 
 depths, and the birds that sang in the 
 branches. Especially he longed to hear 
 the birds, for it seemed to him that the 
 birds of the forest sang sweeter than the 
 birds of the open, and he used to think: 
 ;c From their songs could I make me pret 
 tier tunes to my pipe." Moreover, two 
 more of the young pigs died, so that the 
 pity of the lad increased. 
 
 Now one morning the pigs all gathered 
 159 
 
Sir Mar r ok 
 
 together before Blaise where he sat piping, 
 and seemed to complain to him, asking 
 for food. It cut him to the heart, and he 
 went away to the forest, a little way into 
 its depths, where he looked upon the many 
 nuts that had fallen from the latest wind, 
 and saw that, besides the nuts, there Avas 
 fine rooting among the herbs of the forest. 
 Then he said to himself: " My father has 
 not forbidden me. I will bring the swine 
 hither, and at evening bring them home 
 again by means of the horn." So he went 
 back to the inclosure, and opened a way 
 out of it, calling the swine. They all ran 
 out, and the oldest of them led the others 
 directly toward the forest. Blaise went 
 after, and for a long time watched them 
 as they rooted with delight for the herbs, 
 or ate the nuts. Then he sat himself 
 down with his pipe at the foot of the tree, 
 and played until near nightfall. 
 
 But when he tried to gather the swine 
 together to follow him home, they would 
 not come. Only the oldest had any recol- 
 160 
 
The Story of the Swineherd Blaise 
 
 lection of the meaning of the sound of 
 the horn, and Blaise could not herd the 
 young ones with them. Moreover, even 
 the old swine were unruly, preferring the 
 warm night and the fine fodder to the 
 barren inclosure. And Blaise was almost 
 in despair, for they avoided him when he 
 tried to catch them. He thought: " I 
 must call my father to help me." But he 
 knew his father would be already weary, 
 and he began to fear the task would be 
 very difficult, to herd the swine. 
 
 Nevertheless, when he w r as about to 
 give up, he saw, as he thought, a great 
 dog come out from among the trees and 
 begin to collect the swine together. A 
 very great dog it seemed to be, and once 
 a fighter, for it bore the scars of many 
 wounds. But like a sheep-dog it herded 
 the swine, and the swine feared it, running 
 quickly back to the farm. Blaise fol 
 lowed, and the dog at a little distance; 
 then, when Blaise called the beast, it came 
 to him and suffered itself to be caressed. 
 11 161 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Yet it would not follow the lad to the 
 farm, staying within the forest. So Blaise 
 secured the swine, and went to his supper. 
 
 And he thought to himself: "Now 
 what shall I do? Shall I tell my father 
 of what I have done, or shall I keep it as 
 a surprise, showing him the swine when 
 all are fat? " Then he decided to do the 
 latter, thinking it would be a great plea 
 sure to his father. 
 
 Two weeks thereafter there came a 
 day when the father needed his son 
 greatly at the field-work, so he went for 
 Blaise to the inclosure. But he found 
 there neither the lad nor the swine. In 
 great alarm, he studied the signs on the 
 ground, and found the opening where the 
 swine had gone out. He feared robbers, 
 but the path to the forest was already 
 well worn, and there were no other human 
 footmarks than those of the boy. Then 
 he understood that Blaise had done this 
 before, for lately the lad had laughed 
 much to himself when at the house. He 
 162 
 
The Story of the Swineherd Blaise 
 
 followed on the track of the lad, until he 
 heard him piping. Then he saw him sit 
 ting at the foot of a tree. 
 
 But there was a great marvel, for a 
 wolf couched beside the boy. The father 
 hid quickly, thinking what he should do ; 
 for if he showed himself he feared that 
 the wolf would harm the boy. " The 
 beast is charmed by the music," thought 
 the father. " I have heard tales of such 
 happenings. But if the music stops he 
 will be savage." Then he stole quietly 
 away to get help. 
 
 By hap he met in the fields Andred; 
 and he called: "Andred, get thy bow 
 and come quickly, for Blaise is in danger 
 in the forest." Then Andred got his 
 bow, and the two men went hastily to 
 gether, till they came to the spot where 
 they saw, from a thicket, Blaise still 
 piping, and the wolf lying quietly at his 
 side. The father of Blaise whispered: 
 " Lay an arrow on thy bow, and shoot." 
 
 But Andred did nothing, so that the 
 163 
 
Sir 
 
 father whispered again, "Make haste! 
 See you not that the wolf is charmed? " 
 
 But Andred answered: "That is my 
 wolf, which saved me. I cannot shoot 
 him." 
 
 Then Blaise s father was in great fear, 
 and he knew not what to do. But it was 
 now late of the afternoon, the hour when 
 the swine must be brought home. And 
 the two men in the bushes saw the lad 
 Blaise lay aside his pipe, and put his hand 
 on the head of the wolf, as if thanking 
 him for his company. Then Blaise blew 
 his horn, and the swine came running, and 
 Blaise began to lead them toward the 
 farm. And, to their great wonder, the two 
 men saw how the wolf walked behind, 
 herding along the young pigs who were 
 wilful and wished to stray. 
 
 Then the men, stealing along from 
 bush to bush to observe the marvel, were 
 seen by the wolf. He did not run, but 
 looked at them a moment, then walked 
 into the bushes. And Blaise, seeing that 
 164 
 
The Story of the Swineherd Blaise 
 
 the wolf no longer followed, looked about, 
 and also perceived his father. 
 
 " So, father," he cried, " you have found 
 my secret! But you have sent my dog 
 
 awav." 
 
 They told him it was not a dog, but a 
 wolf, and they were greatly alarmed for 
 him. And the father, in much relief, 
 scolded his son roundly, which is the 
 manner of many fathers. 
 
 Yet Blaise said: "If that was a wolf, 
 yet has he never done me harm. For two 
 weeks have I led the swine into the forest, 
 and he has been with me every day." 
 Because the lad always spoke the truth, 
 they believed him; and he showed his 
 father how fat the swine had grown. 
 
 But Marrok, who was the wolf, went 
 away into the forest with a heavy heart. 
 For the youth, innocent and fearless as 
 he was, had been a great comfort, while 
 his piping was a solace. And Marrok had 
 taken no thought that he, a knight, herded 
 swine, but had done all that humbly, as 
 165 
 
Si r Marrok 
 
 one who helps men. But now he believed 
 that the swine and the boy would come 
 never again to the forest, since the men 
 had seen him Marrok the wolf. 
 
 But when all this tale was told to Father 
 John, he thought upon it deeply; and 
 he asked the father of Blaise : " Will you 
 send your son again into the forest with 
 your swine?" 
 
 The peasant answered: " No! " 
 
 "Methinks," said the friar, "it would 
 be a good thing to send the boy again. For 
 perhaps this is a sign that better things are 
 coming to Bedegraine ; and surely this is 
 the only way to save the remainder of our 
 swine, which are dying on every hand." 
 
 But the peasant declared again he 
 would not send his son into the forest. 
 Yet this was talked over among them all, 
 and Andred cried that he was not afraid 
 to risk either himself or his swine, and 
 Bennet was consulted, and finally the end 
 was this: Andred, armed with his bow, 
 took into the forest his own swine, three 
 166 
 
The Story of the Swineherd Blaise 
 
 miserable beasts, and no harm came to 
 them, but they began to grow strong. 
 And other peasants sent their swine, and 
 Blaise went again, till at last he had all 
 the swine of the village with him to take 
 out at morning and bring back at night, 
 for the swine learned to come at call. 
 And sometimes the wolf was seen, and 
 sometimes not; but no harm came either 
 to the swine or to the swineherd. 
 
 And Blaise, when he grew up, became, 
 as he desired, a clerkly man, so that peo 
 ple no longer called him simple. And 
 when he was old, and Marrok and Father 
 John were both dead, then Blaise read in 
 the Chronicle of Sir Marrok, and under 
 stood all that he had seen in his youth. 
 And it is said that he wrote the Lay, 
 which may well be true. 
 
 167 
 
CHAPTEK XIX 
 
 OF NORTHS THE MONK, AND HOW HE 
 
 WAS SENT INTO THE FOREST, AND 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM THERE 
 
 Then Richard could not eat his meat, 
 
 But chafed at Norris as he read, 
 And thought that his revenge were sweet 
 
 If Norris were but lost or dead. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 fTlHERE was a monk named Norris, a 
 A true man, who lived in the abbey of 
 Bedegraine. And he was a thorn in the 
 side of Richard the prior, by reason of 
 his stubbornness. For Anselm the abbot 
 ever grew weaker, and he was as wax in 
 the hands of Richard, who did in the 
 abbey as he pleased. Now the ways of 
 Richard were as the ways of the world, 
 and what with eating rich foods and 
 drinking fine wines, and with merrymak 
 ing, he led an easy life. And shrewdly 
 168 
 
The Stojy of Noms 
 
 he endeavored to corrupt the monks to 
 luxury, relaxing all discipline, so that 
 there was a party of them who aped his 
 ways. Then would Richard have entirely 
 succeeded but for the monk Morris. 
 
 Morris was a stanch man, and he loved 
 the old ways. Not stern was he or harsh, 
 but unyielding toward every evil influ 
 ence. And he was stiff-necked before the 
 prior, even openly teaching that his ways 
 were wrong, so that those of the monks 
 who were inclined to the good kept heart, 
 and observed the fast-days and the hours 
 of prayer, even though it was a diminished 
 company which assembled for early 
 matins. For Norris, whenever it was 
 his turn, caused the early bell to be rung ; 
 and on other days he waked betimes and 
 roused the brothers, and by his word and 
 his example he kept a little remnant of 
 the monks who yearned for the old times. 
 And Richard suffered this only because 
 he was not sure of his position, biding 
 his time until Anselm was too dull to 
 169 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 take notice of events, or until he was 
 dead. 
 
 Now there came a day when Anselm 
 lay sick with a little fever, and must lie 
 in his bed every day. So he was removed 
 from the knowledge of things. Then 
 Richard went down to the refectory to the 
 midday meal, nursing wrath against Nor- 
 ris. And the monks sat at the long table, 
 with Richard at the head; and the meal 
 was served a long meal and well cooked, 
 which should delight the heart of any 
 good liver. But to Richard it was as if 
 he were eating poison. 
 
 For it was the habit, as the brothers ate, 
 that one of them should read aloud from 
 a pulpit placed in the wall at the side of 
 the hall, so that all could hear clearly. On 
 this day it was the turn of Norris to read, 
 and he read of the captivity of the Israel 
 ites, how they were grievously oppressed. 
 And Norris chose the passages skilfully, 
 showing how they bore their sufferings 
 like men, and bided their time, and in the 
 170 
 
The Story of Nowis 
 
 end were freed. And every one there, 
 from Richard the prior to the newest 
 brother, knew that Norris meant them to 
 understand that he likened the captivity 
 of Israel to the oppression in Bedegraine, 
 and that he was counseling them all to 
 patience, promising that in the end they 
 should be delivered. And all stole 
 glances at Richard, who fumed as he sat 
 at the table s head, and could not eat his 
 food. 
 
 But Richard was thinking of revenge, 
 for he believed the time had come. Then 
 he commanded that a certain basket be 
 brought and placed by his chair, and when 
 the meal was finished, Richard called 
 Norris. The monk stood before him. 
 
 " ."Norris," said Richard, " thou art 
 called the best gatherer of herbs among 
 
 us." 
 
 Now this was true, for Norris was a 
 good gardener, growing herbs for medi 
 cine; and of the herbs which grew wild 
 he was the best in knowledge, being 
 171 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 familiar with the places where they grew. 
 So he bowed, but wondered at the praise, 
 for he saw evil in the prior s eye. 
 
 "Our Father Anselm," said Richard, 
 "lieth sick; and the leech declares that 
 he must have much of the herb called 
 feverset. ]S"ow we have great quantity, 
 but it is dried, and the leech must have 
 fresh. Also he needeth the whole of this 
 basket full. Therefore go thou, Morris, 
 for the sake of our dear father the abbot, 
 and fill this basket as soon as thou canst." 
 
 Then Norris looked at the basket, and 
 he understood the design of the prior. 
 For the herb feverset grew only in the 
 forest, under the great beeches. Also the 
 herb was small and grew sparsely, but 
 the basket was large, and it would take 
 hours to fill the basket, so that the monk 
 would have to spend the night in the for 
 est, amid its dangers, for it was already 
 afternoon. But the request was cun 
 ningly worded, and no brother could 
 refuse to go for the sake of his abbot. 
 172 
 
The Story of Nor r is 
 
 So Norris took the basket and said he 
 would go, and prepared to go at once. 
 
 Then, as he laced on heavier sandals, 
 the monks who depended on him came to 
 him and asked him what would become of 
 him, for he might meet the robbers; but 
 he only said : " God will sustain me." And 
 they said he might meet wolves; yet he 
 said again : " God will sustain me." Then 
 he went, and they took leave of him as a 
 man that goes to his death; but Richard 
 and those who held with him were glad 
 at heart. 
 
 Then Norris walked a half-mile in the 
 fields, and entered the forest. He went 
 far under the trees before he found any 
 of the herb, and for a long time he found 
 little. But he searched diligently, with 
 his eyes on the ground, and after hours 
 he had filled his basket half. Then he 
 came to a place where the herb grew 
 plentifully, and he worked quickly, for 
 the light was going, until his basket was 
 full. But then the light was almost 
 173 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 gone, and when he looked about him he 
 knew that in the diligence of his search 
 he had lost his direction, and there was 
 no moon, and the leaves hid the stars, so 
 that he could not make out where lay the 
 southeast, where the abbey should be. So 
 he knew that he must stay there for the 
 night, and, besides, it was ill walking on 
 the uneven ground, for he might fall and 
 break a limb. But the dusk of the forest 
 closed in on him, and he said to himself: 
 "Norris, art thou afraid?" 
 
 He knew that he was afraid, for he was 
 but a monk, and had lived ever since he 
 was a child either in towns or in walled 
 monasteries, well guarded. In the things 
 of the spirit he was fearless, but bodily 
 dangers he had never met, and there were 
 terrors in the silent forest w T hich were 
 strange to him. But he called to mind 
 those saints who had lived in deserts and 
 waste places, encountering beasts, and 
 they had been saved. Then he struggled 
 with his fears, saying that he was with 
 174 
 
The Story of Nor rift 
 
 God, and he knelt and prayed, and lay 
 down and slept peacefully, like a trusting 
 child. 
 
 But of a sudden he awoke in the night, 
 for he heard a sound. And it was all 
 strange about him : the whispering of the 
 trees, and the thick darkness, and nothing 
 to touch when he put out his hand. Yet 
 there was a sound like the moving of 
 feet, and then Norris, looking, saw close 
 at hand two spots of light, greenish the 
 eyes of a beast. 
 
 So fresh was he waked from sleep, and 
 so dreadful was the sight of the eyes, that 
 Norris lost himself in fear. He leaped 
 up and rushed madly away, without 
 knowledge of what he was doing. Yet 
 he struck no tree, which might have 
 stunned him, and better if he had; and 
 the beast which ran after him failed of 
 its clutch on his gown, which would have 
 saved him. Then, as he ran, his feet met 
 nothing, and he fell down with a cry into 
 the darkness, and fell upon something, 
 175 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 and fell off again, and struck again hard, 
 and knew nothing until the sun was high. 
 
 But at noon on the next day, behold, 
 there was ISToms on a little ledge, with 
 another ledge above him, and above that 
 the level of the forest. And in falling he 
 had struck the first ledge, and stopped on 
 the second, which was lucky, for below 
 was a wide quarry, whence had been taken 
 the stone for three castles and for the 
 abbey, and it was a great fall, so that no 
 man could have lived, since beneath were 
 jagged points of rock. And above was 
 first the other ledge, and then the forest 
 level, as said before; and there, walking 
 up and down, was a huge wolf, looking 
 down at N orris. 
 
 " Truly, crazed was I," said N orris to 
 himself, for he was not hurt and his cour 
 age was better, "to have run from the 
 beast last night. Better to have been 
 eaten. For I cannot throw myself down, 
 since it is a sin for a man to kill himself. 
 And I cannot climb up, for the ledge is 
 176 
 
The Story of N orris 
 
 too high to reach; besides, there waits 
 the wolf to eat me. So I must stay here 
 and starve to death." 
 
 So he looked off across the broad quarry, 
 and saw the green woods beyond, and he 
 sighed for his father s home in the south. 
 Then he looked at the wolf above, and 
 the beast was restless, seeming to prepare 
 to leap down. 
 
 "Now a fool art thou, beast," said 
 Norris. " For thou canst eat me, but how 
 wilt thou get up again? " 
 
 But the wolf leaped down to the ledge 
 above, which was broad ; then he crouched 
 for the leap to the ledge below, which 
 was narrow and short. Anon he leaped, 
 and Morris, with the spirit of a man, 
 seized him by the shoulders as he alighted, 
 and strove to hurl him into the quarry. 
 But the wolf stood like the very rock, and 
 looked up into the face of the monk, and 
 Norris desisted. 
 
 " Now slay me, beast," he said, " and. 
 
 of a truth, I forgive thee my death." 
 12 177 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 But the wolf rubbed against the man, 
 and then placed himself against the wall 
 of rock, looking up at the ledge above. 
 Morris was astonished. And the wolf 
 rubbed again upon him, and put himself 
 against the rock once more. And Morris, 
 knowing nothing of the ways of beasts, 
 thought that the wolf played with him, as 
 the cat does with a mouse. 
 
 But suddenly, as the monk stood with 
 drawn from the wolf as far as he could 
 go on the ledge, he saw what he could 
 do. With the energy of hope, he strode 
 quickly to the wolf, and placed a foot on 
 his back, and leaped for the ledge above. 
 He threw his arms across the edge, and 
 caught his hands in a crevice, and pulled 
 himself up, fearing the while to feel the 
 grip of the beast upon him to pull him 
 down. But when he stood in safety and 
 looked down, the wolf looked up at him 
 without motion, seeming to wait. 
 
 "A stupid beast!" thought Norris. 
 And he turned and climbed to the ground 
 178 
 
The Story of Nor r is 
 
 above, for the distance was not great. 
 Then he looked at the wolf and said 
 good-by, and turned- to go. 
 
 But the beast sent after him such a cry 
 that the monk s heart was troubled, even 
 though he continued to go away. And 
 when he found his basket of herbs he 
 stood awhile, listening for the wolf to 
 cry again. Once again the wolf cried, 
 and the call sounded human with reproach 
 and despair. Then the heart of Morris 
 was greatly touched, and he said: 
 "Though the beast kill me, I will not 
 leave him there to starve." And he 
 went back to the quarry. 
 
 Then the wolf was pleased to see him, 
 and Norris, leaping down to the first 
 ledge, took from his waist the cord that 
 tied his gown. One end he held in his 
 hand, and one end he threw down to the 
 wolf, who seized it. Then Morris drew 
 the rope up, the wolf helping with his 
 claws against the rock; and it was hard 
 work for the monk, for the beast was 
 179 
 
Si?* Marrok 
 
 heavy. But he gained the ledge, and the 
 Avolf rubbed against Norris as if it were 
 a dog. 
 
 Now," cried Norris, in surprise, "I 
 believe the beast meant to save me, from 
 the first!" 
 
 Then they clambered to the other ledge, 
 which was easy for them both, and again 
 the wolf rubbed against the monk, seem 
 ing to thank him. But the monk, who 
 had no more fear, caressed the head of 
 the beast, saying as if it had spoken: 
 "Nay, for rather should I thank thee." 
 Then together, the wolf guiding the 
 monk, they went through the forest, and 
 they came out upon the fields at the point 
 where Norris had left them, nearest the 
 abbey. 
 
 The wolf would come only a short way 
 into the fields, but returned again to the 
 forest; yet some monks who were work 
 ing in a garden-patch saw him. And 
 Richard the prior bit his lip when Norris 
 returned again, for he thought to have 
 180 
 
The Story of Norris 
 
 been rid of him. Also the abbot got well 
 of his fever. But Norris told to the 
 monks, Avhether bad or good, the story of 
 the wolf telling it to the good monks to 
 hearten them, and to the bad to shame 
 them from their ways. 
 
 Then was told throughout Bedegraine 
 the stories that are here written : the story 
 of Andred, and the story of Blaise, and 
 the story of the monk Norris. Upon 
 these stories the peasants greatly heart 
 ened themselves ; and the monks, learning 
 what had happened elsewhere, began to 
 doubt of evil and to hope of good. The 
 peasants worked the harder to improve 
 their farms, and everywhere they spoke 
 of the noble wolf of the forest. And so 
 Marrok began to work good among his 
 people. 
 
 181 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 HOW WAT, THE SON OF WAT, TRIED TO 
 TRAP THE GREAT WOLF 
 
 The shrewdest woodsman and the best 
 That e er drew bow or javelin cast, 
 
 He hunted east, he hunted west, 
 And thought he had the wolf at last. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 THE Lady Irma, by every charm at 
 her command, tried to bewitch Marrok 
 again, to his harm. But it was in vain 
 that she made incantations and recited 
 spells, for the wolf was not to be reached 
 by such means. Then at last she sent a 
 message to Morgan le Fay, asking: 
 "What shall I do? This man whom I 
 have made a wolf troubles me, and I would 
 have him killed." 
 
 Morgan sent this answer: "Except 
 some one slay him outright by a weapon, 
 by two means only can you work him 
 182 
 
Of Wat and his Trap for the Wolf 
 
 harm. Gain sight of him, and before he 
 flees pronounce the third word of the 
 fourth spell which is on the ninth page of 
 the Book. Then will he fall in sleep, and 
 you can slay him. Or pluck three hairs 
 from his back, three living hairs, and 
 burn them in the three candles, one hair 
 to the red candle, and one to the green, 
 and one to the blue. Then shall you 
 melt the little wolf of wax, and the man s 
 strength shall depart from him as the 
 image melts ; and when it is all melted, 
 then will he die. And all this shall you do 
 by the aid of the spell which is in the fourth 
 note on the seventh page of the Book." 
 This book was the Great Book of Necro 
 mancy, and only Merlin and Morgan le 
 Fay had perfect copies of the book. And 
 Irma had only a copy of the book which 
 went to the twelfth page, but for these 
 purposes that was enough. So she had 
 great hopes. 
 
 And she rode out from the castle, along 
 the border of the forest, with her men 
 183 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 blowing horns, and all making noises so 
 that the wolf should come. At every 
 moment she was ready to say the word 
 which should throw Marrok into sleep. 
 Three days did she this, but saw the wolf 
 never. Then Hugh, who was a good 
 hunter, looked within the forest, and said 
 to the lady: "See, the wolf has been 
 watching us all these three days, for here 
 are his tracks in plenty." 
 
 Irma was angry, for she thought: "Pie 
 knows too much to let me see him, fear 
 ing spells. Show me," she said to Hugh, 
 " where he has been." 
 
 Then Hugh showed her one place where 
 the beast had been lying, watching them 
 comfortably. And Irma stamped with 
 anger at his cunning. But when she 
 looked closer she saw a single hair from 
 the wolf s body among the briers where 
 he had been. " Show me more ! " she 
 commanded of Hugh. 
 
 Hugh showed her more, and Irma, 
 searching carefully, found two more hairs. 
 184 
 
Of Wat and his Trap for the Wolf 
 
 With these she hastened to the castle, 
 and went to the little inner chamber, and 
 lighted the three candles, and got out the 
 book. Then she burned the three hairs, 
 one in each candle, reciting the spell, and 
 prepared to melt the little waxen wolf. 
 
 And then she turned white, for she re 
 membered that the letter of Morgan le 
 Fay had said "three living hairs," but 
 these hairs had been dead hairs. She put 
 the little waxen wolf away again carefully, 
 all the time shaking with fright. For if 
 the image were destroyed without this 
 spell, then would Marrok become a man 
 again. 
 
 " Now since the wolf will never come 
 into my sight, who," she said, " will pluck 
 me three living hairs from his back? " 
 
 Though she tried, she could find no one, 
 and nothing served to bring Marrok to 
 harm. But one day she heard of a man 
 who was a great trapper of beasts, and 
 she sent for him to come to her. 
 
 This man was Wat, the son of Wat, 
 185 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 who lived on the lands of another lord, 
 beyond Bedegraine. He lived always in 
 forests, gaining his living from the flesh 
 and skins of the beasts he trapped. And 
 he knew the ways of all forest-beasts, 
 trapping them with great skill. Because 
 the lady promised him much money, he 
 came to her in her castle, and she spoke 
 with him in private. 
 
 " It is a small matter, lady," he said, 
 " this trapping of a wolf. You shall have 
 his skin in a week." 
 
 " Then I will make you rich," she said. 
 " But he is no common beast." 
 
 " Had he the skill of a man," said Wat, 
 " yet should I catch him." 
 
 " Listen," said the lady. " It needs not 
 even to trap him. Bring me three hairs 
 plucked by your own hand from his back, 
 and I will pay you the same money." 
 
 " It were safer to trap him," quoth Wat. 
 And he went out into the forest to begin. 
 
 Now Wat was a clever man, and, for 
 all his boasting, a thoughtful one. Soon 
 186 
 
Of Wat and his Trap for the Wolf 
 
 he discovered that he had no usual task, 
 for the week went by, and all his traps 
 were sprung, and he saw where the wolf, 
 unseen, had followed him and spied on all 
 that he was doing. Then Wat, seeing 
 that this would not do, tried a trick. He 
 went out of the forest, and walked a long 
 way on the plain, and, entering the forest 
 again at a different point, put all his skill 
 into another trap. Then he went away 
 into the fields once more, and waited over 
 night. 
 
 Now Marrok, thinking that the man 
 had gone, was searching for food, and 
 came upon a glade in the forest where it 
 seemed to him there was something that 
 had not been there before. Yet it looked 
 natural, as if it had grown there. And 
 Marrok, not being sure, went to the thing 
 that seemed a little thicket, for he knew 
 that a rabbit was there, from the smell. 
 
 Then he saw how the little trees seemed 
 to have grown almost in a circle, very 
 closely set, but with an opening at one 
 187 
 
Sir* Marrok 
 
 side. Looking in, he saw the body of a 
 rabbit, but the tiny beast was dead. Now 
 Marrok never ate food but what he himself 
 had killed, yet he wished to know how 
 the rabbit came there. He put his head 
 in at the opening, and was about to touch 
 the rabbit, when he saw it was fixed on a 
 piece of a twig, small and stiff. Then he 
 took his head quickly out, and studied the 
 thicket again. Greater craft had he never 
 seen. 
 
 " Nearly had he caught me ! " thought 
 Marrok. 
 
 He went around behind the semicircle 
 of little trees, and put in his paw, and 
 pulled at the little twig. Behold, a great 
 leaning log fell with a crash, and other 
 logs upon it, and had Marrok been at the 
 mouth of the trap, they would have broken 
 his back. 
 
 Then Marrok sat down and thought. 
 
 For he had avoided pitfalls and snares and 
 
 nooses, and bows set so that arrows should 
 
 shoot him as he walked in a path; and 
 
 188 
 
Of Wat and his Trap for the Wolf 
 
 now he had avoided this trap. But he saw 
 that the man would catch him in the end. 
 
 " Now," said Marrok, " will I set a trap 
 fdr him." And he began to dig under 
 the fallen log with his paws, scattering 
 the dirt far away. 
 
 On the next day came Wat again to the 
 place, and when he peered at it cautiously 
 from a distance, he gave a shout of satis 
 faction. For the wolf lay under the 
 fallen log. Then Wat ran to him. He 
 saw as he came near that the wolf was 
 stretched out stiff, as if he had been dead 
 for some hours. So the man went to 
 him, without thought of caution. 
 
 Then the wolf rose up from under the 
 log, and sprang upon the man, and threw 
 him to the ground and stood over him. 
 Wat was helpless. He looked up into 
 the wolf s eyes as the beast looked down 
 at him. But they were not the glaring 
 eyes of an angry wolf, such as Wat had 
 seen many times; they were rather like 
 those of a man, sad and reproachful, as if 
 189 
 
Si r Marrok 
 
 saying : " And you would even slay me ! " 
 Then for a full minute the two looked at 
 each other. 
 
 But then the wolf released the man, 
 and went away without looking back, 
 going with great dignity, so that Wat 
 was awed, as if he saw a king among 
 beasts. He lay where he was until the 
 wolf had disappeared in the forest, and 
 not until then did he think of seizing his 
 bow. 
 
 And then, as he rose and felt of himself, 
 to see if he were really still alive, he felt 
 hairs upon his hands. He looked, and 
 they were hairs of the wolf, seven hairs, 
 for Wat had clutched at the beast s shoul 
 ders. And he cried to himself with joy: 
 " I shall earn the money, after all ! " So 
 he started to return to the castle, carry 
 ing the hairs. 
 
 As he went he thought, and he thought 
 
 in this wise. First it was : " That was 
 
 near death for me ! " And then it was : 
 
 " But the wolf let me go." And then it 
 
 190 
 
Of Wat and his Trap for the Wolf 
 
 was : " Shall I doom the good beast to 
 death?" For he saw that the lady must 
 have some witch s purpose against the 
 Wolf. 
 
 Then Wat, who was a true man, cast 
 the hairs of the wolf upon the ground, 
 and he went away out of the forest at a 
 point distant from the castle, going to his 
 own place. When he was almost at the 
 borders of Bedegraine he met a peasant, 
 and said to the man (being bold because 
 he was within sight of his home, as men 
 often are): " Tell thy lady I will not 
 serve her, because I think she is a witch." 
 TsTow the peasant delivered not the mes 
 sage, being afraid of the anger of the 
 lady. But Wat went away, and would 
 never go to Bedegraine again. 
 
 So the lady failed in this plan. 
 
 191 
 
CHAPTEE XXI 
 
 THE STORY OF THE S(W OF SIR SIMOX, 
 AND OF THE QUE STING-BE AST 
 
 King Pellinore was as noble knight 
 
 As e er drew blade or sat at feast; 
 And oftentimes, whenas he might, 
 
 He followed the quest of the Questing-Beast. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 IT was believed in Bedegraine that the 
 son of Sir Simon was dead, but in 
 truth he lay in the dungeons of Sir Mor- 
 car, grievously wounded. And he lay 
 there for more than a year, until his 
 wound had healed; but the youth himself 
 was wasting away for lack of good food 
 and the use of his limbs. Very miserably 
 he lay, until he thought to try to escape. 
 Then hope came to him, which is the best 
 gift that is given to man, as all nations 
 agree, from the Greeks to our own. And 
 this poor prisoner, when he found a piece 
 192 
 
The Story of the Son of Sir Simon 
 
 of iron which had been a spear-point, took 
 such comfort in hope that it was meat and 
 drink to him, and h began with much 
 labor to dig his way out. 
 
 It needs not be told how he loosened 
 stones in his cell, and pierced through the 
 wall of the castle, and swam the moat, and 
 escaped to the forest. But he was seen, 
 and word was sent to Irma, and she sent 
 a command to the robbers in the forest 
 that they should look everywhere for the 
 son of Sir Simon, and bring him again. 
 
 But the forest was so great that for a 
 long time they found him not. And he 
 lived but poorly on the berries and herbs 
 that he found, and, being weak, made his 
 way slowly across the forest on the way 
 to the castle of Sir Roger. And he 
 missed his way, going too far to the north, 
 where the forest was broader, so that he 
 thought that he should never come out. 
 Then one day as he walked he saw a 
 great wolf lie in his path. 
 
 Now there was no help in running, for 
 13 193 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 the wolf could outrun him. And there was 
 no hope in fighting, for the lad had no 
 weapon, since he had lost his piece of 
 iron. So he essayed to pass by. But the 
 wolf arose and went with him, and the 
 youth allowed him to walk at his side. 
 He looked down at the neck of the gaunt 
 beast, and thought: "Could I strangle 
 him? " But no man, even though of great 
 strength, with his hands alone could mas 
 ter that wolf. 
 
 As he went it seemed to the youth that 
 the wolf was trying to turn him more to 
 the south. He said to himself: "The 
 beast will bring me to his den without the 
 trouble of carrying me." And he laughed 
 at his own plight, having no more hope of 
 life; yet he went with the wolf, because 
 there was naught else to do. 
 
 But before he had gone a mile he heard 
 voices in the bushes. Then the wolf took 
 him by the garment and tried to bring 
 him hastily in another direction. But the 
 youth preferred even robbers to the beast, 
 194 
 
The Story of the Son of Sir Simon 
 
 and tore himself away and ran toward the 
 sound, shouting. He met six men, who 
 drew bows on the wolf, so that it ran 
 away. But when the young man tried to 
 thank the men for his deliverance, the} 
 laughed at him, telling him that he would 
 best have stayed with the wolf, for they 
 would bring him again to Sir Morcar. 
 But first they took him where was Peter, 
 with others of the band. 
 
 Peter looked upon the prisoner evilly. 
 "Here," he said, "is the son of the man 
 who injured us much, and we are to be 
 paid for him, whether he be dead or alive." 
 He said no more, but what he said was 
 with intent, for he knew that Sir Morcar 
 preferred the youth dead, but feared to 
 kill him. 
 
 " Tie him to a tree," he continued. " We 
 will talk about this." So they tied him 
 to a tree, and sat down to consult, and the 
 son of Simon heard every word that was 
 said, whether he should live or die; and 
 the wolf , listening in the bushes, heard also. 
 195 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 But Marrok saw not what he could do, 
 since the robbers all were armed, and 
 many always went with drawn swords or 
 knives, because he had killed so many of 
 them by surprise. And he could help the 
 young man not at all by dying with him, 
 while his own life was valuable to the 
 peasants. Sadly Marrok went away a 
 little space, but lingered near, waiting to 
 hear them begin upon the killing of the 
 youth. 
 
 Then as he lay he heard a sound, which 
 was the merriest that had been heard in 
 Bedegraine for many a long year. It 
 seemed to Marrok that it was the noise of 
 a pack of hounds in full cry, many hounds 
 on the track of a stag, following eagerly, 
 and for a moment he listened with delight. 
 But then he asked himself: "Who hunts 
 in Bedegraine, and what doth he hunt? " 
 Then he saw something coming amid the 
 trees, and he cowered close. 
 
 For he saw a beast, the strangest that 
 ever man saw, whether in field or wood. 
 196 
 
The Story of the Son of Si?* Simon 
 
 Its head was shaped like a serpent s head, 
 and it had the neck of a serpent. But its 
 body was like a leopard s in shape, and in 
 color it was like a leopard, being spotted. 
 And its haunches were like those of a lion. 
 But its feet were like a stag s, and it was 
 of great speed, for it came quickly. And 
 out of its body (but the books say not by 
 what means) came the cry as of dogs, as 
 it were thirty couple of hounds questing 
 or baying on a chase. And Marrok knew 
 it for the beast Glatisant, which was 
 called the Questing-Beast. 
 
 Anon it came near, ever making the 
 marvelous noise, so that the robbers 
 stopped their discussion to listen. Then 
 it paused near Marrok, and when it paused 
 the noise ceased, and it looked the way it 
 had been coming, seeming to harken. 
 Anon it ran on, and the questing began 
 again, and was heard after the beast had 
 departed, coming down the wind. 
 
 But Marrok leaped from his hiding, 
 and ran back on the track of the beast, 
 197 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 thinking: "The beast looked behind. 
 Perhaps Pellinore followeth. Then there 
 may be help." 
 
 For in those days, whenever there was 
 peace on his marches, King Pellinore left 
 his castle and followed after the Que st 
 ing-Beast for the sake of adventure. 
 And of Pellinore need I write here no 
 praise, for he was the hardiest knight of 
 his generation, and it may be doubted if 
 his own son Sir Lamorak, or Launcelot, or 
 Tristram, the three greatest knights of 
 later days, surpassed him, who now were 
 still but young men. But, to quit talking 
 and go to telling, before long Marrok saw 
 a knight pricking after the Questing- 
 Beast, and knew that it was King Pelli 
 nore. 
 
 Then Marrok hid in a thicket until the 
 horse was close, when he leaped out. 
 The horse reared, and strove mightily to 
 throw his rider; but Pellinore kept his 
 seat by fine force, until the girths broke. 
 Then the knight dismounted adroitly, and, 
 198 
 
77*6? Story of the Son of Sir Simon 
 
 holding the beast by the bridle, strove to 
 calm it, having no fear of the wolf. But 
 Marrok leaped again,- and bit at the bridle 
 and severed it, both the reins, so that the 
 horse was free and ran away. And Pelli- 
 nore was there alone with the wolf. 
 
 "Now a plague on thee, beast!" said 
 Pellinore, still having no fear, for he was 
 all in armor. "And you chase not my 
 horse, but stay with me? Now what?" 
 For he perceived here an adventure. 
 
 Now Pellinore, as is written, followed 
 the Questing-Beast not entirely with hope 
 of catching it, since the beast was so 
 swift. But he followed for the adven 
 tures which came to him, since in that 
 quest he had many strange haps, and 
 joyed in them, whether to fight or to see 
 new things. So Pellinore looked at the 
 wolf which had not acted like a wolf, and 
 he asked: " What wouldst thou? " 
 
 Then the wolf, as with understanding, 
 ran a little way and stood looking back 
 for the knight to follow. So Pellinore 
 199 
 
Si r Marrok 
 
 drew his sword, saying, "I will take the 
 adventure." He followed the wolf, and 
 the beast led him to the glade where the 
 son of Sir Simon was bound, and the rob 
 bers were ready to slay him. And to 
 make a long story short, Pellinore, walk 
 ing quietly with little clashing of his armor, 
 was among the robbers before they were 
 aware, and struck to right hand and to 
 left, slaying four. The robbers fled 
 nimbly, having no iron armor, so that 
 the knight could not follow; but Marrok 
 was on their heels, chasing them away. 
 Then when Marrok returned, leaving the 
 robbers still fleeing, having drawn to 
 gether in a band, he found that Pellinore 
 had cut the bonds of the youth. 
 
 The youth begged the knight to go 
 with him to Sir Eoger s castle, for there 
 should he be thanked properly and given 
 good cheer. 
 
 "Nay," answered Pellinore, "for the 
 direction is wrong, and I must find my 
 horse to follow my quest. Yet yonder 
 200 
 
The Story of the Son of Sir Simon 
 
 stands in the bushes the wolf who is your 
 true deliverer. Go thou with him." And 
 he told how the wolf had led him. 
 
 "Now," said the son of Sir Simon, 
 " this is a true wonder, and I will trust 
 myself to the beast. But tell me thy 
 name, that I may be grateful to thee." 
 
 "Nay," said Pellinore; "grateful can 
 you be without knowledge of my name, 
 and when on this quest tell I my name to 
 
 none." 
 
 Then said the youth: " At least show 
 me thy face, that I may remember it." 
 
 So Pellinore showed his face, and the 
 youth looked upon it; and it is a pretty 
 story how, in another year, the son of Sir 
 Simon knew his deliverer again, when 
 they both were in the court of King 
 Arthur. Yet until then it was not known 
 who had saved him. Then the two parted 
 and went their ways, the youth with the 
 wolf, and Pellinore after his horse. 
 
 Now the Lay says that Pellinore, fol 
 lowing the tracks of his steed, came to a 
 201 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 strong castle, and saw how the beast had 
 been met by a man who led it within. 
 Then he blew his horn for the castle to 
 open, and he was admitted to the court 
 yard, where he saw a lady. 
 
 " Lady," said he, " you have my horse." 
 
 " A horse I have," answered the lady, 
 "which may be thine. And you shall 
 have him again. But if you are a knight- 
 errant ye shall first do me a service, 
 which is all I shall require of thee." 
 
 But Pellinore was not pleased that she 
 should ask of him a service before ever 
 she had offered him rest and food, which 
 always should be the first thought of a 
 lady. So he asked: "What is thy 
 service? " 
 
 " It is to kill a wolf in this forest," said 
 she. 
 
 He remembered the wolf he had met, 
 and looked keenly into her face. Now 
 Pellinore was a man of wisdom, of good 
 judgment as regarded persons, since he 
 had ruled long over many people. And 
 202 
 
The Storey of the Son of Sir Simon 
 
 never but once made he mistake in his 
 life, yet that mistake was grievous. For 
 he trusted where he Had done great ser 
 vice, and met ingratitude, even as had 
 Marrok; yet his misfortune was greater 
 than Marrok s, since it brought death. 
 But that story is to be read in another 
 book. King Pellinore looked long at the 
 Lady Irma, and he saw that she was evil. 
 
 " Lady," quoth he, " no service will I do 
 you, but give you me my horse." 
 
 "Now," she cried, "your horse shall 
 you not have, but you shall abide here." 
 She signed to her men, and the portcullis 
 fell, so that Pellinore was shut within the 
 castle. Yet he cared no whit. 
 
 " Lady," said he, " loath am I to threaten 
 a woman, but I take no force. And I 
 warrant you I am hard to deal with, so 
 that however great be the number of your 
 men, this castle is mine an I list. But 
 give me my horse, and I depart without 
 harm." 
 
 The lady looked upon his armor, and 
 203 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 saw how it had stood great strokes, for he 
 had fought much. And arrows could not 
 pierce that steel. She thought: "Better 
 to let him go than to lose some of my 
 men ; for he is great in size, and bears his 
 armor as if it were silken clothes." So 
 then she said : " Take thy horse, uncourtly 
 knight, and depart." 
 
 So he took his horse and mounted him, 
 without saddle or bridle as the beast was, 
 and when the portcullis was raised he 
 guided the horse by the pressure of his 
 knees out of the castle. And in the vil 
 lage he got saddle and reins, and paid the 
 men well, giving the first gold that Bede- 
 graine had seen for many a year. Then 
 he rode again into the forest, and found 
 the track of the Questing-Beast, and fol 
 lowed it far away from Bedegraine. 
 
 But Marrok led the son of Sir Simon 
 to the castle of Sir Roger, where the 
 youth was welcomed heartily. And Sir 
 Roger and the Lady Agnes went quickly 
 into the forest to call the wolf, who had 
 204 
 
The Story of the Son of Sir Simon 
 
 departed; but, though he heard them, he 
 would not come, since in the forest was 
 his task. Then the news went around 
 the country; and when Irma and \ cicar 
 heard that the son of Sir Simon had es 
 caped, they were furious, but the peasants 
 of Sir Simon were joyful. And all began 
 to take hope of the good day which it 
 seemed soon must come. 
 
 205 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 HOW BENNET AND FATHER JOHN WERE 
 DRIVEN FROM THEIR HOMES 
 
 Though Bennet hunted as he could, 
 Old was he now, and maimed beside ; 
 
 And there, for very lack of food, 
 In Bedegraine they might have died. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 T 1 1HERE came to the Lady Irma the 
 -L news that the peasants were more 
 prosperous. She set about to find the 
 reason. 
 
 In fact, the peasants were fatter and 
 more content. I^ow their dependence, as 
 in the days of Marrok, was their swine 
 and their crops. 
 
 " Truly, madam," said Hugh, " in 
 hunting I have seen larger herds of the 
 villains swine, and the men are beginning 
 to cut down the saplings that were spring 
 ing in their fallow land." 
 206 
 
Of Bennet, Father John, and the Wolf 
 
 " Send out," quoth the lady, " and catch 
 me a peasant." 
 
 Presently one was brought in, trembling 
 properly at a horse s tail, a rope around 
 his neck. 
 
 " Hark ye, villain," said the lady. " Tell 
 me of thy fellows. How is it that ye 
 have more swine?" 
 
 "Lady," answered the fellow, in fear, 
 " there are fewer wolves in the forest." 
 
 " What," she asked, " hath that to do 
 with thy swine?" 
 
 "Two years agone," he said, "I had but 
 two. Last year but three young swine 
 grew up. But this year I have raised in 
 safety two great litters sixteen in all." 
 
 "And that is because there are few 
 wolves?" 
 
 "Ay. For this twelvemonth, lady, 
 have I seen not one, save the great gray 
 wolf that doth no harm." 
 
 " Go," said the lady. " See that thou 
 bringest, within the week, six of thy young 
 porkers, killed and dressed." 
 207 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 The peasant went, wringing his hands. 
 The lady caught others, and learned more 
 things. There were surely no wolves to 
 do harm. Peter the Robber said so also. 
 The peasants even dared to pasture their 
 milch-cows, most valuable of their belong 
 ings, on the fine herbage that grew at the 
 edge of the forest. 
 
 Thus the COW T S are growing fat, 
 and give more milk, and the calves are 
 stronger," said Peter. " The peasants 
 are becoming sturdier, with more milk and 
 meat. This also have I learned, lady: 
 t is Bennet and Father John that have 
 set the peasants at saving their old lands. 
 This spring and summer at least a hun 
 dred of the old acres are again under 
 the plow." 
 
 " And the great gray wolf? " asked the 
 lady, looking into Peter s eyes. 
 
 Peter became confused. " The wolf 
 my lady we have killed him not yet." 
 
 "So," sneered Irma; "my valiant rob 
 bers are af eard ! " 
 
 208 
 
Of Bennet, Father John, and the Wolf 
 
 "My lady," he cried, "surely it is no 
 beast. The wolf is human. We dare go 
 about only by threes. With two it is not 
 safe. The wolf killeth one, and escapes 
 before the other can raise his bow." 
 
 " Not an arrow in him yet? " 
 
 "Not one." 
 
 "Nay," cried the lady, in anger, " but I 
 see ye are all cowards. Hark ye. Hunt 
 him the more ! Follow him ! Track him ! 
 Give him no sleep ! " 
 
 " But he is swifter than a horse," mut 
 tered Peter. "He leaveth no trail, and 
 none know his lair." 
 
 "Find it," said the lady. "Begone, 
 and act. And you," quoth she, turning 
 to Hugh, " take archers and go to the 
 village. Rout me that old villain Bennet 
 from his daughter s house, where he liveth 
 now these seven year. Take Father John 
 from his manse by the church. Too long 
 have these men comforted and counseled 
 the peasants. Bid them leave my lands. 
 Proclaim it death for any to harbor them. 
 14 209 
 
Sir Mar 7* ok 
 
 They work against me secretly. I will 
 be rid of them." 
 
 And so that evening, while within Bede- 
 graine Peter and his men again laid their 
 heads together to catch the gray wolf, in 
 the village women wept, and children 
 wailed, and men knitted brows and 
 clenched their fists. For Father John 
 and Bennet were driven away, and had 
 no place to go except into the forest. 
 
 They found the house of the warlock 
 of the Druids Ring, and made it habit 
 able for themselves. On the heathen 
 stones Father John hourly offered prayer. 
 But old Bennet, though he hunted long, 
 brought in no food. 
 
 c There is game in plenty," he grum 
 bled. It was the third day, and both 
 were faint with hunger. " But I cannot 
 shoot as I used. This arm, that I injured 
 in saving the Lady Irma from the bear, 
 permits me not to draw the bow." 
 
 " It is well," said Father John. " The 
 Lord, who fed his prophet by his ravens, 
 210 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 a 
 
 -V 
 
 ,.! 
 
 *. 
 
 ;XK 
 

Of Bennet, Father John, and the Wolf 
 
 will feed us also. Let us ask him for 
 help." 
 
 But there, as he turned to the altar, 
 stood a great gray wolf and looked at 
 them. 
 
 Bennet put hand to knife. 
 
 " Stir not," said the priest. " T is the 
 wolf of which the peasants tell. He will 
 not harm us." And he knelt. But as 
 Father John prayed, Bennet watched the 
 wolf. 
 
 " O Lord," he said, " whose land this 
 is, we pray thee, take us in thy care. 
 And first, we pray thee, send Marrok, our 
 beloved master, to rule over us again." 
 
 At these words the wolf trembled. 
 
 " Or, if this cannot be, bring us the boy 
 Walter, to take his father s place, and grow 
 into a man, and rule over us. Yet, since 
 we have not seen him from that day when 
 he was driven forth, a child, bound upon a 
 horse s back, here into the wintry forest 
 grant us, if he be dead, to find his bones, 
 that we may give them Christian burial." 
 213 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 At this the wolf dropped his head, and 
 great tears rolled from his eyes and fell 
 upon the sod. 
 
 " But if we ask too much," said Father 
 John, " stretch forth at least thy hand 
 over these poor people, and lift them up. 
 Give again swine and cattle, crops and 
 fruit. And soften the heart of the lady 
 of the castle, that her cruelties may 
 cease." 
 
 The wolf gritted his teeth, his bristles 
 rose, and he looked so fierce that the 
 priest almost feared to proceed. With 
 a weaker voice he concluded: 
 
 "And send food, we pray thee, to us 
 thy two servants, who starve here help 
 less." 
 
 "Thank Heaven," cried Bennet, "the 
 wolf is gone." 
 
 He had indeed vanished in the bushes. 
 But at the end of half an hour the thicket 
 cracked, and lo, there was the wolf again, 
 and over his back was a fresh-killed fawn. 
 This he dropped before the friar. 
 214 
 
Of Bennet, Father John, and the Wolf 
 
 "Praised be the Lord," cried Father 
 John, "who hath sent us a helper! Make 
 fire, Bennet, and cook the meat." 
 
 " If only the beast spring not upon my 
 back," grumbled Bennet. And he made 
 the fire, ever ready to clap his hand upon 
 his weapon. But the wolf lay and 
 watched, and when the crisp meat was 
 done he drew near, as if himself ready 
 to eat. 
 
 "Mayhap he will partake," said the- 
 priest, and he laid a collop before the 
 wolf. " Look ; he eateth, and daintily, 
 unlike an animal." 
 
 "He seemeth to like cooked food," 
 whispered Bennet which was true. 
 
 Then daily the wolf brought food to 
 the two men, and they lived in comfort. 
 But also he searched the forest from end 
 to end and from side to side ; yet never 
 found he, whether in thicket or in grove, 
 bones of horse or boy. 
 
 215 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HOW ANSELM FELL SICK UNTO DEATH, 
 
 ANT> WHO BECAME ABBOT IN 
 
 HIS STEAD 
 
 " Now Richard to the west hath hied, 
 
 And Anselm he is like to dee. 
 Ride, Peter, ride ! " the lady cried, 
 "And bring the prior speedily." 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 THE peasants of Bedegraine continued 
 to prosper. The fame of the gray 
 wolf spread. In irritation the lady op 
 pressed the peasants more, and system 
 atized the hunt for the wolf; but to no 
 purpose. 
 
 For the swine and cattle multiplied, 
 and the crops grew plentiful. And when 
 men beat the forest for the wolf, he was 
 not to be found. When packs of hounds 
 were brought and put upon his trail, he 
 fled from them, and, turning, killed the 
 216 
 
How Anselm Fell Sick unto Death 
 
 first pursuer, till many were slain which 
 has been the method of one against many 
 since the time of the Horatii. So, when 
 the lady could find no more hounds, she 
 ceased hunting in this manner. 
 
 But the news came to her ears that the 
 wolf abode with Bennet and Father John, 
 and fed them daily; also that the sanctity 
 of the priest became multiplied in the eyes 
 of the peasants, and they reverenced him 
 greatly. Then the lady laid a plan to 
 catch the wolf. Yet, when the men of 
 Peter s band closed in one morn around 
 the Druids King, the wolf slipped out 
 through a gap in their line and, turning 
 on their backs, slew three. 
 
 Now, in the abbey of Bedegraine, the 
 godliness of Father John had long since 
 made him friends, and he had been a great 
 help to Norris and those other monks who 
 had striven to keep to the old way s of 
 godliness. Moreover, when they knew 
 that he abode in the forest with the wolf, 
 they took still more of courage. Surely 
 217 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 this friar was a saintly man, upon whom 
 showed the special favor of God; and 
 were he, not Anselm, abbot of the mon 
 astery, then would all things be well. 
 Though they saw not how this thing could 
 come about, they resolved to imitate 
 Father John, and to wait, and watch, 
 and pray. 
 
 One day came to the Lady Irma a monk 
 in haste. " My lady, the abbot lies at the 
 point of death, and the prior is far away." 
 
 " What matters that to me? " 
 
 " This: that the lesser monks are mur 
 muring. Unless the prior can be brought 
 back before the abbot dies, they will make 
 Father John abbot, and then " 
 
 And then farewell many good things! 
 That was the monk s thought. But the 
 lady saw further. She frowned. " Send 
 for Peter the Bobber!" 
 
 Peter came, with sword and bow and 
 dagger, and a hunted light in his eyes. 
 
 "Nay, Peter," quoth the lady; "thou 
 lookest strange." 
 
 218 
 
How Anselm Fell Sick unto Death 
 
 " Strange I feel, and strange feel we 
 all, not knowing whom the wolf will take 
 next." 
 
 " A pest on him ! " cried the lady, and 
 wished it true. "But, Peter," said the 
 lady, " here is a letter, which take thou to 
 the Prior Richard. Three days ago went 
 he to the west. Seek him out and bring 
 him back." 
 
 " Nay," said Peter. " Give me a horse. 
 Afoot will I not travel without my fel 
 lows." 
 
 The lady commanded to give him a 
 horse, and Peter rode forth into Bede- 
 graine and took the forest road. His 
 horse was fresh and fleet, he was well 
 armed. Wayside flowers bloomed along 
 the ancient turfy road, and the great trees 
 of the forest were calm. Bright shone 
 the sun, yet Peter s mood was dark and 
 fearsome. He scanned the forest on 
 either hand, and urged his horse that he 
 might quickly pass the three leagues of 
 the forest. And though he was so high 
 219 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 on his horse, he rode with knife in hand, 
 to defend his life. 
 
 But nothing showed among the trees 
 except the dun deer. And though the 
 bright sun, the warm air, the beauties of 
 the forest, were nothing to Peter, he was 
 a stout carl, and at last gained heart. 
 When but a league of the road was left, 
 he slipped his knife into its sheath. 
 " Ho ! " he said, " I meet not the gray wolf 
 to-day." 
 
 Then as he rode he hummed a catch, to 
 prove his courage. And he sat easier on 
 his horse, cocked his bonnet, and thought 
 of his reward, for the lady had promised 
 many crowns. But out of a thicket shot 
 suddenly the great gray wolf, and sprang 
 on the horse s croup. 
 
 Peter screamed, felt for his knife, and 
 struck with his spurs. The wolf seized 
 him by the neck from behind; rearing, 
 the horse flung them both to the ground. 
 The wolf leaped up, but Peter, lay still. 
 His neck was broken. 
 220 
 
How Ansclm Fell Sick unto Death 
 
 Then the wolf, pawing and nuzzling, 
 drew the letter out of Peter s doublet, 
 for he knew that not without purpose did 
 Peter ride on horseback. He broke the 
 seal and spread the letter out, and stood 
 with wrinkled forehead, scanning the 
 lines. Then he took the parchment in his 
 mouth and sped away among the trees. 
 
 He came to where Father John and 
 Bennet had celebrated their daily mass. 
 At the priest s feet he laid the letter. 
 The priest read the screed: 
 
 To PRIOR EICHARD : Why wanderest thou 
 in the west? Anselm the abbot lieth on his 
 death-bed, and the monks murmur. If thou re- 
 turnest not in haste, not thou will be abbot, but 
 the hedge-priest, Father John, who with his 
 werewolf mightily impresseth all here in Bede- 
 graine. And if that happeneth thou wilt not 
 even be prior. Return, therefore, and guard thy 
 interests and mine. This by the hands of Peter 
 the Robber, from thy lady IRMA. 
 
 Then Father John arose, and took his 
 staff and scrip, and said: "I go to the 
 223 
 
Si r Marrok 
 
 abbey. Bennet, lead thou me by the 
 straightest way." 
 
 But Bennet cried: "The way lies past 
 the castle!" 
 
 Then Father John, with ready wit, 
 turned to the wolf and said: "O noble 
 wolf, much hast thou done for this land. 
 Canst thou now not lead us quickly to the 
 abbey?" 
 
 The wolf, at such a pace that the priest 
 and Bennet might follow, led them 
 through the forest. By devious ways he 
 brought them, until at last, when they left 
 the shelter of the trees, the abbey towers 
 were close in front. Bennet thundered 
 at the gate and demanded admittance. 
 
 "But who are ye?" asked the warder. 
 " Our abbot lieth dying, and we are all in 
 fear." 
 
 "I am Father John," said the priest, 
 " and I come to shrive the abbot." 
 
 When that was heard within the abbey, 
 monks came running. The gate was 
 opened, and Bennet and the father went 
 224 
 
How Anselm Fell Sick unto Death 
 
 in. But Marrok watched outside, and 
 would not enter. 
 
 On his bed lay Ariselm the abbot, sick 
 to death. Had Prior Richard been there, 
 no thought of repentance would have 
 stirred the abbot s mind. But lying in 
 his cell alone, thinking of his past life, 
 fear came to him, for he knew he had 
 been remiss in many things. He had 
 heard of Father John, and he welcomed 
 him. And Father John, standing by the 
 bed, confessed the abbot, and shrived him. 
 Then the abbot commanded the monks to 
 come to the door of his cell. As they 
 stood in the passage outside, he com 
 manded them that they should immedi 
 ately make Father John abbot in his 
 place. Then he begged for their prayers, 
 and died. 
 
 Anon in full chapter all being there 
 but the Prior Richard and the monk that 
 had gone to the lady they elected 
 Father John abbot, and installed him in 
 the abbot s chair. And they made Norris 
 15 225 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 prior, but cast Richard out from the 
 brotherhood. When this was done, the 
 new abbot went to the gate, and the wolf 
 started out of the edge of the forest, 
 where he had watched. 
 
 "O wolf," said Father John, "now 
 am I abbot, thanks to thee. Come now 
 within these walls, and spend at rest the 
 remainder of thy days." 
 
 But the wolf, having heard this news, 
 went away. He returned to Bedegraine, 
 knowing that Peter s men, so soon as they 
 found the body, would be in confusion. 
 They were so already. . Fright had fallen 
 on them. By twos and threes they fled 
 away, nor stopped for their treasure. 
 And the wolf was content to scare away 
 those that would have sought refuge in 
 the castle. None did he slay, for he was 
 weary of killing. 
 
 Thus was Bedegraine cleared of out 
 laws, and we hear of no more until the 
 time of Robin Hood; but in his time 
 Bedegraine was called Sherwood. 
 226 
 
How Anselm Fell Sick unto Death 
 
 When the Lady Irma heard the news, 
 she laughed bitterly, and hid her chagrin 
 with scornful words. Nevertheless she 
 knew that two of the props of her strength 
 were gone. 
 
 And Bennet, stoutly refusing to be 
 made priest, dwelt in the abbey and be 
 came overseer of the lands. Soon as he 
 might, he began to train the peasants to 
 arms, meaning some day to take revenge 
 on the lady. Had she known of it she 
 would have laughed, for in the castle she 
 felt secure. 
 
 227 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE HUNTING OF SIR MARROK 
 
 Sir Tristram was a well-versed, knight 
 
 In harping and in minstrelsy; 
 In hunting took he great delight, 
 
 And best of all the hounds had he. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 NOW let us understand that time 
 passed by, and many things hap 
 pened in the land of Britain. For there 
 came into fame the young knights : first, 
 Pellinore s son Sir Lamorak, and then 
 Sir Launcelot, and finally Sir Tristram, 
 of whom this chapter tells. Sir Tristram 
 was of Lyonesse; and he was nephew of 
 Mark, King of Cornwall. And he was a 
 gentle, joyous knight, and loved singing 
 and harping; also he was the greatest 
 hunter that had ever lived, and he in 
 vented all the terms of the chase, and 
 all blasts and horn-blowing: these Sir 
 228 
 
The Hunting of Si?* Marrok 
 
 Tristram made. And once Marrok had 
 known Tristram and befriended him, as 
 an older knight befriends a younger ; and 
 they two had sworn never to fight each 
 other. 
 
 And it came into the fifth year that 
 Marrok was a wolf, while ever the lady 
 sought to destroy him. But her spells 
 were vain, and he still lived in the forest, 
 while year by year the peasants grew 
 more prosperous and the land was richer. 
 But the lady hated the thrift of the peas 
 ants, and more and more she feared the 
 wolf. Night and day she planned how 
 to be rid of him. Then one day seemed 
 promised her her heart s desire. 
 
 A knight came riding to the castle. 
 He was tall and fair, with flowing locks 
 and open, cheerful face. A squire and 
 two servants attended him, with horses 
 and dogs. Six dogs there were, great 
 hounds for the chase, and with them two 
 little bratchets. On his shield the knight 
 bore the arms of Cornwall. 
 229 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 The lady met him in the court and bade 
 him welcome. The servants she sent to 
 the servants hall; the knight she led to 
 her own table, where she charmed him 
 with her hospitality and her conversation. 
 At last she asked him his name " if you 
 are under no vow to conceal it," she said, 
 for to that all knights were much given. 
 
 "Lady," he said, "my name is Sir 
 Tristram of Lyonesse." 
 
 "Nay," she cried, " and is it true? See 
 I in my hall the noble Tristram, greatest 
 of the knights of Britain? " 
 
 " My lady," he said, " there are better 
 knights than I. Launcelot, and Sir Lam- 
 orak " 
 
 "Forgive me, sir," she said. "Your 
 modesty is beyond praise, but also your 
 worth. Known are you everywhere for 
 a noble knight, and a sweet singer, and 
 the greatest of all hunters. Known is 
 your fight against Sir Marhaus of Ireland, 
 and your many valiant deeds." 
 
 And she flattered him to his face, but 
 230 
 
The Hunting of Sir Marrok 
 
 so sweetly that Sir Tristram was pleased. 
 Then she persuaded him to sing, and sat 
 as rapt in delight, but really she was 
 thinking deeply. When he had finished, 
 she sighed. 
 
 "Lady," he asked, "why sigh you?" 
 
 " Ah, Sir Tristram," she answered, "thy 
 harping and singing were so sweet that 
 I had forgotten my troubles. When 
 you finished I remembered them again. 
 Therefore did I sigh." 
 
 " Truly, lady," he responded, " if you 
 have troubles, tell them to me; for the 
 heart becomes lighter by confidence." 
 
 Irma had put Gertrude into a . deep 
 sleep in her chamber, and she now sent 
 Agatha to busy the squire and Hugh 
 with pleasant chat. Then, knowing she 
 could speak freely, she began her tale to 
 Sir Tristram. 
 
 "Saw ye," she said, "my lands as ye 
 rode hither? What thinkest thou of 
 them?" 
 
 " T is a rich land," he said, " with 
 231 
 
Sir Mar r ok 
 
 prosperous and happy peasants. Lady, 
 to them thou art a benefactress." 
 
 Irma sighed. " Truly I seek to be to 
 them as was my dead lord " (but she men 
 tioned not Marrok s name) ; " and my 
 peasants have been happy. But lately 
 has come a plague into my land that is 
 beginning to waste our substance." 
 
 " What is it? " he asked. For Tristram 
 was a noble knight, and, as Irma meant, 
 he started at the hope of adventure. 
 
 "These five years," she said, "hath 
 there lived a wolf in my forest. He 
 killeth swine and cattle; he seizeth chil 
 dren; and now hath it come to such a 
 pass that two must work always in the 
 field together, for one man dares not work 
 alone." 
 
 Then Tristram laughed a mighty laugh. 
 "Lady, is that all? Ere to-morrow s sun 
 is set, lay I this wolf dead." 
 
 "How?" she asked. " With thy dogs ?" 
 
 " With my dogs and my fleet steed, and 
 my hunting- spear." 
 
 232 
 
The Hunting of Sir Marrok 
 
 "But the wolf is strong, and pulls 
 down one by one the dogs that pursue 
 him." 
 
 " Yet will he not pull down my hounds ; 
 and if he should, he will not escape my 
 bratchets." 
 
 The lady s eyes sparkled. " Oh, Sir 
 Tristram, if thou deliverest this land, my 
 people will bless thee, and I more than 
 they. A great pest and unbearable has 
 this wolf become." 
 
 " Lady," he said, " fear not. But now 
 let me to rest, for I have traveled far. 
 And in the morning will I hunt the wolf." 
 
 The lady gave orders that the knight 
 should be conducted to his chamber, and 
 that his squire and men should be well 
 served. And she and Agatha and Hugh 
 rejoiced together, since Tristram was such 
 a mighty hunter. 
 
 In the morning Tristram mounted his 
 
 steed at the castle gate; and Gouver- 
 
 vail his squire mounted his, and Hugh, 
 
 who would go too, mounted his. The 
 
 233 
 
Sir Mar j* ok 
 
 dogs were loosed, eager for the chase, 
 and all moved into the forest. Before 
 long the lady, listening, heard Sir Tris 
 tram s horn, and knew that they had 
 found the scent. 
 
 But Marrok, couched in the forest, 
 heard the horn, and groaned. "That," 
 said he, "is the horn of Sir Tristram." 
 For since no one in the world could blow 
 the horn so well as the knight of Lyon- 
 esse, Marrok knew the blast. And he 
 groaned again, for he believed his end 
 had come. 
 
 But he ran a good race, doing as he 
 had done before. For the great hounds 
 of Sir Tristram, the fleetest and the strong 
 est in all Britain, one by one he slew. 
 The swiftest first, the slowest last, one by 
 one they lay dead. And Marrok thought 
 for one instant: "Perhaps now I am 
 free." 
 
 Then he heard the baying of the 
 bratchets, which so long as the hounds 
 bayed were silent, but now gave tongue. 
 234 
 
The Hunting of Sir Marrok 
 
 And he knew that against bratchets he 
 could do nothing, for they were small 
 dogs and slight, quick to turn and dodge, 
 and he could never take them. He stood 
 a moment in despair, and they came upon 
 him among the trees, and waited and 
 barked. Then Marrok saw the fair-haired 
 knight coming upon his white horse, and 
 turned and ran. 
 
 Minstrel and gleeman chanted of that 
 chase for full four hundred years. North 
 ward first fled Marrok, through the forest, 
 till he reached its border. Then he turned 
 west, and through the roughest country 
 he led his pursuers. Then he ran south, 
 then east, till the fair towers of Sir Roger 
 of the Rock shone upon his sight. For a 
 moment he was minded to flee there for 
 protection. But the bratchets and the 
 knight came upon him, all else were left 
 behind, and Marrok fled south once more. 
 
 Then in despair he was minded to stay 
 in the bushes and wait the knight, and 
 attack him. For ever, whether through 
 235 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 swamp or thicket, or over knoll, or among 
 rocks, Sir Tristram followed close. But 
 Marrok could not slay his friend, and he 
 ran on. His heart grew heavy in his 
 breast, his lungs and mouth were dry, and 
 his legs w r eary. Then he said at last: "I 
 will die among my people." 
 
 He turned toward the village of Bede- 
 graine, and with his last strength fled 
 thither. One bratchet fell and died, but 
 the other and Sir Tristram followed on. 
 And Marrok, almost spent, reached the 
 village, ran into a yard, stood, and panted. 
 The last bratchet, at the entrance, fell, 
 and the horse stopped for weariness. But 
 Sir Tristram leaped to the ground, his 
 short spear in his hand, and walked up to 
 Marrok. 
 
 Marrok looked him in the eye and 
 thought: "Better die from friend s hand 
 than from foe s." He budged not, but 
 waited for the blow. And Sir Tristram 
 admired him, and said: " T is pity, brave 
 wolf, but thy end hath come at last." 
 236 
 
The Hunting of Si? 1 Marrok 
 
 
 
 He raised his spear. But a little flit 
 ting figure came in between, and behold, 
 there was a child by the side of the wolf! 
 She threw her arms about his neck, and 
 covered him with her body. And looking 
 over her shoulder with sparkling eyes, she 
 cried to the knight: " Thou shalt not slay 
 him!" 
 
 "Stand aside!" cried Sir Tristram. 
 "Child, he will kill thee!" And he 
 sought to find place for a blow. But he 
 might not hurl his weapon without strik 
 ing the child, and as he hesitated, the men 
 of the house came running, and with 
 scythes and pitchforks confronted Sir 
 Tristram. " Sir Knight," cried they all 
 in one voice, " hold thy hand ! " 
 
 Sir Tristram stood in amazement. 
 "This," he cried, "is the wolf ye all 
 hate!" 
 
 " But we love him ! " they answered. 
 
 "He killeth your swine and cattle." 
 
 "Nay," they protested. "Since he 
 came to the land our kine feed in peace." 
 237 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 " But he beareth away children ! " 
 
 The oldest man stood out before the 
 others, and spoke : " Sir Knight, listen. 
 Last winter w r as a snow-storm, great and 
 terrible. And the child that thou seest 
 here was bewildered in the storm, and 
 though w r e sought for hours, we might not 
 find her, and the cold and snow drove us 
 within doors to save our own lives. While 
 we waited and lamented, we heard a scratch 
 ing at the door. We opened, and there was 
 the child in the drift at the door, and this 
 wolf stood a little w r ay off. In the snow 
 were no other marks than his. He had 
 brought her home on his back." 
 
 "Is this truth?" queried Sir Tristram, 
 greatly puzzled. " The lady said - 
 
 "Oh, the lady!" cried they all. And 
 Sir Tristram heard things that astonished 
 him. 
 
 At last he mounted again his wearied 
 steed, and gave gold to the peasants so 
 that they should bury his bratchet. And 
 while the wolf, soul- weary and yet glad, 
 made his way to the wood, Sir Tristram 
 238 
 
The Hunting of Sir Marrok 
 
 took the road to the castle. As he 
 went he met his squire and men; but 
 Hugh, fearing to remain in the forest, 
 had returned to the castle. Tristram rode 
 thither. 
 
 From the castle battlement the Lady 
 Irma spoke to Tristram; but reading 
 much in his face, she kept the gate barred. 
 
 " How now, Sir Tristram?" she asked as 
 if eagerly. " Is the wolf slain? " 
 
 "Lady," he answered, "the wolf hath 
 escaped." 
 
 " Alas ! " she responded, " my peasants 
 will lament." 
 
 " Out upon thee, traitress ! " cried Sir 
 Tristram, fiercely. "Deceiver art thou 
 truly, and oppressor of thy people. Would 
 thou wert a man ! " 
 
 She laughed without words. 
 
 He turned his horse s head away. 
 "Lady," he said, "I shall tell of thy 
 deeds among knights." 
 
 But the lady still laughed serenely. 
 Tristram was not of Arthur s court, and 
 none but Arthur did she fear. 
 239 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 HOW SIR ROGER OF THE ROCK QUIT 
 HIM OF SIR MORCAR 
 
 " How shall I trick him, Irma, Irma? 
 
 How shall I slay mine enemy? " 
 "Now take my counsel duly, Morcar; 
 
 Follow the plan which I tell to thee." 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 THERE came a day when the archers 
 of the lady, riding out into the vil 
 lages, were attacked by the peasants, and 
 driven back within the castle. So now 
 had come the time when the lady had 
 cause for thought, and to her counsels 
 she called Morcar, who long had chafed 
 in his castle at the loss of Agnes and the 
 escape of her brother. He came in haste, 
 for he hoped that now something would 
 be done, since for some time Irma had 
 repressed his eagerness, saying that they 
 must wait. 
 
 240 
 
Of Sir Roger and Sir M or car 
 
 " Now," he asked, " seest thou not that 
 I was right, since ever the other party 
 waxeth stronger?" 
 
 Then they had words unpl easing to 
 them both, for both were heated and 
 somewhat fearsome. But at last the lady 
 composed herself and said : c Now talk 
 we sensibly, else is no good done. And 
 you and I must depend on each other, or 
 we both fall." So Morcar was appeased 
 and said no more reproaches. 
 
 "I have considered our strength and 
 theirs," said the lady. " Twenty men-at- 
 arms have I, with my hundred archers. 
 Thirty horsemen have you, and sixty 
 bowmen. And only a score of men-at- 
 arms hath Roger." 
 
 "But the peasants?" asked Morcar. 
 " They are archers all." 
 
 "If we sit in quiet," answered the lady, 
 "then will Roger train the people to 
 arms, and overcome us. But if we strike 
 quickly, we can overthrow him." 
 
 " I am ready," said Morcar, gloomily. 
 16 241 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Then they consulted long, calling Hugh 
 for his opinion; and when they separated 
 they went to the armories of their castles, 
 and chose new arms, and repaired the old, 
 and fed the horses well, and made all 
 preparations for action. And Roger in 
 his castle, with the son of Sir Simon, was 
 making himself strong; but he was not 
 ready against the scheme of those others. 
 And so passed the time for ten days, until 
 a night came when the moon was bright 
 and full. 
 
 Upon that night all were sleeping in 
 the village over which Sir Roger ruled, 
 and in the castle itself there was but one 
 man to watch. And Sir Roger lay asleep 
 in his chamber, with the casement open, 
 for it was a summer night. Right so it 
 seemed that into his dream came the 
 howling of a wolf, and he writhed long 
 as he slept, oppressed by the noise, before 
 he waked. And then he heard that it 
 was the howling of a wolf indeed; and 
 there was but one wolf in all Bedegraine, 
 242 
 
Of Sir Roger and Sir Morcar 
 
 so Sir Eoger started from his bed. Anon 
 came rapping at his door the warder, who 
 said : " Sir, the wolf howleth without in 
 the fields, and will not be appeased." 
 
 " I will attend him," said Sir Roger. 
 
 Then in haste he threw a robe upon him, 
 and went out upon the battlements. There 
 he saw how the wolf ran to and fro in the 
 fields, crying now toward the village and 
 now toward the castle, and his great form 
 was clearly to be seen. Anon Roger de 
 scended and stood above the castle gate; 
 and the wolf saw him, and came to the 
 farther side of the moat, and stood and 
 bayed at him. 
 
 "Now," quoth Roger, "there is mis 
 chief toward." He gave orders that the 
 castle be lighted and all the men armed, 
 and quickly it was done. And Roger 
 saw also how there were lights appearing 
 in the village. But he went down to the 
 courtyard and opened the gate, and low 
 ered the draw, and went and stood by the 
 side of the wolf, who ceased his crying. 
 243 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 " Now, good wolf," said Roger, without 
 fear, " what is it that thou wishest of me? 
 Shall I go with you and succor some 
 one?" 
 
 But the beast made no sign. 
 
 " Then is it danger to me? " asked the 
 knight. 
 
 Anon the wolf turned himself and 
 looked toward the forest, that rose blackly 
 at a little distance, and he seemed to listen, 
 and then to whine, and then to listen 
 again. 
 
 " So," said Sir Roger, " they come 
 against me. Well, I thank thee for the 
 warning. I will prepare." 
 
 Then the wolf ran off into the fields 
 toward the village, and presently the 
 knight heard him crying among the 
 houses, as if he were saying: "Haste ye, 
 and arm!" But the knight went again 
 into the castle, and sent out men to watch, 
 and armed every one, even the boys. 
 Before long were the peasants coming to 
 the castle with such arms as they had, 
 244 
 
Of Sir Roger and Sir M or car 
 
 bringing their families to shelter, for the 
 wolf had alarmed them all. Sir Roger 
 took them in and gave orders that all 
 lights be put out, and that all should be 
 silent, for he had made a plan. And still 
 no word came from those who were sent 
 out to watch. Then the knight led men 
 out into the fields, and himself arranged 
 them in hiding in the ditches. Then 
 when all this was done came a watcher in 
 haste, to say that there were noises and 
 movements in the forest. 
 
 Now, while so much was being done at 
 the castle of Sir Roger, through the wood 
 were coming men on horseback and on 
 foot, and the moonlight, falling through 
 the leaves, glinted on their arms. Their 
 leaders were Morcar and Hugh, and the 
 men marched silently, save for the noise 
 of their feet and the rattle of their arms, 
 so that at a little distance they could not 
 be heard. They reached the border of the 
 forest, and halted while the leaders looked 
 upon the plain. There lay the hamlet of 
 245 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Sir Roger, but there were no lights in it; 
 and there rose the castle, dark and silent, 
 so that all was as they had hoped. And 
 the men began to issue from the forest. 
 
 Now, though they marched eagerly to 
 surprise the castle, and made somewhat 
 more noise, they roused no answering 
 sound. They left the village on the 
 right, and went by a bypath till they 
 came near the castle. And behold, no 
 watcher walked upon its battlements, and 
 the drawbridge was down, the portcullis 
 was raised, and the gate yawned wide. 
 Then the men hurried, their leaders be 
 fore them, till they were at the moat. 
 There the men-at-arms dismounted 
 quickly, and with stealthy steps, won 
 dering but triumphant, they went in a 
 body across the bridge, and entered the 
 courtyard. But all was still within the 
 court, and Morcar and Hugh began 
 searching for the doors that led to the 
 passages of the castle. They found them, 
 but found them barred. 
 246 
 
Of Si?* Roger and Sir Morcar 
 
 Then, as they hesitated, not knowing 
 how to force the doors, but all talking in 
 whispers in the silent court, where the 
 walls towered high above, and the moon 
 shed its light down among them, there 
 came upon the air, from a distance, the 
 long howl of the wolf. Those outside 
 were startled, and those within listened. 
 Anon upon the battlement rose a figure, 
 drawing a bow ; the bow twanged sweetly 
 in the night, and in the courtyard a man 
 was stricken by the arrow. 
 
 At the signal the walls were swarming 
 with men, and the battle-cry of Sir Roger 
 rose. Then buzzed arrows down among 
 the men within the court, and rattled upon 
 the armor of those outside. A commo 
 tion began, for Morcar and Hugh saw 
 that they were trapped, and they shouted: 
 "Back ! " Then all struggled for the gate 
 way, fearing that the gates would be closed 
 on them. The portcullis rushed in its 
 grooves, striking down men, and the chains 
 creaked as the drawbridge began to rise. 
 247 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 And only the hap that the portcullis fell 
 upon those men saved any of the others. 
 For it did not reach the ground, and men 
 wriggled under it to get away. The 
 weight on the bridge was too great for it 
 to be lifted far, and the chains broke, and 
 back it fell. Across it some men reached 
 safety, and got their horses and mounted, 
 and among them were Morcar and Hugh. 
 But twenty men were either killed in the 
 courtyard, or else yielded themselves 
 prisoners. Then Sir Roger and his men 
 charged out across the bridge as the 
 others fled, and from ditches and behind 
 hedges archers rose and shot at the men 
 of Hugh and Morcar. Had not a cloud 
 come to obscure the moon, few would 
 have got away; but in the darkness 
 some reached the forest, and gathered 
 themselves together, and made their way 
 quickly to safety. 
 
 But thus it was that the forces of Sir 
 Roger, and the forces of Irma and Mor 
 car, were made equal. 
 248 
 
Of Sir Roger and Sir Morcar 
 
 Then Sir Roger, in great ease and 
 lightness of heart, sent to the abbey the 
 news, and begged that Father John and 
 all the monks of the abbey should give 
 thanks for the good fortune. And from 
 that day he began on the lands of Morcar 
 a serious war, harrying his farms and 
 catching his men, so that when autumn 
 came Morcar began to fear. For Roger 
 knew the roads of the forest, and his men 
 were mounted on swift horses, and they 
 came, and struck, and went again, before 
 ever Sir Morcar could strike in return. 
 And Morcar saw that soon he would lose 
 all his men by such means, and, because 
 Roger had seized his harvests, food was 
 short in the castle, not sufficient for the 
 winter. 
 
 Then he went to Irma and complained, 
 begging her to help him. Now Irma had 
 not been disturbed by Roger, for between 
 them had not yet been open war, and there 
 was no proof that any of the men slain in 
 Roger s castle had been Irma s men. So 
 249 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Roger left her lands unharried, for he 
 said: "One enemy is enough at a time, 
 and when I have finished Morcar then 
 will I treat with the lady, and demand 
 that she yield her lands." So Irma, for 
 the present secure, felt little disturbed 
 at Morcar s complaints. As for helping 
 him, she said that half of her men were 
 gone, which was true, so that she could 
 give no help. And she scolded that Mor 
 car and Hugh had been so easily trapped, 
 saying that, had she been there, that fool 
 ishness would not have been committed. 
 But she told Morcar what he could do to 
 kill Roger, and another plan was formed, 
 in which craft should take the place of 
 force. 
 
 Then Morcar sent a message to Roger, 
 with these words: "It seems that in our 
 quarrel many men are slain, and yet the 
 real matter concerns only thee and me. 
 Therefore I challenge thee to fight me 
 singly, to save good men s lives, an thou 
 darest to meet me." And he set a day, 
 250 
 
Of Sir Roger and Sir Morcar 
 
 and named a place in the forest where 
 they should meet, which was an open 
 space and grassy, where men might have 
 good room. And Morcar would come 
 alone, without any men; also should 
 Eoger come alone, without any men; and 
 they two would fight it out between 
 them. 
 
 Roger answered that he would come, 
 and he stilled the fears of his wife, and 
 on the day armed himself and rode to the 
 forest alone, bidding all that, as they 
 loved honor, they should stay away. 
 " And if I come not at nightfall," said he, 
 " ye shall send for my body." So he rode 
 confidently into the forest, and met Morcar. 
 
 Now Morcar was heavy and tall, mighty 
 of blow but slow of movement. And 
 Roger was well-knit, and of medium 
 height, and quick in his actions. So it 
 promised to be an even fight between 
 them. But, ere they commenced, the wolf 
 walked out of the bushes, and lay down 
 as if to watch. 
 
 251 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Now," cried Morcar, in alarm, " thou 
 hast brought that beast to aid thee, and 
 he will spring upon my horse." 
 
 :c Nay," said Roger; "I knew naught 
 of his coming, and, moreover, I have no 
 power over him. Yet I will request him 
 to go away, for he seems almost human." 
 And courteously he asked the beast to go 
 away, not thinking it would understand. 
 To his surprise, it rose and went into the 
 bushes. 
 
 "But how know I," cried Morcar, 
 again, "that it comes not again, when I 
 am busy with thee?" But this he said 
 with cunning, and looked into the bushes 
 at a certain spot. And with satisfaction 
 he saw that the bushes moved, but with 
 fear he heard the cry of the wolf. 
 
 Thereupon a struggle began in the 
 thicket, and men s voices sounded chok 
 ing, and a man with the wolf on his back 
 came plunging into the open, and fell and 
 died. Then Roger looked, and saw that 
 it was one of Morcar s men, a desperate 
 252 
 
Of Sir Roger and Sir Morcar 
 
 fellow well known in Bedegraine. And 
 he looked farther, and saw that another 
 man lay dead in the bushes, and they 
 both had borne bows and arrows where 
 with to slay his horse. 
 
 " Now, thou liar ! " cried Roger, fiercely, 
 to Sir Morcar, " here and now payest thon 
 for the treachery which thou would st have 
 executed ! " 
 
 And the Lay says that they fought 
 there for a half-hour, and seldom was 
 seen such a fight. For Morcar was no 
 coward, and he was desperate, yet Roger 
 was furious. And they laid on strongly, 
 neither sparing himself, so that both re 
 ceived wounds. And all the time the 
 wolf watched that fight, and joyed to 
 watch it, for he foresaw the outcome. 
 Slain lay Morcar at the end, and the wolf, 
 crying as with triumph, went away into 
 the forest. 
 
 And thus Irma lost her last outward 
 help ; yet she sat secure in the castle, with 
 her archers and her men-at-arms, and she 
 253 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 laughed at Sir Roger when he demanded 
 that she yield her fief. But the son of 
 Sir Simon was put in the castle of Mor- 
 car, and he ruled over the lands of Mor- 
 car, and over his own lands. Then in 
 the two castles and the monastery they 
 consulted much together, and Bennet 
 sometimes stole at night to the castle of 
 the lady, looking to see how strict guard 
 was kept, and whether in any place the 
 walls of the castle were weak. 
 
 254 
 
CHAPTER XXYI 
 
 OF HUGH, WHO WOULD HAVE SLAIN THE 
 WOLF, AND OF AGATHA THE NURSE 
 
 He armed himself at the break of dawn, 
 
 He clad his steed in the best of mail. 
 " Let the beast stand, though I go alone, 
 And to me the wolf shall fall ! " 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 /GERTRUDE, the daughter of Irma, 
 vJT grew tall and beautiful. She lived 
 in the castle like a flower in a moss-grown 
 wall, and lighted it by her presence. 
 Therefore it came naturally that Hugh, 
 the captain of the archers, wished her for 
 his wife. 
 
 Hugh was stout of body and bold of 
 deed, cruel and hateful. He served the 
 Lady Irma in her own spirit, and she 
 trusted him. He called himself knight, 
 but he was none, nor yet a gentleman 
 born. So for a while the lady denied him 
 255 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 the hand of Gertrude, putting him off 
 from time to time. 
 
 But one day Hugh came to her and 
 said : " My lady, what wish ye most in the 
 world?" 
 
 She answered: " The death of the wolf." 
 
 "Lady Irma," he asked, "if I slay the 
 wolf, wilt thou give me thy daughter 
 Gertrude to wife?" 
 
 The lady thought, but not long. She 
 answered: "I will." 
 
 Hugh said with joy: "Make ready the 
 bridal dress, for the wolf dieth soon." 
 
 Now Hugh had learned that Marrok 
 slept at the Druids Ring, in the hut of 
 the warlock, where Father John and Ben- 
 net once lived. Loving the Lady Ger 
 trude greatly, he dared a deed. "I will 
 go alone," he thought, " and seek him 
 out. If I wear my shirt of mail, he can 
 not harm me." 
 
 He put on beneath his doublet a fine 
 shirt of chain mail, and armed his horse 
 as if for a tourney. In the bright morn- 
 256 
 
Of Hugh s Craft and the Wolfs 
 
 ing he rode out from the castle, and went 
 to the Druids Ring. There Marrok lay 
 sleeping, but he waked at the tramp of the 
 horse. When Hugh appeared among the 
 great stones, the wolf stood looking at him. 
 
 Hugh cast a javelin, and missed. Then 
 Marrok, hearing the chink of chain mail, 
 and seeing it was useless to attack, turned 
 limping, and slipped away into the forest. 
 "He is lame!" cried Hugh, in delight, 
 and gave chase. The horse with his 
 heavy burden could go but slowly among 
 the trees. But the wolf seemed wounded 
 and sore, and Hugh kept him in sight. 
 He urged his horse with the spurs, and 
 rode eagerly. "Nay," he cried, "the 
 wolf is mine ! " 
 
 But go as he might, Hugh could not 
 gain until he came out upon a great ledge 
 which overhung the quarry where once 
 the monk Morris had near lost his life. 
 Below, fifty feet, were jagged stones. But 
 the ledge was broad and mossy, and the 
 wolf seemed so near, limping in front, 
 17 257 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 that Hugh gave a shout and beat the horse 
 with the flat of his sword. "I have him!" 
 he cried. "I have him! " And the horse, 
 lumbering into full speed, lessened the 
 distance betw r een them. 
 
 Then the wolf, just as the horse was 
 close behind, and Hugh leaned forward 
 to strike, leaped nimbly to one side. His 
 lameness vanished. For one instant he 
 waited, until the horse was quite abreast. 
 Then he sprang under the horse s body, 
 avoiding the blow of the sword, and 
 caught the steed by his farther forefoot. 
 Quickly he wrenched backward, and the 
 steed, tripped as with a noose, plunged 
 and fell at the edge of the crag. But 
 Hugh was hurled into the depths. 
 
 The steed, in great fear, scrambled to 
 his feet and fled headlong. The wolf 
 stood listening. From below he heard a 
 mighty crash. Then was silence. 
 
 That very day, soon after noon, Agatha 
 wandered into the mead to watch for 
 
 258 
 
"HUGH WAS HURLED INTO THE DEPTHS. 
 
Of Hugh s Craft and the Wolf s 
 
 Hugh. She picked crocuses, and at the 
 edge of the wood waited long, to wish 
 him joy of his success. Then she spied 
 flowers in the forest, earliest snowdrops, 
 and went into the wood to pick them. 
 
 She heard a sound behind her, and 
 turned. Almost she fainted from fright, 
 for there stood the wolf, gray and great. 
 He advanced upon her slowly. "Mar- 
 rok ! " she cried, and fell on her knees 
 for mercy. 
 
 Still he advanced, and she gained 
 strength from despair. She sprang up 
 and rushed away, ever deeper into the 
 forest. Behind her trotted the wolf, and 
 at each glimpse of him she ran faster. 
 He kept between her and the castle, and 
 she had no chance to return, but went 
 always farther from safety. When she 
 had gone a mile, she came upon the forest 
 road. 
 
 There at the edge of the trees was a 
 horse, in the panoply of war, cropping the 
 turf. And Agatha ran to him in hope. 
 261 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 He let her seize the bridle and mount. 
 " T is Hugh s horse. Hugh must be 
 dead," she thought. " But I shall escape." 
 She headed the horse to the north, and 
 urged him to start. 
 
 Then into the road came the wolf, and 
 the horse started indeed. Snorting with 
 fear, he ran, and the wolf for a little way 
 followed. Then Agatha, looking back, 
 saw that he fell farther behind. At last 
 he stopped, satisfied, for he knew she 
 would not return. In truth, she rode 
 eagerly, far away, into the country of 
 the north. Never was she seen again in 
 Bedegraine. 
 
 262 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 OF THE STRANGER KNIGHT WHO CAME 
 
 FROM THE NORTH, WHICH BRINGETH 
 
 AN END TO THIS TALE 
 
 T is far the outcast lad may flee, 
 And wide the wanderer may roam ; 
 
 But soon or late, before he dee, 
 He finds the way to his father s home. 
 
 The Lay of Sir Marrok. 
 
 HUGH and Agatha came no more, 
 and a new life began for the Lady 
 Irma a lonely, irksome life. 
 
 She was shut in and companionless. 
 Her one-time friends were gone, for Sir 
 Roger had slain Sir Morcar, and Father 
 John ruled in the abbey. No longer 
 might she ride thither for merrymaking. 
 And in the castle were none but her serv 
 ing-maids, her archers, and her daughter- 
 Gertrude. 
 
 Between Gertrude and her mother was 
 263 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 no affection, but only tyranny and suspi 
 cion. The mother kept the daughter 
 close, watched her, checked her, and com 
 manded her. Therefore she received not 
 love, but patient service. Also there was 
 no heartiness, for Gertrude could not but 
 dislike her mother s ways. She sat silent 
 in her presence, and Irma complained 
 angrily of her sullenness. Yet it was not 
 sullenness merely timidity and repres 
 sion, for Gertrude was sweet and gentle. 
 Thus Irma, bored and wrathful, chafed 
 in her castle. And a constant cause for 
 irritation there was, that the peasants 
 refused her all supplies, but beat off her 
 archers when they were sent for tithes. 
 The lady might not send to the abbey, 
 neither could she longer depend upon 
 traveling merchants. For the road from 
 the south ran through the village, and 
 the peasants warned all travelers away, 
 lest they should pay heavy toll. Sir 
 Eoger stopped the eastern road, and the 
 son of Sir Simon the western. The wolf 
 264 
 
Of the Young Knight and Sir Mar r ok 
 
 himself guarded, day and night, the road 
 from the north. 
 
 It was fortunate for Irma that Marrok 
 had built the castle as a very granary, 
 holding food for five years siege. The 
 great chambers had always been kept full, 
 and there was store of gold and wine. 
 So the lady lived secure ; but she bit her 
 fingers in impatience, and vowed ven 
 geance on all. When a luckless trader 
 chanced into her clutches she fleeced him. 
 If she caught a peasant she made him a 
 slave. And when knights fell into her 
 hands she held them long time for ransom. 
 She feared nothing, and laughed away 
 the forebodings that sometimes came, 
 telling her the end was drawing near. 
 
 One day there rode through the forest 
 a young knight coming from the north. 
 Strong and handsome he was, brown- 
 haired and blue-eyed. It was in May. He 
 hung his helmet on his saddle-bow, and 
 looked about in the beautiful wood. The 
 birds sang sweetly among the trees, the 
 265 
 
Sir Mar r ok 
 
 sky was blue, the turf was green, and the 
 first daisies, Chaucer s darling flowers, 
 nodded by the wayside. His heart 
 laughed and his eyes danced. Another 
 knight would have caroled gaily, but the 
 young man was silent by nature, and he 
 said no word. 
 
 He came to a cross-road, and behold! 
 across the southern road lay a great 
 wolf, gray and shaggy and scarred. The 
 horse shrank with fear, but the knight 
 urged him on. There lay his way. Then 
 the wolf rose and fawned on the young 
 man, as if to turn him to the right or left. 
 But the knight, greatly wondering, kept 
 the horse s head to the southern way, and 
 would not turn. 
 
 Then the wolf stood in the path and 
 growled. But the young man had no fear. 
 He raised his spear and threatened. The 
 wolf, crying as with a human voice, van 
 ished in the forest, and his cry sounded 
 often as the knight pursued his way, com 
 ing now from the right, now from the 
 266 
 
Of the Young Knight and Sir Marrok 
 
 left. But the sound ceased when the 
 knight came to a great mead, in the midst 
 of which stood a castle. 
 
 Perhaps the crying of the wolf, per 
 haps the whispers of the forest, had called 
 strange voices to the young knight s 
 heart, speaking to him of the past. As he 
 drew rein at the edge of the wood, it 
 was more than the mere beauty of the 
 scene that made the castle seem to him 
 familiar, even kindly. " Mayhap," he said, 
 "my search is ended." With childish 
 memories stirring, and hope rising fast, 
 he gave no heed to the last call of the 
 wolf, that seemed to say: "Back! back!" 
 He rode forward to the castle. 
 
 It was near nightfall, and the knight 
 blew his horn at the castle gate. He was 
 admitted. A lady, beautiful and gracious, 
 met him in the court. "Welcome, fair 
 knight," she cried. " Dismount and un 
 arm thyself, and come to the feast. I am 
 the Lady Irma of Castle Bedegraine, and 
 thou art welcome." 
 
 267 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 The knight, with slow, grave smile, an 
 swered with few words : " Lady, thou art 
 kind." He dismounted. 
 
 The archers took his arms and armor, a 
 groom his horse. The lady led him to a 
 great hall, where the young man paused 
 and looked about. " Nay, my lady," he 
 said, with brightening face; "were it 
 not for these hangings and yonder great 
 banner, I should think I had ended my 
 search. I pray thee, under the banner is 
 there not a shield carved in stone, and 
 thereon a lion couchant? " 
 
 Now under the banner was the shield 
 indeed, the arms of Marrok, which the 
 lady had covered with the banner. Yet 
 she answered: "Nay, there is no carving 
 there." And her heart leaped in her 
 breast, for she knew from his slow speech, 
 and from his question, that the knight was 
 Walter, Marrok s son. 
 
 Now Gertrude had come into the hall, 
 and stood at her mother s back; but Irma 
 did not see her. And Walter, looking at 
 268 
 
Of the Young Knight and Sir Marrok 
 
 the banner, sighed, and said: "Almost 
 it seems the same hall. Lady, I seek 
 my birthplace, the home of my father, 
 whence years agone I was cruelly driven. 
 The castle s name I know not, nor my 
 father s ; but I remember the hall with the 
 carved shield, and I should know my own 
 little chamber." 
 
 Then Gertrude caught her breath, and 
 they both saw her. But while Walter, in 
 the midst of disappointment, looked on 
 her with a sudden strange delight, think 
 ing her the most beautiful girl he had 
 ever seen, Irma was frightened and angry. 
 She cast on Gertrude the old glance of 
 command, and the daughter, shuddering, 
 knew that she must obey her mother, even 
 to the words she spoke. 
 
 " Gertrude," asked Irma, " thou art 
 not well?" 
 
 "Kay, mother." 
 
 " Then go to thy chamber." And Ger 
 trude, struggling to stay, to speak, went 
 from the hall, 
 
 269 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 Irma turned to Walter. " Sir Knight," 
 she said, " I pray thee forgive my daugh 
 ter s intrusion. She is ill-mannered. But 
 for yourself, prithee wait here a little 
 space. I will bring a spiced drink for 
 welcome, and will order for thee fresh 
 robes." She left the young man won 
 dering at the vision he had seen, and 
 sought her secret chamber. 
 
 At its door was Gertrude, who marked 
 the look on her mother s face, and fell at 
 her feet. "Mother," she cried, " what go 
 you to do?" 
 
 " Gertrude," said Irma, " I bade you go 
 to your chamber." 
 
 " Mother," cried Gertrude, " I cannot. 
 The young man is Walter. What wilt 
 thou do to him?" 
 
 Irma strove to fix her with a glance, 
 but she failed. Gertrude, summoning her 
 will, threw off Irma s power, even at this 
 late time. " I will go," she said, " to warn 
 him." 
 
 And she turned away, 
 270 
 
Of the Young 1 Knig Jit and Sir Marrok 
 
 But Irma seized her suddenly by the 
 arms. By force she drew Gertrude to 
 her chamber, thrust her in, and locked the 
 door. "Now," she said, as she heard 
 Gertrude s cries, " do thy worst." 
 
 Gertrude leaned from the window, and 
 there, far below in the dusk, on the edge 
 of the moat, she saw the figure of a man. 
 " Ho ! " she cried, " who is there? " 
 
 " My Lady Gertrude," answered a cau 
 tious voice, "is it thou? I am old 
 Bennet." 
 
 " Bennet," cried Gertrude, "fly for help! 
 Here within is Walter, Marrok s son. He 
 knoweth my mother not, and I fear for 
 his life!" 
 
 But though she saw Bennet hasten 
 toward the village, she despaired. The 
 village was a half-mile thence, and it 
 would take time to gather men. 
 
 Meanwhile Irma went to the secret 
 
 chamber, and shut herself in. She took 
 
 wax, and warmed it at the brazier, and as 
 
 she warmed it she thought. Should she 
 
 271 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 make Walter a cat, or a dog, or a snake? 
 Remembering the unexpected deeds of 
 the wolf, she thought any of these too 
 dangerous. So when the wax was warmed 
 she modeled with it swiftly the figure of 
 an owl the small brown horned owl. She 
 put the figure on the little shrine on the 
 wall, and lit before it three candles, one 
 red, one blue, and one green. " There," 
 quoth she, " let him hoot in the forest, 
 and catch mice ! " 
 
 Then she took her vials and com 
 pounded a drink, and all the while she 
 muttered charms and spells. And bear 
 ing the drink in her golden chalice, she 
 left the room and went down to the ban- 
 queting-hall. 
 
 Now without, in the forest, the wolf 
 mourned for the young man. Seven years 
 had he lived in Bedegraine, but never had 
 he felt so drawn toward human being as 
 by this stranger knight. A great sad 
 ness came upon him, and he wandered, 
 striving to throw it off. But instead it 
 grew upon him, and he could think upon 
 272 
 
Oftlie Young Knight and Sir Mar r ok 
 
 nothing but the young- man lying dead. 
 And Marrok remembered all that had 
 happened since he became a wolf: how 
 he had saved Agnes and Andred and 
 Norris, and had warned Sir Roger and 
 again saved him from treachery, and how 
 he had led Pellinore to the rescue of the 
 son of Sir Simon. But now he saw no 
 rescue, here where his heart was most 
 deeply set, so that he was willing to give 
 his own life for the young man s. For 
 now all Bedegraine was prosperous, and 
 Marrok had done all that, as a wolf, 
 he could do, and he saw the end of his 
 usefulness on earth. Then suddenly, as 
 he pondered, wishing to give his life for 
 the young knight s, he saw a way. And 
 he ventured all. 
 
 He went to a knoll in the wood, grown 
 all about with low, thick junipers and 
 cedars; he crept into the thicket, and 
 came to an iron door among rocks. And 
 that was the door which he had made on 
 the advice of Merlin. 
 
 Then Marrok pushed upon a hidden 
 18 273 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 lever, and the door swung inward. He 
 entered, and shut the door, and went for 
 ward in darkness. The passage led 
 straight, then curved, and Marrok came 
 upon a wall. He found a spring, and 
 pushed, and the heavy stones moved aside. 
 
 This time he was on a stair, up which 
 he clambered. Again he came on the 
 solid stone, but again it moved at his 
 touch on a spring, and let him pass. And 
 there he was in a little chamber, lit by a 
 lamp. There were hangings on the walls, 
 books on shelves, and vials within cup 
 boards. In one place hung a suit of 
 armor his own. And upon the wall 
 was a little shrine, and a waxen figure 
 of an owl thereon, and three candles, one 
 red, one blue, and one green, burning be 
 fore it. 
 
 Then he understood everything; and 
 hastily rearing, he reached at the shrine 
 with clumsy forefoot, meaning to destroy 
 the figure of the owl. The figure fell to 
 the floor at his touch, and, rolling away, 
 274 
 
Of the Young Knight and Sir Marrok 
 
 hid under the hangings. The wax was 
 still warm and tough, and it did not 
 break. But from within the shrine, as it 
 swayed upon the wall, fell out another 
 figure, and broke in two upon the stone 
 flags of the floor. And it was the figure 
 of a wolf. 
 
 Then Marrok, standing there upright, 
 felt a change come over him. The fur 
 vanished from his body, his paws became 
 hands and feet, and his limbs were those 
 of a man. Behold, he was himself again, 
 clothed in the robes he wore when he 
 became a wolf! 
 
 He knew the change, and uttered a 
 great cry of joy. But pausing not, he 
 seized from the wall his sword, and cast 
 ing down the scabbard, hastened from the 
 room. Down the stone stair he hurried, 
 till he came to the banqueting-hall, and 
 stood at the door. 
 
 Within were Irma and the stranger 
 knight, and she was playing with him, as 
 a cat. Marrok heard her words. c Thou 
 275 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 art Walter, son of Marrok, and thy 
 father s castle is not far from here. 
 Pledge me in this wine, and I will tell 
 thee where to find him." 
 
 The young knight, with sparkling eyes, 
 took the chalice from her hand. " Lady," 
 he said, " a thousand times I thank thee 
 for this news. I pledge thee." 
 
 But Marrok strode forward from the 
 door, and cried : " Drink not ! " And Wal 
 ter, seeing a man with drawn sword, put 
 down the wine hastily upon the table, and 
 seized his dagger. 
 
 Then Marrok turned to Irma, and cried 
 in triumph, " Traitress, thou hast failed ! " 
 He raised his sword to strike the cup to 
 the floor. 
 
 But she, thinking he meant to slay her, 
 snatched quickly at the chalice, and 
 drained the drink to the dregs. Then 
 she looked the knight in the face, and 
 dropped the chalice. " Marrok ! Marrok ! " 
 Those were her last words. For she 
 changed quickly into a little owl, circled 
 276 
 
MARROK TURNED TO HIS SON, DROPPED HIS SWORD, 
 AND HELD OUT HIS ARMS." 
 
Of th e Yo u n g Kn igh t and Sir Ma rro k 
 
 upward, found an open window, and flew 
 hooting into the night. 
 
 Marrok turned to his son, dropped his 
 sword, and held out his arms. " Walter," 
 he cried, " she was a sorceress. But I am 
 Marrok, thine own father ! " 
 
 Long was their embrace and loving, 
 and then they sat and told each other 
 many things. But after a while they 
 heard a great commotion in the castle, 
 and each seized his sword, fearing the 
 servants of Irma. 
 
 Yet it was Bennet that they heard, who 
 had come with help. For while the old 
 squire mustered men in the village, but 
 all too slowly, there had ridden up Sir 
 Roger of the Rock, and Father John, 
 each with retainers. All together has 
 tened to the castle, and forced the gate. 
 Bennet sent the peasants to the servants 
 hall to surprise the archers. Great and 
 complete was the vengeance that the peas 
 ants took. But Bennet himself, and Sir 
 Roger, and Father John, with the men-at- 
 279 
 
Sir Marrok 
 
 arms, rushed to the banquet-hall, and it 
 was they who burst in the door upon Sir 
 Marrok and his son. 
 
 Joyous was the greeting, and deep was 
 the delight of all. Gertrude they brought 
 from her chamber. She hung upon Sir 
 Marrok s neck, and Walter was delighted 
 at the sight. And the peasants, throng 
 ing into the hall, fell upon their knees and 
 gave thanks at the sight of their lord. 
 
 Of Irma, who had become an owl, 
 nothing more was heard; yet an owl she 
 remained, for that waxen image had 
 slipped away into a crevice in the stone 
 floor of the little chamber, and was lost. 
 But Walter, the son of Marrok, married 
 Gertrude, the daughter of Irma, some six 
 months from that day. And all the land 
 of Bedegraine was happy, except that the 
 peasants lamented that they saw the great 
 gray wolf no more; for after the return 
 of Marrok the wolf was never again seen. 
 And Marrok told no one that he had been 
 the wolf, except Walter and Gertrude 
 280 
 
Of the Young Knight and Sir Marrok 
 
 and Father John. And Father John, 
 growing old, wrote all this in the Chron 
 icle, whence Blaise wrote the Lay which 
 minstrels sang, from which was written 
 the story that is printed here. 
 
 281 
 
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