{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_22396/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_22396","id":"gutenberg_22396","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22396","summary":null,"tags":["Arthurian Legends","Arthurian romances -- Adaptations","Category: Adventure","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Children's Myths, Fairy Tales, etc.","Knights and knighthood -- Juvenile literature"],"text":"E-text prepared by K. Nordquist, Sigal Alon, and the Project Gutenberg\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 22396-h.htm or 22396-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/3/9/22396/22396-h/22396-h.htm)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/3/9/22396/22396-h.zip)\n\n\n\n\n\nKING ARTHUR'S KNIGHTS:\n\nThe Tales Re-Told for Boys & Girls\n\nby\n\nHENRY GILBERT.\n\nWith Illustrations in Color by Walter Crane\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThomas Nelson and Sons\nNew York, Edinburgh, London\nToronto, And Paris\n\n\n\n  In tholde dayes of the King Arthour,\n  Of which that Britons speken great honour,\n  All was this land fulfilled of faery.\n\n                       _The Canterbury Tales._\n\n\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThis book is an attempt to tell some of the stories of King Arthur and\nhis Knights in a way which will be interesting to every boy and girl\nwho loves adventures.\n\nAlthough tales of these old British heroes have been published before\nin a form intended for young people, it is believed that they have\nnever been related quite in the same spirit nor from the same point of\nview; and it is hoped that the book will fill a place hitherto vacant\nin the hearts of all boys and girls.\n\nNo doubt many of you, my young readers, have at some time or another\ntaken down the _Morte D'Arthur_ from your father's bookshelves and read\na few pages of it here and there. But I doubt if any of you have ever\ngone very far in the volume. You found generally, I think, that it was\nwritten in a puzzling, old-fashioned language, that though it spoke of\nmany interesting things, and seemed that it ought to be well worth\nreading, yet somehow it was tedious and dry.\n\nIn the tales as I have retold them for you, I hope you will not find\nany of these faults. Besides writing them in simple language, I have\nchosen only those episodes which I know would appeal to you. I have\nadded or altered here and there, for in places it struck me that there\nwas just wanting a word or two to make you feel the magic that was\neverywhere abroad in those days. It seemed to me that some mysterious\nadventure might easily be waiting in the ruined and deserted Roman town\non the desolate moor, or even just round the mossy trunk of the next\noak in the forest-drive, through which the knight was riding; or that\nany fair lady or questing dog which he might meet could turn out to be\na wizard seeking to work woe upon him. Nevertheless, I was always sure\nthat in those bright days when the world was young, whatever evil power\nmight get the mastery for a little while, the knight's courage,\nhumility, and faith would win through every peril at the end.\n\nIn this book, besides reading of wonderful adventures and brave\nfighting, you will learn just what sort of man a perfect knight was\nrequired to be in the chivalrous times when men wore armour and rode on\nerrantry. The duties of a 'good and faithful knight' were quite simple,\nbut they were often very hard to perform. They were--to protect the\ndistressed, to speak the truth, to keep his word to all, to be\ncourteous and gentle to women, to defend right against might, and to do\nor say nothing that should sully the fair name of Christian knighthood.\n\nAlthough, therefore, these stories of King Arthur and his men treat of\nknights and their ladies, of magical trolls and wonder-working wizards,\nand it might seem for that reason that they can have little or nothing\nin common with life of the present day, it will be seen that the spirit\nin which they are told conveys something which every boy can learn.\n\nIndeed, the great and simple lesson of chivalry which the tales of King\nArthur teach is, in a few words, to merit 'the fine old name of\ngentleman.'\n\nThe history of King Arthur and his Knights is contained in two books,\none being the _Morte D'Arthur_, written by Sir Thomas Malory, the other\nbeing the _Mabinogion_, a collection of old Welsh stories, first\ntranslated by Lady Charlotte Guest in 1838. I have selected thirteen\ntales from the number which these two books contain; but there are many\nmore, equally as interesting, which remain.\n\nLittle is known about Sir Thomas Malory, who lived in the fifteenth\ncentury. We only learn that he was a Welshman, a man of heroic mind\nwho, as an old writer relates, 'from his youth, greatly shone in the\ngifts of mind and body.' Though much busied with cares of state, his\nfavourite recreation was said to be the reading of history, and in this\npursuit 'he made selections from various authors concerning the valour\nand the victories of the most renowned King Arthur of the Britons.' We\nknow, further, that these selections or tales were translated mostly\nfrom poems about Arthur written by old French poets in the eleventh and\ntwelfth centuries, and that Sir Thomas Malory finished his translation\nin the ninth year of King Edward the Fourth (1469). This, of course,\nwas before printing was introduced into England, but no doubt many\nwritten copies were made of the book, so as to enable the stories to be\nread to the lords and ladies and other rich people who would desire to\nhear about the flower of kings and chivalry, the great King Arthur.\nWhen, in 1477, Caxton set up his printing press at Westminster, the\n_Morte D'Arthur_ was one of the books which then saw the light of day.\n\nThe _Mabinogion_, which contains other tales about King Arthur, is a\ncollection of old Welsh romances. Though our earliest collection of\nthem is to be found in a manuscript written in the thirteenth or\nfourteenth century, some of them are probably as old as the time when\nWelshmen clothed themselves in the skins of the beaver and the bear,\nand used stone for their tools and weapons.\n\nIt may be that, when you get older, you will go back to the two books I\nhave mentioned, and you will find them so fascinating that you will be\nimpatient of any other book which pretends to tell you the same tales.\nBut until that time arrives, I hope you will find the stories as I have\ntold them quite interesting and exciting.\n\nHENRY GILBERT.\n\n_June_ 1911.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nCHAP.                                                            PAGE\n\n   I. HOW ARTHUR WAS MADE KING AND WON HIS KINGDOM                  1\n\n  II. SIR BALIN AND THE STROKE DOLOROUS                            32\n\n III. HOW LANCELOT WAS MADE A KNIGHT. THE FOUR WITCH QUEENS,\n        AND THE ADVENTURES AT THE CHAPEL PERILOUS                  52\n\n  IV. THE KNIGHT OF THE KITCHEN                                    72\n\n   V. HOW SIR TRISTRAM KEPT HIS WORD                              101\n\n  VI. THE DEEDS OF SIR GERAINT                                    131\n\n VII. HOW SIR PERCEVAL WAS TAUGHT CHIVALRY, AND ENDED THE\n        EVIL WROUGHT BY SIR BALIN'S DOLOROUS STROKE               164\n\nVIII. HOW SIR OWEN WON THE EARLDOM OF THE FOUNTAIN                194\n\n  IX. OF SIR LANCELOT AND THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT                229\n\n   X. HOW THE THREE GOOD KNIGHTS ACHIEVED THE HOLY GRAAL          250\n\n  XI. OF THE PLOTS OF SIR MORDRED; AND HOW SIR LANCELOT\n        SAVED THE QUEEN                                           278\n\n XII. OF SIR GAWAINE'S HATRED, AND THE WAR WITH SIR LANCELOT      307\n\nXIII. OF THE REBELLION OF MORDRED AND THE DEATH OF KING ARTHUR    333\n\n\n\n\nKING ARTHUR'S KNIGHTS\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nHOW ARTHUR WAS MADE KING AND WON HIS KINGDOM\n\n\nIn the hall of his Roman palace at London, King Uther, Pendragon of the\nIsland of Britain, lay dying. He had been long sick with a wasting\ndisease, and forced to lie in his bed, gnawing his beard with wrath at\nhis weakness, while the pagan Saxons ravened up and down the fair broad\nlands, leaving in their tracks the smoking ruin of broken towns and\ndesolated villages, where mothers lay dead beside their children on the\nhearths, fair churches stood pillaged and desecrated, and priests and\nnuns wandered in the wilds.\n\nAt length, when the pagans, bold and insolent, had ventured near\nLondon, the king had been able to bear his shame and anguish no longer.\nHe had put himself, in a litter, at the head of his army, and meeting\nthe fierce, brave pagans at Verulam (now called St. Albans) he had, in\na battle day-long and stubborn, forced them at length to fly with heavy\nslaughter.\n\nThat was three days ago, and since then he had lain in his bed as still\nas if he were dead; and beside him sat the wise wizard Merlin, white\nwith great age, and in his eyes the calmness of deep learning.\n\nIt was the third night when the king suddenly awoke from his stupor and\nclutched the hand of Merlin.\n\n'I have dreamed!' he said in a low shaken voice. 'I have seen two\ndragons fighting--one white, the other red. First the white dragon got\nthe mastery, and clawed with iron talons the red one's crest, and drove\nhim hither and thither into holes and crannies of the rocks. And then\nthe red one took heart, and with a fury that was marvellous to see, he\ndrove and tore the white dragon full terribly, and anon the white one\ncrawled away sore wounded. And the red dragon walked up and down in the\nplace of his triumph, and grew proud, and fought smaller red dragons\nand conquered. Thus for a long time he stayed, and was secure and\nboastful. Then I saw the white dragon return with a rage that was very\nterrible, and the red dragon fought with him; but his pride had\nsoftened him, so he drew off. Then other red dragons came upon him in\nhis wounds and beat him sore, which seeing, the white dragon dashed\nupon them all--and I awoke. Merlin, tell me what this may mean, for my\nmind is sore distraught with the vision.'\n\nThen Merlin looked at the trembling king, wasted with disease, and in\nhis wise heart was great pity.\n\n'It means, lord,' he said in slow grave tones, 'that thy people shall\nconquer--that a red dragon shall rise from thy kin, who shall drive out\nthe loathsome pagan and shall conquer far and wide, and his fame shall\ngo into all lands and for all time.'\n\n'I thank thee, Merlin, for thy comfort,' sighed the wearied king. 'I\nhave feared me these last years that the pagan will at the last drive\nmy people into the western sea, and that the name of Christ shall die\nout of this fair land, and the foul pagan possess it. But thy words\ngive me great heart.'\n\n'Nay, sir,' said Merlin, 'take comfort. Great power will come to this\npeople in a near time, and they shall conquer all their enemies.'\n\nAnon the king slept, and lay thus for three further days, neither\nspeaking nor moving. Many great lords and barons came craving to speak\nwith Merlin, asking if the king were not better. But, looking into\ntheir crafty eyes, and seeing there the pride and ambitions of their\nhearts, Merlin knew that they wished the king were already dead; for\nall thought that King Uther had no son to take the kingdom after him,\nand each great baron, strong in men, plotted to win the overlordship\nwhen the king should be gone.\n\n'If he dieth and sayeth not which he shall name to succeed him,' some\nasked, 'say, Merlin, what's to be done?'\n\n'I shall tell you,' said Merlin. 'Come ye all into this chamber\nto-morrow's morn, and, if God so wills, I will make the king speak.'\n\nNext morn, therefore, came all the great barons and lords into the high\nhall of the palace, and many were the proud and haughty glances passing\namong them. There was King Lot of Orkney, small and slim, with his dark\nnarrow face and crafty eyes under pent eyebrows; King Uriens of Reged,\ntall and well-seeming, with grim eyes war-wise, fresh from the long\nharrying of the fleeing pagans; King Mark of Tintagel, burly of form,\ncrafty and mean of look; King Nentres of Garlot, ruddy of face,\nblusterous of manner, who tried to hide cunning under a guise of\nhonesty; and many others, as Duke Cambenet of Loidis, King Brandegoris\nof Stranggore, King Morkant of Strathclyde, King Clariance of\nNorthumberland, King Kador of Cornwall, and King Idres of Silura.\n\nNow, when all these were assembled about the bed of Uther, Merlin went\nto the side of the sleeping king, and looked long and earnestly upon\nhis closed eyes. Anon he passed his hands above the face of the king,\nand Uther instantly awoke, and looked about him as if startled.\n\n'Lord,' said Merlin, 'God's hand is drawing you to Him, and these your\nlords desire you to name your successor ere you pass from life. Is it\nnot your desire that your son Arthur shall take the kingdom after you,\nwith your blessing?'\n\nThose who craned towards the bed started and looked darkly at Merlin\nand then at each other; for none had heard of the son whom the wizard\nnamed Arthur. Then in the deep silence the dying king raised his hand\nin the sign of blessing, and in a hollow whisper said:\n\n'Such is my desire. With God's blessing I wish my son Arthur to take\nthis kingdom after me, and all that love me must follow him.'\n\nHis eyes closed, a shiver passed down the tall frame as it lay beneath\nthe clothes, and with a sigh the soul of Uther sped.\n\nIn a few days the king was buried in all solemnity with the dead of his\nkindred in the Roman temple that had been made a church, where now\nstands St. Paul's. Thereafter men waited and wondered, for the land was\nwithout a king, and none knew who was rightfully heir to the throne.\n\nAs the days went by, men gathered in groups in the market-place of\nLondon, whispering the rumours that mysteriously began to fly from\nmouth to mouth,--how King Lot of Orkney and Lothian was gathering his\nknights and men-at-arms; and King Uriens and Duke Cambenet of Loidis\nhad got together a great host, although the remnant of the pagans had\nfled the country. The faces of the citizens went gloomy as they thought\nof the griefs of civil war, of the terrors of the sack of cities, the\nruin of homes, the death of dear ones, and the loss of riches.\nNevertheless, some were already wagering which of the great lords would\nconquer the others, and take to himself the crown of Britain and the\ntitle of Pendragon.\n\nAs it neared the feast of Christmas, men heard that the Archbishop of\nLondon, who was then chief ruler of the Church, had sent his letters to\neach and all the great nobles, bidding them come to a great council to\nbe holden at the church of St. Paul at Christmas.\n\nWhen men heard that this was done by the advice of Merlin, faces\nlightened and looked more joyful.\n\n'Now shall things go right,' said they, 'for the old, old Merlin hath\nthe deepest wisdom of all the earth.'\n\nOn Christmas Eve the city throbbed with the clank of arms and the tramp\nof the great retinues of princes, kings and powerful lords who had come\nat the archbishop's summons, and by day and night the narrow ways were\ncrowded with armed men. Long ere the dawn of Christmas Day, the lords\nand the common people betook themselves along the wide road which led\nacross to the church, which then stood in a wide space amid fields, and\nall knelt therein to mass.\n\nWhile it was yet dark a great strange cry rang out in the churchyard.\nSome ran forth, and there by the wall behind the high altar they saw a\nvast stone, four-square, that had not been there before, and in the\nmiddle thereof was stuck a great wedge of steel, and sticking therefrom\nby the point was a rich sword. On the blade were written words in\nLatin, which a clerk read forth, which said, 'Whoso pulleth this sword\nout of this stone and wedge of steel is rightwise born King of all\nBritain.'\n\nThe clerk ran into the church and told the archbishop, and men were all\namazed and would have gone instantly to see this marvel, but the\narchbishop bade them stay.\n\n'Finish your prayers to God,' he said, 'for no man may touch this\nstrange thing till high mass be done.'\n\nWhen mass was finished, all poured forth from the church and thronged\nabout the stone, and marvelled at the words on the sword. First King\nLot, with a light laugh, took hold of the handle and essayed to pull\nout the point of the sword, but he could not, and his face went hot and\nangry. Then King Nentres of Garlot took his place with a jest, but\nthough he heaved at the sword with all his burly strength, till it\nseemed like to snap, he could not move it, and so let go at last with\nan angry oath. All the others essayed in like manner, but by none was\nit moved a jot, and all stood about discomfited, looking with black\nlooks at one another and the stone.\n\n'He that is rightwise born ruler of Britain is not here,' said the\narchbishop at length, 'but doubt not he shall come in God's good time.\nMeanwhile, let a tent be raised over the stone, and do ye lords appoint\nten of your number to watch over it, and we will essay the sword again\nafter New Year's Day.'\n\nSo that the kings and lords should be kept together, the archbishop\nappointed a great tournament to be held on New Year's Day on the waste\nland north of the city, which men now call Smithfield.\n\nNow when the day was come, a certain lord, Sir Ector de Morven, who had\ngreat lands about the isle of Thorney, rode towards the jousts with his\nson, Sir Kay, and young Arthur, who was Sir Kay's foster-brother. When\nthey had got nearly to the place, suddenly Sir Kay bethought him that\nhe had left his sword at home.\n\n'Do you ride back, young Arthur,' he said, 'and fetch me my sword, for\nif I do not have it I may not fight.'\n\nWillingly Arthur turned his horse and rode back swiftly. But when he\nhad arrived at the house, he found it shut up and none was within, for\nall had gone to the jousts. Then was he a little wroth, and rode back\nwondering how he should obtain a sword for his foster-brother.\n\nSuddenly, as he saw the tower of St. Paul's church through the trees,\nhe bethought him of the sword in the stone, about which many men had\nspoken in his hearing.\n\n'I will ride thither,' said he, 'and see if I may get that sword for my\nbrother, for he shall not be without a sword this day.'\n\nWhen he came to the churchyard, he tied his horse to the stile, and\nwent through the grave-mounds to the tent wherein was the sword. He\nfound the place unwatched, and the flashing sword was sticking by the\npoint in the stone.\n\nLightly he grasped the handle of the sword with one hand, and it came\nforth straightway!\n\nThen, glad that his brother should not be without a sword, he swiftly\ngat upon his horse and rode on, and delivered the sword to Sir Kay, and\nthought no more of aught but the splendid knights and richly garbed\nlords that were at the jousts.\n\nBut Sir Kay looked at the sword, and the writing, and knew it was the\nsword of the stone, and marvelled how young Arthur had possessed\nhimself thereof; and being of a covetous and sour mind he thought how\nhe might make advantage for himself. He went to his father, Sir Ector,\nand said:\n\n'Lo, father, this is the sword of the stone, and surely am I rightful\nking.'\n\nSir Ector knew the sword and marvelled, but his look was stern as he\ngazed into the crafty eyes of his son.\n\n'Come ye with me,' he said, and all three rode to the church, and alit\nfrom their horses and went in.\n\nSir Ector strode up the aisle to the altar, and turning to his son,\nsaid sternly:\n\n'Now, swear on God's book and the holy relics how thou didst get this\nsword.'\n\nSir Kay's heart went weak, and he stammered out the truth.\n\n'How gat you this sword?' asked Sir Ector of Arthur.\n\n'Sir, I will tell you,' said Arthur, and so told him all as it had\nhappened.\n\nSir Ector marvelled what this should mean; for Arthur had been given to\nhim to nourish and rear as a week-old child by Merlin, but the wizard\nhad only told him that the babe was a son of a dead lady, whose lord\nhad been slain by the pagans.\n\nThen Sir Ector went to the stone and bade Arthur put back the sword\ninto the wedge of steel, which the young man did easily.\n\nThereupon Sir Ector strove with all his strength to draw the sword\nforth again, but though he pulled till he sweated, he could not stir\nthe sword.\n\n'Now you essay it,' he said to his son. But naught that Sir Kay could\ndo availed.\n\n'Now do you try,' he bade Arthur.\n\nArthur lightly grasped the handle with one hand, and the sword came out\nwithout hindrance.\n\nTherewith Sir Ector sank to his knees, and Sir Kay also. And they bared\ntheir heads.\n\n'Alas,' said Arthur, 'my own dear father and brother, why kneel ye so\nto me?'\n\n'Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so,' said Sir Ector, 'for I was\nnever your father. I wot well ye are of higher blood than I weened. For\nMerlin delivered you to me while yet ye were a babe.'\n\nThe tears came into Arthur's eyes when he knew that Sir Ector was not\nhis father, for the young man had loved him as if he were of his own\nblood.\n\n'Sir,' said Ector unto Arthur, 'will ye be my good and kind lord when\nye are king?'\n\n'Ah, if this be true as ye say,' cried Arthur, 'ye shall desire of me\nwhatsoever ye may, and I shall give it you. For both you and my good\nlady and dear mother your wife have kept and loved me as your own.'\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Ector, 'I crave a boon of you, that while you live,\nyour foster-brother, Sir Kay, shall be high seneschal of all your\nlands.'\n\n'That shall be done, and never man shall have that office but him,\nwhile he and I live,' replied Arthur.\n\nThen hastily Sir Ector rode to the archbishop, and told him how and by\nwhom the sword had been achieved from the stone. Thereupon the\narchbishop let call a great meeting on Twelfth Day of all the kings and\nbarons.\n\nSo on the day appointed, all men gathered in the churchyard of St.\nPaul's, and the tent was removed from about the stone. From day dawn to\nthe evening the kings and princes and lords strove each in his turn to\ndraw the sword from the stone. But none of them availed to move it.\n\nWhile they stood about, dark of look, gnawing their lips with rage and\ndisappointment, the archbishop turned privily to Sir Ector and bade him\nbring Arthur.\n\nThe young man came, quietly clad in a tunic of brown samite, of medium\nheight, with curly hair above a fair face of noble, though mild mien.\nAs he came among the richly clad nobles, they looked haughtily at him,\nand wondered who he was and why he came, for as yet none had been told\nthat the sword had been drawn by him.\n\nThe archbishop, tall, white-haired and reverend, called Arthur to him\nand said in grave tones:\n\n'My son, I have heard a strange tale of thee, and whether it be true or\nfalse, God shall decide. Now, therefore, do ye take hold upon this\nsword and essay to draw it from the stone.'\n\nThe proud barons, some with looks amazed and others with sneering\nlaughter, pressed about the young man as he stepped towards the stone.\nArthur took the handle of the sword with his right hand, and the sword\nseemed to fall into his grasp.\n\nThereat arose great cries of rage, and angry looks flashed forth, and\nmany a hand went to dagger haft.\n\n'Ho, archbishop!' cried King Lot, fiercely striding towards the tall\necclesiastic, 'what wizard's brat are you foisting upon us here to draw\nthe sword by magic?'\n\n''Tis a trick!' cried Nentres of Garlot, his bluff manner falling from\nhim, and all the savage anger gleaming from his eyes. 'A trick that\nshall not blind men such as we!'\n\n'Who is this beggar's boy that is put forth to shame us kings and\nnobles?' said King Mark, and his hand sought his dagger as he\ndisappeared among the crowd and wormed his way towards where stood\nyoung Arthur. But Sir Ector and Sir Kay, seeing the threatening looks\nof all, had quickly ranged themselves beside young Arthur, and with\nthem went Sir Bedevere, Sir Baudwin and Sir Ulfius, three noble lords\nwho had loved King Uther well.\n\n'Peace, lords!' said the old archbishop, calmly meeting the raging\nlooks about him. 'Ye know what words are about the sword, and this\nyouth hath drawn the sword. I know naught of tricks or wizardry, but I\nthink high Heaven hath chosen this way of showing who shall be lord of\nthis land, and I think this young man is rightful King of us all.'\n\n''Tis some base-born churl's son that the wizard Merlin would foist\nupon us!' cried the barons. 'We will have none of him!'\n\n'A shame and dishonour it is, so to try to overrule us, kings and lords\nof high lineage, with an unknown youth,' cried others.\n\n'We will have the sword put back and set a watch over it,' cried King\nUriens, 'and we will meet here again at Candlemas, and essay the sword.\nAnd at that time, my lord archbishop, thou shalt do the proper rites to\nexorcise all evil powers, and then we will try the sword once more.'\n\nSo was it agreed by all, and ten knights watched day and night about\nthe stone and the sword.\n\nBut it befell at Candlemas as it had befallen at Twelfth Day, that for\nall their strength and might, none of the kings or barons could draw\nforth the sword; but into the hand of the unknown Arthur the weapon\nseemed to fall.\n\nWhereat they were all sore aggrieved and rageful, and resolved that\nthey would have yet another trial at Easter. It befell at the feast of\nEaster as it had befallen before, and this time the kings and lords for\nangry spite would have fallen upon Arthur and slain him, but the\narchbishop threatened them with the most dreadful ban of Holy Church.\nThey forbore, therefore, and went aside, and declared that it was their\nwill to essay the sword again at the high feast of Pentecost.\n\nBy Merlin's advice the young Arthur went never about, unless the five\nfriends of Uther were with him, that is to say, Sir Ector and his son\nSir Kay, Sir Bedevere, Sir Baudwin and Sir Ulfius. And though at divers\ntimes men were found skulking or hiding in the horse-stall, the dark\nwood by the hall, or the bend in the lane, in places where Arthur might\npass, no harm came to him by reason of the loving watch of those noble\nknights.\n\nAgain at the feast of Pentecost men gathered in the churchyard of St.\nPaul's, and the press of people was such that no man had ever seen the\nlike. Once more the kings and princes and great barons, to the number\nof forty-nine, came forward, and each in turn pulled and drew at the\nsword in the stone until the sweat stood on their brows. Nevertheless,\nthough the sword point was but the width of a palm in the stone, not\nthe mightiest of them could move it by the breadth of a hair.\n\nKing Mark of Tintagel was the last of them who had to stand back at\nlength, baffled and raging inwardly. Many were the evil looks that\nwould have slain Arthur as he stood among his friends.\n\nThen a cry came from among the common people, and so strong was it that\nthe nobles looked as if they hated to hear it.\n\n'Let Arthur draw the sword!' was the call from a thousand throats.\n\nThe venerable archbishop came and took Arthur by the hand, and led him\ntowards the sword. Again the young man held the rich pommel with his\nsingle hand, and that which none of the forty-nine great men could do,\nhe did as easily as if he but plucked a flower.\n\nA fierce cry leaped from among the thousands of the common people.\n\n'Arthur shall be our King!' they cried. 'Arthur is our King! We will no\nlonger deny him!'\n\nMany of the princes and barons cried out with the commons that this was\ntheir will also; but eleven of the most powerful and ambitious showed\nby their arrogant and angry gestures that they refused to own Arthur as\ntheir lord.\n\nFor a long time the uproar raged, the cries of the common folk becoming\nfiercer and more menacing against the counter cries of the eleven kings\nand their adherents.\n\nAt length from among the people there came the governor of London, who,\nin his rich robes of office, leaped upon the stone where but lately the\nsword had been.\n\n'My lords, I speak the will of the commons,' he cried, and at his voice\nall were silent. 'We have taken counsel together, and we will have\nArthur for our King. We will put him no more in delay, for we all see\nthat it is God's will that he shall be our King, and who that holdeth\nagainst him, we will slay.'\n\nWith that he got down from the stone, kneeled before Arthur, put the\nkeys of the city in his hands, and rendered homage unto him. The great\nmultitude kneeled likewise, bowing their bare heads, and cried him\nmercy because they had denied him so long.\n\nBecause they feared the great multitude, the eleven kings kneeled with\nthem, but in their hearts was rage and rebellion.\n\nThen Arthur took the sword between his hands and, going into the\nchurch, he laid it on the high altar, and the archbishop blessed him.\nThen, since Arthur was as yet unknighted, King Kador of Cornwall, who\nwas brother of King Uther, made him a knight.\n\nStanding up in the sight of all the people, lords and commons, Arthur\nlaid his left hand upon the holy relics; then, lifting up his right\nhand, he swore that he would be a true king, to stand forth as their\nruler in justice and mercy, to keep them from oppression, to redress\ntheir wrongs, and to establish right throughout the length and breadth\nof his dominions.\n\nMen went forth from the church in great joy, for now they had a king\nthey loved, and they felt that the land was safe from civil strife and\nthe griefs of war.\n\nWhen Arthur in his palace at London had received the homage of all the\nlords and princes from the lands south of Humber, he appointed his\nofficers. Sir Kay he made seneschal or steward, and Sir Baudwin was\nmade constable, and Sir Ulfius he named chamberlain of his court. By\nthe counsel of Merlin he made Sir Bedevere Warden of the Northern\nMarches, for the lands of the eleven kings lay mostly in the country\nnorth of Trent, and though those princes had yielded lip service to\nArthur, Merlin knew that in their hearts they nurtured the seeds of\nconspiracy.\n\nKing Arthur made a progress through all his territories, staying at the\nhalls of those who did service for the lands they held of him, and he\ncommanded all those who had suffered evil or wrong to come to him, and\nmany came. The king's wrath when he heard a tale of women and orphans\nwronged or robbed or evilly treated by proud or powerful lords and\nknights, was terrible to see. Many were the pale captives he released\nfrom their deep dungeons, many were the tears he wiped away, and hard\nand heavy was his punishment of evil lords who thought their power\nwould for ever shield them from penalty for their cruelties and\noppression.\n\nWhen this was done, he caused a proclamation to be uttered, that he\nwould hold his coronation at the city of Caerleon-upon-Usk, at the\nfeast of Hallow-mass then following; and he commanded all his loyal\nsubjects to attend. When the time came, all the countryside on the\nmarches of Wales was filled with the trains of noblemen and their\nknights and servants gathering towards the city.\n\nAs Arthur looked from the window of the palace which the Romans had\nbuilded, and which looked far and wide over the crowded roads, word was\nbrought to him that six of the kings who had resented his kingship had\ncome to the city. At this Arthur was glad, for he was full gentle and\nkindly, and would liefer be friendly with a man than his enemy.\n\nThinking that these kings and knights had come for love of him, and to\ndo him worship at his feast, King Arthur sent them many and rich\npresents. But his messengers returned, saying that the kings and\nknights had received them with insults, and had refused to take the\ngifts of a beardless boy who had come, they said, of low blood.\n\nWhereat the king's eyes flashed grimly, but at that time he said no\nword.\n\nIn the joustings and knightly games that were part of the festival of\nthe coronation, the six kings ever ranged themselves against King\nArthur and his knights, and did him all the despite they could achieve.\nAt that time they deemed themselves not strong enough to hurt the king,\nand therefore did no open act of revolt.\n\nNow it happened, when the feasting was over and many of the kings and\nlords had departed home again, that Arthur stood in the door of his\nhall that looked into the street, and with his three best nobles, Sir\nKay, Sir Bedevere and Sir Baudwin, he watched the rich cavalcades of\nhis lords pass out of the town. Suddenly, as he stood there, a little\npage-boy, fair of face but for the pitiful sorrow and gauntness upon\nit, dashed from the throng of a lord's retinue which was passing and\nthrew himself along the ground, his hands clutching the feet of the\nking.\n\n'O King Arthur, save me!' the lad cried, spent of breath, 'or this evil\nlord will slay me as he hath slain my mother and my brothers.'\n\nFrom the throng a tall black knight, leaping from his horse, strode\ntowards the boy, and would have torn his hands from their hold upon the\nking's feet.\n\n'Back, sir knight!' said the king. 'I will hear more of this. Who are\nyou?'\n\nThe knight laughed insolently.\n\n'I? Oh, I am one that the last king knew well to his sorrow. I am\nTurquine, brother to Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower.'\n\n'What is this boy to you?'\n\n'He is Owen, the caitiff son of a brave father, who gave him to my care\nto train in knightly ways. But 'tis a puling fool, more fitting for the\nbowers of ladies.'\n\n'Nay, king, he lies!' said the lad who kneeled before the king. 'I am\nhis nephew. His hand slew my dear father treacherously, and he hath\nstarved my mother to her death. For our lands are rich while his are\npoor, and my father warned me of him ere he died. This man hath kept me\nprisoner, used me evilly, starving me and wealing me with cruel blows\ndaily. I think he hath my death in his heart.'\n\n'I can speak of this thing,' said a knight, who came forth from the\nthrong. 'I am Sir Miles of Bandon. I know this lad speaks truth, for\nhis father was mine own dear cousin. This Sir Turquine is a felon\nknight.'\n\nThe brow of the king went dark. He looked from the cruel insolent face\nof the black knight to the wan beseeching face of the lad.\n\n'Hark ye!' said Arthur to Turquine, and his voice was terrible, for all\nthat it was very quiet, 'ye shall answer to me and my justice for any\nevil you have done this young boy or his people. When I send for thee,\ncome at once, or it will be worse for thee. The boy stays with me. Now\nbegone!'\n\nThe big knight looked with hatred and surprise in his eyes, and for a\nwhile said naught. Then, with an insolent laugh, he turned and vaulted\non his horse.\n\n'I may come when thou dost not expect me, sir king!' he said, mocking,\nand shot an evil look at the young page.\n\nThenceforward the young page Owen stayed in the court, doing his\nservices deftly and quietly, with an eye ever on the king to do his\nbidding. One night, when a storm raged and the town lay dark and quiet,\nKing Arthur sat in his hall. Sir Kay and Sir Bedevere told tales, or\nthe king's bard sang songs to amuse him, while about them moved young\nOwen, noiseless of step, quick of eye, and as restless as an unquiet\nspirit.\n\nAnon the lad would pass through the arras, creep to the great outer\ndoor, and look at the porter in his room beside it. Then he would stand\nat the wicket and listen to the rare footsteps pass down the road, and\nwhen the rising wind keened and shrilled through the crannies, he would\nglance about him with quick looks as if in fear of an enemy.\n\nOnce he went to Falk, the king's porter, and said:\n\n''Tis a stormy night, Sir Falk. I doubt few are about the streets of\nCaerleon on such a night.'\n\n'Few indeed,' said Falk.\n\n'Yet methought but now I heard the rattle of a bridle in the distance,\nas if a steed stood in armour.'\n\n'I heard naught,' said Falk. ''Twould be but the grinding of a chain\nbeside a horseblock.'\n\nYoung Owen went away, and sat where the king and his knights listened\nto the marvellous tales of the wise Gildas, who told of most terrible\nwitches and warlocks in the wizard woods of Brittany.\n\nAgain the lad approached the door and listened; then going to the\nporter he said:\n\n'This drenching storm will tear the last poor leaves from the forest\ntrees, I ween, Sir Falk.'\n\n'Of a truth,' said the porter, ''tis overlate for leaves. They be stuck\nin the mire of the rides long ere this.'\n\n'They could not be blown so far in this gushing storm,' said the page,\n'and therefore I have deceived myself. But I thought I heard the rustle\nof leaves on the stones before the door but now.'\n\n'It could not be,' said the porter; 'it was doubtless the gouts of\nwater from the roof of the hall thou didst hear.'\n\nOwen went away, but in a little while returned, and softly opened the\nwicket panel in the door a little way, and looked forth into the\nroaring darkness of rain and wind.\n\n'Think you, Sir Falk,' he said, going to the porter, 'that the witches\nfrom the woods of Denn do send their baleful fires on such a night as\nthis to lead poor houseless wretches into the marsh below the wall?'\n\nThe porter laughed.\n\n'Thou'rt over-full of fancies to-night, young sir,' he said. 'Have no\nfear of witches. We're all safe and sound here till the blessed\ndaylight comes, and none need stir out till then.'\n\n'Methought I saw a flash in the dark but now,' said Owen, 'as if 'twas\nthe gleam of a sword or a wandering marsh fire.'\n\n'Not a doubt 'twas but a lightning flash,' returned the porter. 'Now go\nye, for I hear the king moving towards bed. Sleep soundly, lad; no need\nto fear this night.'\n\nIn a little while the palace was sunk in darkness, and in silence save\nfor the smothered cries of sleepers in their dreams. Outside, the rain\nstill sobbed at the eaves, and the wind beat at the narrow casements.\nTime passed, and for all his weariness young Owen could not sleep.\n\nHis spirit had been heavy all the day, and vague and dreadful fears had\nhaunted him. Something told him that the life of the beloved king, who\nhad taken him from the foul and cruel power of Sir Turquine, was\nthreatened. He rose in the dark from his pallet of straw in the hall\nwhere lay the other pages, and stole softly out. He would make his way\nto the king's door, and, wrapped in his cloak, would lie before it.\n\nHe felt his way softly along the corridor in the deep darkness.\nSuddenly he stopped. Something alive was near him in the dark. Even as\nhe turned, a hand seized him by the throat, and a hateful voice which\nhe knew growled in his ear:\n\n'Lead us to the king's room, or this shall sink in thy heart!'\n\nHe knew at once that all his fears of the day and the night had been\ntrue. He had indeed heard the stealthy footsteps before the door of the\nhall, and had seen the dull gleam of a sword in the hand of one of\nthose who lay in wait to murder the king.\n\n'Speak!' said the voice again. 'Is the king's room backward or\nforward?'\n\n'I will not tell thee!' he gasped, and heard a low mocking laugh.\n\n''Tis thee, my caitiff boy!' sneered Sir Turquine, for he it was. 'Then\nthis for thee!'\n\nWith the words he thrust his dagger into the body of the struggling\nboy, who swooned and dropped to the floor.\n\nIn a few moments Owen stirred, for his struggles had caused his enemy's\ndagger to swerve, and though weak from loss of blood, the young page\nknew that he must act at once to save his hero from the murderous\nknives.\n\nHe heard the stealthy footsteps of the murderers going backwards to the\nhall, and, filled with joy, he pressed forward. His head was dizzy, he\nfelt as if every moment he must sink in a swoon; but at length he\nreached the door, turned the handle and fell in.\n\n'The king!' he cried. 'Save the king! Turquine has broken in and seeks\nhis life.'\n\nAt his shrill cry there was the rush of men and torches along the\ncorridors and into the room. Sir Bedevere was at the head of them, and\nin a moment he, with twenty half-dressed knights behind him, was\nscattering through the palace seeking the murderers, while the king\nordered his leech or doctor to attend instantly to Owen's wound.\n\nThis was soon found not to be severe, and the lad was laid at the foot\nof the king's bed, glad and proud to hear the king's words of praise.\n\nThen Sir Bedevere entered, saying that the murderers had fled as soon\nas they found they were discovered.\n\n'But, my lord king,' he said, 'this is no murderous attempt by one\ninsolent lord. It means, my king, that thou wilt have to fight for thy\nkingdom. It is civil war!'\n\n'What mean you, Sir Bedevere?'\n\n'Sir Turquine is but one of them, my king,' replied Bedevere. 'He is\nbut the tool of the six kings who have put such great despite upon you.\nFor with them also in this midnight murder-raid I saw King Nentres of\nGarlot and Duke Cambenet.'\n\nSuddenly, as he spoke, the tall grey form of Merlin took shape before\nthem, for so great and marvellous was the power of this wizard, that he\ncould come and go unseen, except when he willed that men should see\nhim.\n\n'Sir,' said Merlin, 'ye owe your life to this brave lad here, and he\nshall be a passing good man when he shall have attained his full\nstrength, and he doth deserve your high and gracious favour.'\n\n'That shall he have,' said the king, and smiled at young Owen, and the\nsmile made the lad forget all the burning of his wound for very pride\nand gladness.\n\n'And now,' said Merlin, 'if ye will gather your men I will lead you to\nthe hold of those murderous kings by a secret way, and ye should give\nthem such a sudden blow as will discomfit them.'\n\nIn a little while all was ready, and then, silently, with muffled arms,\nthe men of Arthur were marching forth down the narrow dark lanes of the\ntown to where the place was ruinous with old houses left forsaken by\ntheir Roman masters when they had gone from Britain fifty years before.\n\nMerlin led them to a great squat tower which stood beside the wall,\nwherein a single light gleamed at a high window. Causing some to\nsurround this place, Merlin led others to a broken door, and there they\nentered in. Then was there a sudden uproar and fierce fighting in the\nrooms and up the narrow stairs.\n\nIn the darkness King Lot, with a hundred knights, burst out through a\nrear door, and thought to escape; but King Arthur with his knights\nwaylaid them, and slew on the right and on the left, doing such deeds\nthat all took pride in his bravery and might of arms. Fiercely did King\nLot press forward, and to his aid came Sir Caradoc, who set upon King\nArthur in the rear.\n\nArthur drew from his side the sword he had so marvellously taken from\nthe stone, and in the darkness it flashed as if it were thirty torches,\nand it dazzled his enemies' eyes, so that they gave way.\n\nBy this time the common people of Caerleon had heard the great outcry\nand the clang of swords on armour. Learning of the jeopardy of their\nbeloved king from midnight murderers, they ran to the tower, and with\nclubs and staves and bills they slew many of the men of the evil kings,\nputting the rest to flight. But the six kings were still unharmed, and\nwith the remnant of their knights fled and departed in the darkness.\n\nA few days later King Arthur journeyed back to London, and on an\nevening when, in the twilight, he stood upon the roof of the palace\noverlooking the broad Thames, he was aware of a shadow beside him where\nno shadow had been before. Before he could cross himself against the\nevil powers of wizardry and glamour, the steel-blue eyes of Merlin\nlooked out from the cloud, and the magician's voice spoke to him as if\nfrom a great distance.\n\n'I stand beneath the shaggy brows of the Hill of Tanyshane,' said the\nvoice, 'and I look down into the courtyard of the castle of King Lot.\nThere I see the gathering of men, the flash of torches on their\nhauberks, the glitter of helms, and the blue gleams of swords. I have\npassed through these northern lands, from the windswept ways of Alclwyd\nto the quaking marshes of the Humber. Eleven castles have I seen, and\neach is filled with the clang of beating iron, the glow of smiths'\nfires and the hissing of new-tempered steel. Call thy council, and\nabide my return, for now you must fight for your kingdom, O king, and\nfor your very life.'\n\nThe voice ceased, and the shadow and the vivid eyes it half concealed\ndied away with it.\n\nInto the council-chamber three days later, while men waited for they\nknew not what, Merlin entered.\n\n'What news do you bring, Merlin?' they cried.\n\n'Of civil war!' he said. 'I warn you all that the six kings ye gave a\ncheck to at Caerleon have taken to themselves four others and a mighty\nduke. They will to thrust Arthur, whom they call base-born, out of his\nlife. Mark you, they are passing strong and as good fighting men as any\nalive--pity it is that great Uriens is with them, the wisest and\nnoblest fighter of them all!--and unless Arthur have more men of arms\nand chivalry with him than he can get within this realm, he will be\novercome!'\n\n'Oh, but we be big enough!' cried some.\n\n'That ye are not!' said Merlin. 'Which of ye have single-handed beaten\nback the pagan hordes from your lands? Which of ye can match King Lot\nfor subtlety and craft, or the great Uriens of Reged for wisdom in\nwar?'\n\n'What is to do, then? Tell us your counsel,' said they all.\n\n'This is my advice,' replied the wizard. 'Ye must send an embassy to\nKing Ban of Brittany and King Bors of Gaul, promising to aid them when\nKing Claudas, their common enemy, shall fight them again, if they will\ncome and aid our king in this his fight for life and kingdom.'\n\nIn a few weeks this was done. King Ban of Brittany and his brother,\nKing Bors, crossed into Britain with five thousand good knights, sworn\nto aid Arthur in this great conflict.\n\nWith King Ban came his son, young Lancelot, who was later to make more\nfame and more dole than any knight of Arthur's court.\n\nOn a day in early spring, the hosts of Arthur and his two allies were\nencamped in Sherwood Forest, and the fore-riders or scouts, which\nMerlin had sent out, came hastening in to say that the host of the\neleven kings was but a few miles to the north of Trent water. By secret\nways, throughout that night, Merlin led the army of Arthur until they\ncame near where the enemy lay. Then did he order an ambush to be made\nby some part of their men, with King Ban and King Bors, by hiding in a\nhollow filled with trees.\n\nIn the morning, when either host saw the other, the northern host was\nwell comforted, for they thought King Arthur's force was but small.\n\nWith the pealing of trumpets and the shouts of the knights, King Arthur\nordered his men to advance, and in their midst was the great silken\nbanner with the fierce red dragon ramping in its folds. This had been\nblessed by the Archbishop of London at a solemn service held before the\nhost left London.\n\nAll day the battle raged. Knight hurled and hurtled against knight,\nbowmen shot their short Welsh arrows, and men-at-arms thrust and maimed\nand slashed with the great billhooks and spears.\n\nKing Arthur, with his bodyguard of four--Sir Kay, Sir Baudwin, Sir\nUlfius, and Sir Bedevere--did feats of arms that it was marvel to see.\nOften the eleven kings did essay to give deadly strokes upon the king,\nbut the press of fighting kept some of them from him, and others\nwithdrew sore wounded from the attack upon him and his faithful four.\n\nOnce the five held strong medley against six of the rebel kings, and\nthese were King Lot, King Nentres, King Brandegoris, King Idres, King\nUriens, and King Agwisance; and so fiercely did they attack them that\nthree drew off sore wounded, whilst King Lot, King Uriens and King\nNentres were unhorsed, and all but slain by the men-at-arms.\n\nAt length it appeared to Arthur that his host was yielding before the\nweight of numbers of the enemy, and then he bethought him of a\nstrategy. He took counsel of his nobles, and they approved; he sent a\ntrusty messenger to the Kings Ban and Bors, who still lay in ambush;\nand then, commanding his trumpets to sound, he ordered a retreat.\n\nAs had been agreed on, the knights on Arthur's side made their retreat\nin a confusion that seemed full of fear; and the enemy, joyfully\nshouting their cries of triumph, pursued them headlong.\n\nKing Lot's host, led onward thus unthinking, were sure of victory. But\ntheir cries of triumph were short and quickly turned to woe; for when\nthey had passed the place of ambush, they heard cries of terror in\ntheir rear, and turning, they found a great host pouring forth from the\nhollow combe, thick as angry bees from a hive.\n\nThen, indeed, taken in the rear and in the front, there was little hope\nof victory, and King Lot's men fought for dear life.\n\nSeeing King Bors, where he hewed terribly in the press of battle, King\nLot, who knew him well, cried out:\n\n'Ah, Mary, now defend us from death and from horrible maims, for I see\nwell we be in fear of quick death! Yonder is King Bors, one of the most\nworshipful and best knights in the world; and there is his twin\nbrother, King Ban, as terrible as he. How came they and their host into\nBritain, and we not know it, alas?'\n\n'By the arts of that wizard Merlin, I doubt not,' said King Uriens.\n'And I doubt not we shall all be sped. Look you, Lot,' he went on,\n'whoever that Arthur may be, I'll swear by my head he is not of\nlow-born breeding, but a very man and a marvellous fighter.'\n\n'If you lose heart now, why, go and swear fealty to him!' sneered King\nLot.\n\n'Keep your sneers,' said Uriens sternly. 'I'll pay the price of\nrebellion to my last breath, as I have vowed.'\n\nBy now the great mass of King Lot's host was either slain or run away,\nand the evening drew on; but the eleven kings, wounded, spent, and full\nof anguish at defeat, drew together with a few hundred of their\nknights, and vowed to die fighting. When they looked to see where they\nstood, they found that Arthur had penned them upon a little bluff of\nland that ended steeply over a deep river, and that no way was open for\nthem to escape from the death of swords, unless they chose to leap on\nthe rocks below the cliff.\n\n'See!' said Uriens, with a laugh, 'while we fought like wild boars, and\nthought of nothing but the killing, this base-born king kept his wits\nand moved us like pawns on a chessboard, we all unwitting. First, he\ndrew us into ambush, and now he thrusts us into a chasm. We war-wise\nfighters, grown grey in battle, checkmated by a boy!'\n\nNevertheless, though wearied, full of dread and shame, and looking\ndeath in the eyes, the little band of men withdrew backwards, waiting\nuntil Arthur should command his lines of glittering knights to dash\nupon the remnant of the rebel kings.\n\n'The proud evil men!' said Arthur in anger, looking upon them. 'Though\nthey know death is upon them, they will not crave mercy of me, a\nbase-born king, as they name me!'\n\n'Ah, sir king,' said King Ban, 'blame them not, for they do as brave\nmen ought to do, and they are the best fighting men and the knights of\nmost prowess that ever I saw. And if they were belonging unto you,\nthere would be no king under heaven to compare with you for power and\nfame and majesty.'\n\n'I cannot love them,' said Arthur sadly, 'for they would destroy me.'\n\n'Now, this is my counsel,' said King Lot to his ten fellows, as he\nlooked over the field strewn with the dead: 'that we stand together in\na circle and swear to die together--we and our few knights. We have\naimed at a kingdom and a crown, and we have failed. But we will die\nlike kings and warriors. When they press upon us at the last, let no\none of us break away. If any see another dress him to flee or to yield,\nlet him slay him. How say ye?'\n\n'It is good!' said they all.\n\nThen, for all their aching wounds, they mended their broken harness\nhurriedly, and righted their shields, took new spears from the hands of\ntheir squires, and set them upright on their thighs, and thus, with the\nlow red light of the westering sun behind them, they stood still and\ngrim, like a clump of tall leafless trees.\n\nArthur gave the order to advance, and his knights leaped forward over\nthe heap of the slain. But just then Sir Kay came to the king, bringing\na knight from the north who had just been captured, bearing messages to\nthe eleven kings, and Arthur asked him who he was and why he came.\n\n'Sir king,' said the man, 'I am Sir Eliot of the March Tower, and I\nhave ill tidings for my master, King Uriens, and his friends, but it\nseems my news is no worse than their fate. If my great lord is to die,\nI would lief die with him. Therefore, lord, despatch me now, or let me\ngo stand beside my lord in the last rally.'\n\n'What is thy news?' asked King Arthur.\n\n'It is that the pagans, the savage Saxons, have landed in three places\nbeyond Humber, and all the lands of my lord and his ten fellows shall\nsuffer fire and sword again.'\n\n'But if I slay your master and his fellow-rebels, whose lands are those\nthe pagans overrun?'\n\n'Yours, lord, of a truth, if you can dash the pagans from them.'\n\n'If I and my host have swept these rebel kings from before me, think\nyou I cannot sweep the Saxons from the land?'\n\n'I trow you could, sir king, for on my way hither I have heard of the\nmarvellous deeds this day of yourself and your knights. But, lord, I\nsee the press of knights about my dear lord. Ah, that I might strike a\nblow for him before I die!'\n\n'Thou shalt strike a-many yet,' said Arthur, and Sir Eliot marvelled.\n\nArthur commanded his trumpets to blow the retreat, and the knights,\nwondering and half unbelieving, withdrew them from about the eleven\nkings.\n\nThen, surrounded by his chief lords, Arthur rode to the group of\nwearied kings, who, with dented and broken harness, from which the\nblood oozed in many places, still kept their seats with undaunted mien.\n\nAt King Arthur's command Sir Eliot told his news to King Uriens.\n\n'Now this I have to say to ye,' said Arthur, lifting his vizor and\nshowing a stern countenance. 'Ye are in my hands, to slay or spare as I\nchoose. But ye have fought like brave men, and I would that, for your\nprowess, ye were my friends rather than mine enemies. Now this I have\nto offer ye. Swear here and now to be my lieges, as ye were to King\nUther before me, and I will aid thee to thrust the pagans from your\nland, and thenceforth we will aid and cherish each other as true\nsubjects and true lords should do. But if ye refuse, then your folly be\non your own heads, for then I take your lives and your lands both.'\n\nWith that King Uriens threw down his sword and put up his vizor, and\nturning to the others, said:\n\n'Fellow-rebels, we should be mad to refuse gifts so kingly and kindly\noffered. We have tried a throw with this young king, and we have been\nworsted. Better now to own ourselves lesser men than this wise lad\nhere, and try to live in peace with him henceforth.'\n\nThe other kings agreed, but King Lot, mean and revengeful, and the\nKings Nentres and Brandegoris, suspicious that, as had been too often\nwith themselves, fair words had covered foul intent, held back a\nlittle, until the others swore to leave them to the penalty of their\nfolly. Whereupon they all knelt down upon the stricken field, and each\nput his hands between the hands of King Arthur, and swore upon the\nhonour of their knighthood to be his true and faithful men while they\nlived.\n\nAs they rose from rendering their homage, Merlin came riding on a great\nblack horse.\n\n'Ye have done wisely well, my king,' he said. 'For by this kingly deed\nyou shall rivet the hearts of the good men among these former rebels\ncloser to your own than with rivets of steel. Thus well and wisely have\nye won your kingdom and the fealty of these brave men.'\n\n'Now,' he went on to the eleven kings, 'ye doubted whether Arthur was\nof noble birth, and rightful king. Know ye that he is the son of the\nnoble King Uther, who by my counsel hid him away on his birth. Ye will\nremember how Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, hated Uther for taking Igraine\nfor wife, whom Gorlois had captured and sworn to wed for her beauty and\nher wealth. And how all the turbulent lords did cling to Gorlois, and\nhow for years King Uther had much ado to keep those rebels from\ndismembering the kingdom. Gorlois had vowed to slay by poison or\ntreachery any son of Uther's, and so I took young Arthur into safe\nkeeping. None knew of him until King Uther named him as his rightful\nheir upon his deathbed in the presence of you all. So, therefore, ye do\nwell to give your homage to this your king, for Arthur is the son right\nworshipful of the great Pendragon, and the lovely lady, Igraine of\nLyonesse.'\n\nAll that stood by marvelled, and most of the eleven kings were glad\nthat they had a king so noble in birth and doing as Arthur, the son of\nUther Pendragon.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nSIR BALIN AND THE STROKE DOLOROUS\n\n\nIt happened that on a day King Arthur, wandering from his court, had\nfought and vanquished a valiant knight, but he himself had been sore\nwounded. Merlin, coming to his aid, had taken him to a hermit's cave,\nand there with many marvellous salves had searched his wounds, so that\nin three days the king was whole again.\n\nRiding forth together, Merlin led the king deeper and deeper into a\nwild and desolate country where he had never been before, and where\nthere were no pathways. Arthur looked to and fro over the waste, but\nsaw no sign of man or beast, and no bird flitted or piped. Great gaunt\nstones stood upright on the hillsides, solitary or in long lines as if\nthey marched, or else they leaned together as if conspiring; while\ngreat heaps or cairns of stone rose here and there from the\nlichen-covered and rocky soil, in which the grass grew weakly in small\ncrevices.\n\nThe mists now rose and drifted before them as they rode, the light was\nlow and sallow, and the wind began to whisper shrilly among the great\nstones, and in the crannies of the cairns.\n\nThe king crossed himself, and looked at the white, old, and wrinkled\nface of Merlin; but the wizard seemed sunk in thought. Then Arthur\nbethought him that, in case some fiend-shape or wizard-knight should\nassail him in that desolate waste, he could not defend himself,\ninasmuch as his sword--the sword he had drawn from the stone--had\nsnapped when he fought the knight, and he had no other weapon with him.\n\n'Merlin,' he said, 'this is a place of ancient death and terror, and if\naught should assail us of evil, I have no sword.'\n\n'For that reason I bring thee here,' replied Merlin, and would not\nutter another word.\n\nThen, through the mists, which writhed and twisted as if they were fell\nshapes that would tear down the passing riders, Arthur became aware\nthat their way was leading downwards, and soon the smell of water rose\nup to him.\n\nHe heard the beat and suck of waves upon a shore, and in a little while\nthe mists cleared as if at a word, and there before him Arthur saw a\nlonely lake or sea, hedged round with salt-rimed reeds and sedges, and\nstretching out its waters, dull and leaden-hued, to so great a distance\nthat his eye could see no end.\n\n'What is this place?' he asked of Merlin.\n\n'It is the Lake of the Endless Waters,' said the wizard.\n\n'Why bring ye me to this desolate lake in the wilderness?'\n\n'You shall visit it once more--ere you die!' replied Merlin. 'But look\nyou there in the midmost of the lake.'\n\nLooking to where the wizard pointed, Arthur saw a great hand, clothed\nin white samite, stretched above the lapsing waves, and in its grasp\nwas a long two-handed sword in a rich scabbard.\n\nWith that they saw a barge riding over the water, and it came without\noars or any sail, and in the prow sat a woman, tall and comely, with a\nface lovely but sad. A frontlet of gold and pearls was bound about her\nrich red hair, and her robes, of green samite, fell about her as if\nthey were reeds of the shore.\n\n'What lady is that?' said the king.\n\n'It is the Lady of the Lake,' said Merlin, 'and she comes to you. Now,\ntherefore, speak fair to her, and ask that she will give you that\nsword.'\n\nThen the barge rasped among the reeds where Arthur sat on his horse,\nand the lady said:\n\n'Greeting to you, O king!'\n\n'Greeting, fair damsel!' replied Arthur. 'What sword is that which the\narm holdeth above the water? I would it were mine, for I have none.'\n\n'Sir king,' said the lady, 'that sword is mine; but if ye will give me\na gift when I ask it of you, and will swear an oath to give me back the\nsword when ye shall be dying, then shall ye have it.'\n\n'By my faith, I will give ye the gift when ye shall desire, and when I\nam dying I will truly give back the sword.'\n\n'Then do you step into this barge and row yourself unto the hand and\ntake from it the sword. And know ye that the name of that sword is\nExcalibur, and while you keep the scabbard by your side, ye shall lose\nno blood, be ye never so sore wounded.'\n\nSo King Arthur and Merlin alighted, tied their horses to two stunted\ntrees, and went into the barge. The king turned to look to where the\ntall green lady had stood but a moment before, and marvelled to see\nthat she had vanished.\n\nWhen they came to the sword which the hand held, King Arthur saw that\nthe water where the hand rose forth was all troubled, and he could see\nnaught. He took the sword by the handle, and the great fingers of the\nhand opened and then sank. So they came afterwards to the land, and\nrode on their way to Camelot, and reached it after many days.\n\nWhen King Arthur entered his hall, and had been welcomed by his\nknights, the seneschal brought forth a messenger, who had come from\nKing Rience of North Wales, and the man with insolent looks uttered\nthis message:\n\n'My lord, King Rience, hath but now discomfited and overwhelmed seven\nkings, and each hath done him homage, and given him for a sign of their\nsubjection their beard clean cut from their chins. And my lord hath\ncaused a rich mantle to be hemmed with these kings' beards, and there\nyet lacketh one place. Wherefore my lord hath sent me to demand that ye\ngive him homage and send him thy beard also. Or else he will enter thy\nlands, and burn and slay and lay waste, and will not cease until he\nhath thy head as well as thy beard.'\n\n'Now this is the most shameful message that any man sent to a king!'\nsaid Arthur, 'and thy king shall rue his villainous words.' Then he\nlaughed a little grimly. 'Thou seest, fellow, that my beard is full\nyoung yet to make a hem. So take this message back to thy master. If he\nwill have it, he must wait until I grow older; but yet he shall not\nwait long before he sees me, and then shall he lose his head, by the\nfaith of my body, unless he do homage to me.'\n\nSo the messenger departed, and King Arthur set about the ordering of\nhis army to invade the land of Rience.\n\nLater, on a day when the king sat in council with his barons and\nknights, there came a damsel into the hall, richly beseen and of a fair\ncountenance. She knelt at the feet of the king, and said humbly:\n\n'O king, I crave a boon of ye, and by your promise ye shall grant it\nme.'\n\n'Who are ye, damsel?' asked the king.\n\n'My lord, my lady mother hath sent me, and she is the Lady of the\nLake.'\n\n'I remember me,' said Arthur, 'and thou shalt have thy boon.'\n\nWhereat the damsel rose and let her mantle fall, that was richly\nfurred, and then they saw that she was girded about the waist with a\ngreat sword.\n\nMarvelling, the king asked, 'Damsel, for what cause are ye girded with\nthat sword?'\n\n'My lord,' said the damsel, in distress and sadness, 'this sword that I\nam girded withal, doth me great sorrow and remembrance. For it was the\nsword of him I loved most tenderly in all the world, and he hath been\nslain by falsest treachery by a foul knight, Sir Garlon, and nevermore\nshall I be joyful. But I would that my dear love be avenged by his own\ngood sword, which my lady mother hath endowed with great enchantment.\nAnd the knight of thine that shall draw this sword shall be he who\nshall avenge my dead love. But he must be a clean knight, a good man of\nhis hands and of his deeds, and without guile or treachery. If I may\nfind such a knight, he shall deliver me of this sword, out of the\nscabbard, and with it do vengeance for me.'\n\n'This is a great marvel,' said King Arthur, 'and while I presume not to\nbe such a knight as thou sayest, yet for ensample to my knights will I\nessay to draw the sword.'\n\nTherewith the king took the scabbard and drew at the sword with all his\nstrength, but in no wise could he make it come forth.\n\n'Sir,' said the damsel, 'ye need not draw half so hard, for lightly\nshall it come into the hands of him who shall draw it.'\n\nThen the king bade all his knights to attempt this feat, and all tried\ntheir best, but it was of no avail.\n\n'Alas!' said the damsel in great sadness. 'And shall my dear love go\nunavenged, because there is no knight here who shall achieve this\nsword?'\n\nShe turned away through the crowd of knights who stood abashed about\nher, and went towards the door.\n\nIt happened that there was a poor knight in the court of King Arthur,\nwho had been a prisoner for a year and a day, by reason of his having\nslain a kinsman of the king's. His name was Sir Balin the Hardy, and he\nwas a good man of his hands, though needy. He had been but lately\nreleased from durance, and was standing privily in the hall and saw the\nadventure of the damsel with the sword. Whereat his heart rose, both to\ndo the deed for the sorrowing maid and because of her beauty and\nsadness. Yet, being poor and meanly arrayed, he pushed not forward in\nthe press.\n\nBut as the damsel went towards the door, she passed him, and he said:\n\n'Damsel, I pray you of your courtesy to suffer me as well to essay as\nthese knights, for though I be poorly clothed, my heart seemeth fully\nassured that I may draw the sword, and thy sorrow moveth me.'\n\nThe damsel lifted her large sad eyes to him, and she saw he was goodly\nof form and noble of look, and her heart was stirred.\n\n'Though ye be poor, worthiness and manhood are not in a man's rich\nraiment, and therefore,' she said with a sorrowful smile, 'do you essay\nthe sword also, good knight, and God speed you.'\n\nBalin took the sword by the scabbard, and drew it out easily, and when\nhe looked upon the sword it pleased him well.\n\nThen had the king and barons great marvel, but some of the knights had\ngreat spite against Balin.\n\n'Truly,' said the damsel, 'this is a passing good knight, and the best\nman of ye all, and many marvels shall he achieve. But now, gentle and\ncourteous knight,' she said, 'give me the sword again.'\n\n'Nay, this sword will I keep,' said Balin.\n\n'Ye are not wise,' said the maiden sorrowfully. 'My lady mother sent\nthe sword to find which was the knight the most worthy to rid the world\nof an evil knight that doeth his foul treacheries and murders by\nwizardry, but if ye keep the sword it shall work great bane on you and\non one you love most in this world.'\n\n'I shall take the adventure God shall ordain for me,' said Balin, 'be\nit good or ill.'\n\nThe damsel looked sadly into his eyes and wept.\n\n'I am passing heavy for your sake,' she said. 'I repent that I have\nbrought this to you, for I see you lying wounded unto death, and I\nshall not be near to comfort you.'\n\nWith that the damsel departed in great sorrow.\n\nAnon Balin sent for his horse and armour, and took his leave of King\nArthur, who was almost wroth that he should depart upon a quest that\npromised but misfortune. He would have him stay with him in his court,\nbut Balin would not, and so departed.\n\nFor many days, by lonely ways and through forest drives, Sir Balin\nfared, seeking for the felon knight Sir Garlon, but nowhere could he\nget word of him. At length one night, as he made his way to a hermitage\nby the edge of a thick wood, he saw the arms of his younger brother,\nSir Balan, hung upon a thorn before the holy man's door. Just then Sir\nBalan came out and saw him, and when he looked on Balin's shield, which\nhad two crossed swords, he recognised his brother's device, and ran to\nhim, and they met and kissed each other, and that night they were happy\ntogether, for it had been long since that they had parted; and each\ntold the other his adventures.\n\n'It seemeth, then, that this King Arthur is a right worshipful lord,'\nsaid Balan, when his brother had told him the adventure of the damsel\nand the sword, 'but I doubt me he will not withstand King Rience and\nhis host. Already that king hath come into this land and is harrying\nand burning.'\n\n'That were great pity,' said Balin, 'and I would that I could do some\ndeed to stay the power of Rience, who is evil-minded and of an arrogant\nnature. I would put my life in any danger to win the love of the great\nArthur, and to punish King Rience for his shameful message.'\n\n'Let us go then to-morrow,' said Balan, 'and try our prowess. King\nRience lieth at the siege of the castle Terabil, within ten leagues of\nthis place.'\n\n'I will well,' said Balin, 'and if we slay King Rience, his people will\ngo astray and King Arthur shall easily make them yield.'\n\nNext morning early they rode away through the gay woods, drenched with\ndew, which sparkled where the sunlight lit upon it. Long and lonely was\nthe way, until towards the evening they met with a poor old man on\nfoot, ragged, lame, and dirty, and bearing a great burden. It was in a\nnarrow ride of the forest, and there was but room for one person to\npass, and though the brothers were making great speed, since they\ndoubted they had lost their way, they would not ride down the poor man,\nas many knights would do.\n\nBut Balin, with a cheery call, said: 'Old man, give me thy pack, and do\nthou climb up and sit behind me. For it is late and lonely that such\npoor old bones as thine should be abroad.'\n\nThe old man, either from fear of the two great knights in their black\narmour, or from suspicion, mumbled out a few words and refused the\noffer, while yet he would not budge from the narrow path.\n\n'Well, then, tell us thy name, old man,' said Balin, laughing at his\nobstinacy.\n\n'At this time I will not tell you,' croaked the old fellow, stumbling\nunder his pack.\n\n'I doubt that great pack hath many rich things that never owned thee\nmaster,' said Balan with a laugh.\n\n'It is full evil seen,' said Balin, 'that thou art a true honest man,\nwhen thou wilt not tell thy name.'\n\n'Be that as it may,' snarled the old man, 'but I know your name, my\nlordlings, and why you ride this way.'\n\n'By the faith of my body, but ye are some wizard if ye know that,' said\nBalan mockingly.\n\n'And who may we be?' asked Balin. 'And whither do we ride?'\n\n'Ye are brothers, my Lords Balin and Balan,' answered the old man. 'And\nye ride to pull King Rience's beard. But that ye shall not do, unless\nye take my counsel.'\n\n'Ah!' cried Balin, 'I know thee, Merlin! We would fain be ruled by thy\ncounsel, old magician.'\n\nSo it came about, with Merlin's aid, that Balin and Balan came upon\nKing Rience that night with but a small band of his knights, and with a\nsudden attack out of the dark wood the two brothers seized the king and\nslew many of his men that tried to save him. And when they had ridden\nsome way towards Camelot with the king, wounded and bound, between\nthem, Merlin vanished from beside them.\n\nThen they rode to Camelot at the dawning, and delivered Rience to the\nporter at the gate, to be led to King Arthur when he should sit in\nhall, and the two knights rode away. So, by the capture of King Rience,\nhis host was put to naught, and the king paid his homage to King\nArthur, and swore on the sacred relics of the Abbey of Camelot to be\nhis true man while he should live.\n\nAt that time Balin could not meet with the felon knight, Sir Garlon,\nwho wrought evil by wizardry, and he and his brother went their\ndifferent ways seeking adventure. Sir Balin returned to King Arthur and\nbecame one of his most valiant knights.\n\nIt happened on a day that King Arthur journeyed with his knights from\nCamelot to London, and he lay in his pavilion in the heat of the day.\nAs he rested he heard the noise of a horse, and looking out of the flap\nof his tent, he saw a strange knight passing, making great complaint\nand sorrowing, and with him was a damsel.\n\n'Abide, fair sir,' said Arthur, 'and tell me wherefore you are\ntroubled.'\n\n'Ye may little amend it,' answered the knight, and passed on.\n\nLater came Sir Balin and saluted the king, who told him of the strange\nknight sorrowing as he rode, and the king bade him follow and bring\nback the knight to him, 'for,' said he, 'the sorrows of that knight\nwere so piercing that I would fain know his grief.'\n\nSir Balin took horse and lance and rode many miles through the forest,\nand by evening he came upon the knight and the lady.\n\n'Sir knight,' said Balin, 'ye must come with me unto my lord, King\nArthur, for to tell him the cause of your sorrow.'\n\n'That will I not,' answered the knight, 'for it would do me none\navail.'\n\n'Sir, make ready,' replied Balin, 'for ye must needs go with me, or\nelse I will fight with you and take you by force.'\n\n'No heart have I to fight, for all joy of life is dead with me,' said\nthe knight, 'but I am on a fierce quest, and ye must be my warrant if I\ngo with you that I be not kept from my quest.'\n\n'I will gladly warrant you,' said Balin, and together with the lady\nthey turned back.\n\n'I fear not to tell you my sorrow,' said the knight as they rode. 'I\nbut lately returned from fighting the pagans in the north, and when I\ncame to my father's hall, men told me that the lady that I loved most\ntenderly had been robbed away by a villain knight. And as I sorrowed\nand went forth to seek the knight to slay him, lo, there I saw my lady,\nwho had escaped unscathed from his evil hold. And much joy we made of\neach other, for we loved each other tenderly. But even as we kissed,\nthere came an arrow through the air and pierced my dear lady to the\nheart, so that she fell dead in my arms. And there was none to see who\nshot the arrow, but men said it was the felon knight who had taken my\nlady, and he had killed her by black magic. So now with this damsel, my\ndear sister, who was her friend, do I go through the world seeking the\ninvisible knight. And when I find him, with God's help I will surely\nslay him.'\n\nThe good knight Balin was much moved by the sad story.\n\n'Ah!' said he, 'it is the same fell knight whose death I seek by this\ngood sword. And we will fare together, you and I, and take his evil\nlife when God leads us to him.'\n\nEven as Sir Balin spoke, out of a dark glade by their side came a lance\nhurtling, as if held in rest by an invisible rider, and while they\nturned their heads at the sound of its hissing through the air, it\npierced the side of the sorrowing knight and stood deep in the wound.\n\n'Alas!' cried the knight, falling from his horse, 'I am slain by the\ntraitorous and wizard knight. His punishment is not for me, sir knight,\nbut I charge you, seek him out and slay him for my sake, and for the\nsake of my dead lady.'\n\n'That will I do,' said Balin, sorrowing, 'and thereof I make a vow to\nyou and this damsel by my knighthood.'\n\nWhen Balin had told all to his lord, King Arthur, the king made the\nknight to be buried in a rich tomb, and on it engraved his sad story,\ntogether with his name, Sir Herlew, and that of his lady love,\nGwenellen.\n\nBalin and the damsel rode forward the next day and for many days, and\never the lady bore the truncheon of the spear with her by which Sir\nHerlew had been slain.\n\nThen on a day they lodged at the house of a rich knight named Sir\nGwydion, an old grey gentleman, of a sad aspect. When night came, Sir\nBalin lay sleeping in the hall beside the fire, and suddenly he awoke\nat the sound of one sorrowing quietly near him. He rose up and went to\nthe pallet and saw it was his host, and he asked him why he mourned in\nthe dark.\n\n'I will tell you,' said the old sad knight, 'and the telling will\ncomfort me. I was but late at a jousting, and there I jousted with a\nknight that is brother to good King Pellam. And a full evil kinsman is\nthis knight of so good a king. I smote the evil man from his horse\ntwice, and he was full of rage that I, an old man, should overcome him.\nTherefore by treachery he assailed my son, a young and untried knight,\nand slew him. And I cannot avenge my dear son, for the evil man goeth\ninvisible. But I pray that I may meet him in a little while.'\n\n'Is not his name Garlon?' asked Balin.\n\n'Ye say right,' said Sir Gwydion.\n\n'Ah, I know him,' replied Balin, 'and I had rather meet with him than\nhave all the gold of this realm.'\n\n'That shall we both do,' said his host. 'For King Pellam, his brother,\nking of the land of Holy Hallows, hath made a cry in all this country,\nof a great feast that shall be in twenty days, and that evil knight,\nyour enemy and mine, shall we see there.'\n\nOn the morrow they rode all three towards the town of King Pellam, and\nwhen they came within the country of Holy Hallows, Sir Balin saw how\nfair and happy was the land and its joyful people. Their meadows were\nrich with grass, the cattle were thriving and sleek, the trees were\nloaded with fruit and the cornfields full with rich ripe corn.\n\n'Why doth it seem,' asked Balin, 'that this country is the fairest and\nhappiest that ever I saw?'\n\n'It is for this,' said Sir Gwydion, 'that in the Castle of Holy\nHallows, whither we wend, King Pellam hath some holy relics of a\npassing marvellous power, and while he keepeth these his land is rich\nand happy, and plagues cannot enter it nor murrain, nor can pestilence\nwaste the people.'\n\nWhen they reached the castle they found a great throng of lords and\nladies, and because Sir Gwydion had no lady with him he could not sit\nat the feast. But Balin was well received and brought to a chamber, and\nthey unarmed him. The squires brought him a festal robe to his\npleasure, but he would not suffer them to take his sword.\n\n'Nay,' said he, 'it is my vow that never shall I and my sword be\nparted, and that vow will I keep or depart as I came.'\n\nSo they suffered him to wear it under his robe, and he was set in the\nhall with his lady beside him. Anon, when the meal was ended and the\nmead horns were set, Sir Balin asked his neighbour whether there was a\nknight at that court named Garlon.\n\n'Yonder he goeth,' said the knight; 'he with that dark face and\npiercing eye. He is the most marvellous knight that is now living, and\nthough King Pellam loveth him dearly, because he is his brother, yet he\nsuffers bitterly the evil magic of Sir Garlon. For that knight rideth\ninvisible, and slays so that none may know how they get their death.'\n\nSir Balin's heart rose at these words, and he trembled with his great\nanger.\n\n'Ah, well,' said the good knight. 'And that is he?'\n\nHe considered long within himself what he should do.\n\n'If I slay him here in this crowded hall,' he said, 'I shall surely not\nescape, and if I leave him now, peradventure I shall never meet with\nhim again, and much evil will he do if he be let to live.'\n\nHe could not remove his eyes from Sir Garlon where he walked between\nthe tables, proudly talking and laughing with those he knew, and making\nsoft speeches to ladies, though many showed fear of him, and crossed\ntheir fingers while he spoke to them, to fend off the evil of his eyes.\nVery soon Sir Garlon noticed the fixed, stern look of Sir Balin, and\ncame across to him and flicked his gauntlet across his face.\n\n'This shall make thee remember me when next thou seest me, knight,' he\nsaid. 'But thou hadst better do what thou camest for, and fill thyself\nwith mead.'\n\n'Thou sayest sooth,' said Balin, and clutched the sword under his robe.\n'Too long hast thou done evil and despite, and now will I do that for\nwhich I came.'\n\nRising, he drew his sword fiercely and swiftly, and cleaved the head of\nGarlon to the shoulders.\n\n'Give me the truncheon wherewith he slew thy brother!' said Balin to\nthe damsel beside him.\n\nFrom beneath her robe the lady brought forth the broken truncheon, and\nstriding to the slain man, Sir Balin thrust it fiercely into his body.\n\n'Now,' cried he aloud, 'with this lance thou didst treacherously slay a\ngood knight, and for that and all thy other cruel murders have I slain\nthee.'\n\nWith that arose a great outcry, and men ran from the tables towards Sir\nBalin to slay him, and the foremost of them was King Pellam, who rushed\ntowards him, crying:\n\n'Thou hast slain my brother when he bore no sword, and thou shalt\nsurely die.'\n\n'Well,' said Balin, 'come and do it thyself.'\n\n'I shall do it,' said Pellam, 'and no man shall touch thee but me, for\nthe love of my brother.'\n\nPellam snatched an axe from the hands of one standing by, and smote\neagerly at Balin; but Balin put his sword between his head and the\nstroke, and the sword was struck from his hand.\n\nThen, weaponless, Balin dashed through the circle of guests towards a\ndoor, looking for a weapon while he ran, but none could he find. King\nPellam followed closely behind him, and so they ran from chamber to\nchamber, and up the narrow stair within the wall, until at the last\nBalin found that he was near the top of the tower, and thought that now\nhe must surely be slain, for no weapon had he found.\n\nSuddenly he came upon a door, and bursting it open he found himself in\na large room marvellously bright and richly dight, and with a bed\narrayed with cloth of gold, and one old and white and reverend lying\ntherein. And by the side of the bed was a table of virgin gold on\npillars of pure silver, and on it stood a spear, strangely wrought.\n\nBalin seized the spear, and turned upon King Pellam, who stood still in\nthe doorway with terror in his eyes. But, marking naught of this, Balin\nthrust at him with the spear, and struck it in his side, and King\nPellam with a great cry fell to the ground.\n\nWith that stroke the walls of the castle drove together and fell in\nruins to the ground, and a great cry of lamentation beat to and fro\nfrom far and near, and Balin lay under the stones as one dead.\n\nAfter three days Merlin came and drew out Balin from the ruins, and\nnourished and healed him. He also recovered his sword and got him a\ngood horse, for his own was slain. Then he bade him ride out of that\ncountry without delay.\n\n'And never more shall you have ease,' said Merlin. 'For by the stroke\nof that spear with intent to slay King Pellam thou hast done such a\ndolorous deed that not for many years shall its evil cease to work.'\n\n'What have I done?' said Balin.\n\n'Thou wouldst have slain a man with the very spear that Longius the\nRoman thrust into the side of our Lord Jesus when He suffered on the\nRood; and by that thou hast defiled it, and caused such ill that never\nshall its tale be ended until a stainless knight shall come, one of\nthose who shall achieve the Holy Graal.'\n\n'It repents me,' said Balin heavily, 'but the adventure was forced upon\nme.'\n\nAs he rode through the land, he saw how it seemed that a dire\npestilence had swept over it; for where he had seen the golden corn\nwaving in miles of smiling fields, he saw it now blackened along the\nground; the trees were stripped of their leaves and fruit, the cattle\nlay dead in the meads, and the fish rotted in the streams, while in the\nvillages lay the people dead or dying in shattered or roofless\ncottages.\n\nAs he passed, those that were alive cursed him, and called down upon\nhim the wrath of Heaven.\n\n'See, see,' they cried, 'thou murderous knight, how the evil stroke\nthou gavest to King Pellam by that hallowed spear hath destroyed this\nhappy land! Go! thou foul knight, and may the vengeance strike thee\nsoon!'\n\nBalin went on, heavy of mind, for he knew not why he had been caused to\ndo this evil.\n\nFor many days he passed through the saddened land, and he felt that in\na little while death would meet him.\n\nThen suddenly one day he came upon a castle in a wood, and he heard a\nhorn blow, as it had been at the death of a beast.\n\n'Here,' said Balin, 'shall I meet my death-wound, for that blast was\nblown for me.'\n\nAs he came on the green before the castle, many ladies and knights met\nhim and welcomed him with fair semblance, and gave him good cheer.\n\n'Now,' said the lady of the castle, when he had eaten, 'ye must do a\njoust for me with a knight hereby who hath won from me a fair island in\na stream, and he hath overcome every knight that hath essayed to win it\nback for me.'\n\n'Well, as you claim it for your good cheer,' said Balin, 'I will e'en\njoust, though both I and my horse are spent with travelling, and my\nheart is heavy. Nevertheless, show me the place.'\n\n'But, sir,' said a knight, 'thou shouldst change thy shield for a\nbigger. For the strange knight is a strong one and a hardy.'\n\nBalin cared not, and so took the shield with a device upon it that was\nnot his own. Then he and his horse were led to a great barge, and so\nthey were poled across the wide stream to an island.\n\nWhen Balin had landed and mounted his horse, he rode a little way\ntowards a stout tower, and from it a knight issued, his armour all in\nred, and the trappings of his horse of the same colour. They couched\ntheir lances and came marvellously fast together, and smote each other\nin the midmost of their shields; and the shock of their spears was so\ngreat that it bore down both horses and men, and for a little while the\nknights were dazed.\n\nThe stranger rose up first, for Balin was much bruised and wearied; and\nthe red knight drew his sword and came towards Balin, who thereupon got\nupon his feet, and they fought most fiercely together. So they fought\ntill their breaths failed.\n\nMany were the bouts they fought, and they rested oftentimes, and then\nto battle again, so that in a little while the grass of the sward where\nthey struggled was red with the blood of their wounds.\n\nBut the more wearied they were the fiercer they fought to vanquish each\nthe other, so that their hauberks were in tatters, their helms were\nbroken, and their shields were rived and cracked. At the last the red\nknight could not lift his shield for weakness, and then he went back a\nlittle and fell down.\n\nBalin also sank to the ground, faint with his wounds, and as he lay he\ncried out:\n\n'What knight art thou? for ere now I never found a knight that matched\nme.'\n\nThe other answered him faintly:\n\n'My name is Balan, brother to the good knight Balin!'\n\n'Alas!' said Balin, 'that ever I should see the day!' And therewith he\nfell back in a swoon.\n\nThen Balan crawled on all fours, feet and hands, and put off the helm\nof his brother, and might hardly know him by his face, so hewn and\nstained it was. Balan wept and kissed his face, and with that Balin\nawoke.\n\n'O Balan, my brother, thou hast slain me and I thee!'\n\n'Alas!' said Balan, 'but I knew thee not, my brother. Hadst thou had\nthine own shield, I would have known thy device of the two swords.'\n\n'Ah, 'twas part of the evil hap that hath followed me,' cried Balin. 'I\nknow not why.'\n\nThen they both swooned, and the lady of the castle came and would have\nhad them taken to a chamber. But Balan awoke and said:\n\n'Let be! let be! No leech can mend us. And I would not live more, for I\nhave slain my dear brother and he me!'\n\nBalin woke up therewith, and put his hand forth, and his brother\nclasped it in his, very eagerly.\n\n'Little brother,' said Balin, 'I cannot come to thee--kiss me!' When\nthey had kissed, they swooned again, and in a little while Balin died,\nbut Balan did not pass until midnight.\n\n'Alas! alas!' cried the lady, weeping for very pity, 'that ever this\nshould be. Two brothers that have played together about their mother's\nknees to slay each other unwittingly!'\n\nOn the morrow came Merlin, and made them be buried richly in the green\nplace where they had fought, and on their tomb he caused to be written\nin letters of gold, deep and thick, these words: 'Here lie Sir Balin\nand his brother Sir Balan, who, unwittingly, did most pitifully slay\neach other: and this Sir Balin was, moreover, he that smote the\ndolorous stroke. Whereof the end is not yet.'\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nHOW LANCELOT WAS MADE A KNIGHT. THE FOUR WITCH QUEENS, AND THE\nADVENTURES AT THE CHAPEL PERILOUS\n\n\nWhen King Arthur was arrived at the age of twenty-five, his knights and\nbarons counselled that he should take a queen, and his choice fell upon\nGwenevere, the daughter of King Leodegrance, of the land of Cameliard.\nThis damsel was the most beautiful and the most gracious in all the\nrealm of Britain.\n\nWhen the marriage was arranged between her father and Merlin, King\nLeodegrance said that, for her dowry, instead of broad lands, of which\nKing Arthur had many, he would give to Arthur the Table Round, which\nUther Pendragon had in friendship given to him many years before. For,\nas King Arthur was already famous for his prowess and nobleness and his\nlove of knightly men and brave deeds, Leodegrance knew that this would\nbe a gift beloved of Arthur.\n\nWith the table were to go the knights who were its company. It seated\none hundred and fifty when it was complete, but many had been slain,\nand now they numbered but a hundred.\n\nWhen King Arthur heard from Merlin of the coming of Gwenevere, with the\nhundred knights bearing the Round Table with them, he was very glad,\n'for,' said he, 'their noble company pleaseth me more than great\nriches.' He charged Merlin to go and espy through all the land of\nBritain for another fifty knights, so that the tale of the noble\ncompany of the Round Table should be complete.\n\nNow, it chanced that while Arthur sat in the hall of his palace at\nLondon, waiting for Gwenevere to come to him, and for Merlin to return\nfrom his quest, King Ban, who had aided him in his fierce battle\nagainst the eleven kings, sent his young son Lancelot to Arthur's\ncourt, to learn knightly deeds and noble prowess.\n\nNone knew who he was but Arthur, who kept the matter secret. Many had\nsmiled at the huge limbs of Lancelot, until his great strength had\ncaused them to respect him; and being but a young man he had not yet\ngot all the courtly bearing and noble manners for which in later time\nhe was famous throughout all Christendom. So that many knights and\nladies smiled sourly upon him, but others saw that he would shortly\nprove a fine man of his hands, full courteous and gentle, and of a\nnoble nature and great presence.\n\nAt the court was also young Gawaine, son of King Lot, and nephew of the\nking. Both Lancelot and Gawaine were as yet not knighted, but together\nthey tilted at each other in the lists beyond the walls, and spent\ntheir days in sword-play and all knightly exercises. Lancelot was the\nstronger and the better fighter; and though Gawaine never overcame him,\nyet did they twain love each other passing well.\n\nNow Gawaine went to the king one day, and asked of him a gift, and King\nArthur said he would grant it.\n\n'Sir,' said Gawaine, while Lancelot stood a little way off, fondling\nthe hounds that licked at his hand, 'I ask that ye will make me knight\nthe same day that ye shall wed fair Gwenevere.'\n\n'I will do it with a good will,' said the king. 'And Lancelot,' he\nsaid, calling to the young man, 'have ye no boon to ask of me?'\n\n'Not at this time, sir,' replied Lancelot, 'but in a little while I\nmay.'\n\nInto the hall next day, as the king sat at dinner, came an old woman,\nbent and feeble, but with reverend white hair and gentle face, and she\nkneeled at the king's feet.\n\n'What is it, dame?' said Arthur. 'What is't you crave?'\n\n'Justice, lord king,' she said in a weak voice, while the tears gushed\nfrom her eyes. 'Or else I die beside the gate where you do give the\njustice that all men praise.'\n\n'Who hath done evil to you?' said the king.\n\n'Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower in the Marsh,' replied the old\nwoman. 'I and my son, lord, did build a little hut of wattle on a\nlittle plot which we banked from the marsh, near the great wall of the\nrich baron, deeming it safe to rest within the shadow of the strong\nlord, and though his hard rule was hateful to those whom he oppressed,\nwe were so humble that we thought he would not notice us. And meagrely\nwe reared our living from the ground, and sold our poor herbs to Sir\nCaradoc his steward, or to the people in the villages in the marsh\nabout us. But soon the Lord Caradoc desired the land on which our\nlittle hut was standing, to make his lands the broader. He tore our\npoor home down, and scattered all, and thrust us out to wander in the\nmarshes; and when my poor son pleaded with the lord, he had him\nwhipped, and he was brought and cast half dead at my feet as I waited\noutside the hall. Now if thou givest us not justice, we shall surely\ndie.'\n\n'Doth any know Sir Caradoc?' asked the king of his knights.\n\n'Yea, sir,' said one, 'and he is a great man of his hands, fierce and\nbold, of strong family, and his brother is Sir Turquine of Camber, who\ntried to slay thee at Caerleon, and was with the eleven kings in\nbattle. Sir Caradoc liveth in a strong tower beyond the marshes to the\nsouth of the river, and he slayeth all that desire to pass them, unless\nthey pay him all he demands.'\n\n'What!' said the king with fierce anger, 'within a few miles of this my\njustice-seat doth such tyranny rule unchecked, and ye tell me naught of\nit? Are ye then more fearful of this marsh robber than of me your\nking?'\n\nThe knights hung their heads abashed, and were silent.\n\nThen Lancelot came and stood before the king.\n\n'Let me, sir king, go and summon this tyrant to your presence,' he\nsaid, 'so that this poor dame may have justice, and that ye may punish\nhim for his oppression.'\n\n'I fear me, Lancelot, thou art over young for so fierce a knight,' said\nArthur.\n\n'I shall but bear thy words, sir,' said Lancelot, and he will not harm\nthy messenger.'\n\n'Take two stout men-at-arms with you, then,' said Arthur, 'and say to\nthis Sir Caradoc that if he come not back with thee to answer unto me,\nI will come and take his life and burn his evil tower to the ground.'\n\nMany of the younger men that had despite against Lancelot for his\ngreater prowess at the sword and the lance thought that now, indeed,\nthey would be ridded of him, for they deemed Sir Caradoc would slay\nhim.\n\nTwo days later came young Lancelot back with his two men-at-arms, and\nwith them, bound upon a great horse, was a full fierce and raging\nknight, red of face, large of body, his clothes all tossed and torn,\nand his mouth full of dire threatenings against Lancelot. Men made way\nfor them marvelling, and together Lancelot and his captive rode up the\nhall to the king.\n\n'Here, lord, is Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower in the Marsh,' said\nLancelot. 'He would not come when I gave him your message, so I bided\nmy time until he was sunk in wine, and was sleeping alone, and I have\nbrought him secretly from his hold. Now, lord king, I think Sir Caradoc\nwould joust with me, if you will give me knighthood.'\n\n'Joust with thee, thou smooth-faced boy!' cried Sir Caradoc, straining\nat his bonds. 'I will spit thee on my lance if I may get at thee, and\nwhen thou art slain I will fight with this little king of thine--and\nhis death shall wipe out this insult thou hast put upon me!'\n\nAt his rage and fierce bearing men marvelled and many were afeared,\nseeing that Sir Caradoc was great in lands and kinsmen, and big of his\nbody.\n\n'Thou art full young, Lancelot,' said Arthur, 'to joust with so strong\na knight. Let an older man have ado with him.'\n\n'Sir king,' cried Lancelot eagerly, 'I claim the first battle with this\nstrong tyrant. He is my captive, and I claim it.'\n\n'Have it as ye will,' said Arthur, 'and God speed you. But I misdoubt\nme much 'twill end in your sorrow.'\n\n'Ay, and thine too, thou gentle lady's knight!' sneered Sir Caradoc.\n\n'Peace, man, peace,' said the king sternly. 'I think God will fight in\nthis battle, for I have inquired far, and the tale of thy evil deeds is\nover-full.'\n\nTherewith King Arthur made young Lancelot knight, and men eagerly\nrushed away to the tilting-ground to see the battle between the virgin\nknight, Sir Lancelot, and the old robber knight, Sir Caradoc. And when\nSir Caradoc was released and armed, he laughed and shook his lance, so\nsure was he of revenge right speedily.\n\nThen they hurtled together most fiercely, and young Sir Lancelot was\nthrust from his horse by Sir Caradoc. Quickly he rose from the ground,\nand dressed his shield and drew his sword, and cried, 'Alight, Sir\nCaradoc, for I will fight thee on foot.' But Sir Caradoc, being\ntraitorous, rode at Sir Lancelot with his spear, as if he would pin him\nto the earth, and the young knight had much ado to avoid him. All the\nknights cried out upon Sir Caradoc for a foul knight, and for shame he\nthrew down his lance and alighted, and rushed at Sir Lancelot full\nfiercely, in order to slay him instantly.\n\nBut that was not easily to be done, for however wise Sir Caradoc was in\nsword-play, he was mad with wrath, and therefore thought of naught but\nto slay his enemy instantly. He raged like a wild boar, and gave Sir\nLancelot many evil strokes, yet never did he beat down the young\nknight's guard. Soon men perceived that Sir Caradoc's great fierceness\nwas causing him to make blind strokes, and then Sir Lancelot seemed the\nmore wary. Suddenly they saw the young knight leap forward, and beat so\nheavily upon the other's helm that it cracked. Sir Caradoc strove to\nguard himself, but Sir Lancelot was so wroth, and so mighty of his\nblows, that he could not. At last Sir Lancelot beat him to his knees,\nand then thrust him grovelling to the ground. Sir Lancelot bade him\nyield, but he would not, and still sought to thrust at the other. Then\nthe young knight struck at him between the neck and the head and slew\nhim.\n\nBoth the knights and the common people shouted with joy, and acclaimed\nSir Lancelot as a noble and mighty knight. But the young man was full\nmodest, and withdrew from the press. King Arthur gave unto him the\nDolorous Tower and the lands which had belonged to Sir Caradoc, and\nLancelot caused the old dame and her son to be given a fair piece of\nland and a hut, and many other wrongs and evil customs that had been\ndone by Sir Caradoc, Sir Lancelot caused to be righted.\n\nThe kinsmen of Sir Caradoc went apart and conspired to have Sir\nLancelot slain, but for a long time they could not come at him.\n\nThen, when the queen came unto King Arthur, there was great feasting\nand joustings and merry games, and Sir Lancelot, for his knightly\nprowess in the lists, and for his gentle courtesy and noble manners to\nall, both poor and rich, high and low, was sought by many, and for some\ntime rested himself in knightly games and play.\n\nThen, on a day in June, when a sudden wind from a lattice blew upon his\nface as he laughed and jested with ladies and knights in silks and rich\ngarments, he bethought him of the fair green woods and the wide lands\nthrough which lonely roads were winding. And departing from the hall\nforthwith, he bade his horse and arms be brought to him, and rode into\na deep forest, and thought to prove himself in strange adventures.\n\nThus faring, he rode for two days and met with naught. On the third day\nthe weather was hot about noon, and Sir Lancelot had great list to\nsleep. He espied a great apple-tree full of white blossoms, and a fair\nshadow was beneath it, and he alighted and tied his horse unto a thorn,\nand laid his helmet under his head and slept.\n\nWhile he thus lay, there rode by him on white mules four ladies of\ngreat estate, with four knights about them, who bore a canopy of green\nsilk on four spears, so that the high sun should not touch the faces of\nthe ladies. Then, as they rode by, they heard a war-horse grimly neigh,\nand looking aside, they were aware of Sir Lancelot all armed, and\nasleep under the apple-tree.\n\nThe ladies came nigh him, and of them there was Queen Morgan le Fay,\nwho was wife of King Lot, and an evil witch; the Queen of Northgales, a\nhaughty lady; the Lady of the Out-Isles; and the Lady of the Marshes.\nAnd when the Lady of the Marshes saw the knight she cried:\n\n'Now this is as good hap as ever could be, for this is he that slew my\nbrother, Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower; and for revenge of that, I\nwould have this knight taken to my tower and torture him before I slay\nhim.'\n\n'That is well said,' said Morgan le Fay, 'for he bids fair to be one of\nthe most strong knights of Arthur, whom I hate. This man, Sir Lancelot\ndu Lake, is the favourite of all the ladies at that court, who hate me.\nSo will I lay an enchantment on him, so that he shall sleep.'\n\nThen the evil queen laid her hands over the face of Sir Lancelot, and\nsaid strange words that none could understand, and then he was laid\nacross the crupper of one of the knights' horses, and he did not wake.\n\nWhen in the twilight Sir Lancelot awoke, he found himself on a straw\npallet in a strange room, and he leaped up and went to a narrow\narrow-slit in the wall and looked out. Before him for a great distance\nwas a black watery land, with the sun sinking far away on the very\nedge, and the pools of the marsh were as if they were of blood.\n\nThen he beat at the door and called, but none responded, and for wrath\nhe could have dashed the door down, but it was too stout, and he had no\nweapon; for his arms had been taken from him.\n\nWhen it was dark, suddenly it seemed to Sir Lancelot that the room\nsmelled foul, as if he had been carried into the midst of the quaking\nmarsh, and was sunk deep in the slime and weeds of a pool. Then,\nthrough the arrow-slit, he saw many strange lights come, dim and blue\nlike the wild lights that dance and flit over the lonely marshes by\nnight; but that which made him marvel was that these lights were two\ntogether, as if they were the eyes of evil things. And they came up to\nhim with a breath that was cold and dank, and they seemed to peer into\nhis face, but he could see naught of their bodies. The hair upon his\nhead rose, and his skin went cold. They pressed all about him, and to\ndefend himself he struck at the eyes, but his blows beat only the air.\nThen suddenly Sir Lancelot felt sharp pains, as if small keen knives\nhad been thrust into his flesh at many places. The stabs increased in\nnumber and in pain, and Sir Lancelot beat about himself and ran to and\nfro in the narrow chamber to escape the evil eyes and the stabs, but it\nwas in vain, and thus all night in much misery he suffered. When for\nsheer weariness he lay down and tried to close his eyes, the evil\nthings would not let him, but ever they tore at him and stabbed him. He\nwas in anguish of mind more than he could bear, and for all his thought\nhe could not think of any way to fight against the evil powers which\nfollowed and tortured him wherever he ran.\n\nBut at dawn they fled, and then the door of the room opened, and a\ndamsel appeared, and in her hands was a manchet of sour bread, and a\nbeaker of water from the ditch of the moat. The damsel was evilly clad\nin rags, and seemed like a scullion-maid.\n\n'These,' she said, 'my mistresses bid me say shall be your food until\nyou die.'\n\n'Damsel,' said Lancelot, 'tell me who hath brought me here and used me\nso evilly.'\n\n'It is Queen Morgan le Fay,' said the damsel, 'and the three witch\nqueens, the Queen of Northgales, the Queen of the Out-Isles, and the\nLady of the Marshes.'\n\n'I doubt not, then, that they would slay me?' said Lancelot. 'But why\nhate they me?'\n\n'It is for this,' went on the damsel, 'that you did slay Sir Caradoc,\nthe brother of the Lady of the Marshes.'\n\n'Alas, then,' said Sir Lancelot, 'there is no pity for me, and none of\nmy dear friends shall learn of my shameful death.'\n\n'And so that you should suffer much ere you are slain,' went on the\ndamsel, 'they sent in the night the Coranians, the marsh fiends, to\ntorture you. Thus will they do until you die, unless, sir knight, you\nare a knight with a stout heart, and a good fighter, and will do me\njustice. If you will be ruled by me, and will give me a promise, I will\naid you.'\n\n'Damsel, that will I grant you,' said Lancelot, 'for this would be an\nevil death for a knight. And full of terror hath been this night, from\nthe foul things which have beset me.'\n\n'I may not stay further now,' said the maid, 'lest they think I tarry\nover-long. But by evening I will come again.'\n\nThe day passed and twilight came, and Sir Lancelot was adread for fear\nof the night. But anon the damsel came secretly to him and said:\n\n'Now must you promise me this, that you will release my father, whom\nSir Turquine, Sir Caradoc's brother, hath kept in his foul dungeons\nsince I was but a little child. And all his lands did Sir Turquine rob\nfrom him, and me he gave as a kitchen slut to Morgan le Fay, and evilly\nhave I been treated who am a good knight's daughter. Now, will ye\npromise to free my father?'\n\n'That will I, my poor damsel,' said Lancelot, 'and I will, God aiding\nme, slay this Sir Turquine as I slew Sir Caradoc his brother.'\n\nSo at the dead of night the damsel opened his door, and with the keys\nthat she had stolen, she opened twelve other locks that stood between\nthem and the postern door. Then she brought him to his armour, which\nshe had hidden in a bush, and she led forth his horse, and he mounted\nwith much joy, and took the maid with him, and she showed him the way\nto a convent of white nuns, and there they had good cheer.\n\nThen, on the morrow, she led him to a thick forest with many hills\ntherein, and anon they came to a fair ford, and over the ford there\ngrew a tree, and on it there hung many good shields, each with the\ndevice of some knight thereon, and Sir Lancelot was astounded to see\nthe shields of many of King Arthur's knights hung there. And on a bole\nof the tree there was a bason of copper.\n\n'Now,' said the damsel, 'I have brought you here where is Sir Turquine,\nthe mightiest knight that ever was found, as men say, and was never\novermatched by any. And in his dungeons are many poor knights, and my\ndear father, Sir Darrel. Now strike the bason with the butt of your\nspear.'\n\nSir Lancelot beat such strokes that the bason burst asunder, and then\nhe was aware of a great knight riding on a black horse. 'This is he,'\nsaid the damsel, 'and now God aid you!'\n\n'What needst thou, sir knight?' cried the other.\n\n'To try my strength on thee,' cried Lancelot, 'for thou hast done great\ndespite and shame unto many good knights of the Round Table.'\n\n'Art thou of that caitiff crew of ladies' knights?' sneered Sir\nTurquine. 'Then I defy thee.'\n\n'Thou hast said enough,' replied Lancelot.\n\nThey put their spears in their rests, and came like the wind against\neach other, and either smote other in the middle of their shields, so\nthat both their horses' girths broke. Then, lightly avoiding their\nbeasts, they came at each other with great fierceness, and so fared for\ntwo hours, feinting and striking, and so heavy were their blows that\neach bled from many wounds as they stood. At last, for sheer\nbreathlessness, each leaned upon his sword.\n\n'Now, fellow,' said Sir Turquine haughtily, 'answer me these questions\nI shall put to thee.'\n\n'Say on,' said Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Thou art,' went on Sir Turquine, 'the biggest man that ever I met\nwith, and like one knight that I hate above all others, and I would\nliefer be thy friend than thy foe. Now, therefore, I will give up to\nthee my captive knights if thou wilt tell me thy name, and if thou art\nnot the knight I hate most.'\n\n'Willingly,' said Sir Lancelot. 'But what knight hatest thou above all\nother? And why?'\n\n'It is Sir Lancelot du Lake,' cried the knight, 'for he slew my brother\nSir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower in the Marsh, who was one of the best\nknights living. And ever I have sought this Lancelot, and slain and\nmaimed many good knights and imprisoned others in the quest. To slay\nthat fellow I have made a vow, and him I would meet above all others.'\n\n'Ha!' laughed Sir Lancelot, 'and I am the first thou hast met whose\nlove thou wouldst liefer have than my hatred? Well, I will have thee to\nwit that I am he ye seek, Sir Lancelot du Lake, and thy brother was an\nevil knight and an oppressor.'\n\n'What sayest thou?' cried Sir Turquine. 'Thou art he I seek? Then,\nLancelot, thou art unto me most welcome as ever was any knight, for we\nshall never part till the one of us be dead.'\n\nThen they ran at each other like two wild boars, lashing and dashing\nwith their swords and shields, so that sometimes in their fury they\nslipped together on the grass, which was wetted with blood, and fell\nstriking at each other. But at last Sir Turquine waxed faint and tried\nto avoid Sir Lancelot's blows, and his shield sank low, for his arm was\nvery weary. Seeing this, Sir Lancelot leaped upon him fiercely, and got\nhim by the banner of his helmet, and thrust him on his knees, and slew\nhim at a stroke.\n\nWhen he had rested a while, he went to the castle of Sir Turquine and\nreleased all his prisoners, and was rejoiced to see the damsel find her\nfather alive. He caused the old knight to have his lands again, and\nbade the others that they should betake themselves to the court of King\nArthur to be cheered and comforted, while their possessions, which Sir\nTurquine had robbed of them, should be given back to them.\n\nThen fared Sir Lancelot further afield, glad exceedingly that he had\nescaped the foul plots of the four witch queens, and also that he had\nvanquished the evil Sir Turquine.\n\nThen he rode a great while in a deep and dark forest, and as he\nfollowed the winding ways, suddenly he saw a black hound before him,\nwith its nose to the ground as if seeking a scent. He followed the\nbeast, and ever she looked behind her. Soon she left the forest, and\npicked her way through a great marsh, and Sir Lancelot followed, until\nin the wide distance he saw a little hill with trees upon it, and in\nthe midst a ruined manor.\n\nThe hound went towards the ruin and Sir Lancelot followed. The wall was\nbroken down in many places, and the path all overgrown and weedy, and\nas he came to the courtyard before the house, he saw the fishponds\nchoked with weeds and the horseblock green with moss, and in the great\ndoorway grew charnel and hellebore, and the spiked hemlock waved and\nspilt its seed in the wind. The windows hung by their hinges, and the\ngreen moss crept down the wide wet cracks in the walls.\n\nBut the dog ran over the drawbridge into the house, and Sir Lancelot\ngat from his horse and tethered it to the post beside the horseblock,\nand so went across the bridge, which was full sodden and worm-eaten,\nand bent beneath his weight.\n\nComing into a great hall, foul with many rotting leaves, he saw a table\nin the midst thereof, and on it was a knight that was a seemly man, and\nhe lay as if he were dead, and the black hound licked his wound. And by\nhis side there was a lovely lady, who started up, weeping and wringing\nher hands, and she said:\n\n'O knight, too much evil have you brought to me!'\n\n'Why say ye so?' said Sir Lancelot; 'I never did harm to this knight,\nfor hither did this hound lead me, and therefore, fair lady, be not\ndispleased with me, for grief is upon me for your sorrow and your\nsadness.'\n\n'Truly, sir,' said the lady, and she laid her face in her hands and\nsobbed full sorely, so that Sir Lancelot was much stirred thereat, 'I\ntrow, as ye say it, that you are not the knight that hath near slain my\nlove and my husband. And never may he be healed of his deadly wound\nexcept some good knight aid me. But he must be so bold and valiant a\nman, that never, I think, may I find such a one in the little time I\nhave before my dear lord shall die!'\n\n'Now on the honour of my knighthood,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'I do not\npresume that I am such a one as you desire; but if I may aid you and\nease your sorrow, that would I do most willingly. What is it I should\ndo?'\n\n'Oh, sir knight!' cried the lady, and her lovely eyes looked full\nthankfully at Sir Lancelot, 'if ye would, it were the greatest deed you\nhave ever done, however bold a knight ye may be. For this my lord is\nsore wounded by a knight whom he met in the forest this day, and by one\nthing only may he be made whole. For there is a lady, a sorceress, that\ndwelleth in a castle here beside, and she hath told me that my\nhusband's wounds may never be whole till I may find a knight that would\ngo at midnight into the Chapel Perilous beside the Mere, and that\ntherein he should find before the high altar a sword, and the shroud in\nwhich the dead wizard-knight is lapped, and with that sword my\nhusband's wounds should be searched, and a piece of the shroud should\nbind them.'\n\n'This is a marvellous thing,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I will essay it.\nBut what is your husband's name?'\n\n'Sir,' she said, 'his name is Sir Meliot de Logres.'\n\n'That me repenteth,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for he is a fellow of the\nRound Table, and for him will I do all in my power.'\n\nGoing to the table, he looked upon the ashen face of the wounded man,\nand it was Sir Meliot, even as the lady said.\n\n'Now, sir,' said the lady, when Sir Lancelot had mounted his horse, 'do\nye follow that hard way across the marsh, and it will lead ye by\nmidnight to the Chapel Perilous, and may ye speed well.'\n\nRight so, Sir Lancelot departed, and the sun was near its setting.\n\nFor some hours Sir Lancelot fared across the marsh, until it was deep\nnight, save for the stars; then he came upon a broad road, grass-grown\nand banked high, where the night wind piped in the long grass. This he\nknew was a road which the great Roman necromancers had wrought, and he\nthought he had missed his way, for there was no other path.\n\nAs he stood marvelling, the figure of a man, tall and gaunt and but\nhalf clad, came down the broad road towards him, and cried in a hollow\nvoice:\n\n'For the love of charity, sir knight, give to a poor man who is\noutcast.'\n\nSir Lancelot pitied the sunken eyes of the poor man, and gave him alms.\n\n'God give thee comfort, poor soul,' said the knight, 'and get thee a\nroof, for the night wind blows chill.'\n\n'God bless thee, sir knight,' said the man, in awful tones, 'for\ncourtesy and pity such as thine are rare. Whither goest thou this\nnight?'\n\n'I seek the Chapel Perilous,' said Sir Lancelot.\n\nAt which the shape threw back its head and cried out as if with great\nsorrow.\n\n'God fend thee, sir knight,' he said, 'and bring thee safe alive. What\nthou gettest there, keep thou in thy hands until the dawn, or thy soul\nshall suffer death.'\n\nThen he vanished, and Sir Lancelot knew it had been a phantom.\n\nThen as he crossed himself, he looked up, and through some thin and\nwithered trees a little way off upon a slope he saw the shimmer of\nlight, as if a chapel was lit up. He went towards it, and he saw a high\nwall that was broken down in many places, and an old grey chapel\nbeyond, and the windows were shimmering with a ghostly light. As he\ncame through the trees he saw they were all dead, with neither leaf nor\ntwig upon them, their roots were crooked out of the ground as if they\nwould throw his horse, and their limbs were stretched as if they\nstrained to clutch him.\n\nComing to the gate in the wall, his horse trembled and plunged, and\nwould go no further; whereat Sir Lancelot alighted, and tied it to a\nthorn-tree, and went through the gate. By the ghostly light that came\nfrom the windows of the ruined chapel he saw that under the eaves were\nhung fair shields, with rich devices, and all were turned upside down.\nMany of them were those of knights he had known or heard of, long since\ndead or lost. When he had made a few steps on the grass-grown pathway\ntowards the door, of a sudden he saw, coming from the church, thirty\ntall knights, each a foot higher than he, each in black armour, and\neach with sword uplifted, as they rushed towards him.\n\nTheir feet and their armour made no sound as they pressed forwards, and\na thin blue flame licked about each naked sword.\n\nThey came upon him, but Sir Lancelot, with a prayer to God, dressed his\nshield and sword and stood firm, though his flesh quaked and his tongue\nclave to the roof of his mouth. They mowed and gnashed at him, and\nheaved their swords about him; then suddenly their vizors went up and\nhe looked into their faces. And at that he was sore adread, for he knew\nthey were dead men.\n\nBut he would not be overcome, and said in a loud voice:\n\n'In the name of God, avaunt ye!'\n\nHe made a step forward, and they scattered before him, but followed\nclosely behind. Then he went into the chapel, where he saw no light but\na dim lamp burning upon the altar. It was an old, old chapel, with dust\nupon its floor like a thick carpet, the walls and windows were holed\nand broken, and the timber of the seats was rotten.\n\nHe went up to the high altar, and saw before it a trestle, and upon it\nwas a dead man, all covered with a cloth of silk. Sir Lancelot stooped\ndown, and with his sword cut a piece of that cloth away.\n\nWith that his blood seemed turned to water, and his feet seemed eager\nto run towards the door, for with a mighty roar the earth shook beneath\nhim, and the walls of the chapel rocked. But he looked for the sword\nwhich he must take, and saw it under the trestle, and picked it up and\nwent out of the chapel.\n\nThe ghosts of the knights pressed about him as he walked, and strove to\ntear the sword from his grasp. But he would not suffer them to take it,\nand when he reached the gate they could no further go, and so left him.\n\nAt the gate there came running up to him a fair damsel, crying to him:\n\n'O brave knight, give me the sword and the cloth, that I may take them\nat once to my mistress, the lady of Sir Meliot, for he is at the point\nof death, and she is waiting in sorrow and tears beside him.'\n\nBut Sir Lancelot remembered the words of the phantom beggar, and made\nreply:\n\n'Fair damsel, I shall take them myself to the lady of Sir Meliot, for\nthese things I may not give to any until the dawning.'\n\nThe damsel would have torn the sword and the cloth full hastily from\nhis hands, but he was aware of her intent, and hindered her, and bade\nher in the name of God to withdraw.\n\nWhereat, with a great shriek, she vanished.\n\n'Now,' said Sir Lancelot, 'may God, who has brought me through these\nevil adventures, shield me from any further subtle crafts of these foul\nthings.'\n\nStraightway he mounted his horse, and took his way towards the marsh,\nso that he should give the sword and the cloth into the hands of the\nlady of Sir Meliot, for the healing of her lord.\n\nBut at the dawn Merlin met him.\n\n'Sir Lancelot,' said the old white wizard, 'ye have no need to go to\nthe ruined manor, except ye would have the proof of what I tell you.'\n\n'And what is that?' asked Sir Lancelot.\n\n'That all that hath befallen thee hath been done by evil magic,'\nreplied Merlin. 'The black dog that led thee to the manor was a fiend,\nthe fair lady that entreated ye was an evil witch, and she and the\ndamsel at the chapel were the same, and all was caused by the witch\nqueens who had you in their tower; and the likeness of the wounded\nknight to Sir Meliot was formed by wizardry. They that craved your\ndeath did hope that ye would fail at the terrors of the Chapel\nPerilous, and that your soul would be lost as have the souls of those\nevil or weak knights whose ghosts assailed ye. But by your courage and\ngreat heart ye won through all.'\n\n'This is a great marvel,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I thank God that He\nhath shielded me of His mercy.'\n\nWhen Sir Lancelot was returned to Camelot, and Merlin had told King\nArthur of the knight's adventures, the king made him one of the knights\nof the Round Table.\n\n'Ye do well,' said Merlin privily unto the king, 'for he shall prove\nthe most man of worship that is in the world, and all your court and\nall your Round Table shall be by him made more famous than by any\nknight now living. Yet shall he not be one of those three that shall\nachieve the Holy Graal.'\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nTHE KNIGHT OF THE KITCHEN\n\n\nIt was the feast of Pentecost, and King Arthur was holding his court of\nthe Round Table at the city of Kin-Kenadon, hard by the sea in Wales.\nIn the high hall the tables were set for dinner, and the floor was\nfreshly strewn with rushes, flowers and fennel, so that the place\nsmelled as sweet as a field. The cook and his scullions came to and fro\nthrough the door of the kitchen with anxious faces, for they feared\nlest the meats should be overdone, but as yet King Arthur would not sit\nto dinner. For it was his custom never to go to meat on that day until\nhe had heard or seen some great marvel or adventure.\n\nSir Gawaine stood looking from a window in the bower where the king sat\nwith the queen, and suddenly he turned with a laugh, and said:\n\n'Sir, go to your meat, for here, I think, cometh a strange adventure.'\n\nAnd even as the king took his seat on the high dais in the hall, and\nhis knights sat at the Round Table, through the great door of the hall\ncame two men, well beseen and richly dressed, and, leaning on their\nshoulders, was a tall, fair, young man, as goodly to strength and\nbreadth as ever was seen, with hands large and fair. But he was either\nlazy or ill-conditioned, for he leaned upon his fellows as if he were\nunable to stand upright. And the three of them marched through the\nhall, speaking no word, and they came to the foot of the dais, while\nmen sat silent and marvelling. Then the young man raised himself\nupright, and it was seen that he was a foot and a half taller than\nthose beside him.\n\n'God bless you, O king!' said the young man, 'and all your fair\nfellowship, and in especial the fellowship of the Round Table. I come\nto crave of your kindness three gifts, and they are such as ye may\nworshipfully and honourably grant unto me. And the first I will ask\nnow, and the others will I ask at the same day twelvemonths,\nwheresoever ye hold your feast of Pentecost.'\n\n'Ask,' said the king, 'and ye shall be granted your petition.'\n\n'The first is this,' said he, 'that ye give me meat and drink and\nlodging here for a year.'\n\n'Willingly,' said the king, 'but what is your name and whence come you?\nYe have the bearing of good lineage.'\n\n'That is as may be,' was the reply, 'but I may tell you naught, if it\nplease you, lord.'\n\nThen King Arthur called Sir Kay, his steward, and bade him tend the\nyoung man for a year as if he were a lord's son.\n\n'There is no need that he should have such care,' sneered Sir Kay, who\nwas a man of a sour mind. 'I dare swear that he is but a villein born.\nIf he were of good blood he would have craved a horse and harness. And\nsince he hath no name I will dub him Beaumains, or Fair Hands, for see\nhow soft are his hands! And he shall live in the kitchen, and become as\nfat as any pig!'\n\nBut Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawaine reproached Sir Kay for his mocking of\nthe young man, 'for,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I dare lay my head he hath\nthe making of a man of great worship.'\n\n'That cannot be,' said Sir Kay; 'he has asked as his nature prompted\nhim. He will make naught but fat, for he desires only meat and drink.\nOn my life I would swear he is only some lazy fellow from an abbey,\nwhere food hath failed, and so he has come hither for sustenance.'\n\nSo Kay sat down to his meat laughing, and Beaumains went to the door of\nthe hall, where the varlets and boys ate the leavings from the table;\nbut he fared badly there, for they jeered at him as Sir Kay had done.\n\nAfterwards Sir Lancelot, of his great gentleness and courtesy, bade him\ncome to his chamber, to be better fed and clothed; and Sir Gawaine,\nbecause of a liking he felt in his heart for the young man, proffered\nhim good meat and drink and a soft bed. But then, and at all other\ntimes, Beaumains refused, and would do nothing but what Sir Kay\ncommanded.\n\nThus he lived in the kitchen, eating broken scraps, and lying at night\nwhere the scullions lay, except that he was given the chilliest spot\nfurthest from the fire. But he did what he was bidden to do with a\ncheerful air and was ever willing to work. And if there was any\njousting of knights or any other sights of prowess, these would he see\nwith the greatest delight. In any sports or trials of strength or skill\namong the serving-men, he was ever foremost, and none could overcome\nhim in wrestling or at quarterstaff, nor could any throw the bar or\ncast the stone so far as he could, no, not by two yards.\n\nWhenever Sir Kay met him about the hall or the kitchen he would laugh\nmockingly, and to those about him he would say, 'Well, how like you my\nhuge boy of the kitchen?'\n\nBut to such sneers, and to all the scorns and insults of the varlets of\nthe kitchen, Beaumains would answer naught, and was ever quiet and mild\nwhatever he endured. And to all was he ever gentle, both man and child,\nand he never put forth his great strength in anger.\n\nThus a year passed, until again it was the feast of Pentecost, and at\nthat time the king held it at his chief city in Wales, Caerleon-upon-Usk.\nAnd again the feast was royally prepared in the great hall of the\ncourt, but the king would not give the signal to sit to meat until he\nshould have heard or seen some strange adventure.\n\nBut about noon a squire came to where the king waited, and said, 'Lord,\nI am bidden to say ye may go to your meat, for there cometh a damsel\nwith some strange adventure.'\n\nQuickly the king sat on the high seat, and the cooks brought in the\nsmoking collops of meat and the dishes of savoury stews. And as they\nbegan to eat, there came a maiden of a plain sharp visage, who made her\nway to the step of the dais, and there kneeling, cried:\n\n'Succour and help I crave of you, O king!'\n\n'For whom?' said the king, 'and for what reason?'\n\n'Sir,' said the maiden, 'my lady sister is of great beauty and renown,\nand is besieged in her castle by a tyrant-knight, who will not let her\ngo forth from her castle; and because it is said that here in your\ncourt are the noblest knights in all the world, I come to you praying\nfor aid.'\n\n'What is your lady sister's name?' asked the king, 'and where doth she\ndwell, and tell me who is he that doth besiege her?'\n\n'Sir king,' said the lady, 'I may not tell you my sister's name, but\nshe is of great beauty and of wide lands. And the tyrant-knight who\nbesieges her is the Red Knight of Reedlands.'\n\n'I know him not,' replied the king.\n\n'Sir,' cried Sir Gawaine from his seat, 'I know him well. He is one of\nthe perilous knights of the world, for he hath the strength of seven\nmen, and from him I once escaped barely with my life.'\n\n'Fair lady,' said the king, 'I would help you willingly, but as ye will\nnot tell me your lady's name, none of my knights here shall go with you\nwith my consent.'\n\nThe damsel looked about the hall with a quick angry glance, and the\nknights that sat there liked not her sour looks. Then from the crowd of\nscullions and kitchen lads that hung about the serving-tables at the\nside of the hall came Beaumains, his dress smirched, but his handsome\nface lit up and his eyes burning with eagerness.\n\n'Sir king!' he cried, holding up his hand, 'a boon I crave!'\n\nAs he came to the step of the dais the damsel shrank from him as if he\nhad been something foul.\n\n'Say on,' replied the king to the young man.\n\n'God thank you, my king,' went on Beaumains. 'I have been these twelve\nmonths in your kitchen, and have had my full living, as ye did\ngraciously order, and now I ask for the two further gifts ye promised.'\n\n'Ye have but to ask,' replied the king.\n\n'Sir, they are these,' said Beaumains. 'First, that you will grant me\nthis adventure of the damsel.'\n\n'I grant it you,' said King Arthur.\n\n'Then, sir, this is the other,--that ye shall bid Sir Lancelot du Lake\nto follow me, and to make me a knight when I shall desire him.'\n\n'All this shall be done if Sir Lancelot think it well,' said the king.\n\nBut the lady was exceedingly wroth, and her eyes flashed with scorn as\nshe turned to the king:\n\n'Shame on thee!' she cried; 'will you give me a kitchen scullion to aid\nme?'\n\nWith that she hastened from the hall, mounted her horse and rode away.\nEven as she went forth, a dwarf in the dress of a page entered the hall\nleading a great horse richly caparisoned, and on the saddle was piled a\nsplendid suit of armour. And the dwarf went up to Beaumains and began\nto arm him, while men asked each other whence came all this fine gear.\n\nWhen he was dressed in armour, all the knights marvelled to see how\ngoodly a man he looked. Then Beaumains took leave of King Arthur and of\nSir Gawaine, and asked Sir Lancelot to follow him.\n\nMany people went to the door of the hall to see Beaumains mount his\nhorse and ride after the damsel, and the way he sat his steed, with its\ntrappings of gold and purple, excited their admiration. But all\nwondered to see that Beaumains had neither shield nor spear, and some\nlaughed and said, 'The ignorant churl! Doth he think the mere sight of\nhim on horseback will affright his enemies, that he carries neither\nshield nor lance.'\n\nSir Kay sneered with them, and suddenly getting up from his seat he\ncried:\n\n'By my faith! I will go after my kitchen boy and see whether he will\nstill know me for his better!'\n\n'Ye had better bide at home,' said Sir Lancelot, and Sir Gawaine\nagreed.\n\nBut Sir Kay laughed them aside, and having swiftly put on his armour,\nhe took his spear and shield and rode after Beaumains. He caught up\nwith the youth just as the latter reached the side of the damsel, and\nSir Kay cried out, with a scornful laugh:\n\n'What! Beaumains, do ye not know me?'\n\n'Ay,' replied Beaumains, 'I know ye for the most ungentle knight in all\nKing Arthur's court, and therefore keep you off from me.'\n\n'Ah, churl!' cried Sir Kay, 'thou needst a lesson from me. A beggar,\nthough he be on horseback, is still a beggar.'\n\nWith that he put his lance in rest and dashed towards Beaumains,\nexpecting an easy victory. But the young man, putting the lance aside\nwith his sword just as it was about to strike him, rushed upon Sir Kay,\nand with a deft thrust struck him through a joint of his armour, so\nthat Sir Kay fell backwards off his horse to the ground. Swiftly\nleaping down, Beaumains took possession of his opponent's spear and\nshield, and commanded his dwarf to mount upon Sir Kay's horse.\n\nThen, after remounting, Beaumains rejoined the damsel, who had seen all\nthat had taken place, but said nothing.\n\nAt that moment they saw Sir Lancelot coming towards him. He had seen\nSir Kay's discomfiture, and wondered at the mastery which Beaumains had\nshown.\n\n'Fair sir,' cried Beaumains, turning and drawing rein as Sir Lancelot\napproached, 'I would joust with you, if ye will.'\n\n'Have at you, then!' replied Sir Lancelot with a laugh, and with spears\nin rest they set their horses at a great gallop. They came together so\nfiercely that they were both thrust backwards from their saddles and\nfell to the earth, half stunned and greatly bruised.\n\nSir Lancelot recovered first and ran to help Beaumains to his feet, and\nthen, with their shields before them, they continued the combat with\nswords. For an hour they strove fiercely, thrusting, striking and\nparrying like two great boars in a forest clearing. Sir Lancelot was\nastonished to feel how great was the young man's strength, how swift\nwere his thrusts, and how powerful were his blows. He recognised that\nBeaumains was a dangerous fighter, and that he himself would have much\nto do to overcome him.\n\n'Beaumains,' he cried at length, 'fight not so hard, lad. Our quarrel,\nif we have aught, is surely not so great that we cannot leave off.'\n\n'That is truth!' said Beaumains, laughing, as he dropped the point of\nhis weapon. 'But, Sir Lancelot, it doth me good to feel your wondrous\nskill and the strength of your arm. Yet, my lord, I have not shown the\nuttermost of mine.'\n\n'By my faith, I believe ye,' cried Sir Lancelot, 'for I should have\nmuch ado to keep myself from shameful defeat if you should really push\nme to the utmost. Therefore I say that you need not fear any earthly\nknight.'\n\n'I thank you for your good words,' replied Beaumains. 'And do you think\nI may hope at any time to become a proved knight?'\n\n'Fight as you have fought with me, and I have no doubt of you.'\n\n'Then, I pray you, my lord,' said Beaumains, 'give me the order of\nknighthood.'\n\n'Ere I do that, you must tell me your name and of what kin you were\nborn,' replied Sir Lancelot.\n\n'If you will promise to tell no one, I will reveal it.'\n\nSir Lancelot gave his promise, and Beaumains, going closer, whispered\nsome words into Sir Lancelot's ear.\n\n'Ah, sir,' said Sir Lancelot, taking the young man's hand in his, 'I am\nglad I was not deceived. I knew you must come of great kin, and that\nyou had not come to King Arthur for meat or drink. Kneel now, and I\nwill make you knight.'\n\nSo Beaumains knelt before Sir Lancelot, who lightly touched him on the\nshoulder with his sword, naming him knight.\n\nThereupon they parted with many kind words, and Beaumains made haste to\novertake the damsel, who had long since disappeared.\n\nAs for Sir Kay, he was lifted upon Sir Lancelot's shield and taken back\nto the court, and there slowly he recovered of his wound. Men laughed\nhim to scorn for the beating he had received from his own 'kitchen\nboy.'\n\n'Lo,' said some, 'the proud knight went forth to cuff his own scullion,\nand the scullion beat him sore and took his weapons for spoil.'\n\nWhen Beaumains reached the side of the damsel, she pulled up her horse\nand turned upon him with flashing eyes and angry looks.\n\n'What doest thou here?' she cried. 'Away from me--thou smellest of the\nkitchen, knave! Pah! thy clothes are foul with grease and tallow! Dost\nthou think to ride with me?'\n\n'Lady,' said Beaumains, and he spoke full gently, 'my clothes may be\nsmirched, but my arm, I trust, is as strong to defend you as any that\nis wrapped in silk.'\n\n'Out upon thee, saucy churl!' she cried. 'Thinkest thou I should allow\nfor that knight whom you thrust from his horse but now? Nay, not a whit\ndo I, for thou didst strike him foully and like a coward! I know thee\nwell, for Sir Kay named you. Beaumains you are, dainty of hands and of\neating, like a spoilt page. Get thee gone, thou turner of spits and\nwasher of greasy dishes!'\n\nBut for all that she raved, Beaumains would not reply in angry words,\nthough his heart burned within him.\n\n'Damsel,' said he courteously, 'ye may say what ye will to me, but I\nwill not go from you whatever you say. I have given my promise to King\nArthur that I will achieve this adventure for you, and that will I do\nor die in the trial of it.'\n\nThe girl laughed mockingly.\n\n'_You_ will finish my adventure--_you_ will come to our aid!' she cried\nin scorn. 'Fie on thee, thou upstart kitchen page! But if you will not\ngo from me, then come, fool, and I shall see thee quickly shamed. Thou\nart proud with the too good living thou hadst in Arthur's kitchen, but\none I know whose face thou wilt not dare to look into, my knight of the\nkitchen!'\n\nSo saying, she pushed on her horse, and thus in silence they went on\ntogether.\n\nIn a little while they came to a dark wood, and suddenly as they rode,\na man with white scared face started from behind a bush and ran to the\nside of Beaumains.\n\n'Go not that way, sir knight,' he said, 'for there be six knaves who\nhave taken my lord and bound him, and now they will surely take you and\nyour lady unless you go back. I barely escaped with my life, and hid\nwhen I heard you, thinking you were of their thievish company.'\n\n'Take me to them!' cried Beaumains, and the poor squire, holding the\nknight's stirrup-leather, ran with him. And surely, in a little while,\nthree knaves rushed forth before them in the green drive and bade\nBeaumains stand. But grimly he dashed at them, before ever they could\nrecover. Two he cut down with his good sword as they stood, and the\nthird, trying to escape, was run between the shoulders.\n\nThen turning, Beaumains saw in a glade near the drive where three other\nknaves stood beside a knight bound to a tree. They dashed towards\nBeaumains with spiked clubs uplifted. But the squire rushed at one,\ntripped him up and despatched him; and the others suddenly decided to\nturn and flee. Their resolution came too late, however, for Beaumains\ncut them down as they ran.\n\nThe knight was quickly released by his squire, and came up to his\nrescuer, and thanked him heartily for his speedy help.\n\n'Come with me,' he said, 'you and your lady, to my castle, which is but\na little way hence, and I will fittingly requite thee for the saving of\nmy life.'\n\n'Nay,' said Beaumains, 'I will have no reward. All I do henceforth is\nbut my duty, and I will take naught in payment. Moreover, I must follow\nthis lady.'\n\nThe knight went to the lady, and begged that she would accept his\nhospitality, for the twilight was deepening and they were yet far from\na town. The damsel consented, but, on reaching the castle of the\nknight, she would not permit Beaumains to sit at the same table with\nher.\n\n'Take the knave hence!' she cried haughtily. 'He is but a scullion from\nKing Arthur's kitchen, and is not fit to sit with a lady of rank. He is\nmore suited, sir knight, to dine with your turnspits.'\n\n'Lady, I do not understand your words,' said the knight, 'for this\ngentleman hath proved himself a man of knightly courage and courtesy\nthis day.'\n\n'As for that,' said the lady, 'I count it naught. He took the rascals\nunawares, and they had no heart. They were but sorrier knaves than he\nis.'\n\n'Well,' said the knight, 'since you mislike him so, he shall sit with\nme, and you shall sit alone.'\n\nSo it was done, and while the lady sat eating her meal in chilly\nsilence at one table, Beaumains and the knight, his host, laughed and\ntalked merrily over their dinner at another.\n\nNext morning, early, Beaumains and the lady were up and away while yet\nthe dew shone on the leaves. Soon they passed through a great forest\nand approached a wide river. In a little while they rode down to where\na roughly paved way ran into the water, and, looking to the other bank,\nBeaumains was aware of two knights on horseback, stationed as if to\nhinder his passing the ford.\n\n'Now, sir kitchen knight,' laughed the lady mockingly, 'what sayest\nthou? Art thou a match for these two knights, or wilt thou not turn\nback?'\n\n'I would not turn if they were six,' replied Beaumains quietly.\n\nWith that he rushed, with spear at rest, into the ford, and one of the\nwaiting knights came swiftly against him. They met in the midst with so\ngreat a shock that their spears were splintered. They then closed\nfiercely with their swords, and hurtled about in the foaming, dashing\nwater, beating at each other. Suddenly Beaumains struck the other so\nhard a stroke on his helm that he was stunned, and fell from his horse\ninto the stream, which whirled him away into the deeps, and there\ndrowned him.\n\nThen Beaumains rode swiftly towards the other knight, who with his\nlance dashed against him. But Beaumains parried the spear stroke, and\nwith one great heave of his sword, clove the other's helm in twain, so\nthat the knight fell like a stone.\n\n'Alas!' cried the lady, as she came across the ford, 'that ever kitchen\nknave should have the mishap to slay two such noble knights! Doubtless\nthou thinkest thou hast done mightily, sir knight of the turnspit, but\nI saw well how it all happened. The first knight's horse stumbled on\nthe stones of the ford, and the other thou didst stab from behind.\n'Twas a shameful deed!'\n\n'Damsel,' said Beaumains, quiet in words though hot of mind at her\nwords, 'ye may say what ye will. I only know that I fight fairly, as\nGod gives me strength. I reck not what ye say, so I win your lady\nsister from her oppressor.'\n\n'Thou knave of impudence!' cried the lady. 'Thee to speak of winning my\nlady sister, high of rank and rich in wide lands as she is! But thou\nshalt soon see knights that shall abate thy pride.'\n\n'Whatever knights they be, I care not, so that I win good words from\nyou at last,' said Beaumains.\n\n'Those thou shalt never have, thou churl,' replied the lady scornfully.\n'For all that thou hast done has been by chance and misadventure, and\nnot by the prowess of thy hands. But if thou wilt follow me, why, then,\ncome, and I shall the more quickly be rid of thee, for of a surety thou\nwilt soon be slain.'\n\nBeaumains answered naught, and so they went on their way.\n\n[Illustration: BEAUMAINS WINS THE FIGHT AT THE FORD]\n\n\nThus they fared until evensong, and then they came to a waste land,\nwhere their way led through a narrow darkling valley. And at the head\nthereof they entered upon a wide land, black and drear to the very\nskies, and beside the way was a black hawthorn, and thereon hung a\nblack banner and a black shield, and by it, stuck upright, was a long\nblack spear, and beside it was a great black horse covered with silk,\nand a black stone fast by it.\n\nAnd upon the stone sat a knight in black armour, at sight of whom the\ndamsel cried:\n\n'Now, my kitchen knight, 'tis not too late. Fly back through the\nvalley, or this knight will surely slay thee.'\n\n'Nay, I will not,' said Beaumains, 'for I fear him not.'\n\nThe black knight came to the damsel and asked if she had brought this\nknight from King Arthur's court to be her champion.\n\n'Fie!' she said angrily, 'he is no knight. He is but a knave that was\nfed for alms in the king's kitchen, and would follow me in spite of all\nI say. And I would that you would rid me of him. To-day he slew two\nnoble knights at the passage of the water, and all by evil chance.'\n\n'A strong knave, in truth,' answered the knight, 'and a saucy one. Then\nthis will I do. He shall leave me his horse and armour, for since he is\nbut a knave, my knightly hands may not harm him.'\n\n'You speak lightly of my horse and armour,' said Beaumains, 'but I will\nhave you know that you get naught from me, and moreover I will pass\nthese lands with this lady in spite of you.'\n\n'Thou knave!' cried the knight angrily, 'yield me this lady and thyself\nwithout ado!'\n\n'Let me see what thou canst do to take us,' replied Beaumains, and\nlaughed gaily.\n\nAt this the knight in a rage leaped upon his horse and they thundered\ntogether. The black knight's spear broke, but Beaumains' lance pierced\nhim through the side and broke off short. Nevertheless, though badly\nwounded, the black knight drew his sword and fought manfully, striking\nBeaumains many mighty blows and bruising him sorely.\n\nBut suddenly his lifted sword fell from his hand, and turning in his\nsaddle, he dropped to the ground in a swoon, and shortly died.\n\nAnd Beaumains, seeing that the black armour was better than his own,\narmed himself in it with the aid of his dwarf squire, and rode after\nthe damsel.\n\nBut ever as before she railed at him, telling him he had conquered the\nblack knight by a cowardly blow; but Beaumains would answer her nothing\nin anger.\n\nAnon they came to the edge of a vast and dark forest, and from its\nshadows came a knight in green armour, who cried to the damsel:\n\n'Lady, is that my brother the Black Knight whom ye bring riding behind\nye?'\n\n'Nay, sir knight, it is not your brother,' she replied. 'It is but a\nkitchen knave who by treachery hath slain your noble brother, the\nKnight of the Black Lands.'\n\n'Thou traitor!' cried the green knight. 'Now shalt thou surely die, for\nmy brother, Sir Percard, was a most noble knight and a valiant. And to\nthink that he fell by the dirty hand of a knave is great shame.'\n\n'I am no knave!' said Beaumains, 'but of lineage as high as thine,\nmaybe. And I slew your brother in knightly fashion.'\n\nBut the green knight stayed not to answer, and they hurtled together,\nand clashed midway as if it were thunder. And Beaumains' stroke was so\nmighty that both the green knight and his horse fell to the ground.\n\nSwiftly the green knight rose to his feet, and then, Beaumains having\nalighted, they rushed together with their swords, and stood a long time\nhacking, thrusting and parrying. And each hurt the other sorely.\n\n'Oh, my lord, the green knight,' cried the damsel, 'why do ye stand so\nlong fighting with that kitchen knave? A shame it is to see a proved\nknight matched by a dirty scullion! Slay him for me and be done!'\n\nShamed by her words the green knight gave a fierce stroke and clove\nBeaumains' shield in twain. Then Beaumains, smarting with this blow,\nand in anger at the words of the lady, suddenly gave the green knight\nso great a stroke that he fell upon his knees, and then was thrust\ngrovelling upon the earth.\n\nSwiftly Beaumains cut the fastenings of his helm, and, tearing it off,\nlifted his sword to strike off the other's head.\n\nBut the green knight prayed of his mercy and pleaded hard for his life.\n\n'Thou shalt plead in vain,' said Beaumains, 'unless this lady shall beg\nthy life of me.'\n\n'Shame on thee, thou kitchen knave!' cried the lady, biting her lip\nwith anger. 'Thinkest thou I shall crave aught of thee, and be so\nbeholden to thee?'\n\n'Then he shall die!' cried Beaumains.\n\n'O lady, suffer me not to die!' cried the prostrate knight, 'when a\nfair word from you will save my life. And you, sir knight, give me my\nlife, and I will yield myself and thirty knights to be your men and do\nyour commands while they live.'\n\n'Now that is a grievous shame!' cried the lady, 'What, Sir Green\nKnight, art such a coward as to crave thy life of a scullion knave, and\npromise him thirty knights' service!'\n\n'You and your thirty knights shall avail you naught,' said Beaumains\ngrimly, 'and since this lady will not beg thy life of me, why, now I\nshall slay thee.'\n\nWith that he raised the sword, but the lady cried out:\n\n'Put down, thou rascally knave, and slay him not, or thou shalt repent\nit!'\n\n'Lady,' said Beaumains, and bowed full gently, 'your command is to me a\npleasure, and at your desire I give him his life.'\n\nThen the green knight did homage to Beaumains and gave up his sword.\nAfterwards he took them to his castle near by, where they passed the\nnight.\n\nNext morning the green knight, whose name was Sir Pertolope,\naccompanied them some distance on their way, and at parting he told\nBeaumains that he and his thirty knights would do service when and\nwhere he might desire. Thereupon Beaumains told him that he must go and\nyield himself and his knights to King Arthur, and this Sir Pertolope\npromised faithfully to do.\n\nAnd again, when they had gone some way and had reached a little town, a\nknight challenged Beaumains, who, having fought with the stranger and\noverpowered him, threatened to slay him unless the lady begged for his\nlife. This she did, after she had said many bitter and evil things, and\nBeaumains commanded the knight to go, with threescore knights which\nwere in his service, and yield himself up to King Arthur.\n\nThen Beaumains and the lady went on again, and the lady was full of\nrage in that she had been compelled a second time to plead with him for\nthe life of a knight.\n\n'Thou shalt get thy full wages to-day, sir kitchen knight,' said she,\n'for in a little while there will meet us the most valiant knight in\nthe world, after King Arthur. Methinks thou wouldst do the better part\nto flee, for the evil luck which thou hast had with the three knights\nyou have overcome will not avail thee upon this one.'\n\n'Madam,' said Beaumains, 'ye know that ye are uncourteous so to\nreproach me. I have done you great service these three days, but ever\nye call me coward and kitchen knave. Yet those who have come against\nme, whom you said would beat me, are now either slain or have yielded\nhomage to me.'\n\n'The greater shame,' said the lady, 'that so lowborn a churl as thou\nart should have knights yield to thee who should have slain thee.'\n\nBeaumains answered nothing more, but his heart was very heavy at the\nthought that, do what he might, he could not win this lady to speak\nfairly of him.\n\nTowards noon, as they rode, they saw the white towers of a fair city,\nand before its gates was a field newly mown, with many tents therein of\ndivers rich colours.\n\n'Lo, there is the town of the man that shall cut thy comb, thou proud\nvarlet!' said the lady. 'A brave and proved knight is he, by name Sir\nPersaunt of Mynnid. And he hath a following of five hundred knights and\nmen-at-arms.'\n\n'A goodly lord, indeed,' replied Beaumains, 'and one I fain would see.'\n\nThe lady laughed mockingly.\n\n'Thou shalt see him too soon to please thee, I doubt not,' she replied,\n'for he is the lordliest knight that ever whipped a knave.'\n\n'That may well be,' said Beaumains, 'and the more desire I have to see\nhim.'\n\n'Thou fool!' cried the lady angrily. 'Thou hadst better turn and flee\nwhile there is time.'\n\n'Not a step will I,' replied he with a laugh. 'For, look you, if he be\nso lordly a knight as you say, he will not set his five hundred knights\non me at once. But if he will send but one against me at a time, I will\ndo my best till my strength goes from me. No man, be he knave or\nknight, can do more.'\n\nAt his quiet brave words the lady's heart smote her. She repented of\nher evil tongue, when she thought how valiant and true this unknown man\nhad been on her behalf.\n\n'Sir,' she said in a gentler voice, 'ye make me marvel. Thou hast\nspoken boldly, and, by my faith, thou hast done boldly, and that makes\nme wonder of what kin thou art. But as ye are so brave, and have done,\nyou and your horse, great travail these three days, I misdoubt that ye\nwill get hurt if ye go further. Therefore I bid you turn, or ever it be\ntoo late.'\n\n'Nay, I will not,' said Beaumains. 'It would be a great shame that now,\nwhen we are but a few miles from your lady sister's oppressor, I should\nturn back.'\n\n'But, sir, I counsel ye to do so,' said the lady. 'For the strength of\nSir Persaunt, even if ye conquer him, is but little compared with the\ngreat strength of the Red Knight who doth oppress my sister. And I am\nsure you have little hope of overcoming him.'\n\n'Nevertheless, lady, I will essay to conquer him,' said Beaumains, 'for\nit is but my duty and my desire to rescue your lady sister as I have\nresolved.'\n\n'I marvel what manner of man ye be,' said the lady. 'It must be that ye\ncome of noble blood, for no woman could have spoken or treated you more\nevilly than I have done. Yet ever you have courteously suffered all I\nsaid.'\n\n'Lady, it is but a man's duty to suffer a woman's wayward words,' said\nBeaumains, 'and they have not been without service to me. For the more\nye angered me the more strength of wrath I put into my blows, and so\nwas enabled to overcome your enemies. And as to what I am and whence I\ncame, I could have had meat in other places than in King Arthur's\nkitchen, but all that I have done was to try my friends. And whether I\nbe knave or gentleman, I have done you gentleman's service.'\n\n'That is truth, Sir Beaumains,' said the lady, all soft and penitent\nnow, 'and I beg of you forgiveness for all my evil words.'\n\n'I forgive ye with all my heart,' said Sir Beaumains, 'and I tell you,\nlady, that now that you speak kindly to me, it gladdens me greatly, and\nI feel that there is no knight living whom I could not strike down for\nthe sake of yourself and your lady sister.'\n\nBy this time Sir Persaunt had seen them, and had sent a squire to ask\nBeaumains whether he came in peace or war.\n\n'If he will not let us pass,' replied Beaumains, 'it shall be war.'\n\nAt that they saw Sir Persaunt array himself in his armour and mount his\nhorse, and now he came rushing across the field at utmost speed, his\nlance in rest. Beaumains also made his horse leap forward swiftly, and\nthe two knights met with so great a force that both their lances\nsplintered in many pieces, and their horses fell dead upon the field.\n\nBut the two knights instantly disentangled themselves, and fought on\nfoot with shield and sword. So furiously did they hurl themselves at\neach other that often they fell to the ground. For two hours the duel\nraged, till their hauberks were tattered and their shields were hacked,\nwhile both were sorely bruised and wounded.\n\nAt length Beaumains thrust Sir Persaunt in the side, and the latter's\nattack became less eager. Finally Beaumains hit the other so great a\nstroke that he fell headlong, and instantly Beaumains leaped astride of\nhim and unlashed his helm, as if about to slay him.\n\nThen Sir Persaunt yielded him and pleaded for his life, and the lady,\nwho had stood watching the combat, ran forward, placed her hand on Sir\nBeaumains' sword arm, and cried:\n\n'Of your mercy, Sir Beaumains, yield him his life for my sake.'\n\n'I do it willingly,' cried he, helping the knight to rise, 'for he hath\nnobly fought and so deserves not to die.'\n\n'Gramercy,' said Sir Persaunt, 'and now I know thou art the strong\nknight who slew my brothers the Black Knight of the Thorn and the Green\nKnight of the Wood. And now I will be your man, and five hundred\nknights of mine shall do your service as and when you will.'\n\nAnd that night they supped bounteously in Sir Persaunt's castle, and\nthe lady besought Beaumains to sit by her at the same table, and all\nthree made merry company.\n\nIn the morning, after they had heard mass and broken their fast,\nBeaumains and the lady set out again, and Sir Persaunt went with them\nto the drawbridge.\n\n'Fair lady,' said he, 'where dost thou lead this valiant knight?'\n\n'Sir,' said the lady, 'he is going to raise the siege which hath been\nset by the tyrant knight of the Reed Lands.'\n\n'Ah, then he goes to Castle Dangerous, and on the most perilous\nadventure that any man could take. For they say the Red Knight hath the\nstrength of seven men. And he doth oppress one of the fairest and\nsweetest ladies in the world. I think you are her sister, Dame Linet?'\n\n'That is my name,' replied the lady, 'and my sister is Dame Lyones.'\n\n'This Red Knight is the most dangerous knight in the world,' said Sir\nPersaunt to Beaumains, 'and hath besieged that fair lady these two\nyears. Many times he might have forced her for terror to have married\nhim, but he keeps the siege in hopes that Sir Lancelot or even King\nArthur would come to rescue the lady. For he hateth all true knights,\nbut those two with most bitterness.'\n\nSo they parted from Sir Persaunt and rode onwards, and the lady spoke\nnow full friendly to Beaumains.\n\nIn a little while, when they had passed through a fair forest, they\ncame upon a plain, and in the distance was a high castle with many\ntents about it, and men passing to and fro between them. And as they\nrode under some withered trees by the edge of the forest, they saw,\nhanging by their necks from the bare boughs, many goodly knights in\narmour, with their shields and swords hung before them.\n\nAt this shameful sight Beaumains checked his horse and asked: 'What\nmeans this?'\n\n'Fair sir,' said Linet, 'abate not your cheer at this dreadful sight,\nfor ye have need now of all your courage, or else are we all shamed and\ndestroyed. These dead knights are those who have come against the Red\nKnight trying to rescue my sister from his power. But the tyrant knight\nhath overcome them, and slain them thus shamefully by hanging.'\n\n'Now Heaven aid me,' said Beaumains, 'for this is a most shameful and\nunknightly custom, and well doth that evil knight deserve death.'\n\n'Nevertheless he is a knight of great prowess and force, though of evil\ncustom,' replied the lady, 'and no one hath ever borne him down in\nbattle.'\n\nWith that they came to a sycamore-tree which stood alone in the plain,\nand on it was hung a great horn of elephant bone, with gold work\ncuriously wrought.\n\n'Fair sir, ye must blow that horn if ye wish to do battle with the Red\nKnight. But, sir,' went on the lady quickly, and caught at Beaumains'\narm that already had lifted the horn, 'be ye not overbold. It is now\nthe hour of prime, and it is said that the Red Knight's force\nincreaseth to the strength of seven men until it is noon. Wait,\ntherefore, until noon shall be past, and his strength shall diminish.'\n\n'Nay, nay,' said Beaumains, 'speak not thus to me. I will assail him\nhowever mighty he be, and either I will beat him or die with honour in\nthe field.'\n\nTherewith he lifted the horn and blew so great a blast that instantly\nknights came in a great press from the tents, and people looked out\nfrom the walls and windows of the castle.\n\nThen Beaumains saw a tall man come running from a tent, arming himself\nas he came. Two barons set his spurs upon his heels and an earl buckled\nhis helm upon his head. He was all in red armour, from the plume which\nwaved upon his crest to the cloth which was upon his horse. And his\nshield was all of red, with but a black heart in the centre thereof.\n\nThen he waited for Beaumains in a little hollow before the castle, so\nthat all that were therein might see the combat.\n\n'Now, fair sir,' said Linet, 'it behoves you to have great courage and\nheart, for yonder is your deadliest enemy, and at yonder window is my\nlady sister, Dame Lyones.'\n\nBeaumains looked to where Linet was pointing, and saw at a window the\nloveliest lady he had ever seen. And as he looked she smiled and bowed\nto him, and he felt his heart burn with love for her.\n\n'Truly,' he said, 'she is the fairest lady I have ever looked upon, and\nshe shall be my lady.'\n\n'Cease thy looking at that lady,' called the Red Knight in a harsh and\nangry voice. 'She is my lady, and soon shall she see thy foolish body\nswinging from the tree for the ravens to pluck, as others hang there\nafore thee.'\n\n''Tis for that shameful sight and for the love of this lady that hates\nyou and your evil custom, that I am resolved to slay you, if God so\nwills,' was the stern reply of Beaumains.\n\n'A boastful rogue thou art,' cried the Red Knight, and laughed\nscornfully. 'What is thy name, and whence come ye, Sir Black Knight?\nFor surely from your talk you must be one of those prating and soft\nfools of the Round Table?'\n\n'I will not tell thee my name,' said Beaumains. 'And as yet I am not of\nthe worshipful company of King Arthur's Round Table. But when I have\nslain thee and rid the world of so shameful a knight, then shall I\ncrave the king to receive me into that high fellowship of noble and\ncourteous knights.'\n\n'Make thee ready!' shouted the Red Knight in a furious voice. 'I will\ntalk no more with thee.'\n\nWith that they withdrew a little from each other, and then, spurring\ntheir horses, and with lances in rest, they hurled themselves towards\neach other. With so great a crash did they come together that both\ntheir spears were broken into a hundred pieces, and their breastplates,\ngirths and cruppers burst, and the two knights fell to the ground half\nstunned with the shock.\n\nBut in a little while they avoided their struggling horses, and leaping\ntowards each other with their swords, they cut and hacked each the\nother so fiercely that great pieces of their shields and armour flew\noff.\n\nThus they fought till it was past noon, and would not stop, till at\nlast they both lacked wind, and thus they stood swaying, staggering,\npanting, yet feinting and striking with what strength they had. The Red\nKnight was a cunning fighter, and Beaumains learned much from him,\nthough it was at the cost of many a gaping wound.\n\nWhen it was evensong they rested by mutual accord, and seated on two\nmolehills near the fighting place, they had their helms taken off by\ntheir pages and their worse wounds bound up. Then Beaumains lifted up\nhis eyes to the lady at the window, and saw how her looks were tender\nwith pity for him.\n\nSo heartened was he at the sight that he started up swiftly, and bade\nthe Red Knight make him ready to do battle once more to the uttermost.\nThen they rushed fiercely at each other, and the fight raged more hotly\nthan ever. At length, by cunning, the Red Knight suddenly struck\nBeaumains' sword from his hand, and before he could recover it, the Red\nKnight had with a great buffet thrown him to the ground, and had fallen\nupon him to keep him down.\n\nThen cried the Lady Linet piteously:\n\n'O Sir Beaumains! Sir Beaumains! where is your great heart? My lady\nsister beholds you, and she sobs and weeps, for surely she feels the\nevil Red Knight hath her almost in his power!'\n\nAt that, so great a rage possessed Beaumains, that with one great\neffort he thrust the Red Knight from him, and, leaping up, he seized\nhis sword again, and so fiercely did he beat upon his enemy that the\nRed Knight sank to his knees, and then was thrust grovelling to the\nground.\n\nBeaumains leaped astride him, and cut the fastenings of his helm. Then\nthe Red Knight shrieked for mercy.\n\n'Thou recreant and coward!' said Beaumains. 'Did not any of those\nknights that thou hast hung cry to thee for mercy? What pity and what\nmercy didst thou give them? And thou deservest none from me, nor from\nany man!'\n\nWith that he slew him at a stroke, and the people in the castle cried\nout with joy.\n\nTheir leader being dead, his following of earls, barons and knights\ncame and did homage to Beaumains, and he commanded that instantly they\nshould betake themselves to the court of King Arthur and yield them\ninto his hands.\n\nThen for ten days the Lady Linet made Beaumains rest him in the Red\nKnight's tent, while she tended his many sore wounds. But ever\nBeaumains desired to go into the castle to see the lady he loved, but\nhis hurts forbade him.\n\nOn the eleventh day he would no longer be denied, but having armed\nhimself, all except his helm, which his page carried, he rode up to the\ncastle gate. But as he came thither he saw many armed men, who pulled\nup the drawbridge before him, so that he should not enter.\n\nTherewith he saw a knight at a window, who called to him.\n\n'Fair sir, I am Sir Gringamor, brother to the Lady Lyones,' said the\nknight. 'I will that ye enter not yet. We know that you have proved\nyourself a bold and brave fighter, but we know not who you are.\nTherefore, unless you tell me your name and kindred, I may not suffer\nmy sister to see you.'\n\n'I know naught of thee, sir knight,' cried Beaumains sternly. 'My\nbusiness is with the lady, from whom I think I deserve a little\nkindness, for I have bought her deliverance and her love with some of\nthe best blood in my body. Must I go away then, thinking she cares more\nfor a name and noble lineage than for brave deeds and devotion? Tell\nme, Sir Gringamor, is this the will of the Lady Lyones?'\n\n'Ye have but to tell us thy name and of thy lineage, brave man,' said\nSir Gringamor.\n\n'Nay, that I will not!' said Beaumains, for his heart was hot with\nshame and anger. 'If I were but a churl, I should reckon myself a\nnobler man than the recreant knight from whom I have rescued you and\nyour sister. But since he was a knight, it seems ye would reckon him as\nof greater honour than the brave churl that slew him for his evil\ndeeds.'\n\n'Nay, nay, it is not so!' came a sweet voice crying in tears, and Sir\nBeaumains saw the tender face of the Lady Lyones at the window where\nSir Gringamor had been. 'My brave knight, think not ill of me, for this\nis none of my will, for I am mocked and my pleasure denied in my own\ncastle by this my over-careful brother. I love thee, sir knight,\nwhatsoever thou art, for I feel that thou art gentle and brave, and as\ngood a man as any lady might love. And I beg you go not far from me,\nfor I will have my will erelong, and I tell you now that I trust you,\nand I shall be true to you, and unto my death I shall love you and no\nother. And whenever I may come to you I will, in spite of this my\nbrother.'\n\nSaying these words, the lady sobbed as if her heart would break, and\nhiding her face in her hands she was led away by her women.\n\nWith that Beaumains' heart smote him, and he was resolved to reveal his\nname and lineage for the sake of the dear lady who loved him. But even\nas he thought this, he was aware of a party of knights coming towards\nhim from the plain, and soon he recognised that they were of the\ncompany of King Arthur's Round Table.\n\nAnd the foremost knight, who bore his helm in his hand, rode forward to\nhim, crying:\n\n'O Gareth, Gareth, my brother, how hast thou deceived us all!'\n\nThen did Sir Beaumains clasp the other's hand right warmly, for this\nwas his own brother, Sir Gaheris, sent from King Arthur to bring him\nhome.\n\nWhen Sir Gringamor knew of the coming of these knights, quickly he bade\nthe drawbridge to be lowered, and in a little while the knights were\nbeing welcomed in the hall.\n\n'Sir Gringamor,' said Sir Gaheris, 'I find that I come at a lucky\nchance for the happiness of my brother. Already the fame of his brave\ndeeds has reached King Arthur, for the knights he hath overcome have\nput themselves in the mercy of the king.'\n\n'Sir Knight of the Round Table,' said Sir Gringamor, 'tell me who is\nthis brave knight that will not say his name?'\n\n'He is Sir Gareth, my brother, the youngest son of the King of Orkney,'\nreplied Sir Gaheris, 'and fit for the highest lady in the land. He hath\nplayed this trick upon us all, to test us. We did not know him, for he\nhath grown up to manhood while we have been long away from home. But\never he hath had an adventurous and witty mind.'\n\n'Sir, I thank you,' said Sir Gringamor, and taking Sir Gareth by the\nhand he led him into the bower where sat the Lady Lyones, who sprang to\nmeet Sir Gareth. To her Sir Gringamor told all that he had heard, and\nthen left Sir Gareth to tell her more of himself.\n\nAnd in a little while, at the court of King Arthur, they were married\nwith great feastings and joustings and with all things to make merry.\nAnd Linet was wedded at the same time to Sir Gaheris. For though the\nLady Linet was sharp of tongue, she was of great and good heart, and\nwell beloved of all who knew her well.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nHOW SIR TRISTRAM KEPT HIS WORD\n\n\nIn the days when King Arthur had established his kingdom, he was called\nEmperor of Britain and its three islands. Nevertheless, there were\nkings who were rulers in their own lands, but they held their\nsovereignty of Arthur and had done homage to him and sworn fealty. In\nWales there were two kings, in the north were eleven kings, and these\nhe had conquered in a great battle by Sherwood Forest; in Cornwall were\ntwo kings, and in Ireland three kings, but all gave service to the\ngreat King Arthur.\n\nThat part of Cornwall which was called the lands of Tintagel formed the\nkingdom of a prince named Mark, and he owed certain yearly tribute or\ntruage to King Anguish of South Ireland. It befell one day that King\nAnguish sent a messenger, who came to King Mark as he sat in hall, and\nsaid:\n\n'Sir king, my master bids me say that the truage which you owe unto him\nis unpaid for seven years past, and if it be not paid he will demand of\nyou double the sum.'\n\nNow King Mark was a man of a mean and covetous mind, and he loved not\nto give money. Therefore, to put off the payment for a little while, he\nmade answer thus:\n\n'Tell your master that we will pay him no truage; and if your lord says\nhe will have it, let him send a trusty knight of his land that will\nfight for his right, and we will find another to do battle with him.'\n\nWhen King Anguish heard the message he was wondrous wroth, and called\ninto him the brother of his queen, Sir Marhaus, a good knight of\nprowess nobly proved, and, besides, a knight of the Round Table. The\nking craved of him to go and do battle for the truage due from Mark of\nCornwall.\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Marhaus, 'I will gladly go and do battle for you on\nthis saucy king or his knight. I ween ye shall have your truage to the\nlast groat, for I fear not the best knight of the Round Table, unless\nit be Sir Lancelot, and I doubt not King Mark hath no knight of such\nworth and prowess as I.'\n\nSo in all haste Sir Marhaus set forth in a ship, and in a little while\ncast anchor fast by the shore where, on two high cliffs, the castle of\nTintagel frowned upon the sea. When King Mark understood that so noble\na knight as Sir Marhaus had come to do battle for the truage, he was\nfull of sorrow, and wept as he looked upon the bags of gold in his\ntreasure-chest. He knew of no knight of his court that durst face Sir\nMarhaus, and he feared much that he would have to part with his gold.\n\nDaily Sir Marhaus sent a message up to the castle gate, demanding\npayment of the truage, or that a knight should come forth to do battle\nagainst him.\n\nThen King Mark let make a proclamation through all the lands, that if a\nknight would fight to save the truage of Cornwall he should fare the\nbetter as long as he lived. But the days and weeks went by and no\nknight came forward. Then Sir Marhaus sent at the last a message which\nsaid, that if within a day and a night a champion for King Mark came\nnot forward, he should depart.\n\nAll that day King Mark was sore and ill of mind and haggard of face,\nand could never stay still, but was for ever faring with his barons to\nwhere he could look down upon the ship of Sir Marhaus, and see the\nknight waiting in his armour.\n\nLate in the afternoon, as the king stood thus, gnawing his nails for\nrage, and so hot and wrathful that none of his barons dare speak to\nhim, there came two horsemen riding swiftly into the courtyard of the\ncastle, and at the sound of their horses' feet King Mark turned\neagerly.\n\nA young squire was the foremost rider, and he was a youth full handsome\nand tall, with brown curly hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in a\nsurcoat of red satin and a mantle of crimson, trimmed with gold; and on\nhis head was a cap of rich purple, and his feet and legs were clad in\nfine leather, with gold bosses on his shoes. Alighting easily, he\ndoffed his hat and came towards the king:\n\n'Sir,' said he, 'if ye will give me the order of knighthood, I shall do\nbattle to the uttermost with Sir Marhaus of Ireland.'\n\nKing Mark looked the young man up and down, and saw that though he was\nyoung of age, yet he was passing well made of body, with broad\nshoulders and of big limbs. The heart of King Mark became light.\n\n'Fair son,' he said, and his barons marvelled at his soft words, 'what\nare ye and whence come ye?'\n\n'Sir,' said the youth, 'I come from King Talloch, Prince of Lyones, and\nI am a gentleman's son.'\n\n'And your name and birthplace--what are they?'\n\n'My name is Tristram, sir, and I was born in Lyones.'\n\n'Young sir,' said the king, 'I like your manner, and I think ye should\nbe a good man of your hands. Therefore will I make you knight if ye\nwill fight with Sir Marhaus.'\n\n'That is why I have come,' said Tristram.\n\nEagerly the king bade a baron give him his sword, and commanded\nTristram to kneel, and then and there he tapped his shoulder with the\nflat of the sword and bade him rise, 'Sir Tristram of Lyones.'\n\nThe king commanded his scrivener to come to him, and on the low wall\noverlooking the sea the man of inkhorn and goosequill laid his\nparchment, and wrote a letter to Sir Marhaus at the king's dictation,\nsaying that a knight would battle with him in the morning. A messenger\nwas sent therewith without delay, and the king went into supper,\nsnapping his fingers and joking with his barons in great glee.\n\nBut in the midst of supper a parchment was brought to the king and his\nface fell, and he commanded the new-made knight to come from his seat\nand stand before him.\n\n'Hark ye,' he said, his face dark, 'this prideful Sir Marhaus, waiting\nso long, hath made his terms the harder. I fear, good fellow, your\nknighthood hath been earned of me too easily, even if ye are not in\nleague with this pesky Irish knight,' he went on, his narrow eyes\ngleaming with suspicion. 'He sayeth now that he will not fight with any\nknight unless he be of blood royal on his mother's side or father's.\nSay, are ye some starveling knight's brat, or what are ye?'\n\nSir Tristram's face went hard and his eyes flashed.\n\n'No starveling's brat am I, king,' he said, 'unless ye are that\nthyself.'\n\n'What mean you? Have a care of your saucy tongue.'\n\n'I fear thee not,' laughed Sir Tristram, 'but this I would have you\nknow. I am thy nephew, son of thy sister Elizabeth, who died in the\nforest, and of King Talloch of Lyones.'\n\nAt these words the king rose from his seat and embraced Sir Tristram,\ncrying:\n\n'Now, in the name of Heaven, thou art right heartily welcome unto me,\ndear nephew.'\n\nThat evening he made great cheer of Sir Tristram, and had his bed made\nnext to his own in his own royal chamber. On the morrow the king had\nSir Tristram horsed and armed in the best manner. Then he sent a\ntrumpeter down to the seashore, and let Sir Marhaus know that a better\nborn man than he was himself would fight with him, and that his name\nwas Sir Tristram of Lyones, son of the King of Lyones and his queen\nElizabeth, King Mark's sister. Sir Marhaus was right blithe that he\nshould have to do with such a gentleman.\n\nThen it was ordained that the two knights should battle on a little\nisland near the ship of Sir Marhaus, and so young Sir Tristram and his\nsquire were rowed thereunto, and when he departed, King Mark and his\nbarons and all the common people were rejoiced to see the young\nknight's noble and high bearing, and wished him Godspeed.\n\nWhen Sir Tristram landed he saw Sir Marhaus waiting armed in the shadow\nof his ship. Sir Tristram's squire brought his master's horse to land,\nand clad his master in his armour as was right, and then the young\nknight mounted upon his horse and rode towards Sir Marhaus.\n\nWhile he was as yet six spear-lengths from him the knight of the Round\nTable cried unto him:\n\n'Young knight, Sir Tristram, what doest thou here? I grieve me of thy\ncourage, for ye are untried, while I have been well essayed in jousts\nand tournaments with some of the best men of their hands as are now\nliving. I counsel thee to go back.'\n\n'Fair and well-proved knight,' said Sir Tristram, 'I am for thy sake\nmade knight, and I have promised to fight thee, and I will do so, as\nmuch for mine uncle's sake as for what worship I may win from doing\nbattle with ye, who are one of the best renowned knights of the world.'\n\n'Then I would have ye know, fair sir,' said Sir Marhaus, 'that no\nworship shalt thou lose if thou canst only stand against three strokes\nof mine, for, by reason of my noble deeds, seen and proved, King Arthur\nmade me knight of the Round Table.'\n\nSir Tristram answered him naught, and then they dressed their spears\nand spurred their horses, and ran so fiercely each against the other\nthat both were smitten to the ground, both horses and men. But Sir\nMarhaus had struck a great wound in the side of Sir Tristram, yet so\neager was the young knight that he knew not of it. They leaped up and\navoided their horses, and drew out their swords, and with shield on arm\nthey lashed at each other like fierce wild boars. Yet for all Sir\nMarhaus' strong and bitter strokes he could not beat down the young\nknight's guard, and in despite he began to aim at his vizor and his\nneck. At this Sir Tristram was wroth, and struck him more furiously.\nThus for two hours the battle waged, and both were sore wounded. But\nSir Tristram was the fresher and better winded and bigger of limb and\nreach; and suddenly he heaved his sword up high, and closing upon Sir\nMarhaus he smote him with so mighty a buffet upon his helm that the\nblade shore through the steel even into the brain-pan.\n\nSo fierce had been the stroke that the sword stuck fast in the bone and\nthe helmet, and Sir Tristram pulled thrice at his sword before it would\nloosen. Sir Marhaus sank to his knees with a deathly groan; then he\nthrew away his sword and shield, and rising, staggered away towards his\nship. Sir Tristram swooned and fell; and his squire came running to\nhim, just as the men of Sir Marhaus' ship came and drew their master on\nboard. Then they swiftly set their sail and flew over the sea.\n\nGreat was the mourning of the barons and the people of Cornwall when it\nwas known how deep and wide was the wound which Tristram had received\nfrom the lance of Sir Marhaus. Many famous leeches came and searched\nthe wound and strove to close it, but none availed. When two months had\npassed, came an old, old woman, a witch wise in leechcraft beyond all\nothers, who was called the Mother of the Mists, and who lived in the\nGreat Shuddering Moor, where only trolls dwelled, and no man ever dared\nto go. She also came and searched his wound at the king's desire.\n\nWhen she had made her search, with many mumblings and strange words,\nshe turned and looked keenly at the king. Her eyes gleamed like beads,\nher skin was wrinkled and dark, and she laughed a little soft laugh.\n\n'Lord king,' she said, 'this fine man's wound is poisoned, and naught\ncan heal it this side the great water. But if he goeth whither the\nspear came from which poisoned it, he shall get whole of that wound.'\n\n''Tis well,' said the king, 'he shall be sent to Ireland.'\n\n'Ay, ay, ay,' said the old woman, and laughed in Sir Tristram's face.\n'Thou shalt be healed, fair chief, but the hand that shall heal thee\nshall give thee a deeper wound--a wound that shall never be healed this\nside o' thy grave.'\n\nForthwith King Mark let a fair ship be purveyed and well stored with\nnecessary victuals, and Sir Tristram was carried thereto and laid on\nhis couch on the deck, and Governale, his faithful squire, went with\nhim. In the sunshine and the brisk wind Sir Tristram felt joyful, and\nthe merry waves slapped the sides of the ship full prettily as it\ncleaved through the blue seas towards the west.\n\nIn the evening they saw the white cliffs and the brown rocks of\nIreland, and Sir Tristram took his harp and played thereon, for he had\nlearned to harp most featly in France, where he had lived seven years,\nto learn all manner of courtly and noble pastimes. Soon the shipmen\ncast anchor in a wide sheltered cove beneath a castle which stood on a\nhigh rock beside a fair town.\n\nSir Tristram asked the master of the ship the name of that town.\n\n'Cro-na-Shee, if it please you, my lord,' said the master.\n\n'It pleases me well,' said Tristram; 'it should mean that there dwell\ntherein brave and noble knights, and damsels like unto fairies.'\n\nOut of the merriness of his heart he thrummed his harp with so blithe\nand strange a tune that in a little while the very folk upon the shore\ncame listening, and some began to dance, while others looked sad. For\nthough the tune was very merry, there was sadness also peeping from it.\n\nIt happened that King Anguish and his court were in that castle by the\nsea, and a handmaiden of the queen came to where they sat and told them\nof the knight that sat in his ship and harped so strange a lay that it\nmade one glad and sorry at the same time.\n\nThen King Anguish sent a knight and begged the harper to take cheer\nwith him, and Sir Tristram was brought in a litter, and all the damsels\nwere sad at his sickness, and the knights sorrowed that a knight so\nnoble-looking should be so wounded. King Anguish asked him who he was\nand how he came by his wound. And Sir Tristram, having learned that\nthis was the King of Ireland, whose champion he had worsted in the\nbattle, and thinking that his own name would be known, replied:\n\n'I am of the country of Lyones, and my name is Sir Tramor, and my wound\nwas got in battle, as I fought for a lady's right.'\n\n'I pity thee, sir knight,' said the king, who was a right noble king\nand lovable, 'and by Heaven's aid, ye shall have all the help in this\ncountry that ye may need.'\n\nThe king told him of the battle which Sir Marhaus had had on his behalf\nwith a knight named Sir Tristram, and how Sir Marhaus had come home\nwounded unto death, and was dead this two months. On which Sir Tristram\nfeigned to be sorry, but said not much thereon.\n\nThen did the king order his daughter to come before him. She was called\nLa Belle Isoude, for that she was the most lovely damsel in all Ireland\nand the Out-Isles, and withal gentle and kind; and her father bade her\ntend and minister to this stranger knight, who had come to Ireland to\nheal him of his wound.\n\nIn a few weeks, so soft was she of her hands and so learned in\nleechcraft, she had cleaned Tristram's wound of all poison and he was\nhale and strong again. As some reward he taught her to harp, and gave\nher many good and costly presents. These she took, but valued them not\nso much as his kind words and smiles. More and more she loved to hear\nhis voice, and when he was gone out hawking or looking at jousts she\nwas sad and thoughtful, sitting with her fair hands in her lap and her\neyes looking far away, and when she heard his step or his voice in the\nhall, then would her sad eyes light up, and a merry tune would hum upon\nher lips, and she would gaily talk with her handmaidens, who,\nwhispering and glancing and nodding to each other as they sat about her\nat their spinning frames, knew of her love for Sir Tristram before she\nwas aware of it herself.\n\nSir Tristram cared not overmuch to be with ladies, but was more joyful\nto be in hall, talking of hunting, jousting and hawking. All men\nregarded him highly for his great knowledge of these things, but as\nyet, for fear of hurting his wound which was but freshly healed, La\nBelle Isoude forbade him gently to take violent exercise. Sir Tristram\nwas impatient to be in the saddle again, with lance in rest and his\ngreat charger leaping beneath him.\n\nNow, to the court of King Anguish there had lately come a knight named\nSir Palomides, famed for his knightly deeds, though still a pagan, and\nhe was well favoured both of King Anguish and his queen. Sir Palomides\ncame and made great court to La Belle Isoude, and proffered her many\ngifts, for he loved her passing well. Indeed, for her sake he declared\nhe would be christened and become a Christian knight; but La Belle\nIsoude had no care for him, and avoided him as well as she might.\n\nOn a certain day King Anguish made a great cry that a joust and\ntournament would be held, wherein only unmarried knights should join,\nand the prize would be a fair lady called the Lady of the Laundes, near\ncousin to the king. The heralds further said that he who should win her\nshould marry her three days after, and have all her lands with her.\nThis cry was made in all Ireland and Wales, and in Logres and Alban,\nwhich are now called England and Scotland.\n\nIt befell the same day that La Belle Isoude came to Sir Tristram, and\nshe seemed distressed of mind and as if she had wept secretly.\n\n'Sir Tramor,' she said, 'this tournament shall exalt Sir Palomides\nbeyond all other knights, unless a better do come forward and overcome\nhim.'\n\n'Fair lady,' said Sir Tristram, 'Sir Palomides may well win the prize\nagainst any knight, except it be Sir Lancelot. But if ye think I am fit\nto joust I will e'en essay it. Yet he is a proved knight, and I but a\nyoung one and but lately ill; and my first battle that I fought, it\nmishapped me to be sore wounded. Yet I will essay it, for I love not\nthis Sir Palomides.'\n\n'Ah, but I know thou wilt do well in the battle, and thou shalt have\nall my prayers for thy safety and success,' said La Belle Isoude.\n\nOn the first day of the jousts Sir Palomides came with a black shield,\nand he was a knight big of his body and on a great horse. He overthrew\nmany knights and put them to the worst, among them being many of the\nknights of the Round Table, as Sir Gawaine and his brother Sir Gaheris,\nSir Agravaine, Sir Kay, Sir Sagramore le Desirous, Sir Owen, who had\nbeen the little page-boy who had saved King Arthur's life in his hall\nat Caerleon, and three other knights. All these he struck down, and the\nothers were adread of him. The people had great marvel, and acclaimed\nhim with much worship as the victor of the first day.\n\nThe next day he came and smote down King Morgant, the pagan King of\nScotland, as also the Duke of Cambenet. Then, as he rode up and down\nthe lists proudly flourishing his lance, dressing his shield and\nwaiting for the other knights to offer themselves to him, he was aware\nof a knight all in white armour, with vizor closed, riding quickly\nthrough the gate as if he came from the seashore.\n\nThe stranger knight came with swiftness, lifting his lance in token of\nchallenge. Whereat Sir Palomides rode to the other end of the lists,\ndressed his lance, and together they put their horses in motion. Like\ntwo bulls the knights thundered against each other in the centre of the\nlists. The white knight's lance hit the shield of Sir Palomides full in\nthe centre, and with the shock the pagan knight was lifted from his\nsaddle, carried beyond his horse, and fell with a great thud to the\nground, while his horse careered onward riderless.\n\nSir Gawaine and his fellows marvelled who this stranger knight might\nbe. Then Sir Palomides, rising from the ground, caught his horse, and\nfull of shame, would have slunk from the field. But the white knight\nrode after him and bade him turn, 'for,' said the stranger, 'he would\nbetter prove him with the sword.'\n\nThen, alighting, they lashed at each other with their swords. Now Sir\nPalomides was a powerful man, and his strokes were passing heavy, but\nSir Tristram, for the stranger knight was he, felt so full of strength\nand joy after his long leisure, that he played with Sir Palomides, and\nmen wondered at the might of his blows, and his swiftness was a marvel\nto see. In a while, with a great buffet on the head of the pagan\nknight, Sir Tristram felled him to the earth.\n\n'Now yield thee,' said the white knight sternly, 'and do my command, or\nI will slay thee of a surety.'\n\nSir Palomides was sore adread, and promised.\n\n'Swear me this,' said the stranger, 'that upon pain of thy life thou\nleave my lady La Belle Isoude, and come not unto her ever again, and\nfor a year and a day thou shalt bear no armour. Promise me this, or\nhere shalt thou die!'\n\n'I swear it,' said Sir Palomides, 'but I am for ever shamed.'\n\nIn his rage Sir Palomides cut off his armour and threw it from him and\nfled away on his horse.\n\nThen the white knight also went away, and none knew who he was. The\nking sent after him, to tell him he was the winner of the lady, whom he\nshould wed, but the messengers could not find him. Men marvelled much\nat this, that the victor knight should not come to claim the rich lady\nfor his wife with the wide lands that went with her.\n\nWhen Sir Tristram returned to the private postern where La Belle Isoude\nhad led him forth secretly, he found her standing breathless, and she\nwas pale and red by turns, and could not speak at first.\n\n'Thou--thou hast not failed?' she said, and clasped her hands.\n\n'Nay,' said Sir Tristram, laughing. 'He will never trouble you again.\nAnd, by Our Lady, I wished there had been six of him, for I never felt\nmore full of fight and strength than I do this day.'\n\n'But--but have ye not claimed the prize?' said La Belle Isoude, and hid\nher face that was so deathly white.\n\n'Nay, nor will I,' said Sir Tristram, 'for I crave not to be married. I\nwould be free and go forth into strange lands to seek adventures.'\n\nHe went from her, with the tune of a hunting song upon his lips, and\nsaw not how La Belle Isoude trembled against the wall and was near to\nswoon.\n\nFor La Belle Isoude herself was the Lady of the Laundes who should be\ngiven to the victor, though this was known to none but herself and the\nking and queen.\n\nThe king and queen and all the court marvelled who should be the\nstranger knight, and why he had departed, and some suspected Sir\nTristram, but none knew of this except La Belle Isoude and Governale\nhis squire, and none dared charge him therewith. La Belle Isoude kept\nher counsel, and strove to seem lighthearted.\n\nIt fell upon a day that Sir Tristram was disporting himself with other\nknights at a game of ball upon the green before the castle, and had\nleft his sword hung upon the post beside his seat in hall. The queen,\nwith La Belle Isoude, passed through the hall to go to see the men at\ntheir sport, and on her way she espied Sir Tristram's sword, and the\nstrange device of a serpent which was upon the handle. She said it was\na marvellous piece of work, and never had she seen the like of it.\nThen, by ill hap, she drew the sword from the scabbard, and they both\nadmired it a long time, looking at its keenness and brightness and the\nwords of mystery engraved on it.\n\nSuddenly the queen gave a little cry as of terror, and she pointed to\nwhere, within a foot and a half of the point, there was a piece broken\nout of the edge. Then, very hastily, the queen ran with the sword into\nher bower, and from her treasure-chest she drew a casket, and from the\ncasket she drew a tiny piece of doeskin, and from that she took a\nfragment of steel.\n\nWhile her daughter marvelled what it all might mean, the queen took the\npiece of steel and placed it in the broken part of Sir Tristram's\nsword, and it fitted so that the break could hardly be seen.\n\n'Alas!' said the queen, 'this is the piece of sword that the leech took\nfrom the brain of my brother, Sir Marhaus, and this Sir Tramor is the\ntraitorous knight that slew him!'\n\nThe heart of La Belle Isoude stood still for fear of the ill that would\nbefall Sir Tristram, for she knew her mother's rage.\n\nThe queen caught up the sword fiercely in her hand and rushed from the\nroom. Midway through the hall there met her Sir Tristram himself with\nhis squire Governale, and the queen sped to him and would have run him\nthrough, but for Governale, who snatched the sword from her, though she\nwounded him in her wrath.\n\nFinding her rage thus put to naught, she ran to King Anguish, and threw\nherself on her knees before him, crying out:\n\n'Oh, my lord and husband, here have ye in your house that traitor\nknight that slew my brother and your champion, that noble knight, Sir\nMarhaus. It is Sir Tramor, as he falsely calleth himself, but the piece\nof steel that was taken from my brother's brain fits a notch in his\nsword.'\n\n'Alas,' cried King Anguish, 'then am I right heavy, for he is as full\nnoble a knight as ever I knew; and I charge ye, have not to do with\nhim, but let me deal in this matter.'\n\nThe king went to Sir Tristram and found him fully armed, as if ready to\nfight for his life, for he knew that now the truth had been discovered.\n\n'Nay, Sir Tramor,' said the king gravely, 'it will not avail thee to\nfight me. But this will I do for the love and honour I bear thee.\nInasmuch as ye are within my court it would be no worship for me to\nhave thee taken and slain, and therefore will I let thee freely depart\nif thou wilt tell me this: Who is thy father and what is thy name? And\ndidst thou truly and rightly slay Sir Marhaus?'\n\n'Tristram is my name,' replied the young knight, 'and I am son of King\nTalloch of Lyones. For the truage of Cornwall I fought for the sake of\nmy uncle King Mark, and the battle with Sir Marhaus was the first I\nhad, for I was made knight for that alone. Sir Marhaus went from me\nalive into his ship, though he left his sword and shield behind him.'\n\n'I may not say that ye have done aught but what a good knight should\ndo,' replied the king, 'but I may not maintain you in this country\nunless I would displease my wife and her kin.'\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Tristram, 'I thank you for your goodness and for the\nkind cheer which I have had here of yourself and your queen and La\nBelle Isoude. I will depart straightway when I have bidden your\ndaughter farewell, for I owe my life to her gentle hands; and I promise\nthis, that I will be your daughter's servant and knight in right or\nwrong, to shield her and fight for her, and do all that a knight may do\nin her behalf, as long as I live.'\n\nThen took he his leave of La Belle Isoude, and he told her all how he\nhad come to that land. He thanked her heartily for all her gentleness\nto him and for her healing of his wound. At first she stood silent,\nchanging red and white of face, and with downcast eyes, her fingers\nstraining about each other. When he swore that he would be her knight,\nto fight for her whenever she should send for him, and bade her\ngood-bye, she took the hand which he held forth, but would not look at\nhim.\n\nTristram wondered why her fair hand was so cold. 'Good-bye and God be\nwith ye always,' La Belle Isoude replied in a faint voice, and then\nturned and went from him. Tristram thought she was angered with him for\nthe slaying of her uncle.\n\nSo in a little while he rode forth with Governale down to the seashore\nand looked back not once. There he entered by a ship, and with good\nwind he arrived at Tintagel in Cornwall, and King Mark and all his\nbarons were glad that Tristram was whole again.\n\nThen Sir Tristram went to his father King Talloch, and there was made\ngreat cheer for him, and wide lands were given him. Nevertheless, he\ncould not rest long in one place, but went into Logres and Alban and\nWales, seeking adventures, and his fame for prowess was almost as great\nas the fame of Sir Lancelot. Whereever he went he took his harp, and in\nhall and bower his favourite songs were those that praised the beauty\nof La Belle Isoude, her gentle ways and her soft white hands.\n\nAfter a year and a day he returned to the court of King Mark and lived\nthere, and all the knights and ladies admired him, and the praise of\nhis courtesy was in the mouths of all, noble and simple, high and low.\nThen King Mark his uncle began to hate him for the love that all bore\nhim, and since he had never married and had no son to whom his kingdom\nshould go after his death, he saw that Sir Tristram would have it, for\nhe was his next kin, and then, with Lyones and Tintagel, the fame and\npower of Tristram would increase abundantly.\n\nSo the king began to cast about in his mind for a way whereby he might\ndo some hurt to Sir Tristram, or even destroy him.\n\nHe called the young knight to him one day and said:\n\n'Dear nephew, I have been thinking a long while of taking unto myself a\nwife, and I hear much of the beauty and goodness of the king's daughter\nof Ireland, whom men call La Belle Isoude. Now I would that you go to\nthe king and bear my message to him.'\n\nSir Tristram was troubled in mind at these words. Since he had left La\nBelle Isoude he had had no ease of spirit, for now he knew that he\nloved her. Though she had been angered with him for his slaying her\nuncle, and he knew that the queen and other kinsfolk of Sir Marhaus\nwould surely slay him if they could, yet had he hoped in a while to\nhave gone to King Anguish and found some way to win Isoude for his\nwife.\n\n'Ye are feared to go, then?' sneered King Mark, noting the silence of\nSir Tristram. 'Then I will e'en send some other knight that is bolder.'\n\nAt that Sir Tristram flushed hotly and said:\n\n'I fear not to go there or anywhere, and I will bear thy message, sir.'\n\n'It is well,' said the king. 'I will send thee with a fine ship, and a\nrich company of knights, and I will get my scrivener to write my\nmessage.'\n\nNow King Mark said all this by reason of his craft and treachery. He\nhad heard how Sir Tristram had been full of the praises of La Belle\nIsoude, while yet, as he had learned, Sir Tristram had not promised\nhimself in love to her. By his crafty speech King Mark had hoped to\nmake Sir Tristram promise to go to Ireland to obtain her, not for\nhimself, but for King Mark. So, therefore, if the king married La Belle\nIsoude, this would cause some grief and hurt to Sir Tristram.\n\nBut King Mark cared not overmuch whether he wedded La Belle Isoude or\nnot. He believed that Sir Tristram would of a surety be slain by the\nkin of Sir Marhaus in Ireland, and, if so, King Mark's plot would\nsucceed to the full.\n\nSir Tristram, sad and troubled, went apart, and rode into a forest, for\nnow he knew that he had done himself an ill turn. The lady he loved and\nwhom he wanted to wife for himself he had now promised to woo for\nanother.\n\nAs he rode moodily through the forest drive, a knight came swiftly\nriding on a great horse, its flanks flecked with the foam of its speed.\n\n'Fair knight,' said the stranger, 'will ye of your courtesy tell me\nwhere I may quickly come at a knight called Sir Tristram of Lyones?'\n\n'I am he,' said Tristram. 'What would ye?'\n\n'I thank Heaven that hath led me to you, sir knight,' said the other.\n'Here is a message from my master, King Anguish of Ireland, who is in\ndire peril of honour and life, and craves aid of you for the love that\nhath been atween you.'\n\nSir Tristram, much marvelling, took the parchment and read: 'These to\nyou, Sir Tristram of Lyones, most noble knight, from his lover and\nfriend King Anguish of Ireland, in sore trouble and straits at Camelot.\nKnow ye, Sir Tristram, that I have been summoned to King Arthur's court\non pain of forfeiture of his lordship's royal grace, to answer a charge\nwhereof I knew naught till I came here. Which is that by treason and\nfelony I caused to be slain at my court in Ireland a cousin of Sir\nBleobaris de Ganis and Sir Blamor de Ganis, and of this evil deed these\nknights do most falsely accuse me. And there is none other remedy than\nfor me to answer them in knightly fashion, my armed body against\ntheirs. But inasmuch as I am old, and my wasted arm could naught avail\nme, and in that they are of such renown and prowess that none of my\nknights may hope to overcome them, I pray ye, Sir Tristram, of your\nancient love for me, to come to my aid and fight for me as my champion\nin this most cruel charge. But if ye will not, and if ye choose to\nremember rather that I thrust you from my court, and would not protect\nyou against those that meant you ill, then forgive my request, and\nleave me to my fate and my dishonour.'\n\nThe heart of Sir Tristram lifted within him for love of the good old\nking, and turning, he said:\n\n'For what day is the trial by combat which your master speaketh of?'\n\n'For midday on the day before next Sabbath,' said the knight.\n\n'Go ye at once to your master,' said Sir Tristram, 'and say to him that\nI will not fail him, but will make all speed.'\n\n'Sir, I thank you from my heart,' said the knight, and bowed. Then\nwheeling his horse he dashed swiftly away.\n\nAt Camelot, on the day and hour appointed, the lists were set, and\nknights and nobles and the common people waited to see the trial by\nbattle which should prove the innocence or guilt of King Anguish. King\nArthur was not at Camelot, nor was Sir Lancelot, for both were at\nJoyous Gard, the castle of Sir Lancelot, which King Arthur had given to\nhim by the sea in the Northern Marches. In their places, King Kador of\nCornwall and King Uriens of Reged were judges at the trial.\n\nEre noon was marked by the gnomon of the dial set up before the judges,\nSir Tristram and his squire Governale rode up the lists, and were met\nby King Anguish and his knights. When Sir Tristram saw the King of\nIreland he got swiftly from his horse and ran towards him, and would\nhave held his stirrup; but the king leapt lightly from his horse, and\nwith bright looks each embraced and kissed the other.\n\n'My good lord,' cried Tristram, 'gramercy of your goodness which ye\nshowed me in your marches, and of your nobleness in calling me unto\nyour aid, for it is great honour to me that ye ask this, and I will do\nall for you to the utmost of my strength.'\n\n'Ah, worshipful knight,' said the king, 'ye are courteous and noble\nbeyond all others to come to my aid when I am in such dire need.'\n\n'Who is he that is appointed to fight with you or your champion?' asked\nSir Tristram.\n\n'He is of Sir Lancelot's blood,' replied the king, 'and I wot that he\nwill be hard to overcome, for all those of King Ban's kin are passing\ngood fighters beyond all others. It is Sir Blamor de Ganis, a great\nwarrior.'\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Tristram, 'for the great goodness that ye showed to me\nin Ireland and for your daughter's sake, La Belle Isoude, I will take\nthe battle in hand for you. But ye must first swear that ye never\ncaused or consented to the death of the knight of which you are\ncharged, and if I avail in your battle I will crave a boon of you which\nyou shall grant me.'\n\n'I swear to Heaven,' replied the king, 'that I did neither cause nor\nconsent to the death of the knight; and as to the boon that ye shall\nask, I grant it you already.'\n\nThen King Anguish departed to the judges and cried unto them the name\nof his champion, and all the knights of the Round Table that were\nthere, and the common people, were all agog to see Sir Tristram. The\nfame of his fight with Sir Marhaus, and his renown as a harpist and a\nlover of hunting, were well known unto all; but never yet had he come\nto the court of King Arthur.\n\nSir Blamor and Sir Tristram went to each end of the lists and dressed\ntheir harness and their shields. Sir Bleobaris, that was brother to Sir\nBlamor, went to him and said:\n\n'Brother, now remember of what kin ye be, and what manner of man is our\nlord, Sir Lancelot, and see that ye suffer not shame. For never would\nSir Lancelot bear it, and he would sooner suffer death.'\n\n'Have no doubt of me,' said Sir Blamor, 'I shall never shame Sir\nLancelot nor any of our high blood; nevertheless, this Sir Tristram is\na passing good fighter, and if by ill hap he strike me down, then he\nshall slay me and so end my shame.'\n\n'God speed you well,' said Sir Bleobaris, 'but he may not be so great a\nwarrior as fame saith. For fame grows false as she goes further.'\n\nWhen the knights were ready, the herald of the court of Arthur stood\nwith his trumpet and recited the cause of the quarrel and the names of\nthe knights about to do battle. Then, lifting his tabard, he bade both\nknights make ready; and when his tabard fell to the ground, the knights\nlowered their lances in the rests, set spurs to their horses, and\nthundered down the lists. With a clang and a crash they met midway, and\nthen men marvelled as they saw how suddenly Sir Blamor's horse reared\nin mid-career, turned right round, and upsetting its rider over its\nback, fell to the ground. Sir Blamor, however, was unhurt, and quickly\nrising to his feet he drew out his sword, crying to Sir Tristram, as\nthat knight turned his horse and came towards him:\n\n'Alight thee, Sir Tristram, for though this mare's son of mine hath\nfailed me, I trust my good sword shall not fail me.'\n\nWith that Sir Tristram alighted and dressed him to battle, and there\nthey lashed at each other with mighty strokes on both sides, cutting\nand hacking, feinting and guarding, so that as time went on and still\nthey fought fiercely, the kings and knights marvelled that they were so\ngreat-winded and strong.\n\nSoon men saw that Sir Blamor was headstrong, and mad with rage, while\nSir Tristram beat not so many false blows, but each was sure, though\nslower. Yet Sir Blamor would not rest, but like a wild man would ever\ndash against his enemy. Where they fought the trampled sand was stained\nwith red from their wounds.\n\nSuddenly men saw Sir Blamor make a heavy stroke which Sir Tristram\navoided, and ere the other could recover, Sir Tristram's sword\ndescended on his helm with so great a stroke that Sir Blamor fell upon\nhis side. Sir Tristram leaped upon him and placed the point of his\nsword between the bars of Sir Blamor's vizor, bidding him yield.\n\nWhen Sir Blamor got his breath he panted forth:\n\n'Nay, nay, Sir Tristram, I will not say the word, but I require thee,\nSir Tristram de Lyones, as thou art a noble knight and the mightiest\nthat ever I found, that thou wilt slay me out of hand, for now I would\nnot live to be made lord of these lands of Britain. Liefer I would die\nthan live a life of shame, and therefore slay me! slay me!'\n\nSir Tristram started back, remembering of what noble blood was this\nbrave knight. Knowing that he must either make Sir Blamor say the loth\nwords 'I yield,' or else slay him, he went to where the judges sat, and\nkneeled before them and told them what Sir Blamor had said.\n\n'Fair lords,' Sir Tristram ended, 'it were shame and pity that this\nnoble knight should be slain, for ye well hear that he will not say the\nwords of shame, and if King Anguish, whose true knight and champion I\nam, will suffer me, I will neither shame nor slay so stout-hearted a\nknight.'\n\n'By Heaven,' said King Anguish, 'I will be ruled for your sake, Sir\nTristram, as ye are the most knight of prowess that ever I saw in my\nlong life. Therefore I pray these kings and judges that they take the\nmatter into their own hands.'\n\nThe judges called Sir Bleobaris to them and required his counsel.\n\n'My lords,' he said, 'though that my brother be beaten of body by this\nvaliant knight, he hath not beaten his heart, and so I thank God he\nhath not been shamed in this fight. And rather than he be shamed,' said\nSir Bleobaris, white and stern, 'I require that you command Sir\nTristram to slay him out of hand!'\n\n'That shall not be,' said the judges, 'for neither King Anguish nor Sir\nTristram desire to shame your valiant brother.'\n\n'We do not,' said both the king and Sir Tristram.\n\nTherewith, by the advice of the judges, Sir Tristram and Sir Bleobaris\ntook up Sir Blamor; and the two brothers made peace with King Anguish\nand kissed each other and swore friendship with him for ever. Then Sir\nBlamor and Sir Tristram kissed, and the two brothers, their hands\nclasping those of Sir Tristram, swore that there should for ever be\npeace and love between them; and this did Sir Tristram swear also.\n\nInasmuch as, of his nobleness and generosity, Sir Tristram would not\ntake Sir Blamor's life because he refused to yield him, Sir Lancelot\nand all his kinsmen loved Sir Tristram, and were ever his friends and\nspoke well and knightly of him.\n\nThen King Anguish and Sir Tristram took their leave and sailed into\nIreland with great joy; and when they had arrived there, the king let\nmake a great cry throughout his dominions, of the manner in which Sir\nTristram had fought for him, and how for that deed he accounted him the\nnoblest knight among his friends, and that all should treat him with\nfriendship and no deceit.\n\nWhen, also, the queen and the kin of Sir Marhaus heard how Sir Tristram\nhad borne himself in the trial by combat, they agreed that now they\nshould not seek to slay him, since his great help in this matter had\nwiped out his ill-doing in the slaying of Sir Marhaus.\n\nSo the queen and the knights of the court and the common people made\nmuch of Sir Tristram wheresoever he went; but the joy that La Belle\nIsoude had in her heart no tongue may tell. When Sir Tristram was led\nto her and they met after so long an absence from each other, men saw\nthe lovely face light up with so sweet and high a look that they\nmarvelled at her beauty. Yet they saw how straitly Sir Tristram held\nhimself, and made not much of his meeting with her and did not seek her\ncompany.\n\nThen on a day King Anguish asked Sir Tristram what was the boon he\ncraved.\n\n'But whatever it be,' said the king, 'it is yours without fail.'\n\nSir Tristram's face went hard and white, and after a little while he\nsaid:\n\n'It is this, my lord. I bear a request from my uncle, King Mark, and it\nis that you give him your daughter La Belle Isoude for his wife, and ye\nlet me take her unto him, for so I have promised him.'\n\n'Alas,' said the king, and looked full heavily into the eyes of Sir\nTristram, 'I had liefer than all the land that I have that ye should\nwed her yourself.'\n\nSir Tristram turned away, and made this reply:\n\n'I have given my promise, and I were ashamed for ever in the world if I\ndid aught else. I require you to hold to your promise, and to let your\ndaughter depart with me to be wedded to my uncle, King Mark.'\n\n'As I have promised, so will I do,' said the king. 'But I let you know\n'tis with a heavy heart.'\n\nNor would the king say more, knowing that he might make bad worse. But\nthe surprise and grief of La Belle Isoude, when she knew that Sir\nTristram was to take her to be wife not unto himself but to a stranger,\nwhat tongue may tell and what words may say? Nightly, on the days when\nshe was being prepared to depart, she wept full sorely in the arms of\nher mother or of Bragwine her faithful gentlewoman; but in hall or\nabroad she was ever calm and cold, though pale.\n\nThe queen, her mother, feared much of this marriage, and so sent a\nswift message to a great witch who dwelled in a dark wet valley in the\nmidst of the Purple Hills, and for much gold a potent philtre was\nprepared. Then, on the day when, with much weeping and many sad\nfarewells, La Belle Isoude with her gentlewomen and many noble ladies\nand knights were to go into the ship, the queen called Bragwine aside,\nand giving her a little golden flasket, said to her:\n\n'Take this with thee, Bragwine, for I misdoubt this marriage overmuch,\nand I charge thee do this. On the day that King Mark shall wed my\ndaughter, do thou mix this drink in their wine in equal parts, and then\nI undertake that each shall love the other alone all the days of their\nlives.'\n\nAnon Sir Tristram and La Belle Isoude took ship and got to sea. During\nthe voyage Sir Tristram kept himself much with the other knights and\nrarely sat with Isoude; for in his heart was much grief, and he hated\nthe fair wind that drove the ship more quickly to the time when he must\ngive up La Belle Isoude to his uncle. He knew now that he loved none\nother woman in the world but her, and never would so long as he should\nlive.\n\nBragwine the maid, seeing the pensive looks of her mistress, and\nknowing the wretchedness of her heart, determined to give her mistress\nwhat she most desired. By the aid of Governale, the squire of Sir\nTristram, they poured the philtre into the wine of Isoude and Sir\nTristram as they were about to sit at dinner.\n\nThey thought that the philtre being so potent, it would cause Sir\nTristram to do as King Anguish wished that he would do, and take La\nBelle Isoude into his own home at Lyones and wed her himself.\n\nSir Tristram and La Belle Isoude sat at dinner and drank the wine. In a\nlittle while Sir Tristram looked at the wine that was in his silver cup\nand smelled at it.\n\n'Sure this is the best wine that ever I drank,' said he, and smiled at\nher.\n\n'It is truly a most sweet and noble drink,' said Isoude, and her heart\nwas glad to see him smile, who hitherto had kept his face so stern.\n\nSir Tristram called his squire.\n\n'Governale,' said he, 'what wine is this thou hast given us this day?\nLet us have another flask of the same.'\n\nGovernale was ever ill at a deception, and began to stammer.\n\n'My lord,' he said, 'I fear me there is none other.'\n\n'Ah,' said his master, 'and where got you that?'\n\n'The gentlewoman of my Lady Isoude,' said he, 'brought it and bade me\nmix it in your lordship's wine.'\n\n'What?' cried Sir Tristram, rising angrily. 'What means this? What\ntrickery is this?'\n\n'Oh, my lord, forgive me,' cried Governale. 'But we saw the sorrow of\nboth your hearts, and we gave you the philtre that was meant for my\nlady and King Mark, and--and--my lord, you will break my lady's heart\nand your own if ye suffer this.' But Sir Tristram would hear no\nfurther, and fiercely sent his squire from his presence.\n\n'Ah, my lord,' said La Belle Isoude, 'have those two poor souls done\nmore evil than we are doing by hiding our hearts from each other? I\nwould have you know that no ease shall you have all the days of your\nlife, for I know that you love me, and as to that, there is no living\nman in all this world that I love as I love you. If ye think it\nunmaidenly in me to say that--then my own wretched heart forgives me.'\n\nThe gentle sorrow in her voice caused Sir Tristram's heart to swell\nwith rage because he had promised to take her to wed King Mark.\n\n'Lady,' he said, and his face was full pitiful and pale, 'Heaven knows\nthat ye say right, and that nevermore shall I have ease after this. But\nno more should I have ease, but rather more shame and remorse, if I\nshould do what my heart bids me do. I gave my promise to mine uncle,\nmadman that I was, and I must perform it, and suffer. But I could slay\nmyself to think that you will suffer also.'\n\nShe saw the rage and sorrow in his eyes, and her heart was full of\npity.\n\n'Do thyself no harm, O noble knight and friend,' said Isoude, 'for thou\nart right, and I wrong. But I would have you promise to be my knight\nand champion in things both ill and good, while you shall have life.'\n\n'Lady,' he replied, 'I will be all the days of my life your knight, in\nweal and in woe, to come to your aid and battle for your dear name,\nwhen you shall send for me.'\n\nSir Tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and quickly\nthey parted, lest they should repent them of their duty.\n\nThat evening they got to shore, and landed at the foot of Tintagel, and\nSir Tristram led up La Belle Isoude and gave her into the hands of King\nMark, whose looks, for all that he tried to appear satisfied, were sour\nas he dwelt on the noble figure of Sir Tristram. Men noticed how pale\nand stern the young knight seemed, and that he said few words.\n\nIn a little while, after the wedding of his uncle to La Belle Isoude,\nSir Tristram said farewell to all the court, 'for,' said he, 'he would\ngo fight the pagans who were ravening in the north,' and so departed,\nwith Governale his squire.\n\nAfterwards, seeing the pale queen seated in hall beside King Mark, and\nremembering the heaviness of Sir Tristram, some guessed how full of woe\nwas their parting, but for love and sorrow of Sir Tristram they said\nnaught of what they thought.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nTHE DEEDS OF SIR GERAINT\n\n\nKing Arthur was spending Whitsuntide at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and one day\nhe hunted the stag in the forests that lay thereby. As he had given\npermission for his queen to go and see the hunting, she set out with\none handmaiden, and rode in the misty dawning down to the river, and\nacross the ford.\n\nThey climbed up the other bank, following the track of the men and\nhorses which had formed the king's hunting party, until they stood on\nthe edge of the dark forest, where the young leaves were fresh and\nsweetly green. The sun burst forth, and sucked up the mists along the\nmeadow flats beside the river below them, and the water flashed and the\nbirds sang.\n\n'Here will we stay,' said the queen, who felt happy with the sunlight\nupon her, and the smell of the forest blowing out from the trees, 'and\nthough we shall not see the killing, we shall hear the horns when they\nsound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to\ncry so eagerly.'\n\nSuddenly they heard a rushing sound and the thud of hoofs behind them,\nand, turning, they saw a young man upon a hunter foal of mighty size.\nThe rider was a fair-haired handsome youth, of princely mien, yet\nwithal kindly of look and smile. A riding-robe and surcoat of satin\nwere upon him, low-cut shoes of soft leather were on his feet, and in\nhis girdle was a golden-hilted sword. A fillet of gold bound his curly\nhair, and a collar of gold, with a blue enamel swastika pendant, hung\nabout his neck.\n\nHe checked his horse as he neared the queen, and it came towards her\nwith step stately, swift and proud, and the rider bowed full low to\nGwenevere.\n\n'Heaven prosper thee, Sir Geraint,' she said. 'And its welcome be unto\nthee.'\n\n'Heaven accord you long life and happiness, O queen,' replied Geraint.\n\n'Why didst thou not go with my lord to hunt?' asked the queen.\n\n'Because I knew not when he went,' said Geraint. 'But men told me in\nhall that you had gone out alone, and I came to crave permission to\naccompany and guard you.'\n\n'Gramercy,' said the queen. 'Thy protection is very agreeable to me.'\n\nAs they stood talking, they heard the clatter of steel armour, and\nlooking between the trees, they beheld a proud knight upon a war-horse\nof great size, wearing a heavy chain-mail jesseraunt, with coif and\nvizored helm, and his horse was also clothed in harness of chain mail.\n\nFollowing him was a lady upon a beautiful white horse, which went with\nstately and proud steps along the forest way. The lady was clothed in a\ngreat robe of gold brocade, and her headcloth, of fine cambric, was\nturned so that her face was hidden. Behind them rode a little dark man,\nhairy and fierce of face, dressed as a page; and he sat on a great\nhorse, strong and spirited, yet the dwarf held it well in hand. Hung to\nhis saddle-bow was the knight's shield, but the device was hidden by a\ncloth, and two lances were fixed to the girdle of the dwarf. In his\nright fist the page carried a whip, long and heavy and knotted.\n\n'Sir Geraint,' said Gwenevere, 'knowest thou the name of that tall\nknight?'\n\n'I know him not, lady,' said Geraint, 'and his helm conceals his face,\nand his shield is also hidden. But I will go and ask the page, that you\nmay learn his name.'\n\nAnd Sir Geraint rode up to the dwarfish page.\n\n'Who is yonder knight?' said Sir Geraint.\n\n'I will not tell thee,' replied the dwarf, and scowled.\n\n'Then I will ask him himself,' said Sir Geraint.\n\n'That thou wilt not, by my head,' said the dwarf angrily, 'for thou art\nnot of honour enough to speak to my lord.'\n\nGeraint turned his horse's head to go towards the knight, whereupon the\ndwarf spurred forward and overtook him and lashed towards him with the\nlong and knotted whip. The lash struck the mouth of Sir Geraint, and\nblood flowed, and dropped upon the silken scarf that he wore.\n\nInstantly Sir Geraint turned, with sword half drawn, and the dwarf\ncowed and pulled back. But Sir Geraint thought it would be no vengeance\nto carve the dwarf's head from his shoulders, and to be attacked\nunarmed by the mail-clad knight.\n\nHe thrust his sword back with a clang into its scabbard, and rode\ntowards the queen.\n\n'Thou hast acted wisely and nobly, Sir Geraint,' said the queen, 'and I\nsorrow for the insult the craven knave hath placed upon thee.'\n\n'Lady, I fear he was but copying his master,' said Geraint, whose eyes\nflashed with anger. 'But if your ladyship will permit me, I will follow\nthis knight, and at last he will come to some town where I may get arms\neither as a loan or from a friend, and then will I avenge the insult\nwhich this stranger knight hath given to you, my queen and lady.'\n\n'Go,' said Gwenevere, 'but I beg of thee, do not encounter with the\nknight until thou hast good arms, for he is a man almost as big as Sir\nLancelot du Lake. And I shall be anxious concerning thee until thou\ndost return, or send tidings.'\n\n'If I be alive,' said Sir Geraint, 'you shall hear tidings of me by\nto-morrow at evensong.'\n\nThus he departed. All that day Sir Geraint followed the knight and the\nlady and the page, keeping them in sight, though at a distance. Through\nthe forest they went first, and thereafter the road ran along a ridge\nof high ground, with the great downs and combes falling and heaving\nbelow their feet, the sun flashing back from lakes and streams, the\nbees humming at the flowers in the grass, and the larks rising with\nthrilling song in the warm sweet air of the spring.\n\nSir Geraint loved it all, but he kept his eyes ever on the knight, who\nflashed as he moved far before him. At length he saw the towers of a\nhigh castle, and beneath it the red roofs of a little town nestling at\nthe foot of the grey walls. They rode into the town, and as the haughty\nknight passed through it the people in the booths and cabins and those\nbeside the way saluted him. He did not acknowledge any of their\ngreetings, but looked before him proudly, as he had done when he rode\nthrough the solitary paths of the wilderness.\n\nSir Geraint looked about him as he rode behind, to see if there was any\narmourer or knightly person whom he knew, but there was none. When he\nsaw the knight and the lady and the dwarf enter the castle, and was\nsure that they would sojourn there, he rode about the little town, and\nfound it full of knights and squires, with armourers and others\ncleaning arms, sharpening swords and repairing harness. But no one did\nhe know of whom to beg a suit of armour and a lance.\n\nThen he took his way to a little stream beneath the wall of the town,\nand on the other side he saw a manor-house, old and ruinous, standing\namidst tall weeds. And thinking he might get lodging there for that\nnight, he forded the river and went towards the manor. He saw that the\nhall-door yawned open, and that a marble bridge led up to it, over a\nwide ditch full of stagnant water and thick with green weeds and\nrushes.\n\nOn the bridge sat an old and reverend man in clothes that once had been\nrich, but now were thin and tattered. And Geraint thought it was not\npossible that so poor a place could help him in what he desired. He\nlooked steadfastly at the old man.\n\n'Young sir,' said the latter, 'why art thou so thoughtful?'\n\n'I was thinking, fair sir,' said Geraint, 'whether thou couldst give me\nlodging here for this night.'\n\n'Of a surety,' said the old man, rising. 'It is poor we are, but such\nas can be given shall be of our best.'\n\nHe led Sir Geraint into the hall, which was bleak and desolate, and the\nhearthstone in the centre was thick with last year's leaves, as if it\nhad been long since fire had flickered upon it. On the wall there hung\nrusty weapons and helms, and through the cracks there crept the ivy\nfrom the outer wall. The horse was tethered in the hall by the old man.\n\nThen he led Sir Geraint to a door upon the dais, and ushered him into\nthe bower, and there he saw an old decrepit woman, sweet of look though\nthin and peaked. She rose from the cushion on which she sat, greeting\nhim kindly, and he saw that the satin garments upon her were also old\nand tattered. Yet Sir Geraint thought she must have been a lovely woman\nin her happy youth.\n\nBeside her was a maiden, upon whom was a vest and robe poor and thin,\nand the veil of her headcloth was old though clean. Yet truly, thought\nGeraint, he had never seen a lovelier maiden, nor one with more\nsweetness and grace in her smile or gentleness in her voice. And the\nheart of him stirred with pity to see her so pale and wan, as if she\nfared but poorly.\n\n'Welcome, fair sir,' said the old dame. 'This is my daughter Enid, who\nwill gladly prepare food for you.'\n\nWhen food had been prepared they sat down, and Geraint was placed\nbetween the white-haired man and his wife, and the maiden served them.\n\nAfterwards, as they drank weak mead from cups of earthenware, they\nspoke together; and Geraint asked whose was the manor in which they\nsat.\n\n'Mine,' said the old man, 'for I built it. And the castle up there and\nthe town were also mine.'\n\n'Alas!' said Geraint, 'how is it you and yours have lost them?'\n\n'For my sins and my greed,' said the old man sadly, 'and bitterly have\nI repented me of my wrong. I am Earl Inewl, but I have lost the lands\nthat made my earldom. For I have a nephew, whom his father, on his\ndeathbed, gave into my keeping, with all his lands. And I added his\npossessions to my own, and when the boy was a man he demanded them of\nme, and I would not give them up. So he made war upon me, and took\neverything from me except this ruined hall and one poor farm.'\n\n'Since you are sorry for the greed that hath ruined you,' replied\nGeraint, 'I will do what I may to regain your possessions, if God gives\nme life. But first I would ask, why went that knight and the lady and\nthe dwarf just now into the town, and why is there so much furbishing\nof arms there?'\n\n'The preparations are for the jousting that is to be held to-morrow's\nmorn in the level meadow beside the ford,' responded the old earl. 'And\nthe prize is to be a falcon of pure gold. The knight thou sawest has\nwon the falcon two years running, and if he wins it this time he will\nhave it for his own, and will win the title of the Knight of the Golden\nFalcon. And to gain it from him all those knights in the town will\nessay. And with each will go the lady that he loveth best, and if a man\ntakes not his lady with him he may not enter the lists.'\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Geraint, 'I would willingly have to do with that\nknight, for he hath, by the hands of his dwarf page, most evilly\ninsulted the queen of my dear lord, King Arthur; but I have no armour.'\n\n'As for that,' said the old man, 'I have arms here that will fit thee;\nbut if thou hast no maiden with thee, thou canst not do battle.'\n\n'If, sir,' replied Sir Geraint, 'you and this maiden, your daughter,\nwill permit me to challenge for her, I will engage, if I escape alive\nfrom the tournament, to be the maiden's knight while I shall live.'\n\n'What say you, daughter?' said the old earl.\n\n'Indeed, sir,' replied the maiden, gently flushing, 'I am in your\nhands. And if this fair knight will have it so, he may challenge for\nme.'\n\nThis said Enid to hide her true thoughts; for indeed she felt that she\nhad never before seen as noble a youth as Geraint, or one for whom her\nthoughts were so kind.\n\n'Then so shall it be,' said Earl Inewl.\n\nOn the morrow, ere it was dawn, they arose and arrayed themselves; and\nat break of day they were in the meadow. Before the seat of the young\nearl, who was Inewl's nephew, there was set up a post, and on it was\nthe figure of a gyr-falcon, of pure gold, and marvellously wrought,\nwith wings outspread and talons astretch, as if it were about to strike\nits prey.\n\nThen the knight whom Geraint had followed entered the field with his\nlady, and when he had made proclamation, he bade her go and fetch the\nfalcon from its place, 'for,' said he, 'thou art the fairest of women,\nand, if any deny it, by force will I defend the fame of thy beauty and\nthy gentleness and nobleness.'\n\n'Touch not the falcon!' cried Geraint, 'for here is a maiden who is\nfairer, and more noble, and more gentle, and who has a better claim to\nit than any.'\n\nThe stranger knight looked keenly at Geraint, and in a haughty voice\ncried:\n\n'I know not who thou art; but if thou art worthy to bear arms against\nme, come forward.'\n\nGeraint mounted his horse, and when he rode to the end of the meadow\nlaughter rippled and rang from the people watching him. For he bore an\nold and rusty suit of armour that was of an ancient pattern, and the\njoints of which gaped here and there. And none knew who he was, for his\nshield was bare.\n\nBut when, thundering together, the two knights had each broken several\nlances upon the shield of the other, the people eyed Sir Geraint with\nsome regard. When it seemed that the proud knight was the better\njouster, the earl and his people shouted, and Inewl and Enid had sad\nlooks.\n\n'Pity it is,' said Enid, 'that our young knight hath but that old\ngaping armour. For when they clash together, I feel the cruel point of\nthe proud knight's spear as if it were in my heart.'\n\n'Fear not, my dear,' said the old dame, her mother. 'I feel that him\nyou have learned to love so soon is worthy a good maiden's love, and I\nthink that his good knighthood will overcome the other's pride.'\n\nThen the old knight went to Geraint.\n\n'O young chief!' he said, 'since all other lances break in thy strong\nyoung hand, take you this. It was the lance I had on the day when I\nreceived knighthood. It was made by the wizard smith who lives in the\nHill of Ithel, and it hath never failed me.'\n\nThen Sir Geraint took the lance and thanked the old earl, and looked\nback to where stood Enid. And his heart leaped to see how proud and\ncalm she stood, though her lips trembled as she smiled at him.\n\nWith that the strength seemed to course like a mountain stream through\nall his body; and from the uttermost end of the meadow he pricked his\nhorse and rushed towards the proud knight. His blow was so mighty, and\nthe good lance so strong, that the shield of the proud knight was cleft\nin twain, and he was thrust far beyond his horse and fell crashing to\nthe ground.\n\nThen Geraint leaped from his horse and drew his sword, and the other\nrising to his feet, they dashed together with the fury of wild bulls;\nand so battled long and sore until the sweat and blood obscured their\nsight. Once, when the proud knight had struck Sir Geraint a mighty\nblow, the young knight saw, as he fought, how the maid Enid stood with\nclasped hands and a pale face of terror, as if she feared for his life.\n\nWith the sight of the maiden's dread and the memory of the insult done\nby the proud knight to Queen Gwenevere, Sir Geraint waxed both fiercer\nand stronger; and gathering all his might in one blow, he beat with his\nsword upon the crown of the knight's helm, and so fierce was it that\nthe headpiece broke and the sword-blade cut to the bone.\n\nStraightway the knight fell down upon his knees and craved mercy.\n\n'Why should I give mercy to one so full of pride and arrogance?' said\nSir Geraint. 'Thou, through thy servant, hast shamefully insulted the\nqueen of my lord, King Arthur.'\n\n'Fair knight,' cried the other, 'I confess it, and I give up my\noverbearing henceforth, and I crave for mercy. And if ye give me my\nlife, I will be your man and do your behest.'\n\n'I will give thee mercy on one condition,' said Geraint, 'which is that\nthou and thy lady and thy dwarf page go instantly and yield yourselves\ninto the hands of the queen, and claim atonement for your insult. And\nwhatsoever my lady the queen determines, that shall ye suffer. Tell me\nwho art thou?'\n\n'I am Sir Edern of the Needlands,' replied the other. 'And who art\nthou, sir knight,' he asked, 'for never have I met so valiant and good\na knight of his hands as thou art.'\n\n'I am Geraint of Cornwall,' said the young knight.\n\n'It giveth comfort to me to know that I am overcome by so noble a\nknight,' said the other. Then he got upon his horse, all wounded as he\nwas, and with his lady and the page beside him took his way sadly to\nArthur's court.\n\nThen the young earl rose and came to Sir Geraint, and asked him to stay\nwith him at his castle, for he loved all knights of great prowess and\nwould have them to talk to him.\n\n'Nay, I will not,' said Sir Geraint coldly; 'I will go where I was last\nnight.'\n\n'Have your will, sir knight,' replied the young earl courteously. 'But\nI will ask Earl Inewl to permit me to furnish his manor as it should be\nfurnished for your honour and ease.'\n\nSir Geraint went back to the manor, conversing with Earl Inewl and his\nwife, and with the maiden Enid.\n\nWhen they reached the house, they found it full of the servants of the\nearl, who were sweeping the hall and laying straw therein, with tables\nand benches as were suitable, and soon a great fire leaped and crackled\non the stone in the centre. Then when Sir Geraint's wound had been\nwashed and salved and bound, and he had placed upon himself his walking\nattire, the chamberlain of the young earl came to him and asked him to\ngo into the hall to eat. Sir Geraint asked where was Earl Inewl and his\nwife and daughter.\n\n'They are in the bower putting on robes which my lord the earl hath\nsent, more befitting their station and your honour,' said the earl's\nchamberlain.\n\nSir Geraint liked it not that the maiden should be dressed in robes\ngiven by the man who had stripped her father of all his wealth, and he\nsaid coldly:\n\n'I would that the damsel do not array herself, except in the vest and\nveil she hath worn till now. And those she should wear,' he said,\n'until she come to the court of Arthur, where the queen shall clothe\nher in garments fitting for her.'\n\nIt was so done, and the maiden sat in her poor robes while the other\nknights and ladies in the young earl's company glittered and shone in\nsatin and jewels. But she cared not for this, because Sir Geraint had\nbidden her.\n\nWhen meat was done and mead was served, they all began to talk, and the\nyoung earl invited Sir Geraint to visit him next day.\n\n'It may not be,' said Sir Geraint; 'I will go to the court of my lord\nArthur with this maiden, for I will not rest while Earl Inewl and his\ndame and daughter go in poverty and rags and trouble. And it is for\nthis I will see my lord, so that something may be done to give them\nmaintenance befitting their station.'\n\nThen, because the young earl admired Sir Geraint for his knightly\nstrength, his nobility of manner and his prowess, there was sorrow in\nhis heart for the old Earl Inewl.\n\n'Ah, Sir Geraint,' he said, 'I am sorry if your heart is sore because\nof my kinsman's poor condition; and if you will give me your\nfriendship, I will abide by your counsel and do what you think I should\ndo of right.'\n\n'I thank thee, fair sir,' said Geraint, 'and I will ask ye to restore\nunto the Earl Inewl all the possessions that were rightly his, and what\nhe should have received up to this day.'\n\n'That I will gladly do for your sake,' said the young earl.\n\nThus it was agreed; and such of the men in the hall who held lands\nwhich rightly belonged to Earl Inewl came and knelt before him and did\nhomage to him. And next morning the lands and homesteads and all other\nhis possessions were returned to Earl Inewl, to the last seed-pearl.\n\nThereafter Sir Geraint prepared to return to the court of King Arthur,\nand the Earl Inewl came to him with the maiden Enid, whose gentle face\nwent pale and red by turns. Putting her hand in the hand of Sir\nGeraint, the old man said:\n\n'Fair sir, your pursuit of that knight, Sir Edern, and your revenge for\nhis insult, I shall bless until the last day of my life. For you have\ndone more goodness and justice than I can ever repay you. But if this\nmy daughter, for whom ye fought yesterday, is pleasing unto you, then\ntake her for your wife, with the blessing of myself and my countess.'\n\nSir Geraint clasped the hand of the young maiden, and said:\n\n'My lord, I thank thee, and if my lord King Arthur shall give this\nmaiden unto me for wife, then will I love her and cherish her all the\ndays of my life, if she in her heart would choose me for her husband.'\n\n'My lord,' said the maiden, raising her frank eyes and flushing face to\nhim, 'I have never known a knight to whom I gave so great goodwill as I\nfind in my heart for thee. And if thy lord Arthur shall give me unto\nthee, I will plight thee my love and loving service till I die.'\n\nThereupon they proceeded on their way to the court of King Arthur, and\nwhat had seemed a long journey to Geraint when he had followed Sir\nEdern, now seemed too short, for he and the maid Enid passed it in much\npleasant converse.\n\nTowards evening they arrived at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and Queen Gwenevere\nreceived Sir Geraint with great welcome, calling him 'her glorious\nknight and champion,' and telling him that Sir Edern had yielded\nhimself into her hands to do such atonement as seemed fitting, when he\nshould have recovered from his wounds.\n\nAt the beauty of the maid Enid all the court marvelled; and the queen\nhastened to clothe her in robes of satin, rich and rare, with gold upon\nher hair and about her throat. And when she was so dressed, all were\nglad that one of so sweet a dignity and rare a beauty had come among\nthem.\n\nKing Arthur gave her to Sir Geraint with many rich gifts, and Enid and\nGeraint were married in the abbey church, and the court gave itself up\nto feasting and sport, and acclaimed her one of the three most lovely\nladies in all the isle of Britain.\n\nWhen a year had passed in great happiness, ambassadors came from King\nErbin of Cornwall, with a request to King Arthur that he should let Sir\nGeraint go home to his father.\n\n'For,' said the messengers, 'King Erbin waxes old and feeble, and the\nmore he ageth the more insolent and daring are the barons and lords on\nhis marches, trying to wrest parts of his lands to add to their own.\nTherefore,' said they, 'the king begs you to let his son Sir Geraint\nreturn home, so that, knowing the fame of the strength of his arm and\nhis prowess, the turbulent lords would desist, and if they would not,\nSir Geraint would hurl them from his boundaries.'\n\nKing Arthur, though very reluctant to let so great an ornament of his\ncourt depart, let him go, and Geraint and Enid went with a great party\nof the best knights of the Round Table, and rode to the Severn Shore,\nand there took ship to the shores of Cornwall.\n\nWhen they reached there, all the people came from their villages\nwelcoming Sir Geraint and his lovely bride, for the fame of his\nprowess, and the way in which he had won his wife, had spread over all\nthe land. And King Erbin welcomed his son and was glad of his coming,\nand the next day all the chief subjects, the lords and barons holding\nland or offices, and the chief tenants of common degree, came into the\nhall, and, kneeling before Sir Geraint, did honour to him and swore\nfealty.\n\nThen, with a great company of his chief warriors, Sir Geraint visited\nall the bounds of his territory. Experienced guides went with him, and\nold men learned in the marks of the boundaries, and priests, and they\nrenewed the mere-marks that were broken down, and replaced those which\nhad been wrongfully moved.\n\nThereafter men lived peacefully in the land, and on all the borders,\nfor under the shadow of the strong young chief no border lords dared to\ninvade the land, and no fierce baron used oppression.\n\nThen, as had been his wont at the court of Arthur, Sir Geraint went to\nall tournaments that were held within easy reach of his kingdom. Thus\nhe became acquainted with every mighty knight of his hands throughout\nthe lands of Cornwall, Wales and Logres; and so great in strength and\nprowess did he become that men hailed him as one of the Three Great\nHeroes of the Isle of Britain; the other two being Sir Lancelot du Lake\nand Sir Tristram of Lyones. And though there Were other great and\nvaliant warriors, as Sir Lamorake, Sir Bors, Sir Gawaine and his\nbrother, Sir Gareth, and Sir Palomides, yet all these had been overcome\nby one or other of the three heroes. For as yet Sir Perceval was in the\nforest with his widowed mother, and knew no arms but a stone or a\nstick; and Sir Galahad was not yet born. And these two were knights\nstainless of pride or any evil desire, and by that force alone did\nstrike down every arm, however mighty, that relied on knightly prowess\nalone.\n\nWhen his fame had spread over all the kingdoms south of Trent, so that\nno knight that knew him or saw the device of the golden falcon on his\nshield would have to do with him, Sir Geraint began to seek ease and\npleasure, for there was no one who would joust with him. He began to\nstay at home and never went beyond his wife's bower-chamber, but sat\nand delighted in playing chess, or hearing the bards of the court sing\nsongs of glamour and wizardry, or tell him tales of ancient warriors\nand lovers, long since dead.\n\nThe whole court marvelled at his slothfulness as time passed and he\nchanged not. He gave up the friendship of his nobles, and went not\nhunting or hawking; and found no pleasure but in the company of his\nwife, whom he dearly loved.\n\nMen began to scoff and jeer at his name over their cups in hall, or as\nthey rode with hawk on fist to the hunting, or as they tilted in the\nlists. And the lawless lords upon the marches of the land began to stir\nand to dare, and when none came to punish them, their plunderings and\noppressions grew.\n\nSoon these things came to the ears of the old King Erbin, and great\nheaviness was upon him. And he called the Lady Enid to him one day, and\nwith stern sorrow in his eyes spoke thus:\n\n'Fair woman, is it thou that hast turned my son's spirit into water? Is\nit thy love that hath made his name a byword among those who should\nlove him because he is not as he once was--a man no one could meet in\narms and overcome? Is it thou that hath sunk him in slothfulness, so\nthat the wolfish lords and tyrant barons upon his marchlands begin to\ncreep out of their castleholds, and tear and maim his people and wrest\nfrom them and him broad lands and fertile fields?'\n\n'Nay, lord, nay,' said Enid, and he knew from the tears in her brave\neyes that she spoke the truth. 'It is not I, by my confession unto\nHeaven! I know not what hath come to my dear lord. But there is nothing\nmore hateful to me than his unknightly sloth! And I know not what I may\ndo. For it is not harder, lord, to know what men say of my dear\nhusband, than to have to tell him, and see the shame in the eyes of him\nI love.'\n\nAnd Enid went away weeping sorely.\n\nThe next morning, when Enid awoke from sleep, she sat up and looked at\nGeraint sleeping. The sun was shining through the windows, and lay upon\nher husband. And she gazed upon his marvellous beauty, and the great\nmuscles of his arms and breast, and tears filled her eyes as she leaned\nover him.\n\n'Alas,' she said half aloud, 'am I the cause that this strength, this\nnoble and manly beauty have all lost the fame they once enjoyed? Am I\nthe cause that he hath sunk in sloth, and men scoff at his name and his\nstrength?'\n\nAnd the words were heard by Geraint, and he felt the scalding tears\nfall upon his breast, and he lay appearing to be asleep, yet he was\nawake. A great rage burned in him, so that for some moments he knew not\nwhat to do or say.\n\nThen he opened his eyes as if he had heard and felt nothing, and in his\neyes was a hard gleam. He rose and swiftly dressed, and called his\nsquire.\n\n'Go,' he said to the man, 'prepare my destrier, and get old armour and\na shield with no device thereon, old and rusty. And say naught to\nnone.'\n\n'And do thou,' he said to his wife, 'rise and apparel thyself, and\ncause thy horse to be prepared, and do thou wear the oldest riding-robe\nthou hast. And thou wilt come with me.'\n\nSo Enid arose and clothed herself in her meanest garments.\n\nThen Geraint went to his father and said, 'Sir, I am going upon a quest\ninto the land of Logres, and I do not know when I may return. Do thou\ntherefore keep our kingdom till I return.'\n\n'I will do so, my son,' said Erbin, 'but thou art not strong enough to\ngo through the land of Logres alone. Wilt thou not have a company with\nthee?'\n\n'But one person shall go with me,' said Geraint, 'and that is a woman.\nFarewell.'\n\nThen he put on the old and rusty suit of armour, and took the shield\nwith no device, and a sword and a lance, and then mounting his horse he\ntook his way out of the town. And Enid went before him on her palfrey,\nmarvelling what all this might mean.\n\nGeraint called unto her and said sternly:\n\n'Go thou and ride a long way before me. And whatever ye see or hear\nconcerning me, say naught, and turn not back. And unless I speak to\nthee, speak not thou to me.'\n\nAll day they rode thus, and deeper and deeper they sank into a desolate\nland, where huge rocks jutted from the starved soil, and there was no\nsound or sight of living thing, except it was the wolf looking from his\nlair beneath a stone, or the breaking of a branch, as the brown bear on\na distant hillslope tore at a tree to get a honeycomb, and blinked down\nat them, marvelling, maybe, to see a knight and a lady in his desolate\ndomain.\n\nWhen, late in the afternoon, their long shadows marched before them\ndown a broad green road which they had struck upon, Enid's heart\nsuddenly lifted to see the white walls and roofs of what looked like a\nrich town; for she knew not what was in her lord's mind, and feared\nlest his strange anger should push him to go on through the night, and\nso become a prey to robbers or wild animals. But she marvelled that\nthere was no sight or sound of people; no carters or travellers going\nto or coming from the city, and no smoke rose above the housetops.\n\nWhen they came nearer, she saw the wall of the gate was broken down,\nand that along the broad road beyond the wall the grass waved high\nacross the street, and the little wooden booths and cabins beside the\nroad were rotting and decayed. Anon they rode into a broad market-place\nor forum, where white buildings rose above them, the windows gaping,\ngrass growing on the roofs or in the crannies of the walls, and the\ndoorways choked with bushes. And out of the broad hallway of the\nbasilica she saw the grey form of a wolf walk and slink away in the\nshadows.\n\nWith a sinking heart she knew that this was one of the fair cities\nwhich the Romans had built, and when they had left Britain this town\nhad been deserted and left desolate, to become a place where the wolf\nand the bear made their lairs, where the beaver built his dam in the\nstream beneath the wall of the palace, and where robbers and wild men\nlay hid, or the small people of the hills came and made their magic and\nweaved their spells, with the aid of the spirits haunting the desolate\nhearths of the Romans.\n\nAnd as Enid checked her horse and waited for Geraint to come up, that\nshe might ask him whether it was his pleasure to pass the night there,\nshe saw, down the wide street before her, the forms of men, creeping\nand gathering in the gloom. Then, fearing lest they should fall upon\nher husband before he was aware of them, she turned her horse and rode\ntowards him and said:\n\n'Lord, dost thou see the wild men which gather in the shadows there in\nthe street before us, as if they would attack thee?'\n\nGeraint lifted up his angry eyes to hers:\n\n'Thou wert bid to keep silent,' he said, 'whatsoever thou hast seen or\nheard. Why dost thou warn one whom thou dost despise?'\n\nEven as he spoke, from the broken houses through which they had crept\nto assail the single knight, dashed ten robbers, naked of feet, evil of\nlook, clothed in skins. One leaped at the knight with a knife in his\nhand, to be cut down, halfway in his spring, by Sir Geraint's fierce\nsword-stroke. Then, while Enid stood apart, terror in her heart, prayer\non her lips, she saw him as if he were in the midst of a pack of\ntearing wolves, and in the silent street with its twilight was the\nsudden clash of steel, the howls and cries of wounded men.\n\nThen she was aware that six lay quiet on the road, and the remaining\nfour broke suddenly away towards the shelter of the houses. But two of\nthese Sir Geraint pursued, and cut down before they could reach cover.\n\nHe rejoined her in silence and sought for a place of lodging; and in a\nsmall villa they found a room with but one door. Here they supped from\nthe scrip of food and the bottle of wine which Enid had brought, and\nthere they slept that night.\n\nOn the morrow they pursued their way, and followed the green road out\nof the ruined city until they reached the forest. And in the heat and\nbrightness of the high noon the green and coolness of the forestways\nwere sweet, and the sound of tiny streams hidden beneath the leaves was\nrefreshing.\n\nThen they came upon a plain where was a village surrounded by a bank of\nearth, on which was a palisade. And there was a wailing and weeping\ncoming from between the little mud-cabins therein; and as they\napproached they saw in the middle green four knights in armour and a\ncrowd of poor frightened folk about them.\n\nAs they passed the gate of the village a poor man ran from the group,\nand threw himself before Sir Geraint.\n\n'O sir knight,' he cried full piteously, 'if thou art a good knight and\na brave, do thou see justice done here. For these four lords would cut\nmy father's throat if he say not where his money is hid.'\n\n'Are they his proper lords?' asked Geraint.\n\n'Nay, sir knight,' said the man. 'Our land is Geraint's, and these\nlords say that he sleeps all day, and so they will be our masters. And\nthey do ever oppress us with fine and tax and torture.'\n\nTherewith Sir Geraint rode through the gate of the village and\napproached the group. He saw where the four knights stood cruelly\ntorturing a poor old man whom they had tied to a post, and the sweat\nstood upon the peasant's white face, and the fear of death was in his\neyes.\n\n'Lords! lords,' he cried in a spent voice, 'I have no money, for you\ndid take all I had when you told us our lord Geraint was become a court\nfool.'\n\n'Thou miser!' jeered one of the knights, 'that was two months agone,\nand thou hast something more by now. Will this loose thy secret,\ncarrion?'\n\nAt the cruel torture the man shrieked aloud, and by reason of the pain\nhis head sank and he slid down the post in a swoon. And a young woman\nrushed forth, threw her arm about the hanging body, and with flashing\neyes turned and defied the knights.\n\nNext moment it would have gone ill with her, but the voice of Sir\nGeraint rang out.\n\n'Ho, there, sir knights,' he cried, 'or sir wolves--I know not which ye\nare--have ye naught to do but to squeeze poor peasants of mean\nsavings?'\n\nThe knights turned in rage, and laughed and sneered when they saw but\none solitary knight in old and rusty armour.\n\n'Ah, sir scarecrow!' cried one, leaping on his horse, 'I will spit thee\nfor thy insolence.'\n\n'Knock him down and truss him up with this starveling peasant,' cried\nanother.\n\nAll now had mounted, and the first prepared to run at Sir Geraint, who\nbacked his horse through the gateway into the open plain. Anon the\nfirst knight came, hurling himself angrily upon him. But deftly Sir\nGeraint struck the other's lance aside with his sword, and as the rider\nrushed past him, he rose in his stirrups, his blade flashed, and then\nsank in the neck of the felon knight, who swayed in his saddle and then\ncrashed to the ground.\n\nThen the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the\ndeath of his companion. But Sir Geraint couched his lance, and caught\nthe other on the edge of his shield, and the spear passed through his\nbody.\n\nAnd by good hap also he slew the other two, one with his lance, the\nother with his sword on foot.\n\nEnid, full of fear while the fight was raging, felt gladness and sorrow\nwhen she saw how nobly her husband had smitten these torturers with\njustice, and she said that of a truth she had been wrong, and that\nthere was no sloth in his heart, no weakness in the strong arm of her\nlord.\n\nThen Sir Geraint took off the armour from each of the four knights and\npiled them on their horses, and tied them together, and bade her drive\nthem before her.\n\n'And do thou go forward some way,' said he sternly, 'and say not one\nword to me unless I speak first unto thee.'\n\nAs he mounted his horse, the man that had been tortured came forward\nwith his people and knelt before him, and kissed the mail-clad shoe in\nhis stirrup, and in rude few words they thanked him tearfully, asking\nfor his name, so that they could speak of him in their prayers.\n\n'I am called Sir Slothful,' said Sir Geraint, 'and I deserve not your\nworship. But, hark ye, if other evil lords come upon these marches and\nseek to oppress thee, tell them that though Sir Geraint sleeps now, he\nwill soon awake and they shall not stand before his vengeance.'\n\nAnd so he rode on, leaving the poor folks marvelling but happy.\n\nThen in a little while they came upon a highroad, and the lady went on\nfirst, and for all his anger, Geraint was sorry to see how much trouble\nEnid had in driving the four horses before her, yet how patient she\nwas.\n\nSoon they beheld a wide valley below them, the fairest and richest in\nhomesteads and farms that they had yet seen. A river ran through the\nmiddle of it, and the road on which they passed ran down to a bridge\nover the river, beyond which was a castle and a walled town.\n\nSir Geraint took the road towards the bridge, and soon a knight came\ncantering towards them.\n\n'Fair sir,' said Sir Geraint, 'canst thou tell me who is the owner of\nthis fair valley and that walled city?'\n\n'Of a truth,' said the other, 'these are the lands of King Griffith,\nwhom men call the Little King. He holds them of King Erbin, whose son,\nthat was so famous, men say has become a worthless court dandy.'\n\n'I thank thee for thy words, fair sir,' said Geraint, and would pass\non.\n\n'I would counsel thee not to attempt to cross the bridge,' said the\nknight, 'unless thou dost intend to fight the little king. For armed\nstrangers he will not suffer to pass, and I doubt me if thy arms are of\nmuch use to thee.'\n\nAnd the knight smiled at the rusty arms and shield of Sir Geraint.\n\n'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'though my arms are old, I will go\nthis way.'\n\n'If thou dost so,' said the knight, 'thou wilt meet with shame and\ndefeat. For the little king is a man of giant strength.'\n\nBut Sir Geraint passed down towards the bridge and crossed it, and went\nalong the road beyond towards the town. Presently Sir Geraint heard the\nsound of hoofs behind him, and looking round he saw a knight following\nhim upon a great black horse, tall and stately and stepping proudly.\nThe knight was the smallest that Sir Geraint had ever seen.\n\nWhen the stranger had come up to him, he said:\n\n'Tell me, fair sir, is it by presumption or by ignorance that thou\ncomest armed along this road?'\n\n'I knew not that in any of the lands of King Erbin, a peaceful man,\nthough he be armed, could not go without hindrance,' replied Sir\nGeraint.\n\n'That was so,' replied the knight, 'when King Erbin's son Sir Geraint\nwas a man of prowess, not a soft fool. Then his name alone kept his\nborders clean of robber lords and bandit knights; but now that he is\nless than naught, I myself must keep my land clean of thieves in rusty\narmour that would frighten and oppress poor folk.'\n\n'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'I will travel by this road, and ye\nhinder me at your peril.'\n\n'Have at thee, then,' said the little knight, and together they spurred\ntowards each other.\n\nSir Geraint marvelled to feel how powerful were the lance-strokes of\nthe little man, while, as for himself, so high was the little knight's\nhorse and so small was the rider, that he was hardly able to get a good\nblow at him. But they jousted until at the third bout the little king's\nlance broke short, and then they dismounted, and lashed at each other\nwith their swords.\n\nAt first Sir Geraint thought it was nigh unseemly that one so strong\nand tall as himself should have to do with so small a knight; but if he\nthought that he had advantage in his longer reach and greater strength\nhe quickly saw his error.\n\nFor the little king was a man of marvellous strength and agility, and\nfor all Sir Geraint's knowledge and strength, the other's strokes were\nso boldly fierce, so quick and powerful, that it was not long ere Sir\nGeraint found he had need of great wariness.\n\nSoon their helmets were cracked and their shields dented and carved and\ntheir hauberks in rags, and hardly could they see between the bars of\ntheir vizors for the sweat and blood in their eyes.\n\nThen at last Sir Geraint, enraged that one so small should give him so\nmuch trouble to conquer, gathered all his strength in one blow, so that\nthe little king was beaten to his knees, and the sword flew from his\nhand ten yards away.\n\n'I yield me!' cried King Griffith, 'and never have I fought with so\nvaliant and strong a knight. Have mercy and spare me, and I will be thy\nman.'\n\n'Be it so!' said Sir Geraint, 'but thou hast already sworn to be my\nman.'\n\nAnd he lifted up his vizor and showed his face, whereat the little king\ndid off his own helm quickly and came and kneeled humbly before him.\n\n'Sir Geraint,' he said, 'forgive me my words concerning thee, but men\ntold me that ye had forgotten that you had once been so glorious a man,\nand were softening to a fool.'\n\n'Nay,' said Sir Geraint, 'they were the fools that said so. And now I\nwill depart, for I see these marches are in safe keeping in your hands,\nfair king.'\n\nBut the little king wished Geraint to come to his castle to be rested\nand healed of his wounds, and Geraint and Enid went and abode there a\nfew days. But ever Sir Geraint was cold and stern to his wife, for he\nwas still angry at her disbelief in him.\n\nSir Geraint would not stay longer, though his wounds were but half\nhealed, and on the third day he commanded Enid to mount her horse and\nto go before him with the four other horses.\n\nWhile the sun climbed up the sky they rode through the wilderness, by\ntangled woods, deep valleys and quaking marshes, until they reached a\ndeep dark forest. Suddenly as they rode they heard a great wailing of\ndistress, and bidding Enid stay, Geraint dashed through the trees\ntowards the crying, and came out upon a great bare upland, and beside\nthe wood were a knight, dead in his armour, and two horses, one with a\nwoman's saddle upon it.\n\nAnd looking further Geraint saw three small dark shaggy trolls making\nswift way up the hill towards a great green mound, and in the arms of\none of them was a damsel, who shrieked as she was borne away.\n\nFiercely Sir Geraint spurred his horse up the slope, bidding the trolls\nto stop, but they only ran with an exceeding great swiftness. But he\npursued them, and when they were within a few steps of a small door in\nthe hillside, the one dropped the maiden, and the three of them turned\nat bay. And the damsel ran shrieking away down the hill.\n\nThe trolls had dark thin faces, with curly black hair and fierce black\neyes, and their rage was horrible to see. They were lightly clothed in\nskins, and in their arms they held, one a bar of iron, another a great\nclub, and the third a long sharp stick.\n\nSir Geraint commended his soul to Heaven, for he knew he was to battle\nwith evil dwarfs who lived in the hollow hills, and whose strength was\ngreater than any man's, and whose powers of wizardry were stronger than\nMerlin's.\n\nHe dashed with his lance at the one with the iron bar, but the\nhill-troll slipped away, and brought the great bar with a heavy blow\nupon his lance, so that it snapped in twain. Then one leaped like a\nwild cat upon the arm that held the rein, but happily Sir Geraint had\ndrawn his sword, and with one stroke slew him. Then the two others\nleaped towards him, but the blows of the bar and club he caught upon\nhis shield and slew the troll with the club.\n\nEre Sir Geraint could draw his sword back from this blow, he felt his\nhorse fall under him, for the dwarf with the iron bar had with one blow\nbroken the beast's back. Quickly avoiding the horse, Sir Geraint dashed\nat the dwarf, who ran towards the hole in the hill, but ere he could\nreach it Sir Geraint gave him a blow on the crown of his head, so\nfierce and hard, that the skull was split to the shoulders.\n\nSo then Sir Geraint turned and walked slowly down the hill, for he was\ndazed, and his old wounds had broken afresh. But he came to where Enid\nstood comforting the damsel mourning over the dead knight, and when he\nwas there, straightway he fell down lifeless.\n\nEnid shrieked with the anguish of the thought that he was dead, and\ncame and knelt beside him and undid his helm and kissed him many times.\nAnd the sound of her wailing reached an earl named Madoc, who was\npassing with a company along the road from a plundering expedition, and\nhe came and took up Geraint and the dead knight, and laid them in the\nhollow of their shields, and with the damsels took them to his castle a\nmile along the road.\n\nNow the earl was a tyrant and a robber, and had done much evil on the\nborderlands of Geraint, in burning, plundering and slaying, since he\nhad heard that Geraint was become soft and foolish. And he had\nrecognised Sir Geraint while he lay in the swoon, and rejoiced that now\nhe was like to die.\n\nAs he rode along he thought that if he could prevail upon the Lady Enid\nto wed him, he might get much land with her, as the widow of the dead\nSir Geraint, future King of Cornwall. And he determined to make her\nmarry him.\n\nWhen, therefore, he and his host had reached his castle, he ordered the\ndead knight to be buried, but Sir Geraint he commanded to be laid in\nhis shield on a litter-couch in front of the high table in the hall. So\nthat Sir Geraint should die, he commanded that no leech should be sent\nfor.\n\nWhile his knights and men-at-arms sat down to dine, Earl Madoc came to\nEnid and begged her to make good cheer. But, thinking to gain more from\nsecrecy, he did not tell her that he knew who she was, nor did he show\nher that he knew who was her lord.\n\n'Take off thy travelling clothes, fair lady,' he said, 'and weep not\nfor this dead knight.'\n\n'I will not,' she said, and hung over Geraint, chafing his hands and\nlooking earnestly into his pallid face.\n\n'Ah, lady,' the earl said, 'be not so sorrowful. For he is now dead,\nand therefore ye need no longer mourn. But as ye are beautiful, I would\nwed thee, and thou shalt have this earldom and myself and much wealth\nand all these men to serve thee.'\n\n'I tell you I will rather die with my dead lord, if indeed he be dead,'\ncried Enid, 'than live in wealth with you or any one.'\n\n'Come, then,' said the earl, 'and at least take food with me.'\n\n'Nay, I will not,' said Enid, 'and never more will I eat or be joyful\nin life.'\n\n'But, by Heaven, thou shalt,' said Madoc, furious at her resistance to\nhis will.\n\nAnd he drew her from beside the litter, and forced her to come to the\ntable where his knights sat eating, and commanded her to eat.\n\n'I will not eat,' she cried, straining from his hold towards where\nGeraint lay, 'unless my dear lord shall eat also.'\n\n'But he is dead already, thou mad woman,' cried the earl. 'Drink this\ngoblet of wine,' he commanded, 'and thou wilt change thy mind.'\n\n'I will not drink again until my dear lord drink also,' said Enid, and\nstrove to free herself from the grasp of the earl.\n\n'Now, by Heaven!' said Madoc wrathfully, 'I have tried gentle means\nwith thee. Let this teach thee that I am not to be baulked of my will.'\n\nWith that he gave her a violent blow on the ear, and tried to drag her\naway out of the hall. And Enid shrieked and wept and cried for help,\nbut none of the knights that sat there dared to oppose their lord.\n\nBut suddenly men started up from their seats in terror to see the\ncorpse of Geraint rise from the hollow of the shield. Enid's cries had\nroused him from his swoon, and his hand as he raised himself felt the\nhilt of the sword beside him.\n\nHe leaped from the litter, and, drawing his sword, he ran towards the\nearl, who by now had almost dragged Enid to the door. Raising the\nsword, Geraint struck him with so fierce a blow that he cleft his head\nin twain.\n\nThen, for terror at seeing what they thought was a dead man rise up to\nslay them, the knights ran from the hall and left Geraint and Enid\nalone.\n\nEnid threw her arms about Geraint, her face bright with happiness.\n\n'My dear lord, I thank God thou art not dead, as this man said thou\nwert. And I pray thy forgiveness for doubting that thou hadst forgotten\nthy manhood, for of a truth none is so brave, so good as thou art.'\n\nGeraint kissed his wife, smiling wanly the while.\n\n'Sorry I am, my dear wife,' he said, 'that I was swooning when thou\nhadst need of me. And as for any doubts thou hadst of me, why, let us\nboth forget them from this time forth. And now we must away, ere this\nlord's men recover their fright and pursue us.'\n\nEnid led him instantly to the stalls where she had seen the horses had\nbeen led, and Geraint took the spear and the horse of the knight whom\nthe trolls had slain, and, when he had mounted, he took up Enid from\nthe ground and placed her before him.\n\nThus they rode out of the castle, and away as rapidly as they could.\nAnd now that they were reconciled, much joyful and loving talk was\nbetween them.\n\nBut night was coming on, and Geraint was weak from his wounds and loss\nof blood, and Enid was full of trouble for the pain her husband\nsuffered. She prayed fervently that soon they might reach a town where\nshe could obtain help for him.\n\nSuddenly she heard far away in the distance the tramp of horses, and\nEnid could have wept for sorrow. But she kept her face calm, though her\nlips trembled, Geraint also heard the beat of the hoofs, and turning in\nhis saddle he looked up, and saw on the skyline of the narrow road the\nglint of spears between them and the sky.\n\n'Dear wife,' he said, with a faint brave smile, 'I hear some one\nfollowing us. I will put thee in hiding behind this thicket, and should\nthey slay me, do thou make thy way homeward to my father Erbin, and bid\nhim avenge my death.'\n\n'O my dear Geraint!' said Enid, sobbing, for all her bravery, as she\nthought that he would surely be slain, and that, after all their\ntrouble, they were not to be allowed to enjoy the happiness of their\nreconciliation. 'I would liefer die with thee, my dear, dear lord. Let\nthem kill us both, if it is to be.'\n\n'Nay, dear wife,' said Geraint, 'I would not have thee slain. Revenge\nmy death if they slay me.'\n\nSo, with many lingering kisses, he set her down upon the road, and saw\nher hide in the thickets.\n\nBy now the gloom of evening had settled upon them, and the sound of\ntrampling horses had rapidly approached. And painfully, by reason of\nhis stiff wounds, Geraint dressed his armour as best he could, and laid\nspear in rest, and drew his shield before him, and so waited in the\ndark road.\n\nHe heard a single knight riding before the others, and soon saw his\nfigure issue from the gloom with couched lance. And Sir Geraint made\nhim ready also, resolved to sell his life dearly at the last.\n\nBut as they began to spur their horses, there came the voice of Enid\nfrom the hedgerow beside them. And she cried out piteously in the dark:\n\n'O chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a\ndead man?'\n\nThe stranger stopped his horse, and called out:\n\n'O Heaven, is it my lord, Sir Geraint?'\n\n'Yes, in truth,' said Enid, 'and who art thou?'\n\n'I am the little king!' said the other, and rode swiftly towards Sir\nGeraint. Then he leaped from his horse and came to the stirrup of his\nchief.\n\n'My lord,' he said, 'I learned that thou wert in trouble, and came to\nsee if I could aid thee.'\n\nAnd Enid ran forward with joy at hearing this, and welcomed the little\nking, and told him in what a hard pass was Sir Geraint.\n\n'My lord and my lady,' said Griffith, 'I thank Heaven sincerely for the\nfavour that I come to you in your need. I learned of thy fight with the\ntrolls and of thy slaying of Earl Madoc, and that thou wert wounded.\nTherefore I rode on to find thee.'\n\n'I thank thee heartily,' said Sir Geraint, 'and my dear wife also\nthanks thee. For of a truth I am spent, and must needs get me rest and\na leech for my wounds.'\n\n'Then come at once with me,' said the little king, and after he had\nhelped Enid to her place before Geraint, he leaped on his own horse.\n\n'Now thou shalt go to the hall of a son-in-law of my sister which is\nnear here,' said King Griffith, 'and thou shalt have the best medical\nadvice in the kingdom.'\n\nAt the hall of the baron, whose name was Tewder, and a most knightly\nand gentle lord, Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid were received with great\nwelcome and hospitality. Physicians were sent for, and they attended\nGeraint day by day until he was quite well again.\n\nThe fame of his adventures began to spread along the borders of his\nkingdom, and at length reached his own court. And the robber lords and\nbrigands of the marches, hearing of his deeds, ceased their evil-doing\nand made haste to hide from his wrath. Also his father Erbin and the\nhost at his court repented of their hard thoughts and sneers concerning\nhim, and praised the strength of his arm, the gentleness of his\ncourtesy, and his justice and mercy.\n\nWhen Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid returned home, all the people\ngathered to welcome them. And thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and\nhis warlike fame and splendour lasted with renown and honour and love,\nboth to him and to the Lady Enid, from that time forth.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nHOW SIR PERCEVAL WAS TAUGHT CHIVALRY, AND ENDED THE EVIL WROUGHT BY SIR\nBALIN'S DOLOROUS STROKE\n\n\nIt befell upon a time when King Arthur was Pendragon, or overlord of\nthe island of Britain, that Earl Evroc held an earldom of large\ndominion in the north under King Uriens. And the earl had seven sons,\nthe last being but a child still at play about his mother's chair as\nshe sat with her maidens in the bower.\n\nLord Evroc was a valiant and a mighty warrior, ever battling against\nthe hated pagans, when their bands of blue-eyed fierce fighters landed\non his coasts. And when peace was on the land, he went about on\nerrantry, jousting in tournaments and fighting champions.\n\nHis six elder sons did likewise, and all were famed for their knightly\nprowess.\n\nBut the mother sat at home, sad of mood. For she hated war, and would\nrather have had her lord and her six tall sons about her in the home.\nAnd in her heart she resolved that she would plead with Evroc to let\nher have her little son Perceval to be a clerk or a learned bard, so\nthat he should stay at home with her and run no risk of death.\n\nThe sorrow she was ever dreading smote her at length. For a messenger\ncame one day, saying that Earl Evroc her lord had been slain at\nBamborough, in a mighty melee between some of the best and most valiant\nknights of Logres and Alban, and two tall sons with him.\n\nAs the years passed, and her little son began to run, three black days\ncame within a little of each other, for on these days messengers came\nwith the sad news of the death of her other boys. One of them had been\ndone to death by an evil troll on the lonely wastes by the Roman wall,\ntwo others were slain by the shores of Humber, repelling a horde of\nfair-haired Saxon raiders, and the other was killed at a ford, where he\nhad kept at bay six bandit knights that would have pursued and slain\nhis wounded lord.\n\nThen, in her grief, the widow dame resolved that she would fly with her\nlittle son, and make a home for him in some wilderness, where never\nsounds or sights of war or death would come, where knights would be\nunknown, and no one would speak to him of arms and battles. And thus\ndid she do, and she left the hall where she had lived, and removed to\nthe deserts and wastes of the wilderness, and took with her only her\nwomen, and a few boys and spiritless men, too old or feeble to fight,\nor to think of fighting.\n\nThus she reared the only son left to her, teaching him all manner of\nnobleness in thought and action and in learning, but never suffering\nhim to see a weapon, nor to hear a tale of war or knightly prowess.\n\nHe grew up loving all noble things, gentle of speech and bearing, but\nquick to anger at evil or mean actions, merciful of weak things, and\nfull of pity and tenderness.\n\nYet was he also very strong of body, fleet of foot, quick of eye and\nhand. Daily he went to divert himself in the great dark forest that\nclimbed the high mountains beside his home, or he roamed the wide\nrolling moors. And he practised much with the throwing of stones and\nsticks, so that with a stick he could hit a small mark at a great\ndistance, and with a sharp stone he could cut down a sapling at one\nblow.\n\nOne day he saw a flock of his mother's goats in the forest, and near\nthem stood two hinds. The boy wondered greatly to see the two deer\nwhich had no horns, while the goats had two each; and he thought they\nhad long run wild, and had lost their horns in that way. He thought he\nwould please his mother if he caught them, so that they should not\nescape again. And by his great activity and swiftness he ran the two\ndeer down till they were spent, and then he took them and shut them up\nin the goat-house in the forest.\n\nGoing home, he told his mother and her servants what he had done, and\nthey went to see, and marvelled that he could catch such fleet\ncreatures as the wild red deer.\n\nOnce he overheard his mother say that she yearned for fresh venison,\nbut that the hunter who was attached to her house was lying wounded by\na wild boar. Always Perceval had wondered what the little dark man did\nwhom they called the hunter, who was always so secret, so that Perceval\ncould never see where he went or when he returned from the forest.\n\nSo he went to the hut where Tod the hunter lay sick, and charged him by\nthe love and worship he bore to the countess, that he should tell him\nhow he could obtain fresh venison. And the dwarf told him.\n\nThen Perceval took a few sticks of stout wood, with points hardened by\nfire, and went into the forest as Tod had told him, and seeing a deer\nhe hurled a stick at it and slew it. And then he brought it home.\n\nThe countess was greatly wroth that Tod had taught him how to slay, and\nshe said that never more should the dwarf serve her. And Tod wept, but\nwhen he was well again the countess would not suffer him to stay, but\nsaid he should leave the hall and never come there again.\n\nShe commanded Perceval never to slay any more living things, and the\nlad promised. But hard was it to keep his word, when he was in the\nforest and saw the wild things passing through the brakes.\n\nOnce, as he strayed deep in the wood, he came upon a wide glade or\nlaund, with two green hillocks in the middle thereof. And feeding upon\nthe grass was a great buck, and it had a silver ring round its neck.\nPerceval wondered at this beast being thus adorned, and went up to it\nto stroke it.\n\nBut the buck was fierce, and would have gored him with its horns, but\nPerceval seized them, and after a great struggle he threw the animal,\nand held it down, and in his wrath he would have slain it with a sharp\nstick. With that a swarm of little angry trolls poured from the hollow\nhillocks with great cries, and seizing Perceval would have hurt him.\n\nBut suddenly Tod ran among them, and commanded them to release him. And\nin the end Tod, who came himself of the troll folk, made the little\npeople pass the words of peace and friendship with Perceval, and ever\nafter that the boy went with the trolls, and sported with them in\nwrestling, running and other games; and he learned many things of great\nwisdom from them concerning the secrets of the earth and air and the\nwind, and the spirits that haunt waste places and standing stones, and\nhow to put to naught the power of witches and wizards.\n\nTod ever bade them treat the young lord with reverence. 'For this is he\nwho shall do great deeds,' he said. 'He shall be a stainless knight,\nwho shall gain from evil the greatest strength, and, if God wills, he\nshall beat down the evil powers in this land.'\n\nBut the lad knew not what he meant, though he was very content to have\nthe trolls for his friends.\n\nOne day Perceval was in the forest far up the mountain, and he looked\nover the blue distance far below across the moor, and saw a man riding\non a wide road which he had never noticed before. And the man rode very\nfast, and as he went the sun seemed to flash from him as if he was\nclothed in glass. Perceval wondered what he was, and resolved to go\nacross the moor to the road he had seen.\n\nWhen he reached the road he found it was very broad, and banked on\neither side, and went straight as the flight of a wild duck right\nacross the moor, and never swerved by the hills or pools, but went over\neverything in its way. And as he stood marvelling what mighty men had\nbuilded it, he heard a strange rattling sound behind him, and, turning,\nhe saw three men on horseback, and the sun shone from them as he had\nseen it shine from the first horseman.\n\nThe foremost checked his horse beside Perceval, and said:\n\n'Tell me, good soul, sawest thou a knight pass this way either this day\nor yesterday?'\n\n'I know not what a knight is,' answered Perceval.\n\n'Such a one as I,' said the horseman, smiling good-naturedly, for it\nwas Sir Owen, one of King Arthur's knights.\n\n'If ye will tell me what I ask, I will tell you,' said Perceval.\n\n[Illustration: YOUNG PERCEVAL QUESTIONS SIR OWEN]\n\n\n'I will answer gladly,' said Sir Owen, smiling, yet wondering at the\nfearless and noble air of this youth in so wild a waste.\n\n'What is this?' asked Perceval, and pulled the skirt of the hauberk.\n\n'It is a dress made of rings of steel,' answered Sir Owen, 'which I put\non to turn the swords of those I fight.'\n\n'And what is it to fight?'\n\n'What strange youth art thou?' asked Sir Owen. 'To fight is to do\nbattle with spears or swords, so that you would slay the man that would\nslay you.'\n\n'Ah, as I would have slain the buck that would have gored me,' said\nPerceval, nodding his head.\n\nMany other questions the youth asked eagerly, as to the arms they bore\nand the accoutrements and their uses. And at length he said:\n\n'Sirs, I thank you for your courtesy. Go forward swiftly, for I saw\nsuch a one as ye go by here but two hours ago, and he flashed in the\nsun as he rode swiftly. And now I will be as one of you.'\n\nPerceval went swiftly back to his mother's house and found her among\nher women.\n\n'Mother,' he said, 'I have seen a great and wonderful sight on the\ngreat road across the moor.'\n\n'Ah, my dear son, what was that?' she asked.\n\n'They were three honourable knights,' he said. 'And, mother, I will be\na knight also.'\n\nWith a great shriek his mother swooned away, and the women turned him\nfrom the room and said he had slain his mother.\n\nMuch grieved was Perceval that he had hurt his mother, and so, taking\nhis store of pointed sticks, he went off into the forest, and strayed\nthere a long time, torn between his love for his mother, and the\nstrange restlessness which the sight of the three warriors had caused\nin him.\n\nAs he wandered, troubled, his quick ear caught the clang of metal,\nthough he knew not what it was. And swiftly he ran towards the sound a\nlong way, until he came into a clearing, and found two knights on\nhorseback doing mighty battle. One bore a red shield and the other a\ngreen one.\n\nHe looked eagerly at this strange sight, and the blood sang in his\nveins. And then he saw that the green knight was of slighter frame than\nthe other, and was weakening before the strokes of the red knight.\n\nFull of anger at the sight, Perceval launched one of his hard-wood\njavelins at the red knight. With such force did it go, and so true was\nthe aim, that it pierced the coif of the knight, and entered between\nthe neck and the head, and the red knight swayed and then clattered to\nthe ground, dead.\n\nThe green knight came and thanked Perceval for thus saving his life.\n\n'Are knights then so easy to slay?' asked the lad. 'Methought that none\nmight pierce through the hauberk of a knight, and I sorrow that I have\nslain him, not thinking what I did.'\n\n'He was a full evil knight,' said the other, 'and deserved death richly\nfor his many villainies and oppressions of weak orphans and friendless\nwidows.'\n\nThe knight took the body of the dead knight to be buried in a chapel,\nand told Perceval he could have the horse. But the lad would not have\nit, though he longed greatly to possess it, and the green knight took\nit with him.\n\nThen Perceval went home, sad, yet wild with wonder at what he had done.\nHe found his mother well again, but very sorrowful. And for fear of\ngiving her pain, he did not tell her of the knight he had slain.\n\nShe called him to her, and said:\n\n'Dear son of mine, it seems I may not keep thy fate from thee. The\nblood of thy warlike generations before thee may not be quenched,\nwhatever fond and foolish plans I made to keep thee from knowledge of\nbattle and weapons. Dear son, dost thou desire to ride forth into the\nworld?'\n\n'Yes, mother, of a truth,' said Perceval. 'I shall not be happy more\nuntil I go.'\n\n'Go forward, then,' she said weeping, 'and God be with thee, my dear\nson. And as I have no man who is strong of his hands, thou must go\nalone, yet will I give thee gold for thy proper garnishing and lodging.\nBut make all the haste ye may to the court of King Arthur at\nCaerleon-upon-Usk, for there are the best and the boldest and the most\nworshipful of knights. And the king will give thee knighthood. And\nwherever thou seest a church, go kneel and repeat thy prayers therein;\nand if thou hearest an outcry, go quickly and defend the weak, the poor\nand the unprotected. And be ever tender towards women, my son, and\nremember that thy mother loves thee and prays for thy stay in health\nand life. And come thou to see me within a little while.'\n\nAnd he thanked her, saying he would do naught that should shame her,\nbut would remember all the nobleness of her teaching; also, that he\nwould return to see her within a little while.\n\nPerceval went to the stable and took a bony, piebald horse, which\nseemed the strongest, and he pressed a pallet of straw into the\nsemblance of a saddle, and with pieces of leather and wood he imitated\nthe trappings he had seen on the horses of the knights.\n\nThen, after taking leave of his mother, he rode forth, sad at first for\nleaving her in sorrow and tears, but afterwards glad that now he was\ngoing into the world to become a knight. And for armour he had a rough\njerkin, old and moth-eaten, and for arms he had a handful of\nsharp-pointed sticks of hard wood.\n\nHe journeyed southwards two days and two nights along the great\nstraight road, which went through the deep dark forests, over desert\nplaces and over the high mountains. And all that time he ate nothing\nbut wild berries, for he had not thought to bring food with him.\n\nWhile he was yet but a little way from the court of King Arthur, a\nstranger knight, tall and big, in black armour, had ridden into the\nhall where sat Gwenevere the queen, with a few of the younger knights\nand her women. The page of the chamber was serving the queen with wine\nin a golden goblet richly wrought, which Lancelot had taken from a\nknight whom he had lately slain.\n\nThe stranger knight had alighted before the chair of Gwenevere, and all\nhad seen that full of rage and pride was his look. And he caught sight\nof the goblet in the hand of Gwenevere, and he snatched it from her,\nspilling the wine over her dress and dashing it even into her face.\n\n'Now am I well lighted here,' he said, 'for this is the very goblet\nwhich thy robber knight Sir Lancelot reaved from my brother, Sir\nWilder. And if any of you knights here desire to wrest this goblet from\nme, or to avenge the insult I have done your queen, let him come to the\nmeadow beside the ford, and I will slay him, ay, if it be that traitor\nSir Lancelot himself.'\n\nAll the young knights hung their heads as he mounted his horse and\ninsolently rode out of the hall; for it seemed to them that no one\nwould have done so daring an outrage unless, like Sir Garlon whom Balin\nslew, he fought with evil magic, so that the strength and prowess of\nthe mightiest knight would be put to naught.\n\nThen Perceval entered the hall, and at sight of him upon his rough\npiebald horse, with its uncouth trappings, and the old and mouldy\njerkin upon the youth, the knights and others broke forth in excessive\nlaughter, as much at the sight as to cover their discomfiture and fear\nof the knight who had just gone.\n\nBut Perceval took no note of their laughter, but rode up the hall to\nwhere Sir Kay the seneschal stood, wrathful at the outrage on the queen\nwhich he had not dared to avenge instantly. And Perceval looked about\nand saw a knight more richly dressed than the others, and, turning to\nKay, he said:\n\n'Tell me, tall man, is that King Arthur yonder?'\n\n'What wouldst thou with Arthur, knave?' asked Kay angrily.\n\n'My mother told me to seek King Arthur,' responded Perceval,' and he\nwill give me the honour of knighthood.'\n\n'By my faith, thou farmer's churl,' said Kay, 'thou art richly equipped\nindeed with horse and arms to have that honour.'\n\nThereupon the others shouted with laughter, and commenced to throw\nsticks at Perceval, or the bones left by the dogs upon the floor.\n\nThen a dwarf pressed forward between the laughing crowd and saluted\nPerceval. And the lad rejoiced to recognise him. It was Tod, who had\nbeen his friend among the trolls of the mountains, and with Tod was his\nwife. They had come to the court of Arthur, and had craved harbourage\nthere, and the king of his kindness had granted it them. But by reason\nof the prophecy which the trolls knew of concerning the great renown\nwhich Perceval was to gain, they had been dumb of speech since they had\nlast seen the young man.\n\nAnd now at sight of him their tongues were loosed, and they ran and\nkissed his feet, and cried together:\n\n'The welcome of Heaven be unto thee, goodly Perceval, son of Earl\nEvroc! Chief of warriors art thou, and stainless flower of knighthood!'\n\n'Truly,' said Kay wrathfully, 'thou art an ill-conditioned pair, to\nremain a year mute at King Arthur's court, and now before the face of\ngoodly knights to acclaim this churl with the mouldy coat, chief of\nwarriors and flower of knighthood!'\n\nIn his rage he beat Tod the dwarf such a blow, that the poor troll fell\nsenseless to the ground; and the troll-wife he kicked, so that she was\ndashed among the dogs, who bit her.\n\n'Tall man,' said Perceval, and men marvelled to see the high look on\nhis face and the cold scorn in his eyes, 'I will have vengeance on thee\nfor the insult and ill-treatment thou hast done these two poor dwarfs.\nBut tell me now which of these knights is Arthur?'\n\n'Away with thee,' shouted Kay, enraged. 'If thou wouldst see Arthur, go\nto the knight with the goblet who waits for thee at the ford, and take\nthe goblet from him, and slay him. Then when thou comest back clad in\nhis armour, we will speak further with thee.'\n\n'I will do so, angry man,' said Perceval, and amid the shouts of\nlaughter and the sneers of the crowd he turned his horse's head and\nrode out of the hall.\n\nGoing to the meadow beside the ford, he saw a knight riding up and\ndown, proud of his strength and valour.\n\n'Tell me, fellow,' said the knight, who bore on his shield the device\nof a black tower on a red field, 'didst thou see any one coming after\nme from the court yonder?'\n\n'The tall man that was there,' said Perceval, 'bade me to come to thee,\nand I am to overthrow thee and to take from thee the goblet, and as for\nthy horse and thy arms I am to have them myself.'\n\n'Silence, prating fool!' shouted the knight, 'go back to the court and\ntell Arthur to come himself, or to send a champion to fight me, or I\nwill not wait, and great will be his shame.'\n\n'By my faith,' said Perceval, 'whether thou art willing or unwilling,\nit is I that will have thy horse and arms and the goblet.'\n\nAnd he prepared to throw his javelin-sticks.\n\nIn a proud rage the knight ran at him with uplifted lance, and struck\nhim a violent blow with the shaft between the neck and the shoulder.\n\n'Haha! lad,' said Perceval, and laughed, 'that was as shrewd a blow as\nany the trolls gave me when they taught me their staff play; but now I\nwill play with thee in my own way.'\n\nThereupon he threw one of the pointed sticks at the knight, with such\nforce and with such sureness of aim that it went in between the bars of\nhis vizor and pierced the eye, and entered into the brain of the\nknight. Whereupon he fell from his horse lifeless.\n\nAnd it befell that a little while after Perceval had left the court,\nSir Owen came in, and was told of the shameful wrong put upon the queen\nby the unknown knight, and how Sir Kay had sent a mad boy after the\nknight to slay him.\n\n'Now, by my troth,' said Owen to Kay, 'thou wert a fool to send that\nfoolish lad after the strong knight. For either he will be overthrown,\nand the knight will think he is truly the champion sent on behalf of\nthe queen, whom the knight so evilly treated, and so an eternal\ndisgrace will light on Arthur and all of us; or, if he is slain, the\ndisgrace will be the same, and the mad young man's life will be thrown\naway.'\n\nThereupon Sir Owen made all haste, and rode swiftly to the meadow,\narmed; but when he reached the place, he found a youth in a mouldy old\njerkin pulling a knight in rich armour up and down the grass.\n\n'By'r Lady's name!' cried Sir Owen, 'what do you there, tall youth?'\n\n'This iron coat,' said Perceval, stopping as he spoke, 'will never come\noff him.'\n\nOwen alighted marvelling, and went to the knight and found that he was\ndead, and saw the manner of his death, and marvelled the more. He\nunloosed the knight's armour and gave it to Perceval.\n\n'Here, good soul,' he said, 'are horse and armour for thee. And well\nhast thou merited them, since thou unarmed hast slain so powerful a\nknight as this.'\n\nHe helped Perceval put on his armour, and when he was fully dressed\nOwen marvelled to see how nobly he bore himself.\n\n'Now come you with me,' he said, 'and we will go to King Arthur, and\nyou shall have the honour of knighthood from the good king himself.'\n\n'Nay, that will I not,' said Perceval, and mounted the dead knight's\nhorse. 'But take thou this goblet to the queen, and tell the king that\nwherever I be, I will be his man, to slay all oppressors, to succour\nthe weak and the wronged, and to aid him in whatever knightly\nenterprise he may desire my aid. But I will not enter his court until I\nhave encountered the tall man there who sent me hither, to revenge upon\nhim the wrong he did to my friends, Tod the dwarf and his wife.'\n\nAnd with this Perceval said farewell and rode off. Sir Owen went back\nto the court, and told Arthur and the queen all these things. Men\nmarvelled who the strange young man could be, and many sought Tod and\nhis wife to question them, but nowhere could they be found.\n\nGreater still was their marvelling when, as the weeks passed, knights\ncame and yielded themselves to King Arthur, saying that Perceval had\novercome them in knightly combat, and had given them their lives on\ncondition that they went to King Arthur's court and yielded themselves\nup to him and his mercy. The king and all his court reproved Kay for\nhis churlish manner, and for his having driven so splendid a youth from\nthe court.\n\nAnd Perceval rode ever forward. He came one day towards the gloaming to\na lonely wood in the fenlands, where the wind shivered like the breath\nof ghosts among the leaves, and there was not a track or trace of man\nor beast, and no birds piped. And soon, as the wind shrilled, and the\nrain began to beat down like thin grey spears, he saw a vast castle\nrise before him, and when he made his way towards the gate, he found\nthe way so overgrown with weeds that hardly could he push his horse\nbetween them. And on the very threshold the grass grew thick and high,\nas if the door had not been opened for a hundred winters.\n\nHe battered on the door with the butt of his lance; and long he waited,\nwhile the cold rain drove and the wind snarled.\n\nAfter a little while a voice came from above the gateway, and glancing\nup he saw a damsel looking through an opening in the battlements.\n\n'Choose thou, chieftain,' said she, 'whether I shall open unto thee\nwithout announcing thee, or whether I shall tell her that rules here\nthat thou wishest to enter.'\n\n'Say that I am here,' said Perceval. 'And if she will not house me for\nthe night, then will I go forward.'\n\nSoon the maiden came back and opened the door for him, and his horse\nshe led into the stable, where she fed it; and Perceval she brought\ninto the hall. When he came into the light and looked at the girl, he\nthought he had never seen another of so fair an aspect.\n\nShe had an old garment of satin upon her, which had once been rich, but\nwas now frayed and tattered; and fairer was her skin than the bloom of\nthe rose, and her hair and eyebrows were like the sloe for blackness,\nand on her cheeks was the redness of poppies. Her eyes were like deep\npools in a dark wood. And he thought that, though she was very\nbeautiful, there was great arrogance in her look and cruelty in her\nlips.\n\nWhen Perceval went towards the dais of the hall he saw a tall and\nstately lady in the high seat, old of years and reverend of aspect,\nthough sorrowful. Several handmaids sat beside her, sad of face and\ntattered of dress. All welcomed him right kindly. Then they sat at\nmeat, and gave the young man the best cheer that they had.\n\nWhen it was time to go to rest, the lady said:\n\n'It were well for you, chieftain, that you sleep not in this castle.'\n\n'Wherefore,' said Perceval, 'seeing that the storm beats wildly without\nand there is room here for many?'\n\n'For this reason,' said the lady, 'that I would not that so handsome\nand kindly a youth as you seem should suffer the doom which must light\nupon this my castle at dawn.'\n\n'Tell me,' said Perceval, 'what is this castle, and what is the doom\nyou speak of?'\n\n'This castle is named the Castle of Weeds,' replied the lady, 'and the\nlands about it for many miles belonged to my husband, the Earl Mador.\nAnd he was a bold and very valiant man; and he slew Maelond, the eldest\nson of Domna, the great witch of Glaive, and ever thereafter things\nwere not well with him. For she and her eight evil sisters laid a curse\nupon him. And that in spite of this, that he slew Maelond in fair\nfight, for all that he was a false and powerful wizard. And Domna came\nto my husband, when he was worn with a strange sickness, and as he lay\non his deathbed. And she said she should revenge herself upon his\ndaughter and mine, this maiden here, when she shall be full twice nine\nyears of age. And she will be of that age ere dawn to-morrow morn, and\nat the hour will the fierce Domna and her fearful sisters come, and\nwith tortures slay all that are herein, and take my dear daughter\nAngharad, and use her cruelly.'\n\nThe maiden who had opened to Perceval was that daughter, and she\nlaughed harshly as her mother spoke.\n\n'Fear not for me, mother,' she cried. 'They will deck me in rich robes,\nand I shall not pine for fair raiment, as I have pined these ten years\nwith thee.'\n\nThe lady looked sadly upon her as she heard her words.\n\n'I fear not, my daughter, that they will take thy life,' she said, 'but\nI dread this--that they will destroy thy soul!'\n\nAnd Angharad laughed and said:\n\n'What matter, so it be that I live richly while I live!'\n\n'Nay, nay,' said Perceval, and in his voice was a great scorn, 'it is\nevil to speak thus, and it belies your beauty, fair maiden. Rather a\nlife of poverty than one of shamefulness and dishonour. Thus is it with\nall good knights and noble dames, and thus was it with our dear Lord.'\n\nThen turning to the lady, he said:\n\n'Lady, I think these evil witches will not hurt thee. For the little\nhelp that I may give to thee, I will stay this night with thee.'\n\nAfter he had prayed at the altar in the ruined chapel of the castle,\nthey led him to a bed in the hall, where he slept.\n\nAnd just before the break of day there came a dreadful outcry, with\ngroans and shrieks and terrible screams and moanings, as if all the\nevil that could be done was being done upon poor wretches out in the\ndark.\n\nPerceval leapt from his couch, and with naught upon him but his vest\nand doublet, he went with his sword in hand to the gate, and there he\nsaw two poor serving-men struggling with a hag dressed all in armour.\nBehind her came eight others. And their eyes, from between the bars of\ntheir helms, shone with a horrible red fire, and from each point of\ntheir armour sparks flashed, and the swords in their grisly hands\ngleamed with a blue flame, so fierce and so terrible that it scorched\nthe eyes to look upon them.\n\nBut Perceval dashed upon the foremost witch, and with his sword beat\nher with so great a stroke that she fell to the ground, and the helm on\nher head was flattened to the likeness of a dish.\n\nWhen she fell, the light of her eyes and her sword went out, and the\narmour all seemed to wither away, and she was nothing but an old ugly\nwoman in rags. And she cried out:\n\n'Thy mercy, good Perceval, son of Evroc, and the mercy of Heaven!'\n\n'How knowest thou, hag,' said he, 'that I am Perceval?'\n\n'By the destiny spun by the powers of the Underworld,' she said, 'and\nthe foreknowledge that I should suffer harm from thee. And I knew not\nthat thou wert here, or I and my sisters would have avoided thee. But\nit is fated,' she went on, 'that thou come with us to learn all that\nmay be learned of the use of arms. For there are none in Britain to\ncompare with us for the knowledge of warfare.'\n\nThen Perceval remembered what he had heard the trolls--the people of\nthe Underworld--say, though he had not understood their meaning. 'The\nstainless knight,' they said, 'shall gain from evil greater strength,\nand with it he may confound all evil.'\n\n'If it be thus fated,' he said, 'I will go with thee. But first thou\nshalt swear that no evil shall happen to the lady of this castle nor to\nher daughter, nor to any that belong to them.'\n\n'It shall be so,' said the witch, 'if, when the time comes, thou art\nstrong enough to overcome my power. But if thou failest, Angharad is\nmine to do with as I will.'\n\nThen Perceval took leave of the lady of the Castle of Weeds, and of\nAngharad. And the lady thanked him with tears for saving their lives,\nbut the girl was cold and scornful and said no word of thanks. Then\nPerceval went with the witches to their Castle of Glaive.\n\nHe stayed with them for a year and a day, learning such knowledge of\narms, and gaining such strength, that it was marvel to see the feats\nwhich he performed. And while he lived with them they strove to bend\nhim to their wills, for they saw how great a knight he would become in\nprowess and in knightly deeds. They tempted him every hour and every\nday, telling him what earthly power, what riches and what great\ndominions would be his, if he would but swear fealty to the chief\nwitch, Domna, and fight for her against King Arthur and his proud\nknights.\n\nPerceval prayed daily for strength to withstand the poison of their\ntongues, and evermore he held himself humble and gentle, and thought\nmuch of his widowed mother in her lonely home in the northern wastes,\nand of the promise he had made her. Sometimes he thought of Angharad,\nhow beautiful she was, and how sad it was that she had so cold a heart,\nand was so cruel in her words.\n\nAnon the witch Domna came to him, and said that he had now learned all\nthat she could teach him, and he must go and prove himself against\ngreater powers than he had ever yet known. If he prevailed not in that\nbattle, the ladies of the Castle of Weeds would become the prey of the\nwitches, and greater power of evil would they have in the world than\never before. Then she gave him a horse and a full suit of black armour.\n\nSo Perceval took the horse, and armed himself and rode forth. And anon\nhe came to a hermit's cell beside a ruined chapel, and he alighted and\nwent into the chapel, and stripped himself, and laid all his armour,\nhis lance, and his sword, before the high altar.\n\nPrayerfully he gave his arms to the service of God, and devoted them\none by one to do only knightly and pure deeds, to rescue the oppressed\nand the weak, to put down the proud, and to cherish the humble.\n\nAnd as he ended praying, the armour stirred of itself, and though it\nhad been black before, now did the darkness fade from it, and it all\nbecame a pure white. While he marvelled, a faint light glowed over\nhauberk, helm, shield, sword and lance, and there was an exceeding\nsweet savour wafted through the place. And ghostily, as in a silver\nmist, he saw above the altar the likeness of a spear, and beside it a\ndish or salver. And at the wondrous sight his breath stayed on his\nlips. Then slowly the vision faded from his sight.\n\nHe arrayed himself in his armour that was now of a dazzling white, and\nhe rode forth and thought to go towards Camelot, where was the court of\nKing Arthur. But he felt that some power drew him aside through the\ndesolate ways of a hoar forest, where all the trees were ancient and\nbig, and all bearded with long moss.\n\nIn a little while he saw a vast castle reared upon a rock in the midst\nof the forest. He rode up to it, and marvelled that it was all so\nquiet. Then he beat upon the door with the butt of his lance, and the\ndoor opened, and he entered into the wide dark hall. On the pallets\nunder the wall he saw men lying as if dead. And in the high seat at the\nhead of the hall sat a king, old and white, but richly clothed, and he\nseemed dead like all the rest. All were clad in garments of an ancient\nkind, as if they had lived and died a thousand years agone, yet had not\nrotted into dust. On the floor, about the wide heap of ashes where the\nfire had burned, the hounds still lay as if asleep, and on the posts\nthe hawks sat stiff upon their perches.\n\nMuch did Perceval marvel at this strange sight, but most of all he\nmarvelled to see where a shaft of light from a narrow window gleamed\nacross the hall full upon a shield hung on the fire-pillar beside the\nhigh seat in which the king sat like one dead.\n\nPerceval caused his horse to pick its way through the hall, and he\napproached the shield. And he saw that it was of shining white, but\nwhiter than the whiteness of his own, and in the centre thereof was a\nheart. As he sat looking thereat, he marvelled to see that the heart\nseemed to stir as if it were alive, and began to throb and move as if\nit beat. Then the whiteness of the shield began to dazzle like to a\nlight that mortal eyes could not bear.\n\nHe lifted his hand and took the shield by its strap from the peg on\nwhich it hung, and as he did so, a great sigh arose from within the\nhall, as if at one time many sleepers awoke. And looking round, he saw\nhow all the men that had seemed dead were now on their knees, with bent\nheads and folded hands as if in prayer.\n\nThe king in the high seat stirred and sat upright, and looked at\nPerceval with a most sweet smile.\n\n'The blessing of God is upon thee, young White Knight,' said he, 'and\nnow is my watch and ward all ended, and with these my faithful\ncompanions may I go.'\n\n'Tell me, sir,' said Perceval, 'what means this?'\n\n'I am Marius,' said the king, 'and I was that Roman soldier who took\npity of the gentle Saviour dying in His agony upon the rood. And I\nhelped to take Him from the cross. For my pity did God, whom till then\nI had not known, deal with me in marvellous wise. And this shield was\nmine, and a holy hermit in a desert of Syria did bless it, and prophesy\nconcerning it and me. I came to this land of Britain when it was full\nof evil men, warring fiercely together, and all in heathen darkness. I\npreached the Word of Christ, I and my fellows that came with me, until\nthe heathens rose up and would slay me. And by that time I was wearied\nand very old, and wished to die. Yet I sorrowed, wondering whether God\nwould do naught to rescue these people from this slavery to the old\nevil law. Then a man of God came to me at night, a man of marvel, and\nhe caused this castle to be builded in this ancient wood, and he put my\nshield upon the post, and bade me and my dear friends sleep. 'For,'\nsaid he, 'thou hast earned thy sleep, and others shall carry on thy\nwork and reveal the mercy of God and his Christ to these poor heathens,\nand they shall turn to God wholly. And no evil shall be able to break\nin upon thy repose. But when, in the distant future, men's hearts are\nturning to evil again, one that is of the three white knights shall\ncome and take this shield, to ward him in the great battle against\nevil, and then thou and all that are with thee shall have the\nrestfulness of death thou hast merited. Go then, thou good knight,'\nwent on King Marius, 'fight the good fight against that thing of evil\nwhom the good man spoke of, and may my shield encompass thee and ever\nguard thee.'\n\nPerceval took the shield and left his own. Turning, he rode back\nbetween lines of silent forms bent in prayer. He went forth into the\nforest some little way, and heard from the castle the singing of a\njoyful hymn. And, looking back, he saw that the castle had vanished.\nBut still above him and about him was the sound of singing, of a\nsweetness indescribable, as if they sang who had gained all that they\ndesired.\n\nThen Perceval rode forward till it was night; but never could he get\nsight of castle or knight's hold or hermit's cell where he could be\nhouselled for the night. So he abode in the forest that night, and when\nhe had prayed he slept beside his good horse until it was day.\n\nJust before the dawn he awoke to the sound of a great rushing wind all\nabout him. Yet marvel it was to see that the trees in that hoar wood\ndid not wave their branches, but all were still.\n\nThen he was aware of a sweet savour which surrounded him, and anon a\ngentle voice spoke out of the darkness.\n\n'Fair White Knight,' said the voice, 'it is ordained of thee that thou\ngoest to the lands of the King Pellam in the north, where an evil power\nseeks to turn men from the New Law which Christ brought, and to make\nthem cleave to the Old Law with its cruelty and evil tortures. And\nthere at the Castle of the Circlet thou shalt fight a battle for the\nSaviour of the world. And whether thou shalt win through all, none know\nas yet. But in thy purity, thy humility, is thy strength. Fare thee\nwell!'\n\nMuch moved at these words, Perceval knelt and prayed, and then, as the\ndawn filtered through the trees, he mounted his horse and began his\nlong journey to the north.\n\nOn the seventh day he crossed a plain, and saw far in the north where\nthe smoke as of fires rose into the clouds, and here and there he saw\nthe fierce red gleam of flames. And he passed through a ford, and then\nhe entered a land all black and desolate, with the bodies of the dead\nbeside the way, unburied, and the houses all broken or burned. In other\nplaces the grass and weeds grew over the hearths of desolated homes,\nand wild beasts made their lairs where homely folk seemed lately to\nhave lived their simple happy lives.\n\nNo man or child could be seen anywhere to ask what all this might mean.\nBut one day, as he walked his horse beside a brook, over the long\ngrass, he came upon a poor half-starved peasant who had not strength to\nrun. And the man knelt before him, and bared his breast, and said,\n'Strike, sir knight, and end my misery!'\n\nBut Perceval raised him in his arms and kissed him, and gave him bread\nand wine from his scrip, and when the poor man was revived, Perceval\nasked him what his words meant.\n\n'Ah, Sir White Knight!' said the man, whose tears fell as he spoke,\n'surely thou art an angel of heaven, not of the pit, such as have\nravened and slaughtered throughout this fair land since good King\nPellam was struck by the Dolorous Stroke that Balin made. For of that\nstroke came all our misery. The sacred relics of the Crucifixion fled\nour land, our king sickened of a malady that naught could heal, our\ncrops rotted, and our cattle died. Yet did some among us strive to live\nand do as brave men should in all adversity. But into the land came an\nevil and a pagan knight, the knight of the Dragon, and he willed that\nall should scorn and despise the good Christ, and should turn to the\nold gods of the standing stones and the oaken groves. And those that\nwould not he slew, and their folk he trampled underfoot, and their\nherds and fields he destroyed and desolated. And I, fair lord, have\nlost my dear wife and my wee bairns, and I wonder why I fled and kept\nmy life, remembering all I have lost.'\n\n'Take heart,' said Perceval, 'and remember that it is God His mercy\nthat chastiseth, and that while thou hast life thou hast hope. It is a\nman's duty, a man's nobility, to bear sorrows bravely, and still to\nwork, to do all and to achieve. I think God will not long let this evil\nknight oppress and slay. In His good time He will cut him down.'\n\n'Fair sir,' said the peasant, 'I thank thee for thy cheer, and I will\ntake heart and trust in God's good time.'\n\nAnd Perceval rode forward through the blackened land and found the\nforests burning and the fields wasted. Anon he came to the edge of a\nplain, and saw a great castle in the distance. And there came to him a\ndamsel, weeping, and when he craved of her to tell him why she mourned,\nshe stayed, and looked at him as if astounded. Then she cried with a\ngreat cry of joy.\n\n'Oh, tell me, fair sir, who art thou? Thou hast the white armour which\nit was foretold the spotless knight should wear, and on thy shield is\nthe Heart as of Him that bled to save the world.'\n\n'I know not what you say,' replied Perceval, 'but my name is Perceval,\nson of Evroc, and I seek the wicked knight that doeth all this evil.'\n\n'Then thou art the White Knight,' said the damsel, 'and now I pray that\nGod aid thee, for my lady and all this poor land have need of thee.\nCome thou to my mistress, the lady of the Chaplet.'\n\nTherewith she led him to the castle, and the lady thereof came out to\nhim. She was of a sad countenance, but of a great beauty, though poorly\nclothed.\n\n'Fair sir,' she said, 'my maiden hath told me who thou art, and I\nsorrow that one so noble as thou seemest shall essay to overcome the\nfiend knight of the Dragon. Yet if thou shouldst prevail, all men in\nthis tortured land will bless thee, and I not the least. For daily doth\nthe evil knight slay my poor knights, and cometh and casteth their\nblackened and burned bodies before my hall. And many of my poor folk\nhath he slain or enslaved, and others hath he caused to follow his evil\nworship, and many of my rich and fair lands hath he wrested from me.'\n\n'Therefore, fair lady,' said Perceval, 'I would seek him without delay,\nfor to essay the force of my body upon him, by the grace of God.'\n\n'And shouldst thou conquer,' said the lady, 'with the fiend's death the\nhallowed relics which King Pellam guarded shall return to bless this\nland. Now, therefore, go ye towards the Burnt Land beyond the brook,\nfor that is where is the lair of the fiend that doth oppress us.'\n\nPerceval went forward across the plain to a brook, and having forded\nthe water he came to a wide hollow where the ground was all baked and\nburned, and the trees were charred and black. Here and there lay pieces\nof armour, red and rusted, as if they had been in a fierce fire; and in\none place was the body of a knight freshly slain, and he was charred\nand black.\n\nThen, as Perceval looked about him, he saw the dark hole of a cave in a\nbank beside the hollow, and suddenly therefrom issued a burst of\nhorrible fire and smoke, and with a cry as of a fiend a black knight\nsuddenly appeared before him on a great horse, whose eyes flashed as\nwith fire and whose nostrils jetted hot vapours.\n\n'Ha! thou Christian!' cried the knight in a horrible voice, 'what dost\nthou here? Wouldst thou have thy pretty white armour charred and\nblackened and thyself killed by my dragon's power?'\n\nThen Perceval saw how the boss of the Black Knight's shield was the\nhead of a dragon, its forked tongue writhing, its teeth gnashing, and\nits eyes so red and fiendish that no mortal, unless by God's aid, could\nlook on it and live. From its mouth came a blinding flash as of\nlightning and beat at Perceval, but he held up his shield of the\nThrobbing Heart, and with angry shrieks the Black Knight perceived that\nthe lightning could not touch the shield.\n\nThen from his side the evil knight tore his sword, and it flamed red as\nif it was heated in a fierce furnace, and thrusting forward he came and\nbeat at Perceval. But the White Knight warded off the blows with his\nshield, which the flaming sword had no power to harm.\n\nThen did the Black Knight marvel greatly, for never had a knight,\nhowever skilled, withstood him, for either the lightning of the dragon\nshield had burnt him, or the stroke of his flaming sword had slain him\nswiftly. And by this he knew that this knight was Perceval.\n\n'Thou knowest not who it is thou fightest,' said the Black Knight, with\na scornful laugh. 'Thou must put forth more than the skill thou didst\nlearn of the witches of Glaive if thou wouldst overcome me. For know\nye, that I am a fosterling of Domna the witch, and she taught me more\nthan ever she taught you. Now prepare ye to die.'\n\nThen Perceval knew that this indeed was the fight which Domna had\nforetold, and that if he failed in this, ruin and sorrow would be the\nlot of many.\n\nAnd Perceval began to thrust and strike full valorously and skilfully,\nbut naught seemed to avail him. Thus for a long time they went about,\nthrusting and striking. Always the strength of the Black Knight seemed\nas unwearied as that of a demon, while Perceval felt his arm weaken, as\nmuch from the great strokes he gave, as from the burning fires that\ndarted at him from the dragon shield.\n\nThen Perceval cried in prayer for aid, and asked that if Christ would\nhave this land saved for His glory, strength should be given him to\nslay this fiendish oppressor.\n\nForthwith strength seemed to nerve his arm mightily, and lifting his\nsword he struck at the shield of the knight, and so vehement was the\nblow that he cut down the shield even to the head of the dragon.\nFeeling the wound, the dragon gave forth a great flame, and Perceval\nwondered to see that now his own sword burned as if on fire.\n\nThen, while the Black Knight marvelled at this stroke, Perceval struck\nat him more fiercely and beat in the other's helm, so that the fiend\nknight bent and swayed in his saddle. But recovering, he became so\nwroth that, with his fiery sword, he heaved a mighty blow at Perceval,\nand cut through his hauberk even to the shoulder, which was burned to\nthe bone.\n\nEre the other could withdraw himself, Perceval thrust his sword to the\nhilt into the loathsome throat of the dragon. Thereupon the dragon gave\nso terrible a cry that the earth seemed to shake with the horror of it.\nAnd in its wrath and pain the dragon's head turned upon the Black\nKnight its master, and vomited forth fire so fiercely, that it scorched\nand burned him utterly, so that he fell from his horse dead.\n\nPerceval, dizzy and weak from the battle, alighted from his horse, and\nwent towards the knight, that he might slay the dragon. But suddenly he\nswooned and fell and his consciousness went from him.\n\nWhen Perceval came to his senses again, he found himself upon a pallet,\nand the rough walls of a room were about him, while above him was the\nwindow, as it seemed, of an abbey or convent. And he was so weak he\ncould not lift his hand.\n\nSome one came to him, and he recognised Tod the troll.\n\n'Ah, good Tod,' said he faintly. 'Where am I?'\n\n'Now God be praised,' said Tod, and smiled joyfully. 'For the nuns\nfeared ye might not win through the poison of your wound which the\ndragon knight did give you. 'Twas I who had followed you, lord, since\nthat you did leave the hold of the witches, and when you swooned I\nbrought you here, to the convent of the White Nuns. And now that I know\nye live, I go to your lady mother to tell her the good news, for she is\nweary to know tidings of you.'\n\n'Go, good Tod,' said Perceval, 'and say I will come for her blessing\nwhen I may mount my horse again.'\n\nWhen Tod had left him, there came a nun to him, and he knew her for\nAngharad, who had been so proud and scornful when he left her at the\nCastle of Weeds. And he asked her how she had fared, and why she was a\nnun.\n\n'To repent me of my evil mind,' she said. 'For when you left us I did\nnot in my heart thank ye that you had saved my mother and me from death\nand worse. And the witches came to me and tempted me with riches and\npower, even as they were tempting you while you were with them. I heard\nhow you withstood them, and I scorned you and hated you and said you\nwould yield some day. And then you left the witches, having learned all\ntheir strong powers, yet having withstood them, and I marvelled much. I\nheard men say you were one of three stainless knights of the world that\nshould achieve the Holy Graal, because of your great humility and\npurity, and that great honour and glory would be yours, because you put\nnot your trust in your own strength. Then I repented, and would not\nlisten to the evil women. But they followed me, whispering and\ntempting, and then for terror I sought a holy hermit, and he brought me\nhere, and now am I at peace, and my proud heart is humble.'\n\n'By my faith, sister,' said Perceval, 'I am rejoiced to hear thee. For\nI thought when I saw thee that thou hadst a proud and a hard heart. But\nas thou wert a beauteous and lovely maiden I thought much of thee; and\nhad it not been foreordained otherwise, I would have loved thee above\nall women and wedded thee.'\n\nThe sister's pale face flushed.\n\n'Nay, but thou hadst a greater glory in store for thee,' she said. 'For\nthou shalt find the Holy Graal and restore it to this kingdom, and with\nit weak men shall forsake their leanings to the old law of hate, and\ncleave only to Christ and His new law of love.'\n\n'It is as God may will it,' said Perceval.\n\nIn a little while he strengthened and rose from his pallet, and fared\nforth towards the north where his widowed mother sat in her lonely\nhall, waiting for him whose fame was sweet in every man's mouth.\n\nAs he passed through the land, he saw how it had already begun to smile\nagain. Men went to their work unafraid, the corn was brightening on the\nhills, the cattle lowed, women sang at their work, and children played.\nAnd all blessed him as he rode.\n\nThus was ended at last the sorrow in the land of King Pellam which was\nbrought in by the Dolorous Stroke which Sir Balin had given a\ngeneration before.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nHOW SIR OWEN WON THE EARLDOM OF THE FOUNTAIN\n\n\nNow the young page Owen, who had saved King Arthur from midnight murder\nat the hand of the evil Sir Turquine, whom Lancelot slew, had tarried\nat the court of the king, and in prowess and knightly achievements was\namong the most famous of the knights of the Round Table. And always was\nhe wishful to go on strange adventures, however far might be the\ncountry, or dangerous the ways thereto, or cruel and crafty the foes.\n\nOne day King Arthur was at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and sat conversing with a\nfew of his knights in the presence-chamber. With him was Sir Owen and\nSir Kay, and there was also Sir Conan and Sir Bedevere. The queen sat\nnear them, while her handmaidens stood by the window at needlework.\n\nIn a little while Arthur said he would sleep until the horn sounded for\ndinner. For he had come from London late the night before, and had not\nhad his full rest.\n\n'But,' said he, 'do you, my knights, continue your talk, and tell each\nother tales as before, and if you are hungry, Kay will give you collops\nof meat and horns of mead.'\n\nSo the king slept on his broad seat of green rushes, over which was\nspread a splendid covering of flame-coloured satin. And cushions of red\nsatin were under his head.\n\nKay ordered a page to bring meat and bread and mead, and when the four\nhad eaten, Sir Conan was called upon to tell how he became possessed of\na dark bay palfrey, as to which all envied him for its beauty, but\nconcerning which he always put off telling the tale of how he had\nobtained it.\n\n'You must know,' began Sir Conan, 'that I was the only son of my\nparents, and the confines of my father's barony in Lothian were too\nsmall for my aspiring and my daring. I thought there was no adventure\nin the world too great for my doing, and when I had fought all the\nknights who would meet me in my own country, and had slain all the\ntrolls that wrought evil there, I equipped myself in my best armour and\nset forth to seek greater adventures in deserts and wild regions. And I\nfared south for many weeks, over desolate mountains and wild and\nterrible fastnesses of rock and moor, where only the robber seemed to\nlive, and the wild, magic people of the green mounds, and where there\nwas no sound but the song of the lark, the plunge of the beaver and\notter in the river, the growl of the brown bear from the rock, and the\nhowl of the wolf at night.\n\n'And I fared through all these terrors unscathed, and one day I came to\na high ridge, and saw stretching below me the fairest valley I had ever\nseen. The grass was green and smooth, the trees were soft and of an\nequal growth; and a river ran gently through the dale, with a path\nbeside it.\n\n'I followed the path all day until the evening, but met no one, until,\nas the afternoon was waning, I came suddenly upon a large and massive\ncastle, which shone in the westering sun. And I approached the green\nbefore the gateway, and saw two youths with curling auburn hair, clad\nrichly in garments of yellow satin, with frontlets of gold upon their\nforehead. And they had daggers with jewelled hilts, and these they were\nshooting at a mark.\n\n'And on a bench a little way from them was a handsome man in the prime\nof life, of a proud look, clad in a rich mantle.\n\n'I went forward and saluted him, and he returned my greeting with great\ncourtesy. And, rising, he led me into the hall, which, however, was but\npoorly furnished. And I wondered that the knight and the youths should\nbe so richly clothed, while the hall was scanty.\n\n'Six maidens came forward, and while three took my horse, the others\nunarmed me, and gave me water wherein to wash, and a dining-robe to put\non. And the six maidens were fairer than any I had ever seen. Then we\nsat down when the meat was ready, and though the food was good, it was\nsimple, and the vessels and flagons upon the table were of silver, but\nvery old and dented, as if they had been long in use.\n\n'And no word was spoken until the meal was ended, and then the knight\nasked me my name and whither I was going.\n\n'I told him my name, and he told me his. And he was, he said, Sir Dewin\nof Castle Cower. And I told him that I was faring south seeking any\ngreat adventure, so that I might gain glory and renown. \"For,\" I said,\n\"I wish to find a knight who is stronger and more dexterous in arms\nthan I.\"\n\n'At that he looked upon me and smiled.\n\n'\"If I did not fear to distress you too much,\" he said, \"I would show\nyou what you seek!\"\n\n'\"Tell me,\" I said, \"for I am eager to obtain this adventure.\"\n\n'\"Sleep here to-night,\" said Sir Dewin, \"and in the morning rise early,\nand take the road to the wood behind the castle. Follow the path till\nyou come to a fountain in a glade. There you will see a large cup, with\na chain. Strike the cup with your lance, and you will have the\nadventure ye desire.\"\n\n'And Sir Dewin smiled again as if he thought the adventure was one\nwhich he deemed was beyond me, and I was angered and soon retired to my\npallet. But I could not sleep, for I was eager to rise and meet this\nadventure, and to come back and mock Sir Dewin for his laughter.\n\n'Before dawn I arose and equipped myself, and mounted my horse, and\ntook my way to the wood, as Sir Dewin had told me. And the road was\nlong and difficult; but at length I came to the glade and found the\nfountain. On a stone pillar beside it a chain was fastened, and at the\nend of the chain was a large cup.\n\n'With my lance I struck the cup, and instantly there was a great peal\nof thunder, so that I trembled for fear. And instantly there came a\ngreat storm of rain and of hail. The hailstones were so large and so\nhard that neither man nor beast could live through that storm, for they\nwould have slain them, so fiercely did they beat. And the way that I\nescaped was this. I placed the beak of my shield over the head and neck\nof my horse, while I held the upper part over my own head. Thus did we\nwithstand the storm, though the flanks of my horse were sore wounded.\n\n'Then the sky cleared, the sun came out, and a flock of birds began to\nsing on a tree beside the fountain. And surely no one has heard such\nentrancing music before or since. So charmed was I with listening, that\nI noticed not at first a low rumbling which seemed to come nearer and\nnearer.\n\n'And suddenly I heard a voice approaching me, and I looked round just\nas a big knight in sky-blue armour rode swiftly up the valley.\n\n'\"O knight,\" cried he, \"what ill have I done to thee, that thou usest\nme so evilly? Knowest thou not that the storm which thou hast sent by\nevil magic hath slain my best flocks on the hills, and beaten to death\nall my men that were without shelter?\"\n\n'He came at me furiously. I put my lance in rest and spurred towards\nhim, and we came together with so great an onset that I was carried far\nbeyond the crupper of my horse.\n\n'Then the knight, taking no further notice of me, passed the shaft of\nhis lance through the bridle of my horse, and so rode swiftly away. And\nit moved me to anger to think he despised me so much as not even to\ndespoil me of my sword.\n\n'Very depressed of spirit was I as I took my way back to the castle of\nSir Dewin. And as I passed through the wood I came to a glade, in the\nmidst of which was a green mound. And as I passed it I heard laughter,\nwhich seemed to come from the earth. And I heard a voice sneering and\nmocking me. And I guessed it was the voice of a troll or moundman whom\nI could not see, who lived in the hillock, and I wonder I did not go\nmad with the shame of his derision.\n\n'And I had not the spirit to go to try to break into the mound, lest he\nshould work magic and more disaster upon me. So I left that glade, with\nthe sound of his hoarse laughter ringing in my ears.\n\n'I reached the castle of Sir Dewin, and well entertained was I, and\nrested for the remainder of that day. And full of courtesy was Sir\nDewin and his household, for none of them referred to my encounter, and\nto the fact that I had come back without a horse. And when I rose next\nday, there was a dark bay palfrey, ready saddled, waiting in the\ncourtyard for me. That horse I still possess, though the sight of him\never brings back the memory of my defeat.\n\n'Verily it seems strange to me that neither before nor since have I\never heard of any person besides myself who knew of this adventure, and\nthat the subject of it should exist within the bounds of the lands of\nKing Arthur, without any other person lighting upon it.'\n\n'It would be well, indeed,' said Sir Owen, 'to go to try to discover\nthat valley and that fountain.'\n\n'Well, indeed,' said Sir Kay sourly, for he had ever been jealous of\nSir Owen, even when he had been but a page, 'if thy mouth were not more\nready to say more than thou ever carest to do.'\n\n'Thou art worthy of punishment, Sir Kay,' said Gwenevere sharply, 'in\nthat thou speakest thus of a man so tried in prowess and brave deeds as\nOwen.'\n\n'Fair lady,' said Sir Owen, laughing, 'we take no heed of Kay's raw\nwords. He ever growls like a surly dog.'\n\nAt that the king awoke, and asked whether it was not time for meat. And\nthe horn was sounded, and men came in from the tilting-ground and the\nplay-field, and washed, and the king and all his household sat down to\ndinner.\n\nOn the morrow, before dawn, Sir Owen rose privily, and put on his\narmour and took his horse, and rode out of the town, and for many days\nrode over mountains, until he saw the sea like a sheet of burnished\nlead lying on his left hand.\n\nThen he turned his horse's head away, and rode far through wild and\ndistant places, into the heart of the land. And at length he arrived at\nthe valley which Conan had described to him, whereat he rejoiced\ngreatly.\n\nHe descended to the path beside the river, and journeyed along it till\nhe came to the castle of Sir Dewin, as Conan had described. And the two\nyouths were on the green before the gate wrestling together, and the\ntall knight of proud mien was standing by. To Owen it seemed that he\nwas fiercer and prouder-looking than Conan had described. Nevertheless,\nhe returned the salute of Sir Owen courteously and led him into the\ncastle.\n\nSir Owen was entertained as well as Conan had been, though the hall\nseemed poorer, the food coarser, and the maidens seemed careworn, and\nnot so fair as his friend had described. After the meal Sir Dewin asked\nSir Owen who he was and whither he wended, and Sir Owen replied:\n\n'I have heard of the Knight of the Fountain, and I would fight him and\novercome him, if I may.'\n\nWhereat Sir Dewin looked at him with keen fierce eyes, and observed\nnarrowly the build of Sir Owen's body.\n\n'Knowest thou aught of the prize if thou slayest the Knight of the\nFountain?' asked Sir Dewin.\n\n'Naught know I of that,' answered Sir Owen; 'but I would seek the\nadventure, and whatever it will bring.'\n\nAt this the knight was silent, and seemed to brood for some moments,\nwith dark and frowning brows. Then he laughed and said:\n\n'Take thou the path thou seest through the wood behind the castle.\nFollow that till thou comest to a glade wherein is a great mound. There\nye will see a stone slab. Knock on that three times, and the troll-man\nthat dwells therein will tell thee thy further way.'\n\nSir Owen marked how evil was the smile with which Sir Dewin said these\nwords; but Sir Owen thanked him, and then he was shown to his pallet\nand all retired to rest.\n\nWhen he arose in the morning Sir Owen found his horse already prepared,\nand, having put on his armour, he rode forth along the way which the\nknight had indicated to him. And he came at last to the glade wherein\nhe saw the great mound, with grass growing all over it, as if it were a\nlittle hill. In the side he saw a stone slab as if it were a door, and\nhe struck upon it with the butt of his lance.\n\nThree times he struck, and at the third blow he heard a voice, rough\nand loud, from somewhere above his head.\n\n'Get thee gone,' cried the voice, 'darken not the door of my house, or\n'twill be worse for thee.'\n\nSir Owen could not see who was speaking, for no one was visible.\n\n'I would ask thee the way to the fountain,' he replied. 'Tell me, and I\nwill not trouble thee further, thou surly troll.'\n\n'The fountain?' cried the voice. 'I will save thee thy journey, thou\noverbearing knight, as I have saved it for others as proud and as\nwould-be valiant, whom my master hath sent to me!'\n\nWith that Sir Owen received so hard and fierce a blow upon his\nheadpiece that he was hard put to it to keep his wits and his seat; and\nlooking round he saw the troll, a fierce dark little man, on the very\ntop of the mound, wielding a long thick bar of iron, as thick as a\nweaver's beam.\n\nSir Owen thrust at the troll with his lance; but the moundman seized it\nbelow the point of steel, and so strong was he, that though Sir Owen\ndrew him down from the top of the hillock, he could not loose it from\nthe little man's hold.\n\nMeanwhile, the troll was beating at Sir Owen with the staff of iron,\nwhich, for all its weight and size, he wielded as if it was no more\nthan a stout cudgel. And hard bestead was Sir Owen to shield himself\nfrom the smashing blows which rained upon him. At the seventh blow his\nshield was cracked across and his shield arm was numbed.\n\nSuddenly he dashed his horse forward, and the little man, still holding\nthe lance, was thrown backward upon the grassy slope of his own mound.\nSwiftly Sir Owen leaped from his horse and drew his sword, and while\nthe troll was rising he dashed at him and wounded him.\n\nBut next moment the troll was up, his dark narrow face terrible with\nrage, for the blood ran down the deer-skin tunic which half covered\nhim. And then the blows of his iron rod came thicker and faster, while\nhe moved so swiftly round about the knight that Sir Owen, though he\nthrust quickly and fiercely, could not strike him again.\n\nSir Owen was becoming dizzy and weak, and felt that not for long now\ncould he bear up his dented and broken shield against the blows that\nmust at length smash his arm.\n\nSuddenly the quick movements of the little troll ceased, and he\nstaggered. Then he dropped the iron bar and swayed like a drunken man\ntowards the knight. He fell on his knees before Sir Owen, put his head\nupon the ground, and clutched the knight's steel-clad foot as if to put\nit upon his neck. But he could do no more, and so lay panting and spent\nwith exhaustion.\n\nAnd Sir Owen could not find it in himself to pierce him through with\nhis sword, for the troll's subjection made pity come into his heart.\n\n'Ah, sir troll!' said the knight, panting also, and very fain to rest.\n'A brave troll thou art, seeing thou hast used no magic, but hath\nfought me like a very man.'\n\n'Chieftain,' gasped the troll, 'my heart is like to break, for thou\nhast tried me sore. Never yet hath a knight that sought the fountain\nwithstood my rod as valiantly as thou hast, and thou hast put my\nstrength all to naught.'\n\n'But I know not why thou didst try to slay me,' said Sir Owen, 'seeing\nthat I did but ask thee to show me my way to the fountain.'\n\n'I am the slave of him that overcometh me,' answered the troll, 'and I\nmust do his bidding. Sir Dewin did conquer me by evil wizardry, and he\nsent thee to me with the three knocks on my door, whereby I knew he\ncommanded me to slay thee.'\n\n'Well, and what wilt thou do now, valiant troll?'\n\n'I must hide me from the wrath of Sir Dewin,' said the troll, 'until my\nsore wound is healed. Then will I be thy slave, sir knight, and help\nthee in whatever adventure thou mayst wish!'\n\n'Get thee gone, then, good troll,' said Sir Owen, with a smile. 'But\nfirst tell me my way to the fountain.'\n\nWhereupon the troll showed him the way and gave him certain directions,\nand then said:\n\n'Chieftain, thou wilt conquer in all thy fighting, and great honour and\nreward shall be thine. But beware thee of leaving the side of her that\nshall love thee, for more than a night and a day, or long woe shall\nfind thee. And do thou take this, for it may find thee friends.'\n\nAnd the troll, whose name was Decet, held towards him a blue stone upon\na silver string. The stone burned with the dazzling blue of the\nlightning flash, when the light caught it.\n\nSir Owen thanked him, put the string about his neck, and stood watching\nthe troll as he limped, faint and wounded, into the mound that was his\nhome.\n\nThen, picking up his lance, Sir Owen mounted his horse, and rode\nforward through the wood, thinking of this strange adventure.\n\nWhen he reached the fountain where a silver cup hung by a silver chain,\nhe filled the cup with water, as the troll had bidden him, and threw it\nover a pillar of stone that was set beside the fountain. And instantly\nthere came a clap of thunder as if the earth would dash asunder, and\nafter the thunder came the shower, and so fierce and heavy were the\nhailstones that they would surely have slain horse and rider, but that\nSir Owen, as the troll had bidden him, had put his horse's forefeet in\nthe fountain, and kept his own hand therein, whereby the hailstones\nbecame thin rain before they touched him.\n\nThen the sky became bright, and the flock of birds descended on the\ntree and began to sing. But Sir Owen heeded them not, but mounted his\nhorse, dressed his shield and lance, and prepared for the combat.\n\nThere came a mourning cry through the wood, and a sky-blue knight on a\nhigh-stepping destrier dashed through the trees towards Sir Owen, and\ncame against him, lance in rest. Whereupon Sir Owen put spurs to his\nhorse, and furiously rode against the knight. At the first onset each\nbroke his lance; whereat they drew their swords and lashed at each\nother most fiercely.\n\nSir Owen feinted, and then, quickly recovering, he smote the other so\nhard and stern a blow that the blade bit through headpiece, skin and\nbone, until it wounded the brain itself.\n\nThen, with a great cry, the blue knight wheeled his horse and fled,\nwith Sir Owen in pursuit. But the other knight's horse was fleeter, and\nSir Owen could not overtake him, though he kept within a few yards.\n\nIn a little while a great castle, resplendent with new stone, shone\nbefore them. The wounded knight thundered across the drawbridge, with\nOwen close behind him; but when the blue knight gained the street\nbeyond, the portcullis was let fall with a rush. Sir Owen fell from his\nhorse, and looking round he found that the horse had been cut in twain\nby the gate.\n\nSo that Sir Owen found himself, with the forepart of the dead horse, in\na prison between the two gates, while the hinder part of the horse was\noutside. And Sir Owen saw that his death must be very near, for already\nhe saw one of the soldiers who were guarding the gate run after the\nknight to the castle, as if for orders to slay him.\n\nLooking through the inner gate, he saw a narrow street facing him, with\nbooths and little houses on each side; and coming towards him he beheld\na maiden, small but beautiful, with black curling hair and a circlet of\ngold upon her forehead; and she was of high rank, for she wore a dress\nof yellow satin, and on her feet were shoes of speckled leather.\n\nShe stopped when but a few steps from the gate where the soldiers stood\nwatching Sir Owen; and he saw that her eyes were bent fixedly upon the\nblue stone which lay on the knight's breast. And he saw that, in the\ndarkness of his prison, it shone with a fierce blue flame.\n\nHe looked up and saw the maiden's eyes bent on his, and he seemed to\nhear the voice of the maiden speaking to him, as clearly as if she\nstood beside him. In these words she spoke:\n\n'Take that stone which is on thy breast, and hold it tightly in the\npalm of one hand. And as thou concealest it, so will it conceal thee.\nThus wilt thou be able to pass unseen between the bars of the portcullis.\nAnd I will wait for thee on the horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be\nable to see me, though I cannot see thee. Therefore, come and place thy\nhand on my shoulder, and I shall know that thou art come. And then thou\nmust accompany me to the place where I shall hide thee.'\n\nHe saw the maiden turn away and go up the street, and Sir Owen did as\nthe voice had bidden him. And looking down he saw nothing of himself,\nalthough he could see the soldiers looking in, and he saw the surprise\nand then the horror on their faces, as they realised that they had seen\nhim spirited away before their eyes.\n\nSir Owen passed between them and rejoined the maiden, as she had bidden\nhim. He went with her, still invisible, and she led him to a small\nhouse, and in it was a large and beautiful chamber, all painted with\ngorgeous colours, and well furnished. And there she gave him food, and\nhe rested securely until late in the afternoon.\n\nThen, as he looked out of the window upon the wall of the castle, which\ntowered dark and high above him, he heard a clamour and sounds of a\nmourning coming from it. He asked the maiden the cause of it.\n\n'They are administering extreme unction to the Lord Cadoc, who owns the\ncastle, for he hath been wounded.'\n\n'And who art thou, that thou shouldst save me who am a stranger?' he\nasked of the maiden.\n\n'My name is Elined,' said the maiden, 'and since thou bearest the Blue\nStone of the Little Folk, I must aid thee all I can.'\n\nAt that time she would tell him no more, but shortly left him to his\nrest, saying she would come to attend upon him again at the dawning.\n\nIn the silence and darkness of the night Sir Owen awoke by reason of a\nwoful outcry and lamenting; and then he knew that Earl Cadoc, the\nKnight of the Fountain, was dead from the wound he had given him.\n\nSoon after dawn he arose and clothed himself; and looking out of the\nwindow he saw the streets filled with a great host of people in black,\nand the weeping and the mourning were pitiful to hear. Knights, with\ntheir armour craped, rode in great companies before; then came the\nmen-at-arms with weapons reversed; then the ladies of the household,\nand after these the priests came, and in their midst was the bier.\n\nAnd over it was a veil of white linen, and wax tapers burning beside\nand around it, and of the gentlemen who supported the bier on their\nshoulders none was lower in rank than a powerful baron, owning broad\nlands and great companies of retainers.\n\nLast of all there came a lady walking behind the bier. And though her\nface was stained with the many tears she had shed, and was pale with\nsorrow, Sir Owen thought he had never seen so beautiful a lady, or one\nso gentle and kind of mien.\n\nDeeply he sorrowed because he had caused the death of her lord,\ninasmuch as it had given her such grief.\n\nHer hair, yellow and long and curled, hung dishevelled about her\nshoulders, and her dress of rich yellow satin was torn, and across it\nwas a wide sash of black velvet. And it was a marvel that she could see\nhow to walk, for the tears filled her eyes.\n\nSir Owen could not take his gaze from her, and love and pity for her\nfilled his mind.\n\nWhen the procession had passed out of the town the maiden Elined came\ninto the room, and Sir Owen asked her eagerly who was the lady he had\nseen.\n\n'Heaven is my witness,' replied Elined, 'but she is the fairest and the\nsweetest and the most noble of women. She is my beloved mistress, and\nher name is Carol, and she is Countess of the Fountain, the widow of\nhim thou didst slay yesterday.'\n\n'I sorrow for that,' said Owen, 'for I have seen her grief. But,\nverily, she is the woman that I love best. And if my hand hath wounded\nher grievously, my arm would more willingly protect her.'\n\n'Indeed, thou art brave and bold, sir knight,' said the maiden, 'and\nmuch may you win, if you are as faithful in your service and devotion\nto her as you have been in the service of your king, the great Arthur.'\n\nAnd when it had passed midday, Elined said to Sir Owen:\n\n'You must keep this chamber while I go and woo for thee. Stir not out\ninto the city lest ill befall thee.'\n\nElined went to the castle and found all was in confusion, with mourning\nand lamentation. Her mistress she found sitting listlessly looking from\nthe window with pale sorrow on her face; and to Elined's greeting she\nwould respond not.\n\n'It astounds me,' said Elined at length, 'to find you giving yourself\nup to unavailing sorrow in this way.'\n\n'It astounds me also,' said the countess reproachfully, 'that in my\ntime of trouble and affliction, you, whom I have enriched and favoured\nbeyond all my handmaidens, should desert me. If I did not love thee, I\nshould order thee to be executed.'\n\n'It was for thy advantage that I was absent,' said Elined. 'I\nreproached not thy grief when thy lord lay dying, but now you have\nyourself to think of. Yet you seem more willing to live with the dead\nthan to take heed what may happen to yourself in a few hours. I would\nhave thee remember that a live dog is better than a dead lion.'\n\n'Hence from my sight, unfeeling girl!' cried the countess in anger.\n'There is no one in the world to compare with my dead lord in beauty,\nin strength, and in prowess. Get thee gone!'\n\nWithout a word Elined turned and went from the room. But she had not\ngone far before she heard the countess coughing behind her, and on\nlooking back her mistress beckoned to her.\n\n'You are indeed hardhearted, Elined,' said she, 'to think to leave me\nin my grief, and in my need of good counsel. I will overlook thy\ncruelty if, as you say, you have been absent for my advantage. What\nmean you by that?'\n\n'This is my meaning,' said Elined. 'Thou knowest that without a man of\nknightly prowess and bravery, thou canst not hope to guard the fountain\nand keep these wide dominions in the power of thyself. Thou art the\nprey and booty of any bold bandit lord that chooses to make war upon\nthee, and to capture and wed thee. And dost thou forget the wiles and\ntreachery of thy old lover whom thou hast flouted, Sir Dewin of Castle\nCower? Hath he not sworn to take thee and thy kingdom, sooner or later,\nby fair means or by foul? Therefore it behoves thee at once to find a\nnoble and generous knight, courtly and worshipful, who will guard thee\nand love thee, and hold down the turbulent lords, thy vassals and thy\nneighbours.'\n\n'Hard will such a task be,' sighed the countess, 'for the Earl Cadoc\nwas a man among men.'\n\n'Yet I will wager to find thee such another, even excelling him in\nknightly prowess, in beauty of person, and for love and devotion to\nthee more than his equal,' replied Elined, who remembered that the dead\nearl had not been over tender to his gentle countess on many occasions.\n\n'And where couldst thou find this paragon?' said the countess, flushing\na little at the reminder of her late lord's neglect.\n\n'At the court of King Arthur,' replied Elined; 'for there are to be\nfound the peerless knights of the world, men of their knightly words,\nand devoted to love and war.\n\n'If it be that I must think of wedding again so soon,' sighed the\ncountess, 'go then to King Arthur, and find me such a knight. But let\nhim be gentle as well as brave, with fine and courtly manners--a man,\nindeed, whom I can really love.'\n\nElined went and kissed the flushing cheek of her mistress.\n\n'Trust me for that,' she said gently. 'I would do that as much for\nmyself as for thee, my dear Carol. For did it not often go to my heart\nto see thee pine for gentle speech and affection, and sorrow at the\nharsh words thou didst suffer? I will set forth at once to Caerleon,\nand him that I bring shall be worthy of thee. And all others that may\ncome and woo thee, do thou keep at arm's length until I return.'\n\nElined departed from the castle, but she did not go beyond the town. It\nwas in her mind to lie hidden for as long a time as it would take her\nto go to Caerleon and return therefrom. Meanwhile, going about\ndisguised, she would be able to see what the many lords were doing who\nwould essay to woo the countess, seeing that, lovely and rich as she\nwas, she would be a splendid prize.\n\nAnd things happened as she had foreseen. Every day there came into the\ntown one cavalcade or more, with some baron or earl in flashing armour\nat the head of his vassals, come to try his fortune and to win the\nlovely Countess of the Fountain, and to possess her wide dominions.\n\nDaily the countess was compelled to receive fresh comers in audience,\nand while with deft excuses she kept each at arm's length, they crowded\nher audience-chamber, proud and insolent, humble or crafty, eyeing each\nother with high looks, each prepared to slay his rival if the need\narose.\n\nAt last there came an earl who, as he came up the street at the head of\na large company of knights, seemed to shine like the sun. For his\narmour was all of gold, and jewels were about his neck, and on his\ngirdle and his wrists. Every toss of his destrier's head dazzled the\neyes with the fountain of flashing lights given off by the jewels which\nadorned the cloth of gold about its head.\n\nThis knight called himself the Earl of Drood, but Elined was in the\ncrowd of gaping townspeople that saw him enter, and she knew him for\nthe old insolent lover of her mistress, whom the countess had ever\ndespised, Sir Dewin of Castle Cower.\n\nSir Dewin disguised himself so that the countess did not know him. She\nreceived him in audience, and though she was startled by the\nmagnificence of his dress, and a little moved by the gentleness of his\nmanner, she felt that she feared and distrusted him.\n\nThe next day he craved to see her again, and then said:\n\n'Fair and noble lady, so deeply doth thy beauty move me, that I am\neager to put to the test swiftly the question whether I or some other\nhappier knight among these noble gentlemen shall obtain thy hand.\nTherefore I crave permission of thee to proclaim a joust between all\nthese knights that sue for thee, and the winner among them all shall be\nhe that thou shalt wed.'\n\n'Sir,' said the countess with great dignity, 'it is not for thee to\norder here, but for me. I wish nothing to be done for the space of nine\ndays, and then will I make my choice.'\n\nAt which Sir Dewin, though full of rage, must needs seem content. And\nthe countess hoped that, in the space she had named, Elined would have\nreturned with the knight of her choice, and she herself could choose\nhim for her lord, if she thought he was the man whom she could most\ntrust and love.\n\nBut Sir Dewin wrought upon many of the suitors who were of his mind,\nand they resolved that, will she, nill she, the countess must needs\nabide by a contest between all her wooers to be holden on the tenth\nday.\n\nAnd on the tenth day all the knights, barons, and earls met together in\nfull armour in a broad green jousting-place beneath the windows of the\ncountess, and having made the rules of contest, and committed them to\nthe seneschal of the countess, they prepared to prove which among them\nall was the knight of most prowess.\n\nThen there was fierce hurtling to and fro of knight against knight, and\nlances splintered, horses reared, knights fell wounded or dead, and\nwere dragged away. And for long, among the ninety-nine knights that\nthere jousted, none of the crowds who looked on could see which were\nthey who were gaining the day.\n\nFrom her window the countess watched with a sorrowing and dreading\nheart; for Elined had not yet returned, and therefore the countess must\nbe the prize of one of these suitors who had pestered her, and none of\nwhom she cared for.\n\nThen, when the dust of the jousting had a little cleared, and the\nknights had withdrawn to the sides of the lists, to breathe and rest\nawhile, it was seen that twelve remained of the ninety-nine.\n\nThe countess, looking from her window, knew them all from the devices\non their shields, and none of them were men she favoured. Some she knew\nwere evil men, yet, as knights, were powerful in jousting. And she\ndreaded which of them should be the victor, to be her lord and master.\n\nThen the knights hurtled together again, and as one after the other was\nunhorsed by stronger opponents and went from the field, she went pale\nwith fear and anxiety.\n\nAt last there were but two, and these were Sir Dewin, whom she knew as\nthe Earl of Drood, and the other was a knight in blue armour, with a\nshield on which was painted a hillock or mound. And she knew him to be\na man named Sir Daunt, or the Knight of the Mount, a man of fierce\ntemper, quarrelsome and cruel.\n\nThe countess could have swooned with terror, for she knew that now she\nwas doomed to an unhappy life, whichever of these knights prevailed.\nFor though the Earl of Drood was soft and gentle in speech and manner,\nshe feared that this but covered a wicked heart.\n\nShe could hardly bear to look as she heard these two, the last of all\nthe ninety-nine, crash together in the midst of the jousting-ground.\nAnd she heard the cries of the onlookers.\n\n'The blue knight's the better man! How he heaves with his sword! Ah,\nthe golden knight is down!'\n\nAnd looking from her window the countess saw the earl was lying\nwounded, and the Knight of the Mount stood over him. Then the earl\nsurrendered and was carried off the field.\n\nThe great shouts that saluted the victor made the countess turn faint\nand sick with dread, so that she fell back among her handmaidens in a\nswoon. But, quickly recovering, she stood up, resolved to meet her fate\nwith proud dignity.\n\nIn a few moments the door opened and the arras was pushed aside, and\nthe groom of the chambers announced with a shout:\n\n'The Knight of the Mound, victorious in the joust, craves leave to\ngreet our lady the countess.'\n\nThe lady bowed assent, trembling in every limb. Then the groom stepped\naside, and into the chamber came a comely gentleman, clad in purple\ntunic, rich with chains and jewelled belt.\n\nBut it was not the knight whom the countess had expected, but a\nstranger, with a courtly and gentle manner and a winning smile.\n\nThen from behind him came Elined, full of smiles, with a look of\ntriumph in her eyes.\n\n'My lady,' she said, bowing low, 'this is the knight, Sir Owen of\nWales, from the court of King Arthur, whom I have brought to protect\nyou and wed you. He hath just proved himself the doughtiest among a\nhundred.'\n\nThe terror of the countess was changed instantly into joy, and she put\nforth her hand, and Sir Owen bent and kissed it, and she led him to the\nwindow seat, and commanded Elined to sit with them. And they spoke full\njoyously together, for the countess was much taken with the noble and\ngentle bearing of Sir Owen, and admired him because he had proved\nhimself the best man of all her wooers.\n\nIn a few days she sent for the bishops and priests, and her nuptials\nwith Sir Owen were celebrated with such feasting that all the country\nwas full of merriment and joy. And the men of the earldom came and did\nhomage to Owen, and he became the Earl of the Fountain.\n\nIn a little while thereafter Sir Owen told his lady that it was he who\nhad chased the soul from the body of her former lord. But the countess\nwas not vexed by the knowledge, for Sir Owen loved her greatly, and\nwith all tenderness and honour, and never had the countess been so\nhappy with Earl Cadoc as she was with Owen.\n\nThereafter Earl Owen defended the fountain with lance and sword against\nall who ventured to challenge him in his earldom. And the knights who\nwere thus conquered he held to ransom, and the money he thus obtained\nhe divided equally among his barons and knights. Never had they had so\ngenerous a lord, nor one of such prowess and knightly worth. And all\nhis subjects loved Earl Owen passing well.\n\nThus for three years in all happiness and quiet did Owen and the\ncountess dwell. Sir Dewin of Castle Cower had not power to hurt them,\nnor did any other evil light upon them.\n\nBut at the end of this space, towards the close of a summer's day, Sir\nOwen, by the magic whereby it was made known to him, knew that there\nwas a knight who challenged him at the fountain. So, putting on his\nsky-blue armour, he went forth and found the knight.\n\nThey rushed together, and the strange knight was overthrown. But others\nwho were with him took him away, and Sir Owen waited. But none other\nchallenge was made, and in the twilight he retired, resolved to attend\nnext day in case any others desired to challenge him.\n\nIn the morning the same knight came forth from the company of knights\nwhich was among the trees about the fountain. And so fiercely did Sir\nOwen assail him that the head of his lance broke the helmet of the\nstranger and pierced the flesh to the bone. Again his companions\ncarried him off.\n\nThen other knights came forth and had to do with Sir Owen, but all were\noverthrown. At length came one having over himself and his horse a rich\nsatin robe of honour, and Sir Owen knew that he must be a man of great\ndignity, big of body and of knightly prowess.\n\nThey fought together that evening and half through the next day, but\nneither could obtain the mastery. And about noon they took still\nstronger lances and fought most stubbornly. At length they came so\nfuriously together that the girths of their horses were broken and both\nwere borne to the ground.\n\nThey rose up speedily and drew their swords and resumed the combat; and\nall those that witnessed it felt that they had never seen such a battle\nof heroes before. And suddenly with a blow fiercely strong and swiftly\nkeen, Sir Owen cut the fastenings of the strange knight's helm, so that\nthe headpiece came off.\n\nWith a cry Sir Owen dropped his weapon, for he knew that this was Sir\nGawaine, his cousin.\n\n'My Lord Gawaine,' he said, 'the robe of honour that covered thee\nprevented my knowing it was thee with whom I fought. Take my sword and\nmy arms, for I yield me to thee.'\n\n'Nay, Sir Owen,' said Gawaine, 'take thou mine, for I am at thy mercy.'\n\nThen came forward King Arthur, and Sir Owen knew him and kneeled before\nhim and kissed his hand, and then embraced him. And there was much joy\nbetween all the knights and Owen, for all had feared that he had been\nslain, and the king in despair had come upon this adventure to learn\ntidings of him.\n\nThen they all proceeded to the castle of the countess, and a great\nbanquet was prepared, with joustings and hawking parties and games.\nThey stayed three months in great happiness and diversion.\n\nAt last, when King Arthur prepared to depart, he went to the countess\nand besought her to permit Owen to go with him for the space of three\nmonths, that he might renew his friendships at the court at Caerleon.\nAnd though it made the countess sorrowful to lose the man she loved\nbest in all the world, she consented, and Owen promised to return even\nbefore the time appointed.\n\nSo King Arthur returned to Caerleon with Sir Owen, and there was much\nfeasting and diversion to welcome him. And his kindred and friends\ntried to make Owen forget the countess and his earldom, but they could\nnot. For she was the lady he loved best in the world, and he would\nliefer be with her, to guard and cherish her, than in any other place\non the surface of the earth.\n\nOne night, as the court sat after dinner over the mead cups, a juggler\ncame into the hall and performed many tricks, and there was much\nlaughter and gaiety at his merry quips and jests. And he craved that he\nmight search the hands of each lord and lady present, so that he could\ntell them if they would be happy in love.\n\nHe began with Sir Kay, and so along the board, uttering merry thoughts\non all, but speaking with serious and solemn looks, until he came to\nSir Owen. And he looked long and earnestly at the marks in that\nknight's palm, and then said, in a croaking voice:\n\n    'A night and a day, a night and a day!\n    Thou'lt grieve for thy love for ever and aye.'\n\nNone knew what this might mean, and they marvelled to see how pale went\nthe face of Sir Owen.\n\nFor he had suddenly remembered the words of Decet the troll-man, who\nhad said, 'Beware thee of leaving the side of her that shall love thee\nfor more than a night and a day, or long woe shall find thee.'\n\nInstantly Sir Owen rose from the board and went out. Going to his own\nabode he made preparations, and at dawn he arose and mounted his horse,\nand set forth swiftly to go to the dominions of the countess. Great was\nhis fear that some evil had befallen her in consequence of his leaving\nher unprotected from the evil powers of Sir Dewin.\n\nHe rode hard and fast northwards through the wild and desolate\nmountains, until he saw the sea like burnished lead lying on his left\nhand.\n\nThen he turned his horse's head away and rode far into the deep heart\nof the land. But though he knew the way passing well, he could not find\nthe road now, and wandered up and down the lonely moorlands and the\ndark forest rides, baffled and wearied, heartsick and full of dread.\n\nThus he wandered, for ever seeking the way, and trying this one and\nthat, until all his apparel was worn out, and his body was wasted away\nand his hair was grown long. And at length, from misery and\nhopelessness, he grew so weak that he thought that he must die.\n\nThen he descended slowly from the mountains, and thought to find a\nhermit, to whom he might tell all his misery before he died. But he\ncould not find any harbourage, and so he crawled to a brook in a park,\nand sat there wondering why this evil fate had been visited upon him,\nand grieving that now his beloved countess must be in wretchedness and\nsorrow by reason of his forgetting, and that never more could he hope\nto see her and tell her how grieved he had been to cause her such pain.\n\nThen in a little while he swooned under the heat of the sun, from\nhunger and weakness, and lay half in and half out of the brook.\n\nIt befell that a widowed lady, to whom the brook and the land belonged,\ncame walking in the fields with her maids. And one of them saw the\nfigure of Sir Owen and, half fearful, she went up to him and found him\nfaintly breathing.\n\nThe widow lady had him taken into the farmstead of one of her tenants,\nand there he was tended carefully until he came again to his senses.\nAnd with the good care, meat, drink, and medicaments, he soon began to\nthrive again.\n\nHe asked the man of the house who it was that had brought him there.\n\n'It was our Lady of the Moors,' said the man sadly. 'And though she is\nherself in sore straits and narrowly bestead by a cruel and oppressive\nearl, who would rob her of these last few acres, yet she hath ever a\ntender heart for those in greater distress than herself.'\n\n'It grieves me,' said Sir Owen, 'that the lady is oppressed by that\nfelon earl. He should be hindered, and that sternly.'\n\n'Ay,' said the man, 'he would cease his wrongful dealing if she would\nwed him, but she cannot abide the evil face of him.'\n\nEver and anon the Lady of the Moors sent one of her maidens to learn\nhow the stranger was progressing, and the maiden came one day when Sir\nOwen was quite recovered, and she was greatly astounded to see how\ncomely a man he was, and how straight and tall and knightly was his\nmien.\n\nAs they sat talking, there came the jingle and clatter of arms, and,\nlooking forth, Sir Owen saw a large company of knights and men-at-arms\npass down the road. And he inquired of the maiden who these were.\n\n'That is the Earl Arfog and his company,' she said sadly. 'And he\ngoeth, as is his wont, to visit my mistress, and to insult her, and to\ntreat her unmannerly, and to threaten that he will drive her from the\none remaining roof-tree she possesses. And so will he and his knights\nsit eating and drinking till night, and great will be my lady's sorrow\nthat she hath no one to protect her.'\n\nThey talked of other things for a while, and then said Sir Owen:\n\n'Hath thy mistress a suit of armour, and a destrier in her possession?'\n\n'She hath indeed, the best in the world,' said the maiden, 'for they\nbelonged to her late husband, the Lord of the Moors.'\n\n'Wilt thou go and get them for me for a loan?' he asked.\n\n'I will,' said the maiden, and wondered what he would do with them.\n\nBefore the day was passed there came a beautiful black steed, upon\nwhich was a beechen saddle, and a suit of armour, both for man and\nhorse. And Owen armed himself, and when it was dark he went forth and\nstationed himself under a great oak, where none could see him.\n\nWhen the earl, elated with insolence and wine, came back that way,\nshouting and rolling in his saddle, Owen marked him as he rode. He\ndashed out at him, and so fiercely swift was he, and so heavy were his\nblows, that he had beaten to the earth those who were beside the earl,\nand the earl he had dragged from the saddle and laid him across his\ncrupper, before the earl's companions were aware of what was done.\n\nAs the countess sat in hall, sadly thinking how soon the craven earl\nwould thrust her out of her home, there came the beat of hoofs, the\ngreat door of the manor swung open, and a tall knight in black armour\nstrode in, thrusting another knight before him.\n\n'I am the stranger whom ye rescued from death, my lady,' said Sir Owen,\nbowing, 'and this is thy rascally enemy, the Earl Arfog. Look you,\nchurl in armour,' said Owen, shaking the other till every piece of\nsteel upon him rattled, 'if you do not instantly crave pardon humbly of\nthis lady, and restore unto her everything you have robbed of her, I\nswear to you, by the name of the great Arthur, I will shear your head\nfrom your shoulders.'\n\nIn great terror the earl, who, since he oppressed women, was an abject\ncoward, sank upon his knees and promised to restore all he had ever\ntaken from the lady, as a ransom for his life; and for his freedom he\nwould give her many rich farms and manors, and hostages as surety.\n\nTwo more days Sir Owen stayed at the manor to see that these things\nwere duly performed, and then he took his departure.\n\n'I would that you could stay with us,' said the lady, who was sweet and\ngentle, with kindly eyes and a soft voice.\n\n'Lady, I may not,' said Sir Owen. 'I seek my dear wife and her\ndominions, and have been seeking them these many months. But I fear me\nsome evil necromancy hath been reared against me, so that I may not\nfind her again, and she must be in much sorrow and misery in my\nabsence. And if I never see my lady in life again, yet must I seek for\nher until I die.'\n\n'What is the name of your lady and of her dominions?' asked the lady.\n\n'She is the Lady Carol, Countess of the Fountain,' answered Owen. 'Do\nyou know aught of her, and in which direction her lands lie?'\n\nThe lady caused inquiries to be made, and her foresters said that the\nlady's lands of the fountain lay fifteen leagues beyond the mountains,\nand that his way lay through the Wisht Wood, the Dead Valley, and the\nHill of the Tower of Stone, and only a knight of great valour could\nhope to win through these places, which were the haunt of warlocks,\nwizards, and trolls, and full of magic, both black and white.\n\nJoyously Sir Owen mounted his horse, glad to learn that now he might\nhope to find his countess again, and the Lady of the Moors wished him\nGodspeed, and looked after him long and earnestly till he disappeared\ninto a forest.\n\nHe journeyed three days through the Wisht Wood, and many were the\ndreadful things he saw and heard there, and great eyes, green and black\nand yellow, peered at him from the bushes as he sat over his fire at\nnight. But he clasped the blue stone which the troll Decet had given\nhim, and naught could hurt him.\n\nOn the fourth day he descended into the Dead Valley. And here he was\nlike to die, for the air was so thick, and filled with the poison of\nwitches who haunted there at night, that if he had not ridden fiercely\nand fast through its deathly vapours, he could not have reached the\nslopes of the Hill of the Tower of Stone, where the air was pure and\nblew out of the clean sky.\n\nLong and toilsome and exceedingly steep was the way up the side of the\nmountain, and many times Sir Owen thought he would have to sink down\nfor sheer weariness. And it was dark night before he reached level\nground, and he could not see where he was or what place he was in.\n\nBut having said his prayers, fed his horse, and eaten from the scrip\nwhich the Lady of the Moors had made up for him, he lay down beside a\nthick bush and slept soundly.\n\nMany were the terrible sounds that came from far below, where fierce\nwitches and warlocks battled and tore each other in the Dead Valley;\nbut Sir Owen was so overcome that he awoke not. And just as the morning\nbroke, a great serpent issued from a rock near where he lay and crept\ntowards him to slay him.\n\nSir Owen still lay asleep, and the huge creature reared his head to\nstrike. But at that moment a great brown bear, that had sat near Sir\nOwen through the night, leaped forward with a fierce growl, and gripped\nthe serpent by the head. And the serpent hissed and writhed.\n\nWith the noise of the struggle Sir Owen awoke, and marvelled to see the\ntwo animals closed in deadly combat. He drew his sword and slew the\nserpent, and having wiped his weapon, he went to his horse and led it\nforward.\n\nBut the bear followed him and played about him, as if it was a\ngreyhound that he had reared. And Sir Owen stopped and said:\n\n'This is a marvel, sir bear, that you would follow me gambolling,\nbecause I slew the serpent. Are ye so grateful, then, or is it that ye\nhave been captive unto men, and are fain to see one in this desolate\nwaste?'\n\nThe bear gambolled as if pleased to hear him speak, and went on a\nlittle way and looked back as if to see that the knight was following.\nAnd when Sir Owen would go another way, the bear stamped his foot, so\nthat at length, with a laugh, Sir Owen said he would follow the way he\nwished.\n\nWild was that place and rocky, full of great boulders and with deep\npits obscured by bushes. Full irksome was it to pass through, for\nbesides the slipperiness of the way, the sun shone pitilessly down, and\nits heat was returned by the hard rocks. And there was no water.\n\nIf the bear had not led him, Sir Owen would have missed his footing\nmany times, and been hurled down one of the many chasms that yawned\neverywhere.\n\nAt length Sir Owen became faint with hunger, and he dismounted and\ntethered his horse to a leafless thorn. Then he went and lay in the\nshadow of an enormous rock that reared up like a huge tower. And the\nbear looked at him for a little while and then disappeared.\n\nSir Owen wondered sadly whether he should ever win through the perils\nthat encompassed him, and see again the lady whom he loved best in all\nthe world. And weak with famine, he doubted whether he should not leave\nhis bones to bleach beside the great rock.\n\nThen he looked, and saw the bear coming towards him, and it carried a\nroebuck, freshly slain, which it brought and laid at Sir Owen's feet.\nThe knight sprang up with a glad cry, and struck fire with his flint,\nand the bear brought dried sticks, and soon a fire was blazing, and\njuicy collops were spluttering on skewers before the fire.\n\nWhen Sir Owen had finished eating, the bear seemed to wish him to\nfollow him, and the bear led him to a brook in a little green patch,\nand there the knight quenched his thirst.\n\nBy now it was twilight again, and Sir Owen made up the fire and\nprepared himself to slumber; and the bear lay down beside him and\nblinked at the fire like a great dog.\n\nThe knight saw the sun far in the west dip beneath a cloud, and a cold\nwind blew across the waste. And then he heard a sigh from somewhere\nbehind him, and then another and again a third. And the sound seemed to\ncome from within the towering stone.\n\nHe cried out, 'If thou art a mortal, speak to me! But if thou art some\nevil thing of this waste, avaunt thee!'\n\nA voice, soft and sad, replied, 'A mortal I am indeed, but soon shall I\nbe dead, and as cold as the stone in which I am imprisoned, unless one\nman help me.'\n\nThe stone was so thick that the voices of both were muffled, so that\nneither recognised the other.\n\nSir Owen asked who it was who spoke to him.\n\n'I am Elined, handmaiden to the Lady of the Fountain,' was the reply.\n\n'Alas! alas!' cried Sir Owen. 'Then if thou art in so sore a pass, thou\nwho wouldst guard my lady till thy death, surely my dear lady is in a\nworse pass? I am Owen, who won her in the jousts, and by evil fortune\nleft her for more than a night and a day, and never have I been able to\nfind my way back to my beloved lady. Tell me, damsel, what evil hath\nbefallen her, and how I may avenge it instantly?'\n\n'Glad I am, Sir Owen,' cried the maiden joyfully, 'to hear thou art\nstill in life, and that thou wert not faithless, as the evil Sir Dewin\nsaid thou wert. 'Twas his evil magic that changed the landscape as thou\ndidst ride, and so hid the way from thee. Naught evil hath my lady\nsuffered yet, nor never will now if thou canst save me this night. But\nhe hath changed my brother, Decet of the Mound, into some monstrous\nshape, and me he hath chained within this stone. Yet for seventy-seven\ndays my magic kept him from doing further ill to my lady and me; and\nthat space ends this midnight. Therefore am I glad that the good fate\nhath led thee here. Now go thee and hide, until Sir Dewin and his two\nevil sons come. And when they would make a fire whereon to burn me, do\nthou cut them down and burn them, for so shall all their evil power be\nstayed.'\n\nMuch as Sir Owen wished to ask how his countess had fared through the\ntime of his absence, he stole away, after he had stamped out his fire.\n\nTowards midnight there came a great roaring wind, and a shower of\nhailstones, and thunder and lightning, and he saw three great black\nshapes descend from the sky. And he knew that these were the evil\nwizard knights, Sir Dewin and his two sons. They alighted upon the hill\nnear the Tower of Stone, and took the shapes of men.\n\nInstantly they began to gather wood and to make a huge heap. And Sir\nDewin made witchfire, and began to light the pile.\n\nThen Sir Owen crept up in the dark, and the bear went with him. And as\nthe wizard bent to light the fire, Sir Owen raised his sword and\nchopped off the wizard's head, so that it hopped into the fire.\n\nThe bear had gone behind the two sons and now clawed them together, and\nthough they struggled fiercely to get loose, the bear hugged them so\ntightly that they could not move. And Sir Owen slew them both with his\nsword.\n\nThen together they heaped the three evil warlocks on the fire and saw\nthem burn. And when the last of them was consumed in the fierce heat of\nthe fire, Sir Owen felt a hand seize his, and, turning, he marvelled to\nsee Decet the Moundman smiling into his face.\n\n'Good luck hath been thy guide, sir knight,' said the troll, 'and thou\nhath released me from the evil dumb shape into which this wizard did\nchange me. But all the happiness that hath been thine and shall be\nthine again, thou owest to thy constancy and thy devotion to the lady\nthou lovest best.'\n\n'Glad am I, good troll, to see thee again,' said Sir Owen, 'and glad\nshall I be to see my dear lady again. Now let us release her faithful\nhandmaiden, thy sister.'\n\nWith the master words which move the living rock, the troll caused the\nstone to open, and Elined stepped forth, exceeding glad to see Sir Owen\nand her brother again, and to feel the free air upon her cheeks.\n\nWhen it was morning they went on their way with great gladness. And\nwhen they reached the City of the Fountain, the countess could not\nspeak for joy, and all her sadness fled, and in an hour her happiness\nwas greater than her misery had been for all the months of her sorrow.\n\nThe bells throughout the city were set ringing, and there was public\nrejoicing through the length and breadth of the land, for all were glad\nexceedingly that their dear lady was happy, and that their lord was\ncome to his own again.\n\nNever again did Sir Owen leave his lady while she lived. Elined was\nadvanced to the place of Chief Lady of the Household, while Decet was\nmade Head Huntsman, because he loved the forest, and knew the ways of\nevery bird and beast that lived therein.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nOF SIR LANCELOT AND THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT\n\n\nIt befell on a time that King Arthur made proclamation of a great joust\nand tournament which should be holden at Camelot fifteen days after the\nFeast of the Assumption. The noise of it went forth throughout all the\nking's dominions, and knights and barons, and earls and kings, made\nhaste to get them ready to go thither.\n\nSir Lancelot had but lately been sore wounded, and told the king that\nhe could not hope to be at the joust, for fear that his wound might\nbreak forth afresh. The king was much aggrieved thereat, and would fain\nhave made proclamation to put off the joust, but that many knights were\nalready set forth from distant places, and great would be the\ndisappointment.\n\nTherefore, on the day that the king was to journey from London to\nCamelot, he set forth with a heavy heart. For though he knew there\nwould be many a brave onfall and stout bickering, yet, as Sir Lancelot\nhad become the most valiant knight in all the island of Britain, the\nking had greatly desired that the knight should show how he excelled\nall the doughty warriors that would come from all parts.\n\nWhen all the knights had gone from the king's palace in London, Sir\nLancelot pined in the great hall. The chatter of the ladies and the\ntricks of the pages became irksome to him, and he began to think how\ngay must be the company of the knights of the Round Table, as they rode\nthrough the leafy country ways towards Camelot, with the great Arthur\nat their head.\n\n'I will see the king's leech,' he said to himself, 'and bid him give me\nsome medicament that shall strengthen my wound. For I cannot abide that\nI stay here like some toothless old hound, while his fellows are gone\nto the hunting.'\n\nSo Sir Lancelot betook him to the lodging of Morgan Todd, the king's\nphysician, but found that he too had gone with the king.\n\nWhen Sir Lancelot was turning away, sore aggrieved and angry, the man\nthat had opened the door to him cried:\n\n'Be not vexed, Sir Lancelot, for I wot well you would rather go with\nthe king than nurse that wound of thine. Come down, then, and let me\nadvise thee.'\n\nSir Lancelot, thinking this would be the chief disciple or pupil of\nMorgan Todd, dismounted, and followed the man that had spoken, who was\nold and thin and gnarled, with beady black eyes. When he had examined\nSir Lancelot's wound, the old man smiled strangely, and said:\n\n'If ye take but common care of thy wound, 'twill not break out again,\nbut your heart was ever bigger than thy wit, sir knight. Thou wilt do\nmore than any other knight, and in thy strength ye may well maim\nyourself.'\n\n'Then I may go to Camelot, to the jousting?' asked Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Ay, ye may go,' said the leech. 'But hearken. Stay not on thy way at\nAstolat. If ye do so, ye shall leave so great a wound there on one that\nwill not harm thee, that the ill shall cause thee woe out of all\nmeasure.'\n\n'Keep thy counsel, good leech,' said Sir Lancelot with a laugh. 'I hurt\nnone that desire not my hurt. And, for the rest, I will take the\nadventure that God will send me.'\n\nSir Lancelot set out forthwith, thinking naught of what the leech had\nsaid. By eventide he came to Astolat, and, looking about for a lodging,\nhe suddenly remembered the words of the leech.\n\n'I will beg a lodging outside the town,' he said, gravely smiling. 'So\nI do not stay in the town, I may escape the ill which the old croaker\nspoke of.'\n\nHe saw the manor-house of a baron beside the way, and begged a lodging\nthere for the night, which was freely and most courteously granted unto\nhim. The baron was an old man, of reverend aspect, named Sir Bernard,\nand he welcomed Sir Lancelot warmly, though he knew him not.\n\nAt meat they were all very merry, and with Sir Bernard were his two\nsons, handsome youths, but lately made knights. There was also a young\ndamsel, named Elaine the Fair, the daughter of Sir Bernard; but Sir\nLancelot, though he saw how sweet and gentle she was, noted her not\novermuch. Neither she nor Sir Lavaine, the younger son, could bear to\ntake their eyes from the face of Sir Lancelot; for there was so\nmagnificent yet gentle an air about the great knight, that they deemed\nhe must be some very brave and noble warrior.\n\nSir Lancelot told them it was in his mind to go to the jousts at\nCamelot. Laughingly he turned to Sir Bernard, and said:\n\n'Fair sir, I would pray you to lend me a shield that may not be greatly\nknown, for mine has been too much seen by warriors.'\n\n'Sir,' replied the old baron, 'I will gladly give you your desire, for\nI am sure you are one of the likeliest knights of the world. This, my\neldest son, Sir Tirre, whom you see hath yet the pallor of sickness,\nwas hurt on the day on which the great Sir Tristram of Lyones gave him\nknighthood, and as he cannot now ride, ye shall have his shield.'\n\n'Sir, I thank you,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'for showing me such\nfriendship.'\n\n'And I would crave a service of you,' went on Sir Bernard. 'My younger\nson here, Sir Lavaine, is eager to go out with some knight of proved\nvalour and prowess; and as my heart goeth unto you, and believeth ye to\nbe a knight of great nobility, I beseech you that you let him ride with\nyou to-morrow.'\n\n'I shall be pleased, indeed, to have the young knight to ride with me,'\nreplied Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Would it please you, sir,' asked Sir Bernard, 'to tell us your name?'\n\n'Not at this time, sir,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'but if God give me\ngrace at the jousts, and I win honour there, I will of a surety return\nand tell you.'\n\nSir Lancelot, with his nobleness and courtesy, and his tales of fair\nladies and brave knights, so won upon them all, that it was late ere\nthey each departed to their beds. The maiden Elaine thought that she\nhad never seen or heard of a knight so full of gentleness, yet withal\nso martial of mien, as this stranger who would not tell his name.\n\nIn the morning Sir Lancelot made himself ready to depart, and the maid\nElaine lingered long about her brother, and would never say that she\nhad really buckled the last strap of his armour. Then, when at length\nshe could keep them no longer, she came up to Sir Lancelot, with a face\nall pale and red by turns, yet striving to laugh away her fear.\n\n'Sir,' she said, 'I wish you noble deeds at the jousts and much fame.\nSir, I have never had a knight wear favour of mine. Therefore, lord,\nwill you wear a token of mine in your helm for good fortune?'\n\nLancelot looked down into the lovely face and smiled:\n\n'Fair damsel,' he said gently, 'if I granted you that, I should do more\nfor you than ever I have done for any dame or damsel living.'\n\nAt that she thought he refused, and the tears sprang like jewels into\nher blue eyes, and she turned away.\n\nSir Lancelot was grieved to think his refusal hurt one that seemed so\nsweet and gentle. Then he remembered that he desired to go to the\njousts disguised, and he bethought him that if he wore a lady's token\nin his helm, no one would recognise him, for all knew that never would\nhe consent to wear such things in joust or tournament, as was the\ncustom of many knights.\n\n'Stay, fair damsel,' he said kindly, 'I will grant you to wear a token\nof yours upon my helm. Therefore, bring it me.'\n\nInstantly the face of Elaine shone with joy and pride as she looked up\nquickly at the great steel-clad figure on the horse beside her. Then,\nquickly running, she brought what she had in her mind he should wear.\n\n'See,' she said, giving it into his hand, 'it is a sleeve of mine, of\nscarlet samite, embroidered with great pearls.'\n\n'I will wear it at the jousts, fair maiden,' said he, 'for the sake of\nthe kindness you and yours have shown me. And will you keep the shield\nwhich is mine own against the time when I shall return? For I will take\nthy brother's.'\n\n'I will keep it in my own room,' said Elaine, 'and will see that it\ndoth not tarnish.'\n\nThen Sir Lancelot and young Sir Lavaine rode forth, each bearing a\nwhite shield, as if both were young knights who had not yet done some\ndeed, in memory whereof they could blazon a device upon their shields.\n\nSo they rode to Camelot, where they found the narrow streets of the\nlittle town packed with the press of knights, dukes, earls and barons\ncome to take part in the jousts. Sir Lancelot got them lodgings with a\nrich burgess, and so privily and closely did they keep the house that\nnone knew that they were there.\n\nOn the day of the jousts the trumpets began to blow in the field where\nthey should be held. King Arthur sat on a great scaffold which was\nraised at one end, to judge who did best in the jousting. So great was\nthe press of folk, both noble and common, earls and chiefs, that many\ndid marvel to think that the realm of Britain held so many people.\n\nThe knights held themselves in two parties and went to either end of\nthe lists. Some called themselves the band of Arthur, and would fight\nall comers; and among them was Sir Palomides, Sir Conn of Ireland, Sir\nSagramore, Sir Kay the seneschal, Sir Griflet, Sir Mordred, Sir\nGallernon, and Sir Saffre, all knights of the Round Table. On the other\nside were the King of Northgales, the King of Swordlands, Sir Galahalt\nthe Proud, and other knights of the north. These were the smaller\nparty, yet were they very valiant knights.\n\nSir Lancelot made him ready with the others, and fashioned the red\nsleeve upon his helm. But it was in his mind to see which party fared\nthe worse before he would choose his part; for ever Sir Lancelot liked\na task which was not easy.\n\nSo he rode forth with Sir Lavaine into a little wood upon a knoll,\nwhence they could look into the lists and see the knights hurtle and\ncrash together. Soon they saw the knights of King Arthur's band come\nagainst the northern knights, and many of the latter were smitten down.\nThen he saw how the King of the Northgales and the King of Swordlands\nwith a few knights made a bold and brave stand against the many knights\nof King Arthur's Round Table.\n\n'See,' said Sir Lancelot to Sir Lavaine, 'how that company of knights\nhold out against that great press! They are like brave boars in the\nmidst of the hounds.'\n\n'Ye say truth,' said Sir Lavaine; 'they are indeed brave souls.'\n\n'Now,' said Sir Lancelot, 'if you will help me a little, you may see\nthat great company go back more quickly than they came forward.'\n\n'Sir, spare not,' said the young knight, 'and I will do what I may.'\n\nSir Lancelot spurred forward into the lists, and so fierce was his\nonslaught and so hard was his blow that with one spear he overthrew Sir\nSagramore, Sir Kay, Sir Griflet and Sir Saffre, and with another spear\nhe smote down five others. Thereupon the northern knights were much\ncomforted, and greeted the strange knight full courteously, though they\nwondered that he had but a white shield.\n\nThen the band of Arthur's knights took counsel and gathered together\nSir Bors, Sir Ector de Maris, Sir Lionel, Sir Blamore and five others.\nThese were all mighty knights and all were great fighters and close kin\nto Sir Lancelot. They resolved to rebuke the two stranger knights with\nwhite shields whom they knew not; and chiefly him with the lady's\nsleeve upon his helm did they seek to bring to the dust.\n\nAgain the knights hurtled mightily together, and Sir Bors, Sir Ector,\nand Sir Lionel drove at Sir Lancelot, and so great was their force that\nthey smote Sir Lancelot's horse to the ground. By ill hap, the spear of\nSir Bors pierced through his cousin's shield into his side, and the\nhead of the lance broke off and remained in the wound.\n\nThen Sir Lavaine, seeing his friend prone, did mightily assault Sir\nMordred, who was on the other side, and hurled him to the ground; and,\nbringing Sir Mordred's horse to Sir Lancelot, he helped him to mount.\n\nSir Lancelot was exceeding wroth, and took a great strong spear, and\nsmote Sir Bors, both horse and knight, to the ground; and likewise he\nserved Sir Ector and Sir Lionel, and four other knights. The others\nretreated, for they feared his great strength.\n\n'I marvel who is that knight that hath the red sleeve in his helm?'\nsaid King Arthur to Sir Gawaine, who sat with him.\n\n'Sir,' said the other, 'he will be known ere he depart.'\n\nWhen the king caused the trumpet to sound the end of the day's\njousting, the heralds cried that the prize was to go to the knight with\nthe red sleeve. But when the northern knights came to Sir Lancelot and\nwould have him go to the king and take the prize, he said:\n\n'Fair lords, let me depart, I pray you. For I have bought my victory\nwith my life; and now I would rather have quiet than all the wealth of\nthe world.'\n\nForthwith he galloped away with Sir Lavaine until they came to a great\nforest; and then Sir Lancelot groaned and said he could no further go,\nand forthwith he fell from his horse in a great swoon. Sir Lavaine went\nto find water in the wood, and had to go far ere he found it. But\npresently he saw a clearing, and there was a little hermitage and a\nstream running by. Sir Lavaine called the hermit, who was a man full\nreverend and noble of aspect, and told him how his friend lay in a\ndeathly swoon.\n\nIn a little while they had brought Sir Lancelot to the hermitage, where\nthe hermit took out the head of the spear and bound up the wound and\ngave to the knight a strong cordial. Anon he was refreshed and came to\nhis senses again.\n\nAt the lodging of the king in Camelot, men spoke of the jousts, and\nwondered who might be the knight who had won the prize and who had been\ninjured, as the northern knights had reported. Though King Arthur had\nit in his mind that it had been Sir Lancelot, he hoped it was not, for\nit grieved him much to think that Sir Lancelot was so badly wounded.\n\nNext day the court journeyed towards London, and rested for the night\nat Astolat; and the town being full, it chanced that Sir Gawaine went\nto the manor of Sir Bernard, which lay just outside the city. When he\nhad dined, the old knight Sir Bernard began to speak to him, and to ask\nwho had done the best at the jousts at Camelot.\n\nEver since he had arrived, Sir Gawaine had seen how the fair girl, the\ndaughter of the knight, who had attended upon him, was pale and\nthoughtful; and now she looked white and red by turns as he began to\nspeak.\n\n'There were two knights,' said Sir Gawaine, 'who each bore a white\nshield, and one had a red sleeve upon his helmet.'\n\nSir Gawaine saw how the damsel clasped her hands together, and her face\nlit up with a great light and her eyes were bright and proud.\n\n'And I swear that never saw I so valiant and stout a knight as he,'\nsaid Sir Gawaine. 'For I dare swear that he beat down twenty knights of\nthe Round Table, and his fellow also did well.'\n\n'Now, blessed be God,' said the fair maid of Astolat, with a great cry\nof joy, 'that the good knight sped so well; for he is the one man in\nthe world whom I have ever loved, and truly he shall be the last man\nthat ever after I shall love.'\n\n'Then do ye know his name?' asked Sir Gawaine.\n\n'Nay, I know it not,' said Elaine, 'nor whence he came. But I know that\nI love him and none other.'\n\nThen they told Sir Gawaine how they had first had knowledge of the\nstrange knight; and the damsel said that he had left her his shield in\nplace of the white one he had taken, so that none should know him. Sir\nGawaine begged that she would fetch it from her chamber.\n\nElaine brought it and drew it from the case of leather in which she had\nwrapped it, and said, 'See, there is no spot of rust upon it, for I\nhave cleaned it with my own hands every day.'\n\n'Alas,' said Sir Gawaine, when he saw the device upon the shield, 'now\nis my heart full heavier than it hath ever been.'\n\n'Why, oh why?' cried Elaine, and stood pale and breathless.\n\n'Is the knight that owneth that shield your love?' asked Gawaine.\n\n'Yes, truly,' said the maiden, 'I love him'; and then sadly she said,\n'but would that he should tell me that I was also his love.'\n\n'How ever that be,' said Sir Gawaine, 'you should know that you love\nthe noblest knight in all the world, the most honourable and one of the\nmost worth.'\n\n'So thought me ever,' said the maid of Astolat, proudly smiling; 'for\nnever have I seen a knight that I could love but that one.'\n\n'And never hath he borne token or sign of any lady or gentlewoman\nbefore he bore thine,' said Sir Gawaine.\n\nAt these words the maid Elaine could have swooned for very joy, for she\ndeemed that Sir Lancelot had borne her token for love of her.\nTherefore, she was cast more deeply in love with him than ever.\n\n'But I dread me,' went on Sir Gawaine, 'for I fear we may never see him\nin this life again.'\n\n'Alas! alas!' cried Elaine, throwing herself at the feet of the knight,\nand clutching his arm tightly, while she gazed with terror into his\nface. 'How may this be? oh, say not--say not that he is--is----'\n\nShe could not say the word, but Sir Gawaine made answer.\n\n'I say not so, but wit ye well that he is grievously wounded.'\n\n'Alas!' cried Elaine, 'what is his hurt? Where is he? Oh, I will go to\nhim instantly.'\n\nShe rose, wildly ringing her slender hands.\n\n'Truly,' said Sir Gawaine, who, though a great warrior, was a slow\ntalker, and had no thought of the sorrow of the poor maid, 'the man\nthat hurt him was one that would least have hurt him had he known. And\nwhen he shall know it, that will be the most sorrow that he hath ever\nhad.'\n\n'Ah, but say,' cried Elaine, 'where doth my lord lie wounded?'\n\n'Truly,' replied Gawaine, 'no man knoweth where he may lie. For he went\noff at a great gallop, and though I and others of King Arthur's knights\ndid seek him within six or seven miles of Camelot, we could not come\nupon him.'\n\n'Now, dear father,' said the maid Elaine, and the tears welled from her\neyes, 'I require you give me leave to ride and seek him that I love, or\nelse I know well that I shall go out of my mind, for I may never rest\nuntil I learn of him and find him and my brother Sir Lavaine.'\n\nSo the maid Elaine made her ready, weeping sorely, and her father bade\ntwo men-at-arms go with her to guard and guide her on her quest.\n\nWhen she came to Camelot, for two days was her seeking in vain, and\nhardly could she eat or sleep for her trouble. It happened that on the\nthird day, as she crossed a plain, she saw a knight with two horses,\nriding as if he exercised them; and by his gestures she recognised him\nat length, and it was her brother. She spurred her horse eagerly, and\nrode towards Sir Lavaine, crying with a loud voice:\n\n'Lavaine, Lavaine, tell me how is my lord, Sir Lancelot?'\n\nHer brother came forward, rejoicing to see her, but he asked how she\nhad learned that the stranger knight was Sir Lancelot, and she told\nhim.\n\n'My lord hath never told me who he was,' said Lavaine, 'but the holy\nhermit who hath harboured him knew him and told me. And for days my\nlord has been wandering and distraught in his fever. But now he is\nbetter.'\n\n'It pleaseth me greatly to hear that,' said Elaine.\n\nWhen Sir Lavaine took her into the room where lay Sir Lancelot so sick\nand pale in his bed, she could not speak, but suddenly fell in a swoon.\nAnd when she came to her senses again she sighed and said:\n\n'My lord, Sir Lancelot, alas, why are ye in so sad a plight?'\n\nTherewith she almost swooned again. But Sir Lancelot prayed Sir Lavaine\nto take her up and bring her to him. And she came to herself again, and\nSir Lancelot kissed her, and said:\n\n'Fair maid, why fare ye thus? It hurts me to see your sorrow, for this\nhurt of mine is of little account to cause you to grieve in this wise.\nIf ye come to minister to me, why, ye are truly welcome, and ye shall\nquickly heal me, by the grace of God, and make me whole again.'\n\n'I would gladly serve you till you are well again,' said the maid.\n\n'I thank you, fair Elaine,' replied the knight, 'but I marvel how ye\nknew my name?'\n\n'It was by Sir Gawaine, fair lord,' said the damsel, 'for he lodged at\nmy father's house and saw your shield.'\n\nSir Lancelot's heart was heavy at these words, for he foreboded sorrow\nfrom this adventure.\n\nAfterwards the maid Elaine never went from Sir Lancelot, but watched\nhim day and night, and gave such comfort to him that never woman did\nmore kindly nurse a wounded man than she.\n\nSir Lancelot was full courteous and kindly in his turn, never giving\nmore trouble than he could avoid; both were of good cheer and merry\ntogether, for Sir Lancelot deemed not as yet that the maid loved him\ndeeply, and the maid was glad to be with him and to do him all the\nservice that she could.\n\nThen in a little while came Sir Bors, the knight who had wounded Sir\nLancelot, who was also his cousin, and Sir Bors lamented sorely that\nhis had been the arm that had given his kinsman so sore a wound. But\nSir Lancelot prayed him not to grieve, and said:\n\n'I have that which I deserved, for in my pride I was nigh slain, for\nhad I given thee, my cousin, warning of my being there, I had not been\nhurt. Therefore, let us leave off speaking thereof, and let us find\nsome remedy so that I may soon be whole.'\n\n'Fair cousin,' said Sir Bors, as he leaned on the bed, speaking in a\nlow voice, 'there is one nigh thee, or I am much in error, that will\nnot know whether to be glad or sorry when thou shalt be hale enough to\nride away.'\n\n'What dost thou mean?' asked Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Is this she that is so busy about thee--is she the lady that men call\nthe Lily Maid of Astolat?'\n\n'She it is,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'and kindlier nurse hath never man\nfound.'\n\n'It is easy to see she loveth her task,' said Sir Bors, and he was full\nof pity and kindness for the fair meek maid, 'seeing that she loveth\nthee.'\n\n'Nay, man, nay, that cannot be,' said Sir Lancelot, half angry, half\ndenying. 'She hath come to me because I was sick, and because I wore\nher token in my helm, that's all.'\n\n'Wise art thou in all knightly prowess, Sir Lancelot,' said Sir Bors,\n'and full courteous and kindly art thou to all ladies and damsels. But\nI fear thou knowest not the heart of this fair maid. For it hath been\neasy for me to see by her looks this way how she is jealous of my\ntalking to thee, and I know from her diligence about thee that she\nloveth thee with all her heart.'\n\n'If that be so, then, by Heaven, I sorrow it is so,' said Sir Lancelot\nheavily. 'And I must send her from me forthwith.'\n\n'Why shouldst thou do that, fair cousin?' said Sir Bors. 'She is a\npassing fair damsel and well taught, and I would that thou couldst love\nher in return. But as to that, I may not nor dare not counsel thee. For\nI know that love blows where it listeth and will be forced by none.'\n\n'It repenteth me sorely,' said Sir Lancelot, and he was heavy in spirit\nthereafter, and was eager to get whole again and to go away.\n\nIn four or five days he made a plot with Sir Bors, that he should rise\nand clothe himself in his armour and get upon his horse, and in this\nway show to the hermit and to the maid Elaine that indeed and in truth\nhe was strong enough to ride forth. Therefore they made excuses and\nsent both the hermit and the maid away into the forest to gather herbs.\n\nSir Lancelot rose from his bed, and Sir Bors helped him to put on his\narmour and to mount his horse. And so eager was the knight to feel that\nhe was hale again that he put his lance in rest and spurred his horse,\nand so furiously did he ride across the mead, as if he rode at a\nknight, that of a sudden his wound broke out again, and he swooned and\nfell from his horse to the ground.\n\nSir Bors and Sir Lavaine made great sorrow and dole as they raised him\nand carried him back to the hermitage. It befell that Elaine, who had\nnot gone far, heard their cries and came running swiftly, and seeing\nSir Lancelot borne between them pale as with death, she cried and wept\nand kneeled beside him, and put her arms about his neck and kissed him\nmany times, and called to him to wake him.\n\n'O traitors that ye are,' she cried to her brother and to Sir Bors,\n'why have ye let him go from his bed? Oh, if ye have slain him I will\ndenounce you for his murderers.'\n\nTherewith came the holy hermit and was right wroth, and they put Sir\nLancelot to bed again, and the hermit stanched the wound and gave the\nknight a cordial, so that he awoke out of his swoon.\n\n'Why have you put your life in jeopardy thus?' asked the hermit.\n\n'For that I weary of being here,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I would ride\nforth again.'\n\n'Ah, Sir Lancelot,' said the hermit, 'your heart and your courage will\nnever be done till your last day. But now ye must do as I command, and\nstay till I say ye are hale again.'\n\nSoon after this Sir Bors departed, and the hermit promised that if he\ncame back in a month, Sir Lancelot would be ready to depart with him.\nThus Sir Lancelot stayed in the hermitage, and ever did the fair maid\nElaine labour with diligence day and night to heal and comfort him, and\nto keep the time from wearying him. And never was child meeker to her\nparent, nor wife kinder to her husband, nor mother sweeter and more\ntender to her child, than Elaine was to Sir Lancelot.\n\nThe knight sorrowed that this was so; and he ever bore himself\ncourteous, but not familiar in speech, for it grieved him that he had\nno love in his heart for her, however deep might be her love for him.\n\nWhen the month was over, Sir Bors returned and found Sir Lancelot\nwalking about the forest, hale and strong again and eager to be riding.\n\nIn a day they all made them ready to depart from the hermit, and to go\nto King Arthur's court, which was then in London. The Lily Maid went\nwith them, sad that all her loving care was now ending, but glad to see\nthe noble air with which Sir Lancelot bestrode his horse, and thankful\nthat sometimes, as they rode upon their way, he turned to her smiling\ngravely, and spoke of the bright sunlight, the birds and trees they\nsaw, and the company and travellers they passed.\n\nThen they came to Astolat, and Sir Bernard gave them all great welcome,\nand they were well feasted and well lodged.\n\nOn the morrow, when they should depart, the maid Elaine was pale and\nvery quiet, until Sir Lancelot came into the hall to say farewell. Then\nthe maid, bringing her father and her two brothers with her, went up to\nSir Lancelot and said:\n\n'My lord, now I see that ye will depart. But oh, do thou have mercy\nupon me, for I must say that which damsels and gentlewomen are not used\nto say.'\n\nSir Lancelot with grave sad face looked at her and knew what she would\nsay, and in very heaviness of spirit replied:\n\n'Lady, it grieves me that I have unwittingly put such grief upon you.'\n\n'O fair and gracious knight, suffer me not to die for love of you,'\ncried Elaine, and looked most piteously and wanly upon him. 'Oh, I\nwould have none but you to be my husband.'\n\n'Fair damsel,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'heavy is my grief to refuse you,\nbut I have not turned my mind to marriage.'\n\n'Alas,' said Elaine, and smiled sadly, 'then there is no more to be\nsaid.'\n\n'Fair maid, I would that you will seek some knight more worthy of you,'\nsaid Sir Lancelot. 'When I am gone, do you set your heart upon some\nfriend or kinsman; and for all the kindness ye have shown me, I will\nsettle upon you a thousand pounds yearly.'\n\n'Oh, of all this,' said the Lily Maid, 'I will have none; for if ye\nwill not love me, wit ye well, Sir Lancelot, my happy days are done.'\n\n'Say it not, fair maid,' said the knight, 'for many years and much love\nshould be yours.'\n\nBut with a cry Elaine fell to the ground in a swoon, and her\ngentlewomen bore her into her chamber and sorrowed over her.\n\nIn great heaviness Sir Lancelot would depart, and went to his horse to\nmount it; and Sir Lavaine went with him.\n\n'What would you do?' asked Sir Lancelot of him.\n\n'What should I do,' said Sir Lavaine, 'but follow you, unless you drive\nme from you?'\n\n'I cannot do that, so come with me,' said Sir Lancelot.\n\nThen came Sir Bernard unto the knight and said, lifting his grey head\nand wrinkled and reverend face to Sir Lancelot as he bestrode his\nhorse:\n\n'Sir, I think my daughter Elaine will die for your sake. For ever was\nshe quiet, but strong in mood and of a very fond heart.'\n\n'It must not be,' said Sir Lancelot, 'but do thou cheer her, and when I\nam gone she will forget me. Never did I do or say aught but what a good\nknight should, and never made as if I cared for her. But I am right\nsorry for her distress, for she is a full fair maid, good and gentle,\nand sweet of voice and mood.'\n\n'Father,' said Sir Lavaine, 'my sister Elaine doeth as I do. For since\nI first saw my lord Lancelot, I could never depart from him, nor never\nwill if I may follow him.'\n\nNight and day did the fair maid Elaine sorrow in silence, so that she\nnever slept, ate or drank. At the end of ten days her ghostly father\nbade her leave such grief and change her thoughts.\n\n'Nay,' she said, 'I may not, and I would not if I could. And I do no\nsin to love the most peerless knight in all the world, the most gentle\nand courteous of men, and the greatest in all nobility. Therefore, as I\nknow I may not live, do thou shrive me, good father, for I must needs\npass out of this world.'\n\nThen she confessed her sins and was shriven. And anon she called her\nfather and her brother, Sir Tirre, and begged that they would do as she\ndesired as to her burial, and they promised.\n\nIn a little while she died, and a letter was put into her cold hand,\nand she was placed in a fair bed, with all the richest clothes she had\nabout her. Then they carried her on the bed in a chariot, slowly, with\nmany prayers and with much weeping, to the Thames, and there they put\nher and the bed in a barge.\n\nOver all the bed and the barge, except her fair face, was placed a\ncloak of black samite, and an old and faithful servant of the house\nstepped into the barge to guide it.\n\nThey let it go from them with great grief, and the aged man steered it\ndown the river towards London, where was the court of Arthur.\n\nIt happened that, as the king and his queen were looking from a window\nof the palace which looked upon the Thames, they saw the black barge,\nand marvelled what it might mean.\n\nThe king made the barge to be held fast, and took the queen's hand, and\nwith many knights went down to the water's edge, and there they saw a\nfair gentlewoman lying on a rich bed, and she lay as if she slept.\n\nThe king took the letter gently from the fair hand which held it, and\nwent into his court, and ordered all his knights to assemble, and then\nopened the letter and read what was written. The words were these:\n\n'Most noble knight, my lord Sir Lancelot du Lake, now hath death come\nto me, seeing that you would not give me your love. Yet do thou do this\nlittle thing I ask, now that I am dead, for I ask thee to pray for my\nsoul and to bury me, and think of me sometimes. Pray for my soul and\nthink of me, as thou art a knight peerless and most gentle.'\n\nSir Lancelot heard it word by word and went pale as ashes, so that men\nmarvelled to see his sorrow. When it was finished, he said:\n\n'My lord, King Arthur, wit ye well that I am right heavy for the death\nof this fair damsel. God knoweth that I was never causer of her death\nby my will, as her brother Sir Lavaine here will avouch for me. She was\nboth fair and good, and exceeding kind to me when I was wounded; but\nshe loved me out of all measure, and of that I was sore heavy.'\n\n'Ye might have loved her,' said the queen, weeping for sorrow at the\nhapless fate of one so fair and fond.\n\n'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I could not be constrained to love her,\nbut I sorrow for her death exceedingly.'\n\n'Truth it is,' said the king, 'that love is free and never will be\nforced, for all the prayers that may be said to it. But thou wilt of\nthy worship bury this fair maid, Sir Lancelot?'\n\n'That will I do,' said the knight, 'and in all richness and solemnity.'\n\nThus was it done, and all the knights of the Round Table sorrowfully\nfollowed the body of the fair Elaine to the grave.\n\nOn her tomb in letters of gold both thick and deep were set the words:\n\n'Here lieth the body of Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat, who died of a\npassing great love'\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nHOW THE THREE GOOD KNIGHTS ACHIEVED THE HOLY GRAAL\n\n\nNow the time drew nigh which had been foretold by Merlin, before he had\nbeen snared by a greater wizardry than his, and buried alive beneath\nthe great stone in the forest of Broceliande.\n\nHe had prophesied that, with the coming of King Arthur, the island of\nBritain should grow in strength and fame, and her knights should be\nmore valiant and more pure in word and deed than the knights of any\nother land. But that, in a little while, they would become proud, and\nfinding that none could withstand them, they would use their strength\nevilly.\n\nTo the court of King Arthur, as he sat in London, came tidings of how\nhis barons warred with each other in remoter parts of his dominions,\nseizing the strong castles of each other, putting one another to death,\nand forsaking the ways of the Holy Church of Christ and turning to the\nidolatry of the old British pagans, some of whom still lurked and\nperformed their evil rites in the desolate and secret places of the\nforests and the hills.\n\nThe heart of the king was heavy as he sat thinking, and he wondered why\nthis evil was entering into the hearts of his knights and barons. He\nresolved to take good counsel, and therefore commanded his clerk to\ncome to him and bade him write down all his thoughts.\n\nThen he gave the letter to a trusty knight, named Sir Brewis, and bade\nhim take it to the Archbishop of Britain, where he sat, an old and\nfeeble man, in his great cathedral of St. Asaph, far on the verge of\nthe western sea. He was the king's kinsman, and already known for his\ngreat sanctity as St. David. In a month the knight brought back the\nanswer, which was in these words:\n\n'The time draws nigh for the trial and testing of Britain. Three good\nknights shall come to you, and you must pray that their spirit shall\nspread like fire in the hearts of all your knights. You shall have all\nmy prayers, dear kinsman, and I bid you say to all your knights, \"Watch\nand Pray.\"'\n\nA few days later, when the king sat in hall before the great fire, for\nit was passing cold and the wintry wind snarled at the windows, the\ngreat door was flung open, and into the hall came three men bearing a\nwounded knight in armour upon his shield. When they had set him down,\nthe knights that were with the king knew him for Sir Kay the seneschal,\nand Sir Kay looked sourly about him, and bade those that carried him\ntake him to his pallet and fetch a leech, and not stand gaping like\nfools.\n\n'How now,' said Sir Gawaine, 'who hath tumbled thee, Sir Kay?'\n\n'A fool whose head I will rase from his shoulders when I am hale\nagain,' snapped Sir Kay, as he was borne away to his bed.\n\nThen into the hall came a troll, and after the troll came a knight\ndressed all in white armour, who, going towards the king, knelt at his\nfeet.\n\n'Sir,' the knight said, 'I would that ye make me a knight.'\n\n'Of what lineage have ye come?' asked the king.\n\n'I am the only son left to my mother,' replied the knight, 'and she is\nthe widow of Earl Evroc of the Wolds.'\n\n'Ah,' said the king, and frowned, 'was he one of those turbulent lords\nof the north that now slay and war as if they were kin to the pagans,\nand threaten to bring ruin into my kingdom?'\n\n'Nay, lord,' said the young knight, 'my father hath been dead these\ntwenty years.'\n\n'Then what is your name? What have ye done to deserve knighthood?'\nasked the king, who was angry at the hurt his old friend and\nfoster-brother Kay had received.\n\n'Sir, I am Perceval who slew the Dragon Knight, and I am not yet made a\nknight.'\n\nAll those that stood there cried out in joy, and King Arthur raised the\nyoung knight from his knees and kissed him on both cheeks.\n\n'Fair young warrior, I knew ye not,' said the king, 'and I repent me my\nchurlish speech. We all have heard your great deeds, and much have I\nlonged to see ye, and many reproaches gave I to Sir Kay, whose churlish\nmanner thrust you from my hall.'\n\n'Sir,' said Perceval, when he had clasped the hands of the knights, all\nof whom were eager to know him, 'I vowed that I would not come to you\nuntil that I had avenged the blow which Sir Kay had given to my good\nfriend Tod, who is my squire, and good fortune brought Sir Kay to me,\nor perhaps it was the will of Heaven. For as I came riding hitherwards\nthis morning, I saw in the snow where a hawk had torn a thrush, and the\nblood lay on the whiteness of the ground. I stopped and gazed upon it,\nfor I thought of the white life of Christ who gave His blood to save us\nall. Then I wondered whether the blood that He had shed upon the cruel\nCross would ever be so pitiful a thing in men's minds that this dear\nBritain of ours would be rid of the evil which seems to be creeping\ninto it, and in place thereof would turn as white as the sheets of snow\nthat now lay over all the fields and ways. As I thought thus, I sank\ndeeper and deeper in my thoughts. Suddenly I felt one strike me on the\narm with the flat of his sword. I turned and saw a knight, who asked me\nwhy I gaped like a mooncalf at the torn bird. I told him it was my\npleasure so to do. He asked if it was my pleasure to have to do with\nhim, but I said I would liefer pursue my thoughts again. Nevertheless,\nhe would not let me in quiet, and I drew my sword and beat him in my\nanger to the ground. When my squire unlaced his helm he knew him for\nSir Kay, and told some passing men to bear him unto the court.\n\n'So have I punished him both for the insult to my friend and squire and\nto myself.'\n\nMen marvelled at the quiet speech and gentle looks and manners of one\nwhose fame for great deeds was in all men's mouths; and Sir Gawaine\nsaid:\n\n'Of a truth, young chieftain, it had served Sir Kay rightly if ye had\nslain him, and he should thank thee for sparing him.'\n\nThe other knights agreed that Sir Kay had done most unknightly in thus\npicking a quarrel with one who had not offended, and he had merited\ndefeat.\n\nThereupon King Arthur knighted Perceval, and they made him great cheer\nand welcome; and the king knew in his heart that this was one of the\nthree good knights whom St. David had spoken of, and he wondered who\nwere the other two.\n\nIt chanced that seven nights before, the good Sir Bors had fared forth\nfrom the court of Arthur to seek knightly adventures. And his spirit\nwas joyful as he rode, for he felt that some great adventure was to\ncome to him, howbeit he knew not why he felt this was to be.\n\nNorthward he fared through the land, and the snow had not yet fallen,\nbut so mild was the season that men's thoughts had stirred towards\nspring. For many days he journeyed and the ways were more lonely, the\ncountry more desolate, the rocky hills more bare. He wondered why it\nwas that the land seemed so forsaken, as if the folk had long since\nleft the fields to become solitary wastes.\n\nAt length it befell that one evening he could find no place wherein to\nshelter for the night; there was no hermit's cell nor castle nor\nknight's hold through all the way by which he had come that day.\nTowards twilight he came upon a wide moor, and the cold moon peered at\nhim over the distant mountains. Far in the midst of the waste he saw a\ngreat pile, as of a castle, and pricked his horse towards it.\n\nIt was indeed a castle, but its walls were broken and mossy, as if long\nyears had passed since it housed fire and gay company. He rode over the\ndrawbridge into the great courtyard, and the echo of his horse's\nhoofbeats was the only sound that greeted him.\n\nHe sought the upper chambers, and found in one a rough bed of fern\nleaves, and, having supped from the scrip he carried with him, he\ncomposed himself to sleep, glad that at least a roof and thick walls\nshielded him from the freezing cold which now swept over the land.\n\nForthwith he slept; but at midnight he awoke and found it was deeply\ndark, and looking to the arrow slit in the wall he sought some friendly\nstar. As he looked, a great red light burst through, and with that\nthere came, thrusting fiercely, a great spear like a long flame, which\ndarted at him, and then stayed just before him. The point of it burned\nblue and dazzling.\n\nAs he lay marvelling, the spear went back a space; then he grasped his\nsword that lay beside him, but before he could defend himself the\nflaming spear dashed forward again and smote him in the shoulder.\n\nThen the spear went back and the chamber was deep dark again, and for\nvery pain Sir Bors lay and groaned. Nor could he sleep more that night.\nWhen it was dawn he arose, thinking to ride forth, but when he went\ndown into the courtyard to saddle his horse in the stable, he marvelled\nto see that where there had been an open ruined gateway the night\nbefore, was now a great black oaken door, spiked and bolted.\n\nFor a long time he essayed by every means to get himself out of that\ncastle, but he could not find a way. Yet never did he hear or see aught\nthat showed that any one lived there. Many times he went throughout the\nplace, but never found aught but ruin and emptiness, and the dust and\ndarkness of long neglect everywhere.\n\nWhen three days had gone, Sir Bors was faint with the pain of his wound\nand the hunger with which he suffered. Then, as he sat beside his horse\nin its stall, he suddenly heard the clank of armour, and going forth\ninto the courtyard saw a knight all armed, with his shield on his\nshoulder and his sword naked in his hand.\n\nWithout a word the stranger darted at him, and hardly did Sir Bors have\ntime to dress his shield; and then they lashed mightily at each other,\nand thrust and hewed sorely. Thus for half the day they fought, and so\nfiercely that soon Sir Bors had many wounds, so that blood oozed from\nthe joints of his armour. But the other knight seemed to be unharmed,\nand never seemed to breathe heavily. Then Sir Bors became extremely\nwroth, and beat so fiercely upon the other that he pressed him always\nbackward until the stranger was nigh to the door of a chamber which\nopened into the courtyard; and suddenly he dashed backwards into the\nchamber and shut the door.\n\nNor would he come forth, for all that Sir Bors called him coward and\nrecreant. Nor would he answer one word, nor had he said one word since\nSir Bors had seen him.\n\nAfter some time Sir Bors resolved to go back and rest himself beside\nhis horse, for his great wounds burned him sorely; but as he turned,\nsuddenly, without a sound, the stranger knight dashed forth, and struck\na felon blow at the good knight's neck. But Sir Bors was aware of him\nin time and defended himself full well.\n\nSo fiercely did Sir Bors lay on, that soon the other was beaten to his\nknees, and then the good knight rushed at him to hurl him headlong and\nto slay him. Suddenly the other knight seemed to fall together as if\ndead; but the armour sounded hollow as it fell, and Sir Bors marvelled.\n\nSwiftly he hacked the fastenings of the helm and tore it from the neck\narmour. Then a great fear seized and shook him. The armour was empty!\n\nHe knew then that he had fought with a demon. He crossed himself and\nprayed, and weak with deadly fear and his wounds, he went into the\nstall and sat beside his horse, and marvelled how he could win with\nlife from the fell power that seemed to hold him prisoner.\n\nSuddenly, from a dark cavernous hole in the dungeons, came a great\nboar, with curving tusks keen as sword-blades, and rushed at Sir Bors\nfull fiercely. Hardily did the knight defend himself from the strength\nand the fierce rushes of the great beast. The boar with its long tusks\ntore the shield from the grasp of Sir Bors, and slashed his shield arm\nsorely, and then Sir Bors was wroth, and with a very fierce blow he\nsmote off the boar's head. Immediately thereupon, with the pain of his\nmany wounds and the weakness of his famine, Sir Bors fainted, and lay\nupon the frozen snow as one dead. For long he stayed thus ere he\nrevived, and then he rose and dragged himself into the stall where lay\nhis horse, half dead with hunger, before an empty manger.\n\nAll that night Sir Bors lay in a sad pass, for he thought that now he\nwould never see dawn again in life. He prayed and commended his soul to\nGod, and confessed his sins and prepared himself for death as behoved a\ngood knight; and thereafter he slept sweetly.\n\nAt the dawn he awoke, exceeding hungry, and looking forth into the\ncourt he had it in his mind to carve meat from the dead boar. But he\nwas astounded beyond measure to find that it was not there. In its\nplace was a great trencher of steaming hot collops of meat, and toasted\nbread, with hot milk in great plenty.\n\nSir Bors ran towards the food, and so ravenous was his hunger that he\nwould have devoured it instantly. But he bethought him before he had\nplaced any of it to his lips, and dropping it he crossed himself and\nran back into the stall and tried not to look forth. He knew that the\nfood was placed there by some fell fiend or demon to tempt him, and if\nhe ate of that unholy food, his soul would be for ever lost.\n\nAnon sweet voices sounded in the courtyard as if to attract him forth,\nand the smell of the hot food was wafted strongly into the stable. The\nfiends themselves could not enter, for there was a horse-shoe hung in\nthe proper way upon the lintel of the door, and, moreover, Sir Bors had\nstuck his sword-point in the ground, and the holy sign of the cross\nprevented the evil things from crossing the threshold.\n\nAll that day did Sir Bors lie half dying, while the fiends tempted him,\nbut the knight was too strong and manful of soul to yield, and would\nliefer die than become the slave of the powers of the Netherworld.\n\nThen in the twilight he commended his soul to God, for he felt near to\ndeath. When he had finished his prayer, he heard great and horrible\ncries in the court as of rage and disappointment. Then came an old man\nat the door of the stable, white of hair and very reverend; and he came\nand put his hand upon Sir Bors' head and spoke mildly and said:\n\n'Good and faithful knight, sorely tried have ye been, and now you shall\nhave no more adventures here. Full worshipfully have ye done and better\nshall ye do hereafter. And now your wounds shall be healed and ye shall\nhave good cheer until to-morrow.'\n\nTherewith there was all manner of sweetness and savour in the place,\nand Sir Bors saw as in a mist a shining vessel borne by a wondrous\nmaiden. He knew that this was the Holy Graal; and he bowed his head,\nand forthwith he was whole of his wounds.\n\nOn the morrow he departed after a night's sweet sleep, and rode to\nArthur's court and told of his adventures.\n\nThe king and queen and all the fellowship of the Round Table were\npassing glad to see Sir Bors whole and well, and they made much of him,\nfor they felt that he would do things of great renown.\n\nThen at the feast of Pentecost went all the court to the minster to\nhear their service; and when they returned to the palace the king\nordered that dinner should be prepared in the hall of the Round Table,\nfor this was one of the days when he was wont to assemble all his\nknights at a great feast of knighthood.\n\nWhile they waited for the horn to sound, warning them that the meal was\nready, one came running to the king, saying that a thing of marvel had\nhappened. And Arthur went to the hall of the Round Table with his\nknights, and there in the seats about the great circular board they\nfound letters of gold written, which said, 'Here should sit Sir\nBedevere,' or 'Here should sit Sir Gawaine,' and thus was the name of a\nknight written in every seat.\n\nIn the Siege, or Seat, Perilous, where twice or thrice a reckless\nknight had dared to sit, but only to be struck dead by a sudden\nflashing blow of mystery, there were written the words, 'In the four\nhundredth and fourth and fiftieth year after the passion of our Lord,\nshall he that shall fill this seat come among ye.'\n\nAll the knights marvelled and looked each at the other.\n\n'It seemeth me,' said Lancelot, 'that this is the very day on which\nthis seat shall be filled by him for whom it is appointed, for this is\nthe four hundred and fifty-fourth winter since Christ died on the\nrood.'\n\nIt was seen that on each side of the Siege Perilous was written, on the\nright one, the name of Sir Perceval, and on the left one, the name of\nSir Bors.\n\nThen the horn was sounded to dinner, and each knight took the seat\nappointed for him, and young knights served them. All the sieges round\nthe table were filled except the Siege Perilous.\n\nMen ate and drank soberly, for they felt that an adventure strange and\nmarvellous should happen that day, and so indeed it befell.\n\nFor when they had eaten, and the priest was saying in a great silence\nthe grace after meat, suddenly a shrill wind sounded without, and all\nthe doors and windows shut fast. Men looked at each other in the\ntwilight thus caused, and many a face was white with fear.\n\nThen the door opened and an old and reverend man entered, white of\nbeard and head, and clothed also in white; and Sir Bors knew him for\nthe same who had come to him at the Castle of Fiends. By the right hand\nthe ancient man brought a young knight, clad in red armour, with a\nsword at his side, but with no shield.\n\n'Peace be with you, fair lords,' said the old man. Then turning to the\nking he said:\n\n'Sir, I bring here a young knight, the which is of king's lineage,\nwhereby the marvels of this court shall be accomplished, and the trial\nof this thy kingdom shall be brought to a happy end, if that may be.\nAnd the name of him is Galahad.'\n\n'Sir,' said the king, 'ye be right welcome and the young knight with\nyou.'\n\nThe old man made the young knight unarm him, and he was in a coat of\nred sendal, and bare a mantle that was furred with ermine. Then was the\nyoung man led by the reverend man to the Siege Perilous, and sat him\nthereon, and men marvelled to see that the death-stroke did not flash\nlike lightning and slay him.\n\n[Illustration: SIR GALAHAD IS BROUGHT TO THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR]\n\n'Sir,' said the old man to him, 'wit ye well that that is your seat.\nFor you are he that shall surely achieve the Holy Graal, and such of\nthese your fellows as are pure in heart and humble shall achieve it\nwith you.'\n\n'Sir,' said the king, 'if it may be that ye know, will ye tell us what\nmy knights must do to achieve the Holy Vessel, and thus bring peace\ninto my kingdom in place of war? For many of those that are kings and\nbarons under me are warring with each other, and threaten to rend this\nisland of Britain, and some are forsaking Christ and are turning to the\nevil faith and cruel worship of the pagan gods of Britain. And it goeth\nto my heart to know this, and I have much dread.'\n\n'Sir king,' said the old white man, 'none may tell you what shall be\nthe end of this quest of the Holy Graal, but I can tell you and these\nyour knights what they must do to save this land from the ruin which\ndoth threaten it. Ye know that the Holy Vessel was that wherein Christ\nate the lamb on the Thursday before he was hung upon the Cross. And\nJoseph of Arimathea did bring it here to Britain, and here hath it been\nfor more than four hundred and fifty winters. And while ye and your\nkingdom did love Christ and did do His word, the Sangreal stayed within\nyour borders. But now ye war with each other, and are evil livers and\nfull of pride and mastery, and if ye do not repent and stay your\ndishonour, then shall the Holy Vessel pass from Britain, and ruin and\ndeath and civil war shall stalk through the land and leave it\ndesolate.'\n\nHaving spoken thus, the old man went from the hall, and none stayed\nhim; for too many there were who knew that they had been the evil\nlivers at whom his words had pointed.\n\nThen uprose Sir Gawaine, who was a faithful knight and true man to his\nking, though a proud one and a hasty. He was filled with sorrow for the\nruin that threatened his fair land.\n\n'Now I do here avow,' he said, 'that to-morrow, without fail, I shall\nset forth, and I shall labour with all the strength of my body and my\nsoul to go in quest of the Holy Graal, so that if I be fit to see it\nand to bring it hither, this dear land may be saved from woe.'\n\nSo hot were his words that many of the better knights rose also, and\nraising their right hands did make a like avowal; and those that cared\nnot for the quest felt that they must seem to do as the others did, and\nso made avowal also, though in their hearts they thought more of pride\nand earthly power.\n\n'Gawaine, Gawaine,' cried the king, and the great tears stood in his\neyes, 'I know ye do right to avow this and to cause these others to\navow also; but a great dread is upon me, for I have great doubt that\nthis my fellowship shall never meet again.'\n\n'Fear not,' said Lancelot, 'for bethink ye, my lord, in no better\nadventure can we find death than in this quest, and of death we are all\nsure.'\n\nOn the morrow the knights armed themselves, and bade farewell to King\nArthur and his queen, and there was much weeping and great sorrow. And\nas the knights rode through the streets of Camelot the crowds stood and\nwept, both rich and poor. All were full of dread to see so many brave\nknights depart that never more would return.\n\nHaving passed through the gates of the town, every knight took the way\nthat he liked best.\n\nNow Sir Galahad was without a shield, and he rode four days without\nadventure. At evensong on the fourth day he came to an abbey of white\nmonks, and there was given great cheer. He found two other knights of\nthe Round Table at that abbey, the one King Bagdemagus and the other\nSir Ulfin; and the three had supper together, and made great cheer one\nof the other, and spoke of the adventures each would desire to have.\n\n'There is within this abbey, as men tell me, a shield,' said King\nBagdemagus, 'which no man may bear about his neck, but he is injured or\nslain within three days. Yet to-morrow I will adventure to win it.'\n\nIn the morning, therefore, after they had heard mass, King Bagdemagus\nasked the abbot to show him where was the shield. Then was he led to\nthe high altar in the church, and behind it was hung a shield which\nglowed with shining whiteness, and in the middle thereof was a red\ncross which seemed to quiver as if it were living.\n\n'Sir,' said the abbot, 'this shield ought not to hang about any\nknight's neck unless he be one of the three best knights of the world,\nand I counsel you to beware.'\n\n'No matter,' said King Bagdemagus, 'I will essay it, for though I am\nnot Sir Lancelot, yet I am a good knight enough.'\n\nThis he said in his pride, and took the shield and put the strap about\nhis neck, and bade good-bye to the other twain, and so went forth with\nhis squire.\n\nThey had not ridden but two miles or more, when at the opening to a\nwood Sir Bagdemagus saw a knight in white armour on a horse, riding up\nand down as if to do battle with any that should venture to go into the\nforest drive.\n\nWhen the white knight saw him he called out:\n\n'Who art thou? Thou bearest the shield of a knight peerless, but not\nthe armour.'\n\n'Who am I?' replied King Bagdemagus scornfully. 'I am he that shall\ngive a good account of myself with thee.'\n\nWith that he levelled his lance and ran furiously upon the knight. But\nthe other stood still, and when the spear-head was nigh his shield, he\nlightly turned it aside, and as Sir Bagdemagus swept by, the knight,\nwith a quick fierce stroke of his sword, smote him so hard that the\nblade bit through the mail even to the shoulder-bone; whereby Sir\nBagdemagus fell to the ground in a swoon.\n\nThe white knight called the squire to him and said:\n\n'Bear ye this shield to the young knight, Sir Galahad, who is at the\nwhite abbey. Greet him from me, and say that it is for him to wear this\nshield, and none other. And tell him that I shall meet him erelong, if\nGod wills, and that we shall fare together to that which is appointed\nfor us.'\n\nThe squire did as he was bidden, and told Sir Galahad of the white\nknight's words. Sir Galahad asked him what was the device upon the\nshield of the white knight, and he answered, 'A red heart.' Then said\nthe young knight, 'It shall be even as he saith.'\n\nSir Galahad mounted his horse and rode alone, ever northward, for he\nknew that the Holy Graal was hidden in a castle somewhere in the north\namong the warring barons. Many days he rode without adventure, until on\na day he came to an old and venerable wood, dark and thick and close,\nwhere the moss hung like thick beards from the hoary branches.\n\nThere, in a laund or glade in the midmost part of the forest, he found\nan old and white dame, kneeling before a green cross beside the path,\nweeping piteously as she prayed and beat her breast.\n\n'What ails ye, lady?' asked Sir Galahad.\n\n'Ah, good knight,' said the old dame, and as she rose it was well seen\nshe was of gentle birth, I weep for that I have lived to see the day\nwhen sons of mine shall slay each the other. I have three sons, and all\nare of the worshipful company of the Round Table. But two are wasteful\nlivers, and have taken from me all that whereby I lived; and ever hath\nmy youngest boy, Sir Hewlin, withstood their evil ways. Wherefore they\nhated him. And yesterday did Sir Nulloth and Sir Dew, my elder sons,\nreturn, and did quarrel with my dear lad Hewlin. And now I fear they go\nabout to slay him. Oh, if that they kill him, who is the prop and\ncomfort of my old age, I shall surely die.'\n\n'Sad it is, lady,' said Sir Galahad, and mournful was his mind, 'to\nthink that in this dear land of Britain there should be knights that\nare given to such thoughts of evil as to slay their own kin. Lead me to\nthem, I pray ye.'\n\nHe set the dame upon his saddle before him, and she led the way through\nthe forest. When they had gone but a mile she started, and stopped the\nhorse, and then they heard the sound of clashing steel. Sadly did that\npoor lady shriek and cry:\n\n'Ah! they slay him now! My dear son! My dear boy!'\n\nSwiftly Sir Galahad made his horse to leap forward, and in a little\nwhile they came upon a great meadow, where two knights on foot were\ntogether fighting another single knight with swords. Forthwith Sir\nGalahad cried with a loud and a stern voice, 'Hold, put up your swords,\nye evil brothers, that would slay each other!'\n\nAll turned at the cry. Then, seeing his mother, the young knight Sir\nHewlin threw down his sword. And leaping from Sir Galahad's horse the\nreverend lady tottered to her youngest son and threw herself upon his\nbreast, and he clasped his mother in his arms.\n\nBut the two evil brothers laughed scornfully at Sir Galahad.\n\n'Who art thou, thou knight in red?' they cried. 'Thinkest thou to\nfrighten us with thy big words?'\n\nQuickly they mounted their horses and ran upon Sir Galahad together.\nBut the lance of one he received upon his shield, and the weapon\nsnapped in twain; and that of the other he thrust aside and, as the\nknight thundered by, he brought down his sword, with so fierce and\nwrathful a stroke, that the head of the knight flew from his shoulders.\n\nSeeing this, the other, who was Sir Nulloth, made haste to throw\nhimself from his horse, and came and kneeled before Sir Galahad,\npraying mercy.\n\n'I know who ye are,' he said. 'You are Sir Galahad, the stainless\nknight, who shall prevail in all thy deeds, and whom no weapon may\nwound until ye have fulfilled your high destiny. And I will do\nfaithfully any behest ye may lay upon me.'\n\n'I will then,' said Sir Galahad sternly, 'that thou makest peace with\nthy mother and thy brother here instantly; that thou seekest naught of\nthem till thy dying day, which shall not be far from thee; and that\nthou goest this day and place thyself in the service of Sir Bedevere,\nor Sir Uriens upon the coasts, and help to thrust forth the hateful\npagan from the land.'\n\nThe knight swore to do all this, and after he had made his peace with\nhis kindred, he set forth to do Sir Galahad's bidding. And it was as\nthe stainless knight had foretold, for in seven days Sir Nulloth had\nfound death, bravely fighting the pagan pirates.\n\nSir Galahad went forward, sore of heart to think that such evil was in\nthe land and in men's minds, that any could be found to wish the death\nof a brother and to care naught for the sorrow of an old mother.\n\nThus for many months Sir Galahad rode about the land, seeking out the\nknights who, with their bands of soldiers, fought to wrest from each\nother land and castles. And ever he strove to make peace between them,\nand to show them how, while they fought with each other, Christian\nagainst Christian, the pagan hordes were let unhindered into the land,\nravening, burning, and slaying.\n\nSome of the battling knights did forsake their evil ways, and went to\nSir Bedevere and Sir Uriens, with whom they strove to push back the\nfierce pagans into their long black ships. But many others, so lost to\nhonour and knightliness were they, performed not their promises, and\ncontinued to fight each with the other.\n\nSo fierce, indeed, was the fighting through all that land, that the\npeasants forsook the fields and hid themselves; and the pagans from the\nnorthern wilderness came over the walls and wandered, killing and\nburning and robbing. And thus in many parts the crops were not sown or\nreaped, the wheat stood unharvested and wild, and the grass and weeds\ngrew tall on the very hearths of the poor peasants and husbandmen.\n\nThe heart of Sir Galahad grew sick, seeing the evil which was come into\nthe land, and he feared that soon the Holy Graal would be taken from\nthe island of Britain, and that then ruin would stalk throughout the\nlength and breadth of the realm.\n\nOnce, at the dawning, Sir Galahad looked from the door of a little\nhermitage where he had passed the night, and was aware of a great\ncompany of men coming over the moor. They were all horsed, and were\ngoing towards the sea, which was on the right hand, where steep and\nfearful cliffs fell sheer to the thundering surf beneath. And in their\nmidst he saw they held captive a full noble knight, who seemed wounded,\nand whose armour was all broken and cracked, as if he had fought\nvaliantly before he had been overcome. Him they were going to hurl\nheadlong down the cliffs.\n\nSir Galahad began to arm himself full hastily to meet them. But as he\ndressed his armour he was aware of a knight coming swiftly from a\nlittle wood that lay towards the sea-edge. Then was the heart of Sir\nGalahad exceeding joyful when he saw that the knight was all in white\narmour, and that on his shield was the device of a heart; for he knew\nthat this was Sir Perceval.\n\nSir Perceval spurred towards the band of knights, and in a loud voice\ncalled on them to release their captive.\n\n'Who art thou?' they cried.\n\n'I am a knight of the Pendragon of these islands, King Arthur,'\nanswered Perceval, 'and thy captive is my friend, Sir Bors of\nBrittany.'\n\n'Ha! ha!' the others laughed, and spurred furiously towards him. 'Slay\nhim!' they shouted. 'We own no Arthur here. We are our own lords.'\n\nWith spears in rest, seven of the knights thundered against Sir\nPerceval. But by this time Sir Galahad was upon his horse, and, making\nno outcry, he spurred upon the others.\n\nThree knights he dashed to the ground with one lance-thrust; but then\nthe spear broke. Therewith he drew his sword, and smote in the thick of\nthem so furiously on the left and on the right that they could not\nabide him, but fled from about Sir Bors, who, wresting a sword from one\nof them, rode after the seven that were fighting Sir Perceval.\n\nSo valiantly and hardily did the three knights lay about them that in a\nlittle while their enemies had fled, leaving more than half their\nnumber slain.\n\nThen did the three knights make great cheer and welcome of each other,\nand told each their adventures, and promised that now they were\ntogether they would never more part till death should summon them.\n\nSo, together, they fared thereafter many months, doing noble deeds, and\nseeking earnestly to bring men's hearts to turn to friendship and\nunion, so that, united, the lords of the northern lands should turn\nupon the pagans and destroy them utterly.\n\nIt befell that, on a morn, they came to a castle on a great cliff that\nwas in the marches of Scotland; and they heard a horn sound in that\ncastle and much shouting. On the walls thereof were men of a savage\naspect, peering and looking down at them. And those men had fair hair,\nwith steel helms which had great horns or wings upon them. On their\ntall bodies were leather jerkins, with gold chains and many ornaments.\n\nThen Sir Galahad and his friends were aware that on the topmost\npinnacle of the castle was a banner, floating and flapping in the\nmorning wind. Black was that banner, and in the midmost part thereof\nwas a golden raven, with beaks open as if it croaked, and its wings\nwere wide thrown, as if it flew over a field of slain men.\n\nThey knew that this was a horde of pagans who had wrested this castle\nfrom its rightful lord, and that full fierce would be the battle.\n\nThen from a hole or cave beneath a tree near by came a maiden, richly\ndressed, but sad and pitiable of face and thin of form, as if from long\npining.\n\n'Fair lords,' said she, 'for God His love turn again if ye may, or else\nhere ye will come unto your death.'\n\n'Nay,' said Sir Galahad, 'we will not turn again, for He shall help us\nin whose service we be entered in. Who are ye, fair damsel, in such\npainful guise?'\n\n'Fair lords, I am Issyllt,' said the maiden, and the tears filled her\neyes. 'My father is Earl Hernox, the lord of this castle. And whether\nhe be dead by torture at the hands of his hateful enemies and these\nfiends, or whether he be still alive against a time when they have more\nleisure to torture him, I know not. But three nights ago came certain\nknights with a horde of these evil pagans, and stormed this castle, and\nfor all my dear father's valiant deeds, and the prowess of my three\ndear brothers, they overcame our people, and my three brothers I saw\nslain before my eyes. When they rushed upon my father, my nurse dragged\nme away, and we fled hither. But I cannot go away, not knowing whether\nmy father is dead. And if he be dead I care not whether the pagan\nfiends catch and slay me.'\n\n'Fair maiden,' said Sir Galahad, 'be of good heart, for your father may\nyet be delivered unto you.'\n\n'Ha, fair lord, I know not how that may be,' said the maiden. Then,\nglancing at the castle, she saw the portcullis yawn, and some ten\nknights rush forth, with pagans besides on foot. Whereat she clasped\nher hands in terror.\n\n'Now God be with ye, fair lords,' she cried. 'You have my prayers, and\nmay Heaven grant ye victory. But dread is on me for your deaths, brave\nknights.'\n\nFull wrathful were the three good knights to hear the girl's sad tale,\nand hard was their rage to hear that Christian knights had leagued\nthemselves with the heathen Saxons so as to get their aid in a private\nquarrel with the Earl Hernox. Therefore, very joyously did Galahad and\nPerceval leap forward, lances in rest, against the traitorous knights\nthat rushed towards them from the castle.\n\nMarvellous indeed was it to see the deeds of those three stainless\nknights that day; for when their lances were broken, they drew their\nswords, and their wrath, their fierceness and their valour, none could\nwithstand.\n\nWhile Sir Bors smote with deadly blows the pagans that swarmed about\nhim, Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval dealt death among the traitorous\nknights, so that not one was left alive. And seeing this, the\nfair-haired fierce pagans lost heart. Turning, they wished to flee into\nthe castle and pull down the portcullis.\n\nBut swiftly on their heels dashed the three brave knights, and the\npagans, never stopping, heard the hoofs of their horses thunder over\nthe drawbridge close behind them. The horde of Saxons took flight into\nthe hall, and there they stood and got breath. But the knights, leaping\nfrom their horses, rushed in on foot, and back to back they met the\nonslaught of the yelling heathens.\n\nVery fierce was the anger in the hearts of the three knights, so that\nthey stayed not their hands even when the pirates gave way and fled\nfrom the dreadful place of slaughter. But the knights pursued them\nwheresoever they tried to hide, and hither and thither about the castle\nthey ran, and in and out the chambers, up and down the stairs, until\nfor very weariness they had perforce to cease.\n\nThen when they beheld the great multitude of pagans they had slain,\nthey were sobered and sad, thinking themselves great sinners.\n\n'Certes,' said Sir Bors, 'I ween that God willed that we should slay so\nmany, for they must have done great evil.'\n\n'They are indeed foul pagans,' said Sir Galahad, 'and have done great\nwrong and cruelty in their time to women and little children through\nthis fair land of Britain. But I doubt we have been mad this little\nwhile to slay so many mothers' sons as these.'\n\nThen from out a secret chamber came a priest, white with great age, and\nwith a countenance that shone marvellously bright; and when he saw how\nmany were slain in that hall, he was abashed. Sir Galahad put off his\nhelm, and the two knights with him, and all three kneeled down and\nconfessed the madness of their sin which had slain even those that\ncraved for quarter.\n\n'Ye have done more than ye wist, brave knights,' said the priest, when\nhe had absolved them; 'for the evil knights that led these pagan\nthieves had plotted to gain this castle because of the great and holy\ntreasures that are hidden here. And by a prophecy I know that ye are\nthe three good knights, peerless among all, who should achieve this\ndeed. Therefore, when ye have ordered these slain to be removed, and\nwhen the hall shall be garnished and your harness shall be cleaned of\nthe signs of battle, ye shall see that which hath been ordained for\nye.'\n\nWhen all had been done as they had commanded, and the place well\ncleansed and fresh rushes laid along the floor, the three knights sat\non a bench, and the Earl Hernox and the maid Issyllt with them, and\nthere was much cheer and rejoicing between them all.\n\nThen the old priest called the earl and his daughter from the room, and\nleft the three knights together. Suddenly, as they sat talking, the\ndoors were shut and the windows were darkened, and a great wind arose\nwith a sad sound, wailing and piping. Then the darkness suddenly went\naway, and they saw a great light shining in the midmost part of the\nhall, so bright and strong that hardly could their eyes suffer it. Soon\nthrough the light they could see a table of silver, whereon was a wide\ndish also of silver, marvellously and delicately wrought.\n\nThen the doors opened and they saw angels entering; and two bare\ncandles of wax, and the third held a towel, and in the hand of the\nfourth was a spear which bled marvellously from the point thereof.\nGoing to the table the angels set the candles and the towel upon it,\nand the spear was placed beside the shining vessel.\n\nOf a sudden the knights were aware that there sat one beside the table\nwho was marvellously old and white; and he was dressed in the habit of\na bishop, and his face was very winning, and a great brightness flowed\nfrom it.\n\nOn the breast of his robe were words in the Latin tongue, which said,\n'Lo, I am Joseph, the first bishop of Christendom, who did take our\nLord's body down from the cruel rood.'\n\nThe three marvelled greatly, for that bishop had been dead more than\nfour hundred years. Seeing their looks of perplexity, the bishop smiled\nsweetly upon them, and said:\n\n'Marvel not, O knights, for though I am now a spirit, I know thy\nweakness, and have come to aid thee.'\n\nThen the bishop took up the shining vessel from the table, and came to\nGalahad; and the knight kneeled down and took of the food that was\nwithin the holy dish. And after that the other two received it. Of\nmarvellous savour was the food, and like none that they had ever eaten\nor thought of at any time before.\n\nThen the bishop said to Galahad:\n\n'Son, knowest thou what is this vessel I hold in my hands?'\n\n'Nay, holy man, I know not,' replied Galahad.\n\n'It is the holy vessel which men call the Sangreal, out of which our\nLord ate the lamb at the feast before He was betrayed to that death\nupon the rood whereby He redeemed the world, if men would but choose\nHis gentle law.'\n\n'It is what we have most desired to see, holy father,' said Sir\nGalahad.\n\n'And it is what, alas, no others in this realm shall ever see,' said\nthe bishop; and his countenance, which before had been sweet and\ngentle, now saddened and was dark. 'For this night it shall depart from\nthis land of Logris, so that it shall never more be seen here.\n\n'Alas,' cried Galahad and Perceval, 'that is great sorrow to hear. O\nholy bishop and spirit, say not that it means that this land shall be\nrent in ruin and given up to heathendom again?'\n\n'It must be so,' said the bishop sadly. 'Christ is not served in\ngentleness, nor is His law worshipped in this land, where men slay\ntheir brothers, rob their kindred, and make treaties with the pagans.\nAnd its knights are turned to evil livers, desiring mastery and proud\npower. Therefore hath Christ sent me to disinherit this land of this\nholy thing with which He hath honoured it since that time when I\nbrought it here four hundred and fifty-five winters ago.'\n\nHearing these words of doom, Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval wept full\npiteously for the fate of their country. When they had mourned greatly,\nthey asked if there was no hope of turning the land from its evil ways.\n\n'There is none,' said the bishop sorrowfully. 'Have ye three not tried\nmanfully these last two years since ye have sought that which ye now\nsee? And all thy labours, thy battling, thy griefs, have they availed\naught? No, it is the will of God that in due time this land and this\npeople shall be put into the melting-pot. And when the season appointed\nshall come, sorrow and death, rebellion and treachery shall stalk\nthrough the land, and naught shall stand of its present kingdoms; the\npagans shall blot out the holy memory of God and Christ, and shall turn\nthe fanes of prayer into the lairs of wolves, and owls shall rest where\nhymns of praise have been sung. And no wars of goodly knights may\nhinder these things of dreadful doom. But I have this message for ye\ntwo, Galahad and Perceval; that inasmuch as ye have seen this which you\ncraved to see, and have lived purely and unspotted from pride or evil,\nthy souls shall go with me when I shall depart. But you, my son,' he\nsaid, looking at Sir Bors, 'still find in your heart the love of kin,\nand a longing for battle, and so you shall remain, to fight for Christ\nwhile yet you are alive.'\n\nSuddenly a fierce light came where they sat, so that Sir Bors kneeled\nas one blinded for a time. When it had passed, he looked and saw where\nSir Galahad and Sir Perceval still kneeled, with their hands lifted as\nif in prayer. But there was naught to see of the holy vessel or the\nspear, nor was Joseph there.\n\nThen, going to the two knights, he found that they were dead.\n\nSir Bors knew then that their souls had gone with Joseph and the holy\nvessel, and had been borne to the heaven for which their pure and\nhumble hearts had yearned while yet they lived.\n\nThen Sir Bors made great sorrow for his two fellows, and knew that\nnever more would he be as joyful or as careless as he had been. With\nright heavy mood he craved of Earl Hernox to have a grave dug deep in\nthe living rock whereon the castle was builded. This the earl gladly\ndid, and very solemnly the two good knights were buried, and long did\nSir Bors mourn over the grave.\n\nIn a little while thereafter Sir Bors armed himself, and departed, and\nafter many adventures, rode southwards till he came to Camelot. And\nthere he told the king and such knights as there were, how the two\nstainless knights had achieved the Holy Graal, and how their souls had\nbeen taken up with the sacred vessel.\n\nAll the court mourned for the two knights, and the king commanded a\nhistory to be written of what Sir Bors had told. It was so done, and\nthe book richly adorned with many coloured letters, was kept in the\ngreat treasure-chest in the castle of Sarum.\n\nEver after Sir Bors was a silent man, for he could not forget the holy\nand terrible sight he had seen. Of the doom which was coming in due\ntime upon the dear and fair land of Britain, as was prophesied by St.\nJoseph, he told no man, but kept the words fast locked in his heart.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nOF THE PLOTS OF SIR MORDRED; AND HOW SIR LANCELOT SAVED THE QUEEN\n\n\nAfter the quest of the Sangreal was completed, and all the knights that\nwere left alive had returned to the court of King Arthur, there was\ngreat joy among the people, and the king and Queen Gwenevere were\npassing glad of the remnant that had come home again.\n\nEspecially did the queen make much of Sir Lancelot and of Sir Bors his\ncousin, for they were the two most noble and courteous knights of the\nRound Table, and none thought of them but as men peerless and beyond\ncompare.\n\nSir Mordred, who was the king's nephew, was jealous of the two knights,\nand went about privily among such knights as were his familiars, and\nspoke sneering words concerning Sir Lancelot and the queen and Sir\nBors. Once Sir Mordred said such words in the hearing of his brother\nSir Gawaine; but that knight so heavily and wrathfully took him to\ntask, that Sir Mordred knew that Sir Gawaine envied not the two\nknights, and could never be brought to think other than friendly\nthoughts of them.\n\nTherefore Sir Mordred hated the two knights more than ever. Of a slight\nframe was Mordred, but tall, with dark hair, sallow face, and deep-set\ngrey eyes beside a thin long nose. Few loved him, for he was never\ncheery nor very friendly, and ever seemed to sneer with his thin lips\nand his cold wolfish eyes.\n\nIn a little while strange dark rumours began to go about the court, and\nit was whispered that so proud had Sir Lancelot become of his fame and\nprowess, that he harboured evil thoughts against the king, and that he\naimed to make a kingdom for himself out of the countries that lay about\nhis own lands of Joyous Gard in the northern marches.\n\nThen fresh rumours went about, and these were the most evil of all. It\nwas said that he sought to slay the king, and wished to make Gwenevere\nhis own queen, and with her he would rule over all Britain.\n\nFirst, men laughed and passed the rumours with a shrug and a gesture of\nscorn; but when they were repeated again and again, some began half to\nbelieve them. Many said that there must be some truth therein, for Sir\nLancelot was ever wending his way to the north country, and fought\nthere many battles and overcame many knights.\n\nBut others said this was because many ladies and damsels, who had lost\nlands and homes and been evilly oppressed by the warring barons in\nthose parts, had heard of his great fame for knightly deeds and noble\nmanners, and came beseeching him to be their champion against those who\nhad robbed them.\n\nOthers said that it was but natural that when he was at the court he\nshould speak much to the queen, for he had from the first vowed himself\nto be her knight, and many deeds of daring and prowess had he done for\nher.\n\nYet others there were who believed that what rumour said might be true;\nand others, who were good and noble knights, sorrowed to think that\nsuch evil thoughts should be spread about by some treacherous tongues.\n\nWhen men came to ask who had set these evil tongues to wag, it was\nalways found that a certain mean knight, named Sir Pinel, had first\nspoken wrong of Lancelot and Sir Bors and the queen. And men noticed\nthat it was not long before the queen began to look coldly at Sir\nPinel, and then they knew that his rumours had reached her ears.\n\n'What profit doth Sir Pinel think to gain from those false tales of\nher?' said Sir Brastias one day, as he and Sir Gareth came from the\nhawking together. 'For none ever reckoned him as a knight of any merit,\nand all good men will now think less of him.'\n\n'I fear me,' said Sir Gareth, 'that there is more beneath it all than\nwe wot of. Sir Pinel is a bosom friend of Sir Mordred's. Often have I\nseen their heads together in places apart. And though he is my brother,\nSir Mordred is one I cannot love.'\n\n'What fear you, Gareth?' asked Sir Brastias.\n\n'I fear naught that he may do,' said Gareth, 'but I think he hates Sir\nLancelot and he hates Gawaine also, the chief of our party, because he\nhath roundly told Mordred that he is a traitor, and that he will not be\ndrawn from his firm friendship with Sir Lancelot and his kinsmen. I\nthink Sir Mordred would do much to cause some ill to Gawaine or Sir\nLancelot, so long as his own evil body was not hurt.'\n\n'Sad it is,' said Brastias full gloomily, 'to think a man of such great\nkin should harbour hatred and murder against the chief of his kin. And\nthat such should be, methinks, betokens that evil is about to fall upon\nour famous brotherhood of the Round Table, and on this dear land of\nBritain.'\n\nNow it befell that the poor queen had heard, through her maidens, of\nthe rumours concerning herself and Sir Lancelot, and, taking counsel of\nno one, she bethought how she could prove to the remnant of the Round\nTable that she was free of any plots against the king or the fair\nkingdom of Britain.\n\nShe resolved that she would invite the knights to a privy dinner, and\nwhen they had eaten she would throw herself upon their knightly pity\nand honour, telling them how the evil rumours wronged and hurt her\nbitterly. And she doubted not that thus their manly sympathy and\nworship of her, their queen, would, by her words, cast out the evil\neffects of the slanderous tales.\n\nTherefore, at that dinner, she had Sir Gawaine and his brethren, that\nis to say, Sir Gareth, Sir Agravaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Mordred. Also\nthere were the kin of Sir Lancelot, to wit, Sir Bors, Sir Blamore, Sir\nBleobaris, Sir Ector de Maris, and Sir Lionel. But Sir Lancelot had\ngone into the Scottish marches, to do battle with a notable robber and\noppressor there. There were other knights, making in all the number of\ntwenty-four. And these were all the remnant of the one hundred and\nfifty that had gone forth in the Quest of the Sangreal.\n\nAmong the guests were Sir Pinel and his cousin, Sir Mador.\n\nNow Sir Gawaine had a custom of eating apples which he used daily at\ndinner and at supper. He loved all manner of fruit, and in especial a\ncertain brown or russet apple, which was called Afal Coch. Every one\nknew of this fondness of Sir Gawaine's, and whoever dined or feasted\nhim took care to provide such apples for his pleasure.\n\nThe queen had known this, and among the fruit for the table she had\nordered such apples to be placed.\n\nNow Sir Mordred, as Sir Gareth had suspected, hated Sir Gawaine with a\ndeep hatred, and therefore he had, by crafty dealing, taken all the\nrusset apples from the dish except one, and into this he had thrust a\ndeadly poison. He guessed that, as every one knew of Sir Gawaine's\nfondness for that sort of fruit, no one would take it, but would leave\nit for Sir Gawaine, who would eat it and die thereof.\n\nWhen the feast was near an end, and men laughed and jested together,\nthe dish of fruit was handed round, and Sir Pinel, the mean knight,\nnoticed that there was but one of the apples which Sir Gawaine loved;\nand to spite that knight, whom he hated, he took that apple, ere the\ndish went to Sir Gawaine.\n\nSir Mordred saw him take it, yet would not cry out to warn his\nfellow-traitor, for this would have revealed himself. He saw Sir\nPinel's teeth sink into the brown apple, and Sir Pinel's sneering look\nas he glanced across at Sir Gawaine, who was searching vainly in the\ndish for his favourite fruit.\n\nThen Sir Mordred saw Sir Pinel's face go red, and then deadly white.\nAnd as the poison gripped him, Sir Pinel rose shrieking from the table,\ncrying out that some enemy had poisoned him.\n\nThen he sank writhing to the ground, shrieking and moaning, clutching\nat the ground and at the legs of the chairs. Suddenly, with a great\ngroan, he lay still and was dead.\n\nEvery knight leaped from the table, ashamed, full of rage and fear,\nnigh out of their wits, but dumb. They looked at each other and then at\nthe dead Sir Pinel, and all their eyes kept from the face of the queen,\nwhere she sat on the high seat, with two of her ladies beside her.\n\nThe reason they could not speak was that they knew the queen had heard\nof the evil tales which Sir Pinel had spread about her, and that she\nmust have hated him bitterly. And she had made this feast, and had\ninvited him thereto, and now he was dead at the board, by means of\ndeadly poison placed in the food which she had set before him.\n\nThen for very shame some began to leave the chamber; and others could\nnot bear to look upon the queen, who sat with a face that went now\npale, now red. She had seen what happened, and who it was had been\nslain, and she had read the suspicion in men's gestures.\n\nThen the voice of Sir Mador rang out, and checked men from going from\nthe room, and drew all eyes to where he stood, a tall and burly man,\nred and angry of face, and fierce of eyes.\n\n'Look!' he cried, and held between his fingers and high above his head\nthe apple which Sir Pinel had bitten, 'this is the thing whereof my\nkinsman, Sir Pinel, hath lost his life. The matter shall not end here,\nfor I have lost a noble knight of my blood, and I will be revenged to\nthe uttermost.'\n\nThen, turning, he savagely looked at the queen, and with fierce rolling\neyes he roared out:\n\n'Thou art the murderess! Thou--the queen! Hear me, knights and\nchieftains. I charge the queen with the murder of my kinsman, Sir\nPinel, and justice upon her will I have.'\n\nEvery one in the hall stood still as if they were of stone. None could\ngainsay him, none could utter a word on behalf of the queen, for all\nhad suspicion that she had slain Sir Pinel for his slanders of her.\n\nThen suddenly the queen rose, white and trembling.\n\n'My lords and knights, I did not cause it!' she cried in a broken\nvoice. 'I am innocent! I know not how it came!'\n\nAnd therewith she fell down in a swoon.\n\nSir Mordred's pale face smiled with a bitter sneer. He knew not then\nwhether what had happened would help his evil plots or no; but he\nresolved to say naught, and so went out with all the other silent\nknights, whilst the ladies of the queen took her up lamenting, and bore\nher to her chamber.\n\nWith the noise and the sorrow that was in the court, King Arthur came\nand craved to know what was the matter; but none of the silent knights\nwould speak until he met Sir Gawaine, who replied, and said:\n\n'Sir, the queen did invite us to a privy feast with her. And one of the\nknights did eat of the fruit on the table, and he is dead by poison.\nTherefore, I dread lest the queen will be shamed for this.'\n\nKing Arthur was passing heavy at the hearing of these words, and went\nunto the queen to comfort her.\n\nOn the next day, when the king sat in hall with his two court judges,\nas was his wont daily, to hear any causes or charges which might be\nbrought before him, all men stood with gloomy faces, and there was no\nlaughing and jesting talk, as was usual at this time.\n\nSir Mador came forward and charged the queen of murder, and required\nthat justice should be done upon her.\n\nThe king heard him with a sad face and in silence. Then he said:\n\n'Fair lords and noble knights, heavy is my grief for this, and rather\nwould I give my life for my queen at this moment than that my tongue\nshould frame so evil a charge against my dear wife and your noble\nqueen. But I am here to see that law is done, as justly to the highest\nas to the lowest. I doubt not that God will soon clear her of this\nseeming evil.'\n\n'I know not how that may be,' said Sir Mador angrily, 'for the evil\ndeed is clear to any man's eyes.'\n\n'I deem this deed was never done by my queen, nor by her desire,' said\nthe king sternly, 'but by some traitor that would do her evil and\nwishes to see her die. But as I am her judge, I may not be her champion\nand fight against you for her fair fame. I doubt not, however, that\nsome good knight will take this charge upon himself, and put his body\nin jeopardy for my queen. For if this be not done, dost thou know what\nis the penalty?'\n\n'She must be burnt,' said Mador sullenly. 'But she hath done the deed\nand will merit the doom.'\n\n'Cease, hasty man,' said King Arthur sternly; 'it goeth to my heart to\nhear ye pronounce the doom thou wouldst visit upon that fair lady. Fear\nnot, Sir Mador, she shall find some good knight to do combat for her.\nTherefore do thou name thy day of battle.'\n\n'But hark ye, lord,' said Sir Mador, 'there is none of the\nfour-and-twenty knights that were bidden to this dinner that hath not\nsuspicion of the queen for this deed. Therefore, no knight can take\nthis charge upon him in her behalf. What say ye, my lords?'\n\nHe turned to the silent, moody men about the dais.\n\nThe knights looked troubled, and were dumb for some moments; but at the\nlast Sir Gawaine said:\n\n'We cannot excuse the queen, for she gave the feast. And either the\npoison came by her will or by her servants.'\n\nBut most of the knights were silent, and Sir Bors and his kindred were\nvery sorrowful. King Arthur was heavy at the words of Sir Gawaine.\n\n'Now, king,' cried Sir Mador triumphantly, 'I require ye, as ye be a\nrighteous king, give me a day that I may have justice.'\n\n'That will I do,' said the king, 'as I must do, that am a just king. I\ngive you this day fifteen days, that ye be ready armed on horseback in\nthe meadow beside the wall at London; and if it so fall out that there\nbe a knight to encounter with you, then God speed the right; and if\nthere be no knight to take arms for my queen, then must she suffer by\nfire.'\n\nSo sorrowful were the king's words that many knights had much ado to\nkeep from weeping.\n\n'And meanwhile,' said Sir Mador, 'I do require that ye keep the queen\nin close ward and prison, lest any try a rescue, and thus defeat the\njustice that is my due.'\n\nThough it went to the king's heart to have to order this, he gave the\nqueen into the keeping of Sir Kay, who kept her in her chamber, guarded\nby three knights, to the great grief of her women and all the court.\n\nThen the queen sent for Sir Bors, and when he was come she threw\nherself on her knees full piteously before him, and wept sorely, and\nbegged that he would save her from this dreadful death.\n\n'For by my confession unto Heaven,' she cried, 'I know naught of this\nwicked deed how it was brought about. And will ye not take this combat\nupon ye for my sake? For I am sure if your kinsman, Sir Lancelot, was\nhere, he would not suffer this evil suspicion to lie against me. For he\nhath ever been my most faithful knight, but now am I without friend in\nthis great pass.'\n\n'Madam,' replied Sir Bors, 'what can I do? For if I take this charge\nupon me for your sake, men will say I was your aider in this crime that\nthey charge upon you. And I see not how I may fight for you except by\nendangering my own life without saving yours. But I tell ye, madam,\nwhat I will do. I will hasten with all speed to the north, trusting in\nGod to get news of Sir Lancelot, so that I may tell him and bring him\nhere within the time appointed.'\n\n'Ah, good Sir Bors,' cried the queen, and clasped his hands. 'Do ye do\nthat, for I know that Sir Lancelot will never believe me guilty of so\ngreat a crime. And I will pray hourly that ye find him and bring him to\nme in time, so that my poor body be not unjustly given to the dreadful\nflames.'\n\nForthwith Sir Bors armed himself, and with two squires set forth\ninstantly; and sent his men in different ways, so that among the three\nthey should not fail to hear where, in the northern marches, a knight\nso famous as Sir Lancelot might be found.\n\nNo rest did the good Sir Bors give to himself, but swiftly did he ride\nhither and thither questioning all knights whom he met, and inquiring\nof every hermitage and abbey and at every harbourage. Finally, when\neleven days had passed of the fifteen, he found Sir Lancelot lying\nwounded at a broken abbey, from which, in a fierce fight, he had but\ntwo days before thrust out a band of pagans, who would have murdered\nthe nuns and robbed the church of its holy relics.\n\nFull wroth was Sir Lancelot when, having lovingly greeted each other,\nSir Bors told him all that had passed with the queen.\n\n'The foul traitors!' he cried, and, getting fiercely from the pallet on\nwhich he lay, he strode up and down the chamber clenching his hands and\ngnashing his teeth. 'Do any dare to suspect her--do any think in cold\nblood to see that peerless lady bound to the stake, the flames\ndevouring her noble person? That men should think such things, and move\nnot a hand in noble wrath, shows how evil are the days in which we\nlive!'\n\nThen he rushed from the room, wounded as he was; and, full of a cold\nwrath, he ordered his arms to be brought and his horse to be saddled.\nAnd to the gentle persuasions of the nuns he said he must be gone, 'for\nhe must stay a wrong that, if suffered, would sink the kingdom in\nunquenchable shame and ruin.'\n\nThen with Sir Bors he rode southwards, full fiercely, and never resting\nto eat, but taking food as he rode. At night he would not doff his\narmour, but slept beside his horse; and seldom spoke, but was consumed\nas by a great fire of anger.\n\nAnd on the fourteenth day they rode into London.\n\n'Go beg the queen to see me,' he said to Sir Bors.\n\nSir Bors went, and Sir Lancelot strode unto an hostelry to wash from\nhimself the stains of travel, and to don a fitting robe in which to\nappear before the queen.\n\nNow it had befallen, while Sir Bors had been absent from the court\nseeking for Sir Lancelot, that Sir Mordred and Sir Agravaine had made a\nplot with each other against him and against Sir Lancelot. And they\ncaused it to be noised in all the court that Sir Bors had gone to seek\nSir Lancelot, and that Sir Bors was privy to the plots which Sir\nLancelot and the queen had made to wrest the kingdom from King Arthur\nand to reign together in his stead. They said that Sir Bors had gone to\nwarn Sir Lancelot that the time was ripe to strike.\n\nWherefore many knights were greatly displeased to hear this news, but\nsome would not believe it, and said that Sir Bors had gone to tell Sir\nLancelot of the jeopardy in which the queen's life was placed, and to\nask him to do battle for her.\n\n'But,' said some, 'if he do not find Sir Lancelot, it is his intention\nto do combat for the queen himself, and that is great wrong in Sir\nBors, for he was with us at the feast, and none but she could have\ncaused that poison.'\n\nDaily the party which inclined to Sir Mordred and Sir Agravaine gained\npower, and some were for going to tell the king of the evil designs\nwhich Sir Lancelot and Sir Bors and the queen had against his person\nand the kingdom. But Sir Mordred said, 'No, the time is not yet ripe.\nWait a while.'\n\nThe guard that was set about the queen's chamber was doubled, and all\nwere knights that were well-willers to the plots of Sir Mordred and Sir\nAgravaine.\n\nWhen, therefore, Sir Bors came and asked to see the queen, they let him\ngo to her; but Sir Agravaine hid himself and listened to all that\npassed between Sir Bors and the queen. Then he went and told the others\nthat Sir Lancelot was waiting to speak to the queen, and he counselled\nthat they should let him come, and then when he came forth again, as he\nwould be unarmed, they could fall upon him and capture him, and take\nhim before the king and charge him with his treason and his plots.\n\nAnd with the consent of Sir Mordred this was so agreed; and he advised\nthat most of them should hide from before the door, so that Sir\nLancelot should not think the guard was strong.\n\n'For,' said Sir Mordred, 'if he sees there is no great watch kept, he\nmay strive to free the queen, and when we take him it will be blacker\nagainst him.'\n\nWhen, therefore, Sir Bors came forth from his audience with the queen,\nhe found but one knight at the door, and that was Sir Petipace of\nWinchelsea, a young man. Sir Bors wondered why the guard of ten or\ntwelve that had been there before was now gone, and he was uneasy in\nhis mind.\n\nGoing to Sir Lancelot, he told him that the queen would see him at\nonce; 'but,' added Sir Bors, 'ye shall not go this night by my counsel,\nnor should you go before there are more of our kinsmen near us to aid\nus in case of need.'\n\n'Why?' said Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Bors, 'I misdoubt me of Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred.\nThere was a great watch before the door of the queen's room when I\nentered; but when I came hence there was but one. And I mistrust them\nthat stood there. For all were of Sir Mordred's evil company, and\nperadventure they lay some snare for you, and I dread me sore of\ntreachery.'\n\n'Have ye no doubt,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for I shall go and come again\nand make no tarrying.'\n\n'Sir,' replied his cousin, 'that me sore repenteth. But if you will, I\nwill go and seek some of our kinsmen to meet us near by. And do you not\ngo until I have found them.'\n\n'Nay, I will not stay,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I marvel me much why ye\nsay this, for they dare do naught against me.'\n\n'God speed you well,' said Sir Bors, 'if that is your will, and send\nyou safe and sound again.'\n\nSir Lancelot departed, taking his sword underneath his arm, while Sir\nBors went forth to find some of their kin. He learned, however, that\nmany of them had gone forth with the king to punish a bandit lord in\nthe forest of the Weald, and would not return before the morrow, when\nthe combat should be held for the queen.\n\nSir Lancelot came to the door of the queen's prison, and found Sir\nPetipace there, and demanded to be let in to see the queen.\n\n'We thought you were in the north, Sir Lancelot,' said the young\nknight, with a laugh, 'and surely it will pleasure our lady queen to\nsee you.'\n\nHe unlocked the door of the queen's antechamber, and told her\nwaiting-woman that Sir Lancelot would see the queen, and in a few\nmoments Sir Lancelot was let in. The sorrowing queen told him all that\nhad happened, and how, and he was wroth to think that any one should\nsuspect her of so great a crime. He promised that on the day appointed\nhe would fight for her with all his strength, as a true knight should,\nand God would defend the right.\n\nSuddenly, as they spoke together, there came loud voices crying outside\nthe chamber door:\n\n'Traitor knight, Sir Lancelot du Lake, now art thou taken in thy\ntreachery!'\n\nSir Lancelot knew that the voices were those of Sir Agravaine, who had\never been envious of him, and of Sir Mordred, whom no one loved. He\nwent quickly to the door and barred it with the beam, and bade the\nterrified queen not to be alarmed. He asked her whether there was any\narmour in the room, which he could put on to defend himself.\n\n'I have none,' she said, weeping sorely, 'wherefore I dread me sore\nthat evil will come to you, my true and valiant knight, for I hear by\ntheir noise there be many strong knights, wherefore ye are like to be\nslain soon, and then shall I surely burn.'\n\n'Alas!' said Sir Lancelot, 'in all my life was I never in such a pass,\nto be slain for lack of my armour.'\n\n'Traitor knight,' cried those that were hammering at the door with the\nhandles of their swords, 'come out at once and skulk there no more, for\nknow ye well thou art so beset that thou shalt not escape.'\n\nSir Lancelot went to the queen and, kneeling to her, took her hand and\nkissed it, saying:\n\n'Madam, I beseech you to pray for my soul if I be slain. I have been\nyour true knight with all my power up to this time, and now I will not\nfail you if I may; but if I be slain, I am assured that my kinsman Sir\nBors and all the others of my kin will not suffer you to go to the\nfire.'\n\nThen Sir Lancelot, leaving the weeping queen, wrapped his mantle round\nhis left arm as if it were a shield, and prepared to sell his life\ndearly. By this time the knights outside had got a bench from the hall,\nand using it as a battering-ram, were dashing it against the door to\nbeat it in.\n\n'Leave your noise, fair lords,' rang out the voice of Lancelot, 'and I\nwill open the door to ye, and then ye may do to me what ye will.'\n\n'Do it then,' they cried, 'and we will give you your life until we take\nthee to King Arthur, to be judged for your treason.'\n\nSir Lancelot unbarred the door and held it open a little way, so that\none knight only might enter at a time. One entered, a big slow man,\nnamed Sir Colgreve, and swiftly Sir Lancelot slammed the door and\nfastened it, to keep the others out.\n\nSir Colgreve turned and struck at Sir Lancelot; but the latter put the\nstroke lightly aside with his sword, and gave so swift and keen a blow\nupon the other's helm that Sir Colgreve fell down dead.\n\nThen, while the others hammered and yelled outside the door, Sir\nLancelot swiftly took off the armour of the dead knight, and with the\nhelp of the queen and her waiting-women was armed in it.\n\nAgain the knights outside had begun to dash at the door to beat it\ndown. Sir Lancelot, when he was armed, strode to it and cried out:\n\n'Let be your noise, and go away, for ye shall not prison me this night.\nAnd I promise ye, by my knighthood, that I will appear to-morrow before\nthe king, and then such of ye as dare may accuse me of treason, and I\nwill then prove that I am a true man and no traitor.'\n\n'Fie on thee, false traitor,' cried Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred, 'but\nwe will have thee this night and slay thee.'\n\n'Then, sirs,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'if ye will not take my counsel,\nlook well to yourselves.'\n\nWith that Sir Lancelot threw the door open suddenly, and while the\nothers struggled and tripped over the bench between them he had run two\nof them through.\n\nThen in that narrow antechamber there was as fierce a fight as ever\nbrave knight might wish to see. Sir Mordred from behind urged on the\nothers with evil words, telling them to slay Sir Lancelot; while he\nlaunched at that knight all manner of foul names.\n\nFiercely did Sir Lancelot fight, for he was full of rage; and as in the\nnarrow place in which he stood, no more than two could come at him at\nonce, he could not be overwhelmed by their numbers. There were ten of\nthem, and so full of force were his blows and so skilful his thrusts,\nthat in a little while seven lay slain, two were badly wounded, and the\nlast, who was Sir Mordred, barely escaped with his life, and bore a\ndeep wound with him.\n\nSir Lancelot, sorely wounded, returned to the queen, and said:\n\n'Madam, I know not what is this treason with which they charge me; but\nI doubt not it will go ill with me, for I have killed many of the kin\nof the king and of Sir Gawaine this night. And I misdoubt me that the\nking himself will be my foe also. Nevertheless, I will save you, if it\nis in my power, from the danger that threatens you.'\n\n'Go ye, Sir Lancelot,' the queen besought him, 'ere the men-at-arms\ncome, which are so many ye may never hope to escape them. I dread me\nsorely that much ill will come of this, and of the evil plots which our\nenemies weave about us.'\n\nThen, kneeling, Sir Lancelot kissed the queen's hand, and went from the\nprison; and the people who had assembled outside at the noise of the\nfighting wondered to see only one knight issue forth, his armour dented\nand broken, and dabbled here and there with the blood of his wounds.\n\nSir Lancelot took his way to the lodging of Sir Bors, who showed his\ngreat gladness to see him again. And when he had been unarmed and his\nwounds stanched and bound, Sir Lancelot told him what had befallen him.\n\n'And now I beseech you,' said Sir Lancelot, 'be of good heart, in\nwhatever great need we stand, for now I fear war must come of it all.\nBut what is the treason they would charge me with I know not; yet I\ndread it meaneth much evil plotting against me and the peace of this\nfair kingdom.'\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Bors, 'your enemies and those that envy your great fame\nhave spread many evil reports about you. They say that you plot to slay\nthe king and to take Queen Gwenevere to wife, to reign over this\nkingdom with you.'\n\nWith that Sir Lancelot was so astounded that for some moments he could\nnot speak. Then he said:\n\n'By my confession unto Heaven, this is as foul a plot against me as\never fiend could fashion. And it showeth how far they will go to pull\nme down and dishonour me. And doth the king know of these evil\nrumours?'\n\n'I know not,' replied Sir Bors, 'but I doubt not that Sir Mordred will\nnot rest his horse till he hath found the king and poisoned his mind\nagainst thee.'\n\n'Had I known of this,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I would have brought the\nqueen away with me and put her in a safe place, for now I know that her\nenemies and mine will not rest until she and I be slain.'\n\nBut Sir Bors counselled him not to attempt a rescue then, for day was\nbreaking, the town was awake, and the court would be full of the armed\nretainers of the slain knights.\n\nThen, while Sir Lancelot rested himself, Sir Bors went out to the\nlodgings of such of his kinsmen as might not be gone with the king, and\nhe found that now all had returned to London with the king, that Sir\nMordred had met them on their way, and had told King Arthur of the\nfight, and had, moreover, charged Sir Lancelot and the queen with\nconspiring together to gain the crown.\n\nSad indeed was Sir Bors to hear this; but, going about the town, he got\ntogether the kinsmen of Sir Lancelot and such of his friends as would\ncast in their lot with him in so weighty and terrible a thing as civil\nwar. By seven of the clock he had got together good and valiant knights\nto the number of fourscore, all horsed and armed.\n\nThen he told them to betake themselves to a privy place in a wood\nbeyond the city walls to the north, and there in a little while came\nSir Lancelot with Sir Bors, and held counsel with them. He told them\nall that had befallen him in the fight with the twelve knights, and\nthey in their turn related how Sir Mordred had met them and had told\nhis evil tales against the queen and Lancelot, and how for long the\nking was too wroth and too sad to listen. But afterwards, when Sir\nMordred told how Sir Pinel, who had spoken of these things, had been\npoisoned at the feast given by the queen, King Arthur had wept, and\nthen was very stern and quiet and said no word more.\n\n'Now, my lords,' said Sir Lancelot, when they had done speaking, 'ye\nknow well how evil are these plots, how baseless are these foul rumours\nagainst me. But now they have been launched against me, and I have\nslain men on account of them, I fear we shall be hard put to it to get\npeace again. Those men were set on to betray me; and I doubt not mine\nenemies will have the queen burnt, to revenge themselves upon her and\nupon me. Therefore, fair lords, what counsel do ye give?'\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Bors, when they had spoken together a little, 'we think\nthere is but one thing to be done first: that ye knightly rescue the\nqueen, if your enemies force the king to put her to the stake. For if\nshe be burnt, then it would be to your shame, seeing that you vowed\nyourself her true knight when she came, a young fair bride, to our\nking, twenty years agone. And in whatsoever way ye would rescue her, ye\nmay count upon us to our last breath.'\n\nWith a great shout all the other knights raised their right hands in\nthe air and cried: 'Yea! yea!'\n\nThen, by the advice of Sir Lancelot, they kept hidden in the little\nwood, while one went into the city to learn what was being done, and in\nwhat manner the queen was to be treated.\n\nMeanwhile, in the hall of the palace of King Arthur, men sat or stood\nwith anxious looks, glancing in silence at the king, as he walked up\nand down apart, with a stern look on his face.\n\nThen Sir Mador strode forward and said:\n\n'Lord, I do require you to perform your promise to me, to wit, that the\nqueen be brought to the stake, unless one be found to do combat on her\nbehalf.'\n\n'What I have promised I will fulfil,' said the king; and men sorrowed\nto see how heavy of anguish were his looks, and full of sorrow his\nwords.\n\n'Lord king,' said Sir Mordred, 'we have shamefully suffered much wrong\nat the hands of Sir Lancelot. I appeal to thee that he be seized, so\nthat the kin of those whom he slew this last night may have vengeance\nupon him.'\n\nThen came Sir Gawaine forward quickly, and his face was dark with anger\nand his words hot.\n\n'Lord,' he cried, 'listen not to such tales, for I doubt not it was\nonly by evil plots that Sir Lancelot was forced to slay those whom he\nslew. For I trust not Sir Mordred.'\n\n'So God us help,' said Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, 'we too will not be\nknown to be of the same mind as our brother Sir Mordred.'\n\n'Then will I do as I deem it best, to gain what I deem right,' replied\nSir Mordred.\n\n'I believe that thou wilt do it in thine own hidden ways,' said Sir\nGawaine, and looked fiercely at his brother, 'for in all unhappiness\nand evil thou art to be found, if men but seek in the darkest place and\nlook for the most secret foe.'\n\n'I appeal to you, lord,' said Sir Mordred to the king, 'to proclaim Sir\nLancelot a false traitor to you and to your realm.'\n\n'And I,' said Sir Gawaine, 'will bid ye remember, lord king, that if ye\nwill make war between us and Sir Lancelot, there will be many kings and\ngreat lords hold with him. And I would ask you, how many times hath Sir\nLancelot done noble deeds on our behalf and proved himself the best\nknight of us all? Did he not rescue twenty of us from the dungeons of\nSir Turquine? Hath he not avenged shame upon the king and the queen,\nand the fame of the Round Table many a time? Methinketh, my uncle, that\nsuch kind deeds should be well remembered.'\n\n'Think ye,' said the king, 'that I am not loath to begin so evil and\nterrible a thing as civil war? Man, it rendeth my heart to think it.\nAnd I tell thee, Sir Mordred, I will not begin it, except I have proofs\nof what ye charge upon Sir Lancelot. And as he is the best knight of ye\nall, and the most valiant, I will not judge him before I hear him. If I\nknow him well, he will come hither and challenge the knight to combat\nthat doth bring these charges against him, and in that will I trust,\nfor God shall surely defend the right. Therefore, let a messenger be\nsent to Sir Lancelot requiring him, by his knighthood, to appear before\nme here, and make answer to the charges thou hast against him.'\n\nThis was not as Sir Mordred desired; for he did not doubt that if Sir\nLancelot came he would have little trouble to persuade the king that he\nwas innocent. When the messenger was gone, therefore, Sir Mordred sent\na servant after him, who slew him in a wood and hid his body under a\nbush.\n\nMeanwhile, Sir Mordred counselled Sir Mador to repeat his demand that\nthe king should cause the queen to be led to the stake, since no knight\nhad come forward and offered to fight for her.\n\nFor a time the king put him off, hoping that as soon as Sir Lancelot\nreceived his commands he would come instantly. Very anxiously did the\nking look to the door, hoping to see the tall form of his best knight\ncome towering through the hall.\n\nInstead thereof came the crafty servant of Sir Mordred, throwing\nhimself at the feet of the king.\n\n'Gracious lord,' cried he, panting as if from swift running, 'I have\neven now come from the place where Sir Lancelot and his friends are\nhiding. I am one of their servants, but I hate their treason against\nye, and therefore I am come to tell you of this greatest treason of\nall. They have slain your messenger, my lord, him that came requiring\nSir Lancelot to appear before thee. Sir Lancelot ran upon him when he\ngave his message and slew him, saying, \"Thus do I answer the saucy\nwords of him who shall not much longer be king.\"'\n\nThe king looked at the face of the messenger long and sadly. The pain\nwhich the king suffered would have softened any ordinary heart; but the\nmurderer was a hard and callous wretch, and his brazen eyes outlooked\nthe king.\n\n'Then is Sir Lancelot changed indeed,' said the king, and walked away\nwith bowed head and moist eyes.\n\nSir Mador pushed forward again, repeating his demand.\n\n'Have it as ye will,' said the king heavily, and went quickly into his\nprivate chamber.\n\n'Alas!' said Sir Gawaine and Sir Gareth, 'now is the whole realm\nfalling to ruin, and the noble fellowship of the Round Table shall be\nscattered in civil war.'\n\nSoon a page came to Sir Gawaine, telling him that the king would speak\nto him.\n\n'Gawaine,' said the king, when the knight went to him, 'I have been too\neasy with this knight, Sir Lancelot. He hath slain eleven knights of\nthe Round Table and my messenger. The pride and ambition of that man\nshall have a check. His great fame for valiant deeds hath made him mad,\nuntil it would seem that nothing but this realm will content him. Now,\ntherefore, as justice demands, and Sir Mador requires, do ye lead the\nqueen to the fire. She shall have the law as is right. Afterwards we\nwill seize Sir Lancelot; and know ye, he shall have a hard and shameful\ndeath.'\n\n'Heaven forbid,' said Sir Gawaine, 'that ever I should see either of\nthese things. For I will believe not these reports of Sir Lancelot.'\n\n'How now?' said the king, 'truly ye have little cause to love him. This\nnight last past he slew Sir Agravaine, your brother, and several of\nyour kindred with him; and also, Sir Gawaine, remember how he slew but\nlately two sons of yours in battle against the oppressing lords of the\nborders.'\n\n'My lord,' said Sir Gawaine, 'I know these things, and for their deaths\nI have grieved, but I warned them all, and as they sought their deaths\nwilfully I will not avenge them, nor think worse of Sir Lancelot.'\n\n'Nevertheless,' said the king, 'I pray you will make ready with your\nbrothers, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, to take the queen to the fire,\nthere to have her judgment and receive her death.'\n\n'Nay, most noble lord,' replied the knight sadly, 'that will I never\ndo. I will never stand by to see so noble a queen meet so shameful a\ndeath.'\n\n'Then,' said the king sadly, 'suffer your brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir\nGaheris, to be there.'\n\n'They are younger than I,' replied Sir Gawaine, 'and they may not say\nyou nay.'\n\nThe king commanded the two brothers of Sir Gawaine to come to him, and\ntold them what he desired of them.\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Gareth, 'it is in your power to command us to lead the\nqueen to her shameful end; but wit you well it is sore against our\nwill. We will go as ye bid, but it shall be in peaceable guise, for we\ntell you straightway, we will not oppose a rescue, should any so\ndesire.'\n\n'Alas!' said Sir Gawaine, and wept, 'that ever I should live to see\nthis woful day.'\n\nThen the two knights went to the queen and sorrowfully bade her prepare\nfor her death. Very pale was the queen, but very quiet, for now that\nthis was come which she had dreaded night and day, she would bear\nherself proudly like a queen, innocent as she knew she was of any\ncrime.\n\nHer ladies dressed her in her meanest garments; a priest, her\nconfessor, was brought to her, and she was shriven of her sins. Then\narose a weeping and a wailing and a wringing of hands among the lords\nand ladies.\n\nBetween the knights and the men-at-arms she was led through the streets\nto the lists beyond the wall. Lamentation, cries of horror, and the\nshrieks and sighs of women arose from the multitude which lined each\nside of the narrow streets. Many were the prayers that rose from white\nlips, praying God to send a miracle to rescue so sweet a lady from so\ndreadful a doom.\n\nThe city apprentices, with stout sticks in their hands, stood in bands,\nand in their stout young hearts was a great rage. It was in their minds\nto dash upon the guard of armoured knights, to attempt a rescue, but\nthey knew how vain their sticks would be against the keen blades of\nswords.\n\nSo stricken with horror were all those that looked on that they noticed\nnot how, when the queen and her guard issued from the gates of the\npalace, a man in the coarse dress of a peasant, who was standing in the\ncrowd, strode swiftly away down a narrow lane. There he vaulted, with\nan unpeasant-like deftness, upon a good steed that stood in the charge\nof a young lad; and striking spurs in the horse's flanks, he dashed\naway madly along the streets and through the northern gate into the\nfields.\n\nAmidst the sorrowing people, with women crying and men muttering and\nlooking darkly at the knights about her, the queen was led to the\ntilting-ground beyond the northern wall, and in the midst thereof was a\nstake. To this she was fastened with a rope, and faggots of wood were\npiled about her feet up to her knees. Near her stood the priest of her\nhousehold, trying to cheer her with comforting words; but the queen,\npale and without tears, seemed to be dazed and as if she did not hear\nhim.\n\nA hundred knights ranged themselves behind the queen, some on\nhorseback, but the most on foot. Many of them had followed the example\nof Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth and stood without arms; but Sir Mador was\non his horse, fully armed, and prepared for combat. Others of his\nkindred rode beside him.\n\nThen Sir Gaheris called upon the herald to proclaim what the king had\ncommanded.\n\n'In the name of the king,' cried the herald, 'the queen hath been found\nguilty of the death of a knight by treason and poison, and his kinsmen\nhave demanded due judgment upon her. But if any knight shall take upon\nhimself to do battle for her, let him appear instantly. If none do\nappear, then shall she suffer the death by burning as the law doth\nappoint.'\n\nThe herald ceased; the people in the seats, craning this way and that,\nlooked eagerly up and down the lists to see if any knight came.\n\nThey saw Sir Mador, in the forefront of the troop of mounted knights,\nglance about him; but no armed man moved forward to do battle for the\ninnocence of the queen. Then he looked to where she stood, pale and\nstill, and men saw him smile faintly, as if his cruel heart already\nrejoiced to think that she would surely burn.\n\nA great stillness was on the multitude of people. The eyes of all the\ncitizens of London were bent upon that long wide space of sand within\nthe lists; many, blurred by tears, could not bear to look at the white\nfigure in the midst of the faggots.\n\nMen and women held their breath. They saw Sir Mador look towards Sir\nGaheris, as if to ask him why he delayed giving the signal for the\nexecutioner to go forward to do his duty.\n\nSir Gaheris stood looking down the lists towards the great entrance.\nHis brother, Sir Gareth, was beside him, and in the hearts of both were\nprayers which asked that something might happen to prevent them doing\nthis dreadful deed upon their fair queen.\n\n'I do call upon you, Sir Gaheris, to fulfil the law!'\n\nSir Mador's harsh voice rang out in the silence, startling all. With\nthe sound, Sir Gaheris threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. He\nturned to the executioner, who stood beside a cauldron of fire, and\npointed to the queen.\n\nHorror held the great multitude in silence, and all eyes watched the\nman put his torch in the fire, and then carry it blazing towards the\nfaggots.\n\nSuddenly men heard a strange throbbing sound, as if from a distance;\nthen quickly it changed into the fierce beat of horses' hoofs; and\nbefore many could realise what it meant, through the great gate at the\nend of the lists dashed knights in armour, on horses whose foam-flecked\ntrappings showed at what a speed they had come.\n\nAt the head of them rode a great knight; and as men caught the device\nupon his shield a great roar of gladness burst from the throats of the\npeople, while women sobbed for joy.\n\n'Sir Lancelot! Sir Lancelot to the rescue!' was the cry.\n\nAs the knights entered, Sir Mador's quick commands sounded, and the\nknights about him ran forward and surrounded the queen. They had barely\nreached the place when, with a great crashing sound, the party of Sir\nLancelot was upon them. Many of Sir Mador's people were at once thrown\nheadlong to the ground by the force of the shock; but the others fought\nfiercely.\n\nThis way and that the battle swayed; Sir Mador trying to thrust the\nothers from the fire, and Sir Lancelot's kinsmen striving to reach the\nqueen. All was in confusion; the knights on foot were mingled with\nthose on horseback, and many were cut down who did not bear arms.\n\nFull of a mad wrath was Sir Lancelot, as he raged among the knights\nthat stood about the faggots; nor could any withstand him. So blind was\nhe in his fury that he knew not whom he slew, except that they were men\nwho stood between him and the queen.\n\nSo, by great mischance, at this rushing and hurtling, he slew two\nknights and knew not that they were unarmed, and that they were of\nthose he loved most. One was Sir Gareth, whom he had himself knighted,\nand the other was Sir Gaheris. In very truth Sir Lancelot knew them\nnot; and afterwards they were found dead where the corpses lay\nthickest.\n\nShort but very fierce was that battle, for none could long withstand\nthe fury of Sir Lancelot and his kinsmen. Many were slain on both\nsides; Sir Mador had his head sheared from his shoulders by a stroke of\nSir Lancelot's sword, and the remnant of his party fled.\n\nThen Sir Lancelot rode to the queen, cut her bonds, and lifted her upon\nhis horse full tenderly. Her eyes streamed with tears as she returned\nthanks to God for her deliverance, and hardly could she tell her\ngratitude to Sir Lancelot.\n\nThus, with the continued praises of the people in his ears, Sir\nLancelot fared forth amidst his kinsmen, and taking the road northwards\nhe rode with the queen to his own castle of Joyous Gard.\n\n'For,' said he, 'I will keep the queen in safety until I know that the\nking is assured of our innocence of any treason against him. But I\ndoubt our enemies have poisoned his mind, for never else would he have\nsuffered her to go to the stake.'\n\nBut therein was Sir Lancelot in great error, as in much grief and\nremorse he came later to see; for if instantly he had taken the queen\nto the king, and had dared his enemies to prove his treason and the\nqueen's, they would have been instantly discountenanced, and King\nArthur would have known and loved him as he had ever done, for a true\nknight and a peerless one.\n\nNevertheless, Sir Lancelot would ever have had the hatred of Sir\nGawaine, which was caused by his slaying, though unwittingly, the two\ngood knights, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth; whereof came great bale and\nsorrow.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nOF SIR GAWAINE'S HATRED, AND THE WAR WITH SIR LANCELOT\n\n\nKing Arthur, in the hall of his palace in London, walked quickly up and\ndown, thinking in great grief of the death of his queen. A group of\npages stood quietly in the shadow by the door, and two or three knights\ngazed silently at the moody king.\n\nSuddenly there came the sound of running footsteps; a man dashed into\nthe hall, and threw himself at the feet of the king. It was a squire of\nSir Mordred's, and he craved leave to speak. 'Say on,' said the king.\n\n'My lord,' said the man, 'Sir Lancelot hath rescued the queen from the\nfire and hath slain some thirty of your knights, and he and his kin\nhave taken the queen among them away to some hiding-place.'\n\nKing Arthur stood for a little while dumb for pure sorrow; then,\nturning away, he wrung his hands and cried with a voice whose sadness\npierced every heart:\n\n'Alas, that ever I bare a crown, for now is the fairest fellowship of\nknights that ever the world held, scattered and broken.'\n\n'Further, my lord,' went on the man, as others came into the hall, 'Sir\nLancelot hath slain the brethren of Sir Gawaine, and they are Sir\nGaheris and Sir Gareth.'\n\nThe king looked from the man to the knights that now surrounded him, as\nif that which he heard was past all belief.\n\n'Is this truth?' he asked them, and all were moved at the sorrow on\nhis face and in his voice.\n\n'Yea, lord,' said they.\n\n'Then, fair fellows,' he said, very heavily, 'I charge you that no man\ntell Sir Gawaine of the death of his two brothers; for I am sure that\nwhen he heareth that his loved younger brother, Sir Gareth, is slain,\nhe will nigh go out of his mind for sorrow and anger.'\n\nThe king strode up and down the chamber, wringing his hands in the\ngrief he could not utter.\n\n'Why, oh why, did he slay them?' he cried out at length. 'He himself\nknighted Sir Gareth when he went to fight the oppressor of the Lady\nLyones, and Sir Gareth loved him above all others.'\n\n'That is truth,' said some of the knights, and could not keep from\ntears to see the king's grief, 'but they were slain in the hurtling\ntogether of the knights, as Sir Lancelot dashed in the thick of the\npress. He wist not whom he smote, so blind was his rage to get to the\nqueen at the stake.'\n\n'Alas! alas!' said the king. 'The death of them will cause the\ngreatest woful war that ever was in this fair realm. I see ruin before\nus all--rent and ruined shall we be, and all peace for ever at an end.'\n\nThough the king had forbidden any of his knights to tell Sir Gawaine of\nthe death of his two brothers, Sir Mordred called his squire aside, and\nbade him go and let Sir Gawaine know all that had happened.\n\n'Do you see to it,' he told the man, 'that thou dost inflame his mind\nagainst Sir Lancelot.'\n\nThe knave went to Sir Gawaine, and found him walking on the terrace of\nthe palace overlooking the broad quiet Thames, where the small trading\nships sailed up and down the river on their ways to and from Gaul and\nthe ports of the Kentish coast.\n\n'Sir,' said the squire, doffing his cap and bowing, 'great and woful\ndeeds have been toward this day. The queen hath been rescued by Sir\nLancelot and his kin, and some thirty knights were slain in the melee\nabout the stake.'\n\n'Heaven defend my brethren,' said Sir Gawaine, 'for they went unarmed.\nBut as for Sir Lancelot, I guessed he would try a rescue, and I had\ndeemed him no man of knightly worship if he had not. But, tell me, how\nare my brethren. Where be they?'\n\n'Alas, sir,' said the man, 'they be slain.'\n\nThe grim face of Sir Gawaine went pale, and with an iron hand he seized\nthe shoulder of the squire and shook him in his rage.\n\n'Have a care, thou limb of Mordred's, if thou speakest lies,' he said.\n'I would not have them dead for all this realm and its riches. Where is\nmy young brother, Sir Gareth?'\n\n'Sir, I tell ye truth,' said the man, 'for I know how heavy would be\nyour anger if I lied in this. Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris are slain, and\nall good knights are mourning them, and in especial the king our\nmaster.'\n\nSir Gawaine took a step backwards and his face went pale and then it\ndarkened with rage.\n\n'Tell me who slew them?' he thundered.\n\n'Sir,' replied the man, 'Sir Lancelot slew them both.'\n\n'False knave!' cried Sir Gawaine, 'I knew thou didst lie.'\n\nHe struck the man a great buffet on the head, so that he fell half\ndazed to the ground.\n\n'Ha! ha! thou lying talebearer!' laughed Sir Gawaine, half relieved of\nhis fears, yet still half doubtful. 'To tell me that Sir Lancelot slew\nthem! Why, man, knowest thou of whom thou pratest? Sir Lancelot to slay\nmy dear young brother Gareth! Why, man, Gareth loved Sir Lancelot as he\nloved me--not more than he loved me, but near as much; and Sir Lancelot\nwas ever proud of him. 'Twas he that knighted my young brother Gareth,\nbrave and hearty, noble of mind and goodly of look! He would have stood\nwith Lancelot against the king himself, so greatly he loved him. And\nthou--thou foul-mouth!--thou tellest me that Lancelot hath slain him!\nBegone from my sight, thou split-tongue!'\n\n'Nevertheless, Sir Gawaine,' said the man, rising, 'Sir Lancelot slew\nthem both in his rage. As he would--saving your presence--have slain\nyou had you stood between him and the queen at the stake.'\n\nAt these words, stubbornly spoken in spite of the furious looks of Sir\nGawaine, the knight realised that the man was speaking the truth.\n\nHis look was fixed on the face of the knave, and rage and grief filled\nhis eyes as he grasped the fact that his beloved brother was really\nslain. Then the blood surged into his face, and he dashed away.\n\nMen started to see the wild figure of Sir Gawaine rushing through the\npassages, his eyes bloodshot, his face white. At length he dashed into\nthe presence of the king. Arthur stood sorrowing amidst his knights,\nbut Sir Gawaine rushed through them and faced the king.\n\n'Ha! King Arthur!' he cried, half breathless, but in a great wild\nvoice, 'my good brother, Sir Gareth, is slain, and also Sir Gaheris! I\ncannot bear the thought of them slain. It cannot be true! I cannot\nbelieve it!'\n\n'Nay, nor can any think upon it,' said the king, 'and keep from\nweeping.'\n\n'Ay, ay,' said Sir Gawaine in a terrible voice, 'there shall be\nweeping, I trow, and that erelong. Sir, I will go see my dead brothers.\nI would kiss them ere they be laid in earth.'\n\n'Nay, that may not be,' said the king gently. 'I knew how great would\nbe thy sorrow, and that sight of them would drive thee mad. And I have\ncaused them to be interred instantly.'\n\n'Tell me,' said Gawaine, and men marvelled to see the wild look in his\neyes and to hear the fierce voice, 'is it truth that Sir Lancelot slew\nthem both?'\n\n'It is thus told me,' said the King, 'that in his fury Sir Lancelot\nknew not whom he smote.'\n\n'But, man,' thundered Sir Gawaine, 'they bare no arms against him!\nTheir hearts were with him, and young Gareth loved him as if--as if\nLancelot was his own brother.'\n\n'I know it, I know it,' replied King Arthur. 'But men say they were\nmingled in the thick press of the fight, and Lancelot knew not friend\nfrom foe, but struck down all that stood between him and the queen.'\n\nFor a space Sir Gawaine was silent, and men looked upon him with awe\nand compassion. His mane of hair, grizzled and wild, was thrown back\nupon his shoulders, and his eyes flamed with a glowing light as of\nfire. Suddenly he stepped up to the king, and lifting his right hand\nsaid, in a voice that trembled With rage:\n\n'My lord, my king, and mine uncle, wit you well that now I make oath by\nmy knighthood, that from this day I will seek Sir Lancelot and never\nrest till he be slain or he slay me. Therefore, my lord king, and you,\nmy fellow knights and lords, I require you all to prepare yourselves\nfor war; for, know you, though I ravage this land and all the lands of\nChristendom, I will not rest me nor slake my revenge until I come up to\nLancelot and drive my sword into his evil heart.'\n\nWith that Sir Gawaine strode from the room, and for a space all men\nwere silent, so fierce and full of hatred had been his words.\n\n'I see well,' said the king, 'that the death of these twain knights\nwill cause the deadliest war that hath ever raged, and never shall we\nhave rest until Gawaine do slay Lancelot or is slain by him. O\nLancelot! Lancelot! my peerless knight, that ever thou shouldst be the\ncause of the ruin of this my fair kingdom!'\n\nNone that heard the king could keep from tears; and many felt that in\nthis quarrel the king's heart was not set, except for the sake of Sir\nGawaine, his nephew, and all his kin.\n\nThen there were made great preparations in London and all the lands\nsouth of Trent, with sharpening of swords and spears, making of harness\nand beating of smiths' hammers on anvils.\n\nMen's minds were in sore distress, and the faces of the citizens were\nlong and white with dismay. Daily the quarrel caused other quarrels.\nMany a group of knights came to high words, some taking the side of\nLancelot and the queen, and others that of the king and Sir Gawaine.\nOften they came to blows, and one or other of their number would be\nleft writhing and groaning on the ground.\n\nFamilies broke up in bad blood by reason of it, for the sons would avow\ntheir intent to go and enlist with Lancelot, while the fathers, in high\nanger at such disloyalty to Arthur, would send their tall sons away,\nbidding them never to look upon their faces again.\n\nWomen sorrowed and wept, for whichever side they took, it meant that\none or other of their dear ones was opposed to them, and would go to\nbattle, fighting against those of their own kin and of their own\nhearths.\n\nTowards midsummer the host was ready, and took the road to the north.\nThe quarrel had been noised abroad throughout Britain, and many kings,\ndukes and barons came to the help of Arthur, so that his army was a\ngreat multitude. Yet many others had gone to Lancelot, where he lay in\nhis castle of Joyous Gard, not far from Carlisle.\n\nThither, in the month of July, when the husbandmen were looking to\ntheir ripening fields and thinking of harvest, King Arthur and Sir\nGawaine drew with their army and laid a siege against the castle of\nJoyous Gard, and against the walled town which it protected. But for\nall their engines of war, catapults which threw great stones, and\nramming irons which battered the walls, they could not make a way into\nthe place, and so lay about it until harvest time.\n\nOne day, as Queen Gwenevere stood at a window of the castle, she looked\ndown at the tents of the besieging host, and her gaze lingered on the\npurple tent of King Arthur, with the banner of the red dragon on the\npole above it. As she looked, she saw her husband issue from the tent\nand begin to walk up and down alone in a place apart. Very moody did he\nseem, as he strode to and fro with bent head. Sometimes he looked\ntowards Joyous Gard, and then his face had a sad expression upon it\nwhich went to the queen's heart.\n\nShe went to Sir Lancelot, and said:\n\n'Sir Lancelot, I would that this dreadful war were done, and that thou\nwert again friends and in peace with my dear lord. Something tells me\nthat he sorrows to be at enmity with thee. Thou wert his most famous\nknight and brought most worship to the fellowship of the Round Table.\nWilt thou not try to speak to my lord? Tell him how evil were the false\nreports of the conspiracy against him, and that we are innocent of any\ntreason against him and this dear land.'\n\n'Lady,' said Sir Lancelot, 'on my knighthood I will try to accord with\nmy lord. If our enemies have not quite poisoned his thoughts of us, he\nmay listen and believe.'\n\nThereupon Sir Lancelot caused his trumpeter to sound from the walls,\nand ask that King Arthur would hold a parley with him. This was done,\nand Sir Pentred, a knight of King Arthur's, took the message to the\nking.\n\nIn a little while King Arthur, with Sir Gawaine and a company of his\ncounsellors and knights, came beneath the walls, and the trumpeters\nblew a truce, and the bowmen ceased from letting fly their arrows and\nthe men-at-arms from throwing spears.\n\nThen Sir Lancelot came down to a narrow window in the gate-tower, and\ncried out to the king:\n\n'Most noble king, I think that neither of us may get honour from this\nwar. Cannot we make an end of it?'\n\n'Ay,' cried Sir Gawaine, his face red with anger, and shaking his\nmailed fist at Lancelot, 'come thou forth, thou traitor, and we will\nmake an end of thee.'\n\n'Come forth,' said the king, 'and I will meet thee on the field. Thou\nhast slain thirty of my good knights, taken my queen from me, and\nplunged this realm in ruin.'\n\n'Nay, lord, it was not I that caused this war,' said Sir Lancelot. 'I\nhad been but a base knight to have suffered the noble lady my queen to\nbe burned at the stake. And it passes me, my lord king, how thou\ncouldst ever think to suffer her to be burned.'\n\n'She was charged with poisoning a knight who slandered her,' said the\nking. 'I must see justice done on high and low, and though it grieved\nme to condemn her, I could do naught else. Moreover, if Sir Pinel spoke\ntrue, both you and she were conspiring to slay me and to rule this\nkingdom in my stead.'\n\n'A foul lie, a black calumny!' cried Sir Lancelot fiercely. 'And I\nwould answer for it with the strength which God might give me on any\nsix of your knights that may say I am so black a traitor. I tell you,\nmy lord king, and I swear it on my knighthood, and may death strike me\nnow if I lie, that neither I nor the queen have ever had evil thoughts\nagainst your person, nor had designs upon your crown.'\n\nAt so solemn an oath men stood still and waited, for few doubted in\nthose days that if a man who took so great an oath was speaking\nfalsely, fire from heaven would instantly descend and consume him.\n\nThe moments passed and nothing happened, and men breathed again.\n\nSir Lancelot looked at the face of King Arthur, and saw by the light\nupon it that the king believed him; and Sir Lancelot rejoiced in his\nheart.\n\nHe saw the king turn to Sir Gawaine with a questioning air, as if he\nwould ask what more his nephew wanted. But next moment, with a harsh\nlaugh, Sir Gawaine spoke.\n\n'Hark ye, Sir Lancelot, thou mayest swear to Heaven as to some things,\nand there are those that may be moved by thy round oaths. But this I\ncharge upon thee, thou false, proud knight, that thou didst slay two\nunarmed men--men that loved thee and worshipped thee! Forsooth, thou\nboastful braggart and mouthing hero, thou wilt not dare to deny it!'\n\nSad was the face and voice of Sir Lancelot as he made reply.\n\n'I cannot hope to find excuse from you,' he said, 'for I cannot and\nnever will forgive myself. I would as lief have slain my nephew, Sir\nBors, as slay young Sir Gareth whom I loved, and Gaheris his brother.\nSorrow is on me for that! I was mad in my rage and did not see them.\nOnly I knew that many knights stood between me and the queen, and I\nslew all that seemed to bar my passage.'\n\n'Thou liest, false, recreant knight!' cried Sir Gawaine, whose grief by\nnow had made him mad with the lust for revenge; 'thou slewest them in\nthy pride, to despite me and the king, because we had permitted the\nqueen to go to the stake. Thou coward and traitor! Therefore, wit thee\nwell, Sir Lancelot, I will not quit this quest until I feel my sword\nthrusting into thy evil heart.'\n\n'Sorrow is on me,' said Sir Lancelot, 'to know that thou dost so\nhatefully pursue me. If thou didst not, I think my lord the king would\ngive me his good grace again, and receive back his queen and believe us\ninnocent.'\n\n'I believe it well, false, recreant knight!' cried Sir Gawaine, full of\nrage to know that the king verily wished to have peace; 'but know ye\nthat while I live, my good uncle will make war upon thee, and at last\nwe will have thee in spite of thy castle walls and thy skill in battle.\nAnd then I will have thy head.'\n\n'I trust ye for that,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for I see that thy hatred\nhath crazed thee. So, if ye may get me, I shall expect no mercy.'\n\nThen, seeing how useless it was to keep up the parley any longer, Sir\nLancelot withdrew. Next day spies brought in word to Sir Lancelot that,\nat a council of his chief men, the king had said he would take back his\nqueen and make peace with Sir Lancelot; but that Sir Gawaine had\nfiercely told him that if he did not keep up the war until Sir Lancelot\nwas taken or slain, he and all the kin of Lot would break away from the\nrealm and their allegiance. Indeed, it was rumoured that Sir Gawaine\nwould have made the king prisoner had he not yielded; and so powerful\nwas Sir Gawaine and the lords that followed him, that none could have\nbeen strong enough to withstand them.\n\nSir Gawaine, yearning, by reason of his hatred, to get Sir Lancelot out\nof his castle to fight with him, now sent knights to cry out shame upon\nhim under his walls. Thus they marched up and down, calling out\ninsulting names and charging him with dishonourable deeds.\n\nUntil at length the very men-at-arms that kept watch upon Sir\nLancelot's walls reddened for shame, and hurled down spears and stones\nat the foul mouths. Sir Bors, Sir Ector de Maris and Sir Lionel, they\nalso heard the words, and going to the other knights of Sir Lancelot,\ntook counsel with them, and decided that this could no longer be\nsuffered.\n\nTogether they went to Sir Lancelot and said to him:\n\n'Wit ye well, my lord, that we feel great scorn of the evil words which\nSir Gawaine spoke unto you when that ye parleyed with him, and also of\nthese shameful names which men call upon ye for all the citizens to\nhear. Wherefore, we charge you and beseech you, if ye will to keep our\nservice, hold us no longer behind these walls, but let us out, in the\nname of Heaven and your fair name, and have at these rascals.'\n\n'Fair friends,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'I am full loth to fight against\nmy dear lord, King Arthur.'\n\n'But if ye will not,' said Sir Lionel, his brother, 'all men will say\nye fear to stir from these walls, and hearing the shameful words they\ncry, will say that there must be truth in them if ye seek not to\nsilence them.'\n\nThey spoke long with Sir Lancelot, and at length he was persuaded; and\nhe sent a message to the king telling him that he would come out and do\nbattle; but that, for the love he bore the king, he prayed he would not\nexpose his person in the fight.\n\nBut Sir Gawaine returned answer that this was the king's quarrel, and\nthat the king would fight against a traitor knight with all his power.\n\nOn the morrow, at nine in the morning, King Arthur drew forth his host,\nand Sir Lancelot brought forth his array. When they stood facing each\nother, Sir Lancelot addressed his men and charged all his knights to\nsave King Arthur from death or wounds, and for the sake of their old\nfriendship with Sir Gawaine, to avoid battle with him also.\n\nThen, with a great hurtling and crashing, the knights ran together, and\nmuch people were there slain. The knights of Sir Lancelot did great\ndamage among the king's people, for they were fierce knights, and\nburned to revenge themselves for the evil names they had heard.\n\nSir Gawaine raged like a lion through the field, seeking Sir Lancelot,\nand many knights did he slay or overthrow. Once, indeed, King Arthur,\ndashing through the fight, came upon Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Now, Sir Lancelot,' he cried, 'defend thee, for thou art the causer of\nthis civil war.'\n\nAt these words he struck at Sir Lancelot with his sword; but Sir\nLancelot took no means to defend himself, and put down his own sword\nand shield, as if he could not put up arms against his king. At this\nthe king was abashed and put down his sword, and looked sorrowfully\nupon Sir Lancelot.\n\nThen the surging tide of battle poured between them and separated them,\nuntil it happened that Sir Bors saw King Arthur at a little distance.\nWith a spear the knight rushed at the king, and so fierce was his\nstroke and hardy his blow that the king was stricken to the ground.\n\nWhereupon Sir Bors leapt from his horse and drew his sword and ran\ntowards the king. But some one called upon him, and looking up he saw\nSir Lancelot riding swiftly towards him.\n\nSir Bors held the king down upon the ground by the nose-piece of his\nhelm, and in his other hand he held his naked sword.\n\nLooking up to Sir Lancelot, he cried in a fierce voice:\n\n'Cousin, shall I make an end of this war? 'Twere easy done.'\n\nHe meant that, if the king were slain, Sir Gawaine would lose half his\nforces, and could not hope to keep up the war against Sir Lancelot\nsinglehanded.\n\n'Nay, nay,' said Sir Lancelot, 'on peril of thy head touch not the\nking. Let him rise, man. I will not see that most noble king, who made\nme knight and once loved me, either slain or shamed.'\n\nSir Lancelot, leaping from his horse, went and raised the king, and\nheld the stirrup of his horse while the king mounted again.\n\n'My lord Arthur,' said Lancelot, looking up at the king, 'I would in\nthe name of Heaven that ye cause this war to cease, for none of us\nshall get honour by it. And though I forbear to strike you and I try to\navoid my former brothers and friends of the Round Table, they do\ncontinually seek to slay me and will not avoid me.'\n\nKing Arthur looked upon Lancelot, and thought how nobly courteous was\nhe more than any other knight. The tears burst from the king's eyes and\nhe could not speak, and sorrowfully he rode away and would fight no\nmore, but commanded the trumpets to cease battle. Whereupon Sir\nLancelot also drew off his forces, and the dead were buried and the\nwounded were tended.\n\nNext morning the battle was joined again. Very fiercely fought the\nking's party, for Sir Gawaine had commanded that no quarter should be\ngiven, and that whoever slew a knight of Sir Lancelot's should have his\nhelm filled with gold. Sir Gawaine himself raged like a lion about the\nfield, his spear in rest. He sought for Sir Lancelot; but that knight\nalways avoided him, and great was Gawaine's rage and scorn.\n\nAt length Sir Bors saw Sir Gawaine from afar, and spurred across the\nfield towards him.\n\n'Ha! Sir Bors,' cried the other mockingly, 'if ye will find that\ncowardly cousin of thine, and bring him here to face me, I will love\nthee.'\n\n''Twere well I should not take thy words seriously,' mocked Sir Bors in\nhis turn. 'For if I were to bring him to thee, thou wouldst sure repent\nit. Never yet hath he failed to give thee thy fall, for all thy pride\nand fierceness.'\n\nThis was truth. Often in the jousting of earlier days, when Sir\nLancelot had come in disguise and had been compelled to fight Sir\nGawaine, the latter had had the worst. But Sir Lancelot, loving his old\nbrother-in-arms as he did, had in later years avoided the assault with\nSir Gawaine; yet the greater prowess and skill of Sir Lancelot were\ndoubted by none.\n\nSir Gawaine raged greatly at the words of Sir Bors, for he knew they\nwere true, though he had wished they were not.\n\n'Thy vaunting of thy recreant kinsman's might will not avail thee,' he\ncried furiously. 'Defend thyself!'\n\n'I came to have to do with thee,' replied Sir Bors fiercely. 'Yesterday\nthou didst slay my cousin Lionel. To-day, if God wills it, thou thyself\nshall have a fall.'\n\nThen they set spurs to their horses and met together so furiously that\nthe lance of either bore a great hole in the other's armour, and both\nwere borne backwards off their horses, sorely wounded. Their friends\ncame and took them up and tended them, but for many days neither of the\nknights could move from their beds.\n\nWhen the knights of Sir Lancelot saw that Sir Bors was grievously\nwounded, they were wroth with their leader. Going to him, they charged\nhim with injuring his own cause.\n\n'You will not exert yourself to slay these braggart foes of yours,'\nthey said to him. 'What does it profit us that you avoid slaying\nknights because, though they are now your bitter foes, they were once\nbrothers of the Round Table? Do they avoid ye, and seek not to slay you\nand us your kindred and friends? Sir Lionel is dead, and he is your\nbrother; and Sir Galk, Sir Griffith, Sir Saffre and Sir Conan--all good\nand mighty knights--are wounded sorely. Ye were ever courteous and\nkindly, Sir Lancelot,' they ended, 'but have a care lest now your\ncourtesy ruin not your cause and us.'\n\nSeeing by these words that he was like to chill the hearts of his\nfriends if he continued to avoid slaying his enemies, Sir Lancelot\nsorrowfully promised that henceforth he would not stay his hand. After\nthat he avoided none that came against him, though for very sorrow he\ncould have wept when some knight, with whom in happier times he had\ndrunk wine and jested at the board in Camelot, rushed at him with\nshrewd strokes to slay him.\n\nAs the fight went on, the lust of battle grew in Sir Lancelot's heart,\nand manfully he fought, and with all his strength and skill he lay\nabout him. By the time of evensong his party stood very well, and the\nking's side seemed dispirited and as if they would avoid the fierce\nrushes with which Sir Lancelot's knights attacked them.\n\nStaying his horse, Sir Lancelot looked over the field, and sorrowed to\nsee how many dead there were--dead of whom many may have been slain by\ntheir own kindred. He saw how the horses of his knights were splashed\nwith the blood that lay in pools here and there, and grief was heavy\nupon him.\n\nSir Palom, a very valiant knight, came up to him.\n\n'See, lord,' he cried, 'how our foes flinch from the fierce hurtling of\nour knights. They are dispirited by the wounding of Sir Gawaine. Sir\nKay is also wounded, and Sir Torre is slain. Now, if ye will take my\nadvice, this day should cease this war once for all. Do ye gather all\nyour forces, lord, and I think with one great dash together ye should\nscatter their wavering knights, and this field would be won.'\n\n'Alas!' said Sir Lancelot, 'I would not have it so. It cuts me to my\nheart to war as I do against my lord Arthur, and to trample him and his\npeople in the mire of defeat--nay, I should suffer remorse till my last\nday.'\n\n'My lord,' said Sir Palom, 'I think ye are unwise. Ye spare them thus\nto come again against ye. They will give ye no thanks, and if they\ncould get you and yours at so great a disadvantage, wit you well they\nwould not spare you.'\n\nBut Sir Lancelot would not be moved, and in pity he ordered the\ntrumpeters to sound the retreat. King Arthur did likewise, and each\nparty retired in the twilight from the field, where the wounded lay\ngroaning till death or succour came; and the dead lay still and pale,\nuntil the kindly earth was thrown over them.\n\nSome weeks passed in which the armies did not meet; for the host of\nKing Arthur was not now so proud as they had been, seeing that they had\nlost many good knights; and Sir Lancelot would not of his own will\nsally out from his castle to fall upon the king.\n\nBut ever Sir Gawaine tried to inflame the mind of King Arthur and his\nkinsmen against Sir Lancelot, and he advised them to join battle with\ntheir enemy. Moreover, from the lands of his kingdom of Lothian, of\nwhich Sir Gawaine was now king in the place of his dead father, King\nLot, a great body of young knights and men-at-arms came; and the king's\nparty began to recover their courage.\n\nMany began daily to ride to the walls of Joyous Gard, and by insult and\nevil names endeavoured to tempt forth the men of Sir Lancelot. Soon the\nyoung knights clamoured to King Arthur and Sir Gawaine to permit them\nto attack the walls, and reluctantly the king consented to call his\ncouncil for next day to devise some means of breaking down the castle.\n\nHeadstrong was the counsel given by the young knights at that meeting,\nand greatly did King Arthur sorrow to feel that, for love of his\nnephew, Sir Gawaine, he would be compelled to yield to their wild\ndemands for further battle.\n\nSuddenly the door of the hall where sate the council was opened, and\nthe porter of the gate appeared and approached the king.\n\n'My lord,' he said, 'the holy Bishop of London and King Geraint of\nDevon crave audience of you.'\n\nSome of the fierce young knights scowled at the names and uttered cries\nof disgust.\n\nThe king's face brightened, and before any could advise him against his\nwill, he said:\n\n'Bid them enter instantly.'\n\n'The meddling priest and the petty king that knoweth not his mind!'\nsneered Sir Gawaine, looking fiercely about the room. 'I pray thee,\nuncle,' he said to the king, 'listen not to their womanish persuasions,\nif thou lovest me.'\n\nKing Arthur did not answer, but looked towards the door impatiently.\n\nThrough this there came first three priests and three armed men, and\nbehind them stepped an old and reverend man, the hair beside his\ntonsure white as driven snow, and falling over his white robe edged\nwith red, that showed his rank as bishop. Then, towering above him, a\nnoble knightly figure, came Geraint of Devon, grown nobler still since\nthose noble days when he had proved himself to be a strong leader\nindeed, while men had thought him soft and foolish.\n\nAll rose to their feet in reverence to the bishop, and fondly did King\nArthur welcome Geraint, for this wise knight had from the first opposed\nSir Gawaine in this war, and had refused to fight against Sir Lancelot\nand the queen, though he abated not his service to the king.\n\nDark was the look which Gawaine darted at Geraint, but quiet yet\nfearless was Geraint's answering gaze.\n\n'What ye have to say,' said Gawaine angrily, 'say it quickly and\nbegone. If ye are still of two minds, there seems no need to speak, and\nthere is no need to bring a bishop to your aid.'\n\n'Gawaine,' said King Geraint, and his voice was quiet, yet with a ring\nof menace in it, 'I think grief hath made you a little mad. Let the\nbishop speak, I pray ye. He hath a message for the king.'\n\n'My lord,' said the bishop, 'I come from his Holiness the Pope.'\n\nAt these words Sir Gawaine started forward, his hand upon his sword, as\nif he would willingly in his madness slay the holy priest.\n\n'And,' went on the bishop, his grave voice and his quiet look not\nbating for all the wrathful fire in Sir Gawaine's eyes, 'I bear with me\nthe bull of his Holiness--see, here it is--by which his Highness doth\ncharge King Arthur of Britain, as he is a Christian king, to take back\nQueen Gwenevere unto his love and worship, and to make peace with Sir\nLancelot.'\n\nThe murmurs of the wild young knights rose in a sudden storm, while Sir\nGawaine glared with looks of hatred at King Geraint and the bishop.\n\n'And if ye do not this command,' rang out the voice of the bishop (and\nthere was sorrow in its tone, and silence sank on all), 'if ye do not,\nthen will his Holiness excommunicate this land. None of ye here have\nseen so terrible a thing as a land laid under the interdict of the Holy\nChurch, and rarely doth she find her children so stubbornly evil as to\nmerit it. But the Father of the Church, seeing how this land is torn\nand rent by this bitter war between brothers, and fearful lest, while\nye tear at each others' lives, the fierce and evil pagan will gain upon\nye and beat the lives from both of ye, and possess this fair island and\ndrive Christ and His religion from it utterly--seeing all this, his\nHoliness would pronounce the doom if ye are too stiffnecked to obey\nhim. Then will ye see this land lie as if a curse were upon it. Your\nchurches will be shut, and the relics of the holy saints will be laid\nin ashes, the priests will not give prayers nor the Church its holy\noffices; and the dead shall lie uncoffined, for no prayers may be said\nover them. Say, then, King Arthur of Britain, what shall be the answer\nto the command of his Holiness which here I lay before thee.'\n\nWith these words the bishop held a parchment rolled out between his\nhands before the eyes of the king. Men craned forward and saw the black\nwriting on the white skin, and the great seals, or bulls, hanging from\nit whereon those who could read saw the device of the Pope of Rome.\n\n'Say, is this thy doing?' cried Sir Gawaine fiercely, looking at King\nGeraint. 'Didst thou send this meddling priest to Rome to get this?'\n\n'That did I,' replied Geraint.\n\n'Then now I make this vow,' thundered Sir Gawaine, 'that though thou\nhast balked me of my vengeance now, I will mark thee, thou king of two\nminds, and be thou sure that erelong I will avenge me of this\ntreachery, and that upon thy body and in thy blood.'\n\n'I mark thy words, Sir Gawaine,' said Geraint, whose eyes flashed\nfiercely, though his voice was calm, 'and I say again thou art mad. I\nwill tell thee and the king, our lord and master, why I did advise the\nholy bishop to go to Rome and get the Pope's command. First, as ye all\nknow, I did think this war a wicked one beyond all measure, and ever\nhave I raised my voice against it. And what I foresaw has come to pass.\nAs the good priest saith, while ye tore at each other's throats here in\nthe furthest marches of the north, the sly, fierce pagan, learning how\nall the land was rent and weakened by this evil war, has crept up in\nhis longships, he has landed at many solitary places on the coast, and\nhas spread far and wide throughout the land, burning and slaughtering.\nThe long files of his captives, our kinsmen, go day by day, even as ye\nfight here, brother with brother, down to the black ships, and ye do\nnaught to save them or avenge them. Already have I, in my office as\nCount of the Saxon Shore, battered them back to their ships at Lemanis,\nLlongporth and Rutupiae; but here in the north, for all that the old\nlion, Uriens of Reged, worn with war and full of age, hath taken the\nfield against them, here, behind your backs as ye battle, kin with kin,\na great and a stubborn pagan, whom men call Hyring the Land-waster,\nhath entered the land and still prevails. Crafty he is and strong, for\nhe hath made treaties with some of our weaker kin, and their women he\nhath taken in marriage for his leaders, and thus in our very midst\nthere is treachery, hand-in-hand with the brutal invaders. Yet still\nyou, Gawaine, are so mad, so lost to all care for your nation's weal,\nthat you would see your people ruined and your land possessed by the\nsavage boars of Saxons, while ye slake your vengeance for a private\nwrong. If still you so would do, I call you traitor, and, by the grace\nof God, I will make good my words upon your body, when we have thrust\nthe pagan from the land and peace is within our borders once again.'\n\nWhile the thunder of his noble anger still rolled through the wide\nhall, King Arthur arose, and men marked the resolution in his eyes.\n\n'I will that there be no more war,' he said, and he looked sternly at\nGawaine. 'Geraint hath spoken the truth, and the truth shall prevail. I\nrepent me that I have so long forgotten the needs of my kingdom. Do\nthou now, good bishop, go to Sir Lancelot, tell him that I will make\npeace with him and that I will receive back my queen. And do thou, good\nGeraint, fare south again. I thank thee from my heart for what thou\nhast done. Would to Heaven that all my knights were as clean-souled and\nas single-minded in devotion unto me as thou art. Do thou go and fulfil\nthy great office. Watch thou the coasts as hitherto thou hast watched\nthem; and soon I will follow to aid thee, should the foul and savage\npagans strive again to break into my realm.'\n\nBut, after all, Sir Gawaine had his way in part. The bishop took the\nking's assurance, sealed with his great seal, whereby he promised Sir\nLancelot that he should come and go safe from murder or sudden onset,\nand desiring him to bring the queen to the king at his hall at\nCarlisle. But in that parchment was no word of reconciliation with Sir\nLancelot. Sir Gawaine fiercely told the king that the day on which he,\nthe king, should clasp the hand of Lancelot in friendship, he, Sir\nGawaine, with all his vassals and his men, would leave the kingdom. So\ndeep and burning was the hatred which Gawaine bore Sir Lancelot that he\neven threatened that, if his will was not granted, he would join the\npagans and fight against the king.\n\nSo shamed and saddened was the king at these words that, to put an end\nto his nephew's rage, he consented to do as he desired. Therefore,\nthough the bishop strove to persuade the king to make his peace with\nSir Lancelot, Sir Gawaine's will was done, and the bishop went sadly to\nJoyous Gard.\n\nHe showed his writings to Sir Lancelot and the queen, and both were\nsorrowful in that no word of reconciliation was said.\n\n'I will do my lord's desire,' said the knight, 'but I see that Sir\nGawaine's hatred of me is in no way abated. Nevertheless, do thou ride,\nmy lord bishop, to the king. Commend me unto his good grace, and say to\nhim that in five days I will myself bring my lady, Queen Gwenevere,\nunto him as he doth desire.'\n\nOn the day appointed, as the king sat in hall at Carlisle, surrounded\nby his knights and their ladies, with Sir Gawaine standing on the high\nseat beside him, there came the beat of many hoofs, and into the town\nrode Sir Lancelot with the queen, knights and squires accompanying\nthem. They reined up at the wide door of the hall, and Sir Lancelot\nalighted, and having helped the queen to dismount, he took her hand,\nand led her through the ranks of knights and ladies to where sat King\nArthur.\n\nSir Lancelot kneeled upon the edge of the dais, and the queen with him;\nand to see so noble a knight and so beautiful a lady, sad of\ncountenance as they were, forced many a tear to the eyes of the knights\nand dames who looked on. Then, rising, and taking up the queen, Sir\nLancelot spoke:\n\n'My most redoubted lord,' he said, 'you shall understand that by the\npope's commandment and yours I have brought unto you my lady your\nqueen, as right requireth; and if there be any knight here, of any\ndegree, who shall say that she or I have ever thought to plot treason\nagainst your person or your crown, or the peace of this realm, then do\nI say here and now that I, Lancelot du Lake, will make it good upon his\nbody, that he lies. And, my gracious lord, if this is all that there is\nbetween you, my king, and myself, there need be naught of ill thought\nbetween us, but only peace and goodwill. But I wist well that one that\nhates me will not suffer ye to do what is in your good and kingly\nheart.'\n\nSternly did Sir Lancelot look at Sir Gawaine, while the tears gushed\nfrom King Arthur's eyes, and from the eyes of many that heard Sir\nLancelot's sad words.\n\nFierce and dark was the look which Sir Gawaine returned to Sir\nLancelot.\n\n'The king may do as he will,' he said harshly and in a loud voice, 'but\nwit thou well, Sir Lancelot, thou and I shall never be at peace till\none of us be slain; for thou didst slay my twain brothers, though they\nbore no harness against thee nor any ill will. Yet traitorously thou\ndidst slay them!'\n\n'Alas, my lord,' said Sir Lancelot, and the tears bedewed his face, 'I\ncannot ask you for your forgiveness for that deed, unwitting though it\nwas done and in my madness. Would to Heaven they had worn harness! Wit\nyou well that ever will I bewail the death of my dear friend, Sir\nGareth. 'Twas I that made him knight, and ever did I delight to see\nhim, to hear his manly laugh ring out, and to see the light in his\nbrave eyes that never suffered a mean or evil action. I wot he loved me\nabove all other knights, and there was none of my kinsmen that I loved\nso much as I loved him. Ever will the sorrow of the death of thy\nbrethren lie upon my soul; and to make some small amends I will, if my\nlord will suffer it and it will please you, Sir Gawaine, I will walk in\nmy shirt and barefoot from Lemanis even unto this town, and at every\nten miles I will found a holy house, and endow it with monks to pray\nfor the souls of Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris. Surely, Sir Gawaine, that\nwill do more good unto their souls than that my most noble lord and you\nshould war on me.'\n\nEvery cheek was wet and the tears of the king fell from his eyes, yet\nmade he no effort to restrain or hide them.\n\n'Out upon such monkish deeds!' cried Sir Gawaine, and his scornful eyes\nsurveyed the weeping knights and dames. 'Know thee, once for all, that\nnever shalt thou wipe away the treacherous murder of my brothers but by\nthy blood. Ye are safe now for a season, for the pope hath given you\nsafety, but in this land--whatever comes of it I care not--thou shalt\nnot abide above fifteen days, or else I shall have thy head. So make ye\nno more ado; but deliver the queen from thee, and get thee quickly out\nof this court and out of this realm.'\n\n'Well,' said Sir Lancelot, and laughed grimly, 'if I had known I should\nhave so short an answer to my proffers of peace, I had thought twice\nere I had come hither. But now, madam,' he said, turning to the weeping\nqueen beside him, 'I must say farewell to ye, for now do I depart from\nthis noble fellowship and this dear realm for ever. Pray for me, and\nsend me word if any lying tongues speak evil of you, and if any\nknight's hand may deliver you by battle, believe me mine shall so\ndeliver you.'\n\nWith these words Sir Lancelot bent and kissed the queen's hand, and so\nturned away and departed. There was neither king, baron, knight nor\nsquire of all that great company who did not weep, nor think that Sir\nGawaine had been of most evil mind to refuse the noble proffers of Sir\nLancelot.\n\nHeavy was King Arthur ever thereafter, and never might man see his face\nbrighten nor hear his laugh; and the better of his knights sorrowed\nwith him, and knew what was in his heart.\n\n'In this realm will be no more quiet,' said Sir Owen of the Fountain to\nhis fellows as they stood upon the walls of Carlisle and saw the band\nof Sir Lancelot riding southwards, the sunlight flashing from their\nhelms and armour. 'The pagans have gathered strength daily while we\nhave fought with each other, and that which would have given us the\nstrength and the union which would hurl them from our coasts is\nshattered and broken. By the noble fellowship of the Round Table was\nKing Arthur and his realm borne up, and by their nobleness the king and\nall his realm was in quietness and in peace. And a great part,' he\nended, 'was because of the noble nature of Sir Lancelot, whom Sir\nGawaine's mad rage hath driven from the kingdom. Nor is all the evil\nended yet.'\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nOF THE REBELLION OF MORDRED AND THE DEATH OF KING ARTHUR\n\n\nWhen Sir Lancelot and all his men had left the realm of Britain and had\nbetaken themselves to Brittany, where Sir Lancelot had a kingdom of his\nown, the Saxons began to increase in Britain, both in strength and\nnumbers. Almost daily a long black ship, crammed with pagans, was\nsighted from some part of the coast; and the British, praying that the\nfierce pirates would not visit their homes, would watch the terrible\nwarship till it passed; or else, caught unawares, would have to flee\ninland in a breathless panic when the dragon-headed prow loomed through\nthe sea-mist, and the barbarous warriors swarmed over the sides and ran\nknee-deep in the water, their eyes gleaming with the joy of killing and\ntheir hands eager for the looting.\n\nThen King Arthur made ready a great host, and for two years he fought\nin the northern parts against the bands of the pirates. Swift were the\nblows he struck, for the great wide Roman roads were still open, not\ngrass-grown and deserted, and with his mounted knights and men he could\nride quickly from place to place, striking fiercely and scattering the\nfoul pagans.\n\nTen was the number of these battles which he fought in the north, six\nagainst the Saxon pirates and four against the wild cats of Caledonia,\nwhom men call Picts and Scots, and who had ventured south in greater\nnumbers as soon as they heard how the king warred with his lords and\nthe rich land was open to plunder. Two others he fought in the south,\none against an insolent band of pirates who dared even to attack his\npalace-city of Caerleon-upon-Usk. But so heavy and deadly a blow did he\nstrike at them then, that from that battle barely a dozen pagans were\nleft to flee like fire to their ships.\n\nNot without loss of many of his brave warriors did Arthur win these\nbattles, for the pagans were good men of their hands and not easily\nwere they beaten. Saddest of all was the loss of the noble Geraint,\nwho, thrusting back the pirates once again from the harbour of\nLlongporth, got his death there with many of his valiant men.\n\nWhen the fame of King Arthur's prowess and the might of his knights had\ngone abroad among the pagans, they were afraid and would not venture in\ngreat numbers to invade the land again, and there was peace and rest in\nBritain for a space.\n\nThen Sir Gawaine, remembering his hatred of Sir Lancelot, persuaded the\nking to make him ready another host, with which to invade the land of\nBrittany where Sir Lancelot ruled his kingdom. For a long time the king\nwould not listen to his advice, and the queen, with all her power,\nstrove against Sir Gawaine. But that knight and his large following of\nknights and men-at-arms had been of great service in the recent wars\nagainst the pagans, and the king could not wholly refuse to listen to\nSir Gawaine's demands.\n\nAlso Sir Mordred added his words to those of his brother, and said that\nmen who came from Brittany said that Sir Lancelot was getting him ready\na large army, and training many men, although he was at peace with his\nneighbours in Gaul. But the rumour went, as Sir Mordred reported, that\nSir Lancelot was only waiting his time, and when King Arthur should be\nmore than usually pressed by his pagan foes, Sir Lancelot and his great\nhost would sail swiftly across the sea and seize the kingdom of\nBritain, when Arthur, exhausted by war, would be unable to withstand\nthe fresh warriors of Sir Lancelot, and would lose both his queen and\nhis crown.\n\nFor a time the king would not suffer these evil rumours to be mentioned\nin his presence, but many of his counsellors thought there was much\ntruth in them. At length, so persistent was Sir Mordred and those whom\nhe craftily persuaded to believe him, that for sheer weariness the king\nconsented to take an army across to Brittany, and to demand that Sir\nLancelot should own that the king was his overlord, and that he should\ndo homage to King Arthur for his kingdom.\n\nThe host was prepared, therefore, and at a meeting of his council King\nArthur made his nephew, Sir Mordred, Regent of Britain, to rule in the\nking's place while he should be abroad; and Queen Gwenevere he placed\nunder the governance of Sir Mordred, as well as the officers of the\ncourt.\n\nWhen they had passed the sea and landed in the coasts of Sir Lancelot's\ncountry, Sir Gawaine ordered his knights to go through the nearer\nparts, burning the houses of the people and wasting their lands. This\nhe did in order to enrage Sir Lancelot against the king, so that he\nwould not listen quietly to any demand which the king might make of\nhim.\n\nWord was brought to Sir Lancelot of the landing of King Arthur and the\nplundering and wasting of the land, but for some days he would do\nnaught; for he was loath to take up arms against the king he loved, who\nhad made him a knight.\n\nAt length Sir Bors came to him, and with that knight were others, as\nSir Lunel of the Brake, Sir Magus of Pol, and Sir Alan of the Stones\nwith his six mighty brothers.\n\n'My lord, Sir Lancelot,' said Sir Bors, 'it is great shame that we\nsuffer them to ride over our lands, burning the homes of our folk and\ndestroying the crops in the fields.'\n\nSir Alan also, who with his brothers were seven as noble knights as a\nman might seek in seven lands ere he might find a brotherhood as\nvaliant and withal as courteous, spoke to the like purport, saying:\n\n'Sir Lancelot, for the love of our land, let us ride out and meet these\ninvaders in the field, for we have never been wont to cower in castles\nnor in towns.'\n\nThen spoke Sir Lancelot, who was lord of them all.\n\n'My fair lords,' he said, 'ye wit well that I am loath to raise my hand\nagainst my own dear lord and to shed the blood of Christian men. Yet I\nunderstand how it chafes you to stand by and see your fair land ruined\nby those that hate me. Therefore I will send a messenger to my lord\nArthur, desiring him to make treaty with me. Then when we have his\nreply, we will consider the matter further.'\n\nA damsel was therefore sent to the camp of King Arthur, and she bore a\nmessage from Sir Lancelot. She was brought to Sir Lucan, who was the\nking's butler, and she told him whence she had come and why.\n\n'Alas!' said Sir Lucan, 'I fear ye have made your journey in vain, fair\ndamsel. My lord, King Arthur, would quickly accord with Sir Lancelot,\nwhom he loves, but Sir Gawaine will not suffer him.'\n\nJust then Sir Gawaine happened to pass by, and saw the maiden, and knew\nthat she was not one of their party. He turned towards her, and his\nfierce eyes looked at her, grimly sour.\n\n'Whence come ye?' he said harshly.\n\n'I come hither to speak with King Arthur,' said the maiden, 'for I\nbear a message from my lord, Sir Lancelot.'\n\nWith an angry gesture Sir Gawaine seized her bridle and led her palfrey\nswiftly to the edge of the camp.\n\n'Depart!' he cried harshly, 'and tell your master that it is idle for\nhim to send to mine uncle. Tell him from me, Sir Gawaine, that by the\nvow of my knighthood, I will never leave this land till I or he be\nslain. Now go!'\n\nWhen this message was told to Sir Lancelot, the tears stood in his eyes\nand he went apart, and for that day the knights his comrades held their\ncounsel. But they resolved that next day they would prevail upon Sir\nLancelot to issue forth and give battle.\n\nBut in the morning, when they looked from the walls of the castle, they\nsaw that Sir Gawaine had crept up in the dawn, and now was the place\nbesieged. Thereupon there was fierce fighting, for Sir Gawaine caused\nladders to be reared, and his knights strove to climb over the Wall,\nbut were mightily beaten back by Sir Lancelot's party.\n\nThen the attackers drew off for a space, and Sir Gawaine, well armed,\ncame before the chief gate, upon a stout steed. He shook his lance at\nthe men over the gate, and cried:\n\n'Where art thou, false traitor, Sir Lancelot? Why dost thou hide\nthyself within holes and walls like a coward? Look out now, thou timid\nsoul, for when I may get at thee I will revenge upon thy evil body the\ndeath of my brothers twain.'\n\nThese shameful words were heard by Sir Lancelot, and all his knights\nand kin that stood about him, and they said:\n\n'Sir Lancelot, now ye must be done with thy courtesy and go forth and\nbeat back those evil words upon his foul mouth.'\n\n'It is even so,' said Sir Lancelot; 'but sorry I am and heavy of spirit\nthus to fight with him, who hath been my dear brother-in-arms so long,\nand whose brothers I did unwittingly slay. And much evil shall come of\nthis.'\n\nThen he commanded his strongest horse to be saddled, and bade his\narmour to be dressed upon him, and when he was fully armed he stood at\nthe top of the gate and cried upon the king.\n\n'My lord Arthur,' he said, 'you that made me knight, wit you well that\nI am right heavy that ever ye do pursue me thus; but now that Sir\nGawaine hath used villainous words about me, I must needs defend\nmyself.'\n\nSir Gawaine, seated upon his horse below, laughed grimly, and cried\nupon the other.\n\n'O Lancelot, Lancelot,' he said, 'what a man of words thou art! If thou\ndarest to battle with me, cease thy babbling, man, and come off, and\nlet us ease our hearts with strong blows.'\n\nThen Sir Lancelot issued forth with many of his knights, and a covenant\nwas made between the hosts that there should be no fighting until Sir\nGawaine and Sir Lancelot had fought together, and one was either dead\nor yielden.\n\nThereupon the two knights departed some way and then came together with\nall the might of their horses, and each smote the other in the midst of\nthe shield. So strong were the knights and stout and big the spears,\nthat their horses could not stand the shock, and so fell to the ground.\nThen the knights quickly avoided their horses and dressed their\nshields, and fought fiercely together with their swords. So valiantly\ndid each give and receive blows, and so heavy and grim was their\nfighting, that all the knights and lords that stood thereabout\nmarvelled thereat and were fain to say, in as many good words, that\nnever had they seen such sword-play.\n\nIn a little while, so shrewd and skilful were they, both were wounded\nand the blood oozed from the joints of their armour, and it was great\nmarvel to see that they could still stand, dashing their shields upon\neach other, and each beating upon the other with great slashes of their\nswords.\n\nAnd which was the stronger of the twain none might say.\n\nNow Sir Gawaine had a magic power, which had been endowed upon him at\nhis birth by a great witch who was a friend of his mother, the\nsorceress, Queen Morgan le Fay, wife of King Lot. No one knew of this\nsecret power except King Arthur, and often had it availed Sir Gawaine,\nso that in dire perils of onfall, sudden ambush, or long battle, it had\ngiven him the victory, when all about him had been slain or wounded or\ntaken captive.\n\nThe magic was that, from the hour of nine until high noon, the strength\nof his body increased until it was three times his natural strength,\nwhich itself was full great, though in that, for deep wind and breath\nand might of arm, Sir Lancelot was the stronger.\n\nNow while they fought together, Sir Lancelot felt that Sir Gawaine\nseemed not to weaken as time went on, and he marvelled greatly. Then he\nfelt that indeed Sir Gawaine's strength was greater than it had been at\nthe beginning, and a fear came into his heart that Sir Gawaine was\npossessed of a demon.\n\nBut Sir Lancelot was stout of heart as well as old in warcraft, and\nknew that if he could tire Sir Gawaine he might, by one blow, get the\nbetter of him when he saw a good chance. Therefore Sir Lancelot began\nto husband his strength, and instead of spending it in feinting and\nattacking, he bore his shield ever before him, covering himself from\nthe fierce blows of his enemy.\n\nThus he kept up his own strength; but hard put to it was he when,\ntowards midday, Sir Gawaine seemed to have the might of a very giant,\nand the shield arm of Sir Lancelot was numbed by reason of the crashing\nblows which Sir Gawaine's sword rained upon it.\n\nGreat travail indeed had Sir Lancelot to stand up and not to yield; and\nwhile men marvelled how he could endure, none knew all he suffered.\n\nThen, as the bell of the convent in the town boomed forth the hour of\nnoon, Sir Gawaine heaved up his sword for a final blow; but his sword\ndescended just as the last stroke of twelve had died away, and Sir\nLancelot marvelled to feel that what should have been so grievous a\nblow that, belike, he could not have stood before it, fell upon his\nshield with no more than the strength of the blow given by an ordinary\nman.\n\nWhen Sir Lancelot felt the might of Sir Gawaine so suddenly give way,\nhe drew himself up to his full height and said:\n\n'Sir Gawaine, I know not by what evil power ye have fought, but now I\nfeel that ye have done. Now, my lord, Sir Gawaine, I must do my part,\nfor none may know the great and grievous strokes I have endured this\nday with great pain.'\n\nWith that Sir Lancelot redoubled his blows, and the sword of Sir\nGawaine gave before the might of Sir Lancelot, and his shield was rent.\nThen Sir Lancelot gave so great a buffet on the helm of the other that\nSir Gawaine staggered, and with yet another blow Sir Lancelot hurled\nhim headlong to the ground.\n\nMen held their breath, for now, after so fierce and stubborn a\nstruggle, they felt sure that Sir Lancelot, hot and enraged against his\nenemy, would rip off the other's helm and strike his head off\ninstantly.\n\nBut, instead, Sir Lancelot stood for a moment looking at his prostrate\nenemy. Then men gasped to see him thrust his sword into its scabbard\nwith a clang, turn on his heel and begin to walk away.\n\nThey saw the prone knight raise his head and look as if in surprise at\nthe retreating figure of Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Why dost thou depart?' cried Sir Gawaine, rage in his mocking voice.\n'Turn again, false knight, and slay me! If ye leave me thus, thou shalt\ngain nothing from it, for when I am whole I will slay thee when I may.'\n\nMen marvelled to hear a fallen foe use such shameful and hateful words,\nbut they marvelled much more when Sir Lancelot, turning, cried:\n\n'I shall endure you, sir, if God give me grace; but wit you well. Sir\nGawaine, I will never smite you to death.'\n\nMany that before had hated Sir Lancelot were moved by these noble\nwords, and by the sight of his mercy; and they deemed that there was\nhardly another man in all Christendom that would have shown such\nnobility, save Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval, and they were dead.\n\nSo Sir Lancelot went into the city, and Sir Gawaine was borne into King\nArthur's tent and his wounds were cleaned and salved. Thus he lay for\nthree weeks, hard of mood and bitter in his hatred, and longing eagerly\nto get well, so he might try again to slay Sir Lancelot. Meanwhile he\nprayed the king to attack Sir Lancelot's walls, to try to draw him\nforth, or to take the city by treachery.\n\nBut the king would do naught. He was sick for sorrow because of the war\nthat was between him and Sir Lancelot, and by reason of the wounds of\nhis nephew Sir Gawaine.\n\n'Alas,' was ever his reply, 'neither you nor I, my nephew, will win\nworship at these walls. For we make war for no reason, with as noble a\nknight as ever drew breath, and one more merciful and courteous than\nany that ever graced the court of any Christian king.'\n\n'Nevertheless,' replied Sir Gawaine, raging at the king's love for Sir\nLancelot, 'neither his mercy nor courtesy would avail against my good\nsword, once I could sink it in his treacherous heart.'\n\nAs soon as Sir Gawaine might walk and ride, he armed him at all points\nand mounted a great courser, and with a long wide spear in his hand he\nwent spurring to the great gate of the town.\n\n'Where art thou, Lancelot?' he cried in a fierce voice. 'Come thou\nforth, traitor knight and recreant! I am here to revenge me on thy evil\nbody for thy treacherous slaughter of my twain brothers.'\n\nAll this language Sir Lancelot heard, and leaning from the tower he\nthus spake:\n\n'Sir Gawaine, it sorrows me that ye will not cease your foul speaking.\nI know your might, and all that ye may do, and well ye wot ye may do me\ngreat hurt or death.'\n\n'Come down, then,' cried Sir Gawaine, 'for what my heart craves is to\nslay thee. Thou didst get the better of me the other day, and I come\nthis day to get my revenge. And wit thee well I will lay thee as low as\nthou didst lay me.'\n\n'I will not keep ye waiting long,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for as ye charge\nme of treachery ye shall have your hands full of me erelong, however\nthe battle between us may end.'\n\nThen happened it even as before. The knights encountered first with\nspears, but Sir Gawaine's broke into a hundred pieces on the shield of\nSir Lancelot. Then, dismounting, the knights fought on foot with\nswords.\n\nSir Gawaine put forth all his strength, hoping, with the magic power\nwhich he possessed, to dash Sir Lancelot to his knees. But Sir Lancelot\nwas more wary than before, and under cover of his shield he husbanded\nhis strength until the hour of noon, when, as before, he felt that Sir\nGawaine's might had strangely ebbed away.\n\nWhen that had come to pass, Sir Lancelot said:\n\n'Now once more have I proved that ye fight not with a man's fair\nstrength, Sir Gawaine, but with some evil power. And full grievously\nwas I put to it to withstand many of thy sad blows. Now ye have done\nyour great deeds, and I will do mine.'\n\nThen with one stroke, of so marvellous a force that men marvelled, Sir\nLancelot beat down Sir Gawaine's guard, and struck him a full heavy\nblow on the side of the helm, beating it in so that the old wound burst\nagain.\n\nSir Gawaine fell to the ground, and for some moments lay still as if he\nwere dead or in a swoon; but he was only dazed, and soon recovering, he\nraved and foamed as he lay there, cursing Sir Lancelot for a traitorous\ncoward and a base knight, and even, in his madness, thrusting towards\nhim with his sword.\n\n'Wit thou well, base knight,' he cried, 'that I am not slain yet. Come\nthou near and lie here with me, and we will fight this battle until we\ndie.'\n\n'I will do no more than I have done, my lord,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and\nwhen thou art able to stand I will meet thee again. But to smite a\nwounded man that may not stand, I will not.'\n\nThen Sir Lancelot withdrew to the town, while Sir Gawaine still raved\nand abused him, and men marvelled both at the exceeding madness of the\nhatred of Sir Gawaine and the great restraint and nobleness of\nLancelot. Many said that had Sir Gawaine said half as many shameful\nthings to one of them, they would have instantly rased his evil head\nfrom his shoulders.\n\nFor a month Sir Gawaine lay sick, but was always eager to be up and\nable again. And at length the leech said that in three days he should\nride, whereat Sir Gawaine was joyful.\n\n'Again,' said he to King Arthur, who sat beside him, 'again shall I\nhave to do with that base fellow, and ill attend me if I do not end the\nmatter this time.'\n\n'Ye had ended it long ago, or been ended,' said the king, 'except for\nthe nobleness of Sir Lancelot that forbore to slay you.'\n\n'Ay, we all know your love of the pestilent fool, uncle,' said Sir\nGawaine, 'but we will stay here until we have made an end of him and\nhis kingdom, if it take us all our lives.'\n\nEven as he spoke there came the clear call of a trumpet outside in the\ncamp, and Sir Bedevere came to the door of the king's tent, his grim\nold face pale, his grizzled hair unkempt, and every sign of haste and\ntravel upon his dress.\n\nThe king started up. 'Sir Bedevere, ye bring evil tidings from\nBritain,' he cried. 'Can it be that more ruin and wrong is to come than\nthat I suffer now? What is your news?'\n\n'O my king, it is that Mordred your nephew hath rebelled,' said Sir\nBedevere, 'and has gathered much people about him, and hath sent many\nletters to all the lords and knights your vassals, promising them\nwealth and lands if they make him king. And Gwenevere your queen he\nhath imprisoned, saying that he will wed her when ye are slain.'\n\n'Mordred! Mordred!' cried the king, 'him that I thought was a quiet,\nstrong man--turned so base a traitor!'\n\n'Ay, he was ever the traitor, though brother of mine,' cried Sir\nGawaine in a voice of rage. 'A man that speaks in whispers, haunts dark\ncorners, and ever sneers with his lips.'\n\n'Hardly with my life have I escaped to tell you this,' went on Sir\nBedevere, 'for he placed men to watch me after I had scorned his evil\noffers to myself. But now, my lord, quickly ye must betake yourself and\nall your army from this fruitless and wrongful War against Sir\nLancelot, and hasten to beat down the poisonous viper whom ye have\nnourished in your bosom.'\n\nEre the day was done the army of King Arthur had raised the siege of\nSir Lancelot's town and were quickly marching to the sea, there to take\ntheir boats across to Britain to punish the usurper and traitor, Sir\nMordred.\n\nA fair wind carried them across the sea, but long ere they reached the\nshallows of the beach at Dover they saw the sunlight flashing from\nthousands of headpieces of knights and men-at-arms, set to oppose the\nlanding of their rightful lord. The king was fiercely angry, and he\ncommanded the masters of the ships to launch their small boats, and\ninto these the knights swarmed and were rowed towards the shore.\n\nBut the rebels of Mordred also launched boats and great pinnaces filled\nwith knights, and when the boats of the opposite parties met, then\nthere was fierce fighting and much slaughter of many good knights and\nbarons and other brave men. Then King Arthur and his chief knights drew\nforth their horses from the holds of the ships, and leaped with them\ninto the sea, and fiercely did they throw themselves upon Sir Mordred\nand his knights, and there was grievous fighting on horseback in the\nshallow water, which soon was dyed with the blood of the slain.\n\nSo stubborn were the king and his fighting men that the army of Mordred\nwas forced to retreat towards the land, and then, when the king and\nGawaine had trimmed their own ranks, order was given for one concerted\nrush against the enemy. The other side showed little fight now, and\nmade no stand, but fled inland.\n\nWhen the battle was over, King Arthur let bury his people that were\ndead, so far as they could be discovered in the waves; and the wounded\nhe caused to be carried into the town of Dover to be cared for.\n\nA squire came to the king as he stood giving orders as to these things.\n\n'My lord king,' said the squire, 'Sir Gawaine lies sore wounded in a\nboat, and we know not whether he be alive or dead.'\n\n'Alas!' cried the king, and the knights about him were full of pity at\nthe sudden grief that came into his voice and his looks, 'is this true?\nThen is all my joy of life at an end.'\n\nThe squire led him to the boat in which Sir Gawaine lay, who stirred as\nthe king approached, and feebly smiled.\n\n'My uncle,' said Sir Gawaine, 'wit you well that now is my death-day\ncome, for I know I shall not last this bout. For I am smitten upon the\nwound which Sir Lancelot gave me, and I feel that now I shall die.'\n\n'Alas, my sister's son,' cried the king, taking Sir Gawaine in his arms\nand kissing him, while the tears flowed down his cheeks, 'this is the\nwofullest day of all my life. For if ye depart, Gawaine, how solitary\nam I! Gawaine! Gawaine! in Sir Lancelot and in thee had I most my love\nand my joy, and now shall I lose ye both, and all my earthly joy is\ngone from me.'\n\n'Alas,' said Sir Gawaine, 'sorrow's on me now that I have caused you\nsuch grief, mine uncle. I see now that I have been mad with rage\nagainst that noble knight, Sir Lancelot, who slew my dear brothers\nunwittingly. And now I repent me sorely. I would that I could live to\nrepair the evil that I have done to you and to Sir Lancelot. But my\ntime is come. I shall not live till evening.'\n\nThey wept together, and the knights that stood about them also wept for\npure grief, to think how much sorrow and ruin was caused by the mad\nrage of Sir Gawaine, which had pushed the good king on to make war\nagainst his will.\n\n'I am the causer of this rebellion by my traitor brother,' said Sir\nGawaine, 'and my name shall be cursed for it. Had I not wilfully driven\nthee, thou wouldst have accorded with Sir Lancelot, and he and his\nbrave kinsmen would have held your cankered enemies in subjection, or\nelse cut them utterly away. Lift me up, my lord, and let me have a\nscribe, for I will send a letter to Sir Lancelot ere I die.'\n\nThen Sir Gawaine was set up by the king, and a priest was brought, who\nwrote at the dying man's dictation. And the purport of the letter was\nin this wise:\n\n'Unto Sir Lancelot, flower of all noble knights that ever I heard of or\nsaw, and once my dear friend, now do I, Sir Gawaine, King Lot's son of\nOrkney and the Lothians, and sister's son to King Arthur, send thee\ngreeting and let thee know by these writings that I am this day done to\ndeath, having been wounded at the landing against rebellious traitors,\nand struck upon the wound which thou didst give me twice, before thy\ncity. Whereby I have got my death. But I will have thee to wit that I\nsought my death of thee, and got that wound deservedly of thee, who\ncould have slain me twice, but for thy high nobility and great\ncourtesy. I, Gawaine, beseech of thee forgiveness for my madness, and\ncrave that thou wilt remember the dear friendly days we have had\ntogether in times long past, and for all the love that was between us.\nCome thou over the sea, and with thy knights do thou press to the help\nof Arthur, our noble lord, who is beset by a traitorous villain, my\nbrother Mordred, who hath dared to rebel against his rightful lord, and\nhath crowned himself king. Do thou hasten, good Sir Lancelot, when thou\nshalt receive this letter, and follow the king. But ere thou goest from\nthis seashore do thou come to my tomb, and pray some prayer more or\nless for my sinful soul, that in its madness did evilly entreat thee.'\n\nThen was Sir Gawaine shriven, and in a little while he swooned, while\nall stood uncovered round about him. When the rays of the afternoon sun\ncast long shadows of the knights and fighting men who were hurrying up\nand down the shore making ready to depart, Sir Gawaine awoke from his\nswoon and looked up. For a moment he did not recognise King Arthur;\nthen he smiled at him very sweetly and said in a low voice:\n\n'Kiss me--and forgive me!'\n\nThe king knelt down and kissed the pallid face of Sir Gawaine, and for\nvery sorrow he felt that the heart in his breast was nigh to bursting.\n\nSo in a little while, with the beat of the surf and the cry of the\nseagulls upon his ears, the light of the sun in his eyes, and the free\nair of heaven all about him, Sir Gawaine died. And his death was as he\nhad ever craved it to be, under the open sky, after battle, where he\nhad given good strokes and received them.\n\nNow the letter which Sir Gawaine had written was given unto a young\nsquire of Sir Gawaine's, by name Tewder, and he was commanded to depart\nforthwith back to Brittany, and deliver it into the hands of Sir\nLancelot. But, among the knights that had stood about the dying Sir\nGawaine, was a traitor, who was in the service of Sir Mordred the\nrebel, and he knew that if Sir Lancelot should receive that letter, and\ncome to Britain with all his brave kin and their host, Sir Mordred\nwould have much ado to conquer King Arthur.\n\nTherefore the traitor knight, whose name was Sir Fergus, did accost\nTewder the squire, and with fair seeming told him that he also was\nbidden to go back to Brittany, to bring back certain jewels which the\nking in his hasty departure had left in his lodging at the town of Dol.\n\nTewder, unsuspecting of all evil, went aboard a boat with Sir Fergus,\nand together they bargained with the master to take them across when\nthe tide should rise again at dark. Together they crossed the sea that\nnight and took the road towards Sir Lancelot's town; and in a dark wood\nSir Fergus set upon the squire, who fought bravely, but was slain at\nlast, and the letter of Sir Gawaine was taken by the traitor.\n\nThen, returning to the seashore, the wretch went aboard another boat,\nand chaffered with the merchant to take him across the sea to the town\nof Llongporth, whence he thought to get quickly to Mordred, to receive\nfrom him the reward of his treachery and murder. But at night, as they\nsailed over the dark sea, a fifty-oared longship, filled with Saxon\npirates, crept upon them; the pagans poured over the sides, slew men\nalmost in their sleep, and flung their bodies overboard. And though\nFergus fought well, his head was almost struck from his body by a great\nsheering axe-blow. When the pirates had taken all the goods they\ndesired from the merchant vessel, they stove a hole in its side, and it\nsank to the bottom of the sea. So that no man ever again saw the letter\nwhich was meant for Sir Lancelot.\n\nFor some weeks Sir Lancelot lay quiet, knowing naught of the death of\nSir Gawaine or of the letter desiring him to go to the help of King\nArthur. Many rumours came to him, through the ship-folk, of the wicked\nrebellion of Sir Mordred, and though Sir Lancelot longed to go across\nto Britain and fight for King Arthur, his kinsmen would not consent,\nbut said it would be unseemly, unless the king craved his aid, and sued\nfor pardon for making war against Sir Lancelot in his own country.\n\nThus the precious weeks went by, and much ill fortune happened in\nBritain, that had ended otherwise if Sir Lancelot had been by the king.\n\nThree days after the battle upon the shore, the king's host came up\nwith the host of Sir Mordred on Barham down. Many folks had joined the\nrebels' side, because they hated the king for making war upon Sir\nLancelot, and the king was sorely hurt in his mind to see a banner\nborne by one part of the usurper's army, on which was the device of Sir\nLancelot's.\n\nThis the crafty Sir Mordred had commanded to be done, knowing that it\nwould damp the spirits of King Arthur and his men.\n\n'Verily,' said King Arthur, 'my evil deeds have sprung up as armed men\nagainst me. I fought unjustly with Sir Lancelot, and here are some that\nloved him arrayed against me for that wicked war.'\n\n'If ye would send for Sir Lancelot,' said Sir Owen of the Fountain, who\nstood by him, 'ye would learn, I verily believe, that Sir Lancelot\nloves and worships you as of old, and hath no mind to fight on the side\nof this sly fox, Mordred. Send for Sir Lancelot, lord.'\n\n'Nay, I will not--I may not,' said the king. 'If he cometh by the words\nwhich Sir Gawaine wrote to him, I shall know that he loves me and\nforgives me; but if he cometh not, I shall know he hates me, and I\nshall merit his ill-favour. He owes naught to me since I used him so\nevilly, and therefore I may not ask his aid.'\n\nAll day the battle raged upon the great green down, and many were the\nfierce fights which took place upon the top thereof, where, behind\ngreat earthworks freshly timbered, the main host of Sir Mordred stood,\nthe banner of the great red dragon in their midst.\n\nBut at the last, so fast and fierce did the blows of King Arthur's men\nfall, and so stubbornly did they press on, that Sir Mordred's host gave\nway. Pouring forth by the upper gate, they ran pell-mell northwards,\nand the knights and fighting men of Arthur kept up with them for many\nmiles, and there was a running fight and much wounding and slaying all\nthrough the fresh green countryside, where the hedges were laden with\nMay-blossoms, and in the sky the larks were trilling.\n\nAnd that day many a wounded man crawled groaning into the thickets to\ndie, many a chalky cart-rut ran red with blood, and many a white face,\nwith wide-open, sightless eyes, stared up at the blue sky, where the\nfleecy clouds sailed in the gentle wind.\n\nFor three weeks after this battle both sides rested, and like great\nwrestlers gathered all their strength for one great struggle. Knights\nand riders were sent by both sides into all parts, with letters to\nlords and knights, charging them to take their sides in the war. Many\npeople from about London came to the banner of Mordred, and the parts\nnow called Kent, Sussex and Surrey, Essex and Suffolk held wholly with\nhim; but those in the west, as Wales, Devon, Cornwall and the middle\nparts, thronged to the banner of the king.\n\nFew came from the north, for there the pagan pirates stalked with fire\nand sword through and through the land, and the British lords and\nchiefs that were alive had little power to stay them now. King Uriens\nwas dead, slain by the dagger of a traitor, and so were two other great\nchieftains; so that men south of Trent sorrowfully shook their heads\nand said that now the north was no longer the land of the British folk,\nbut was given over to the savage heathen hordes.\n\nThen, to meet the many that flocked together in his favour, King Arthur\ndrew him with his host westward beyond Sarum. There on the wide downs\nbeside the great standing-stones of the Old Princes, which men now call\nStonehenge, a great multitude of chiefs and knights and yeomen came to\nhis banner.\n\nBut Sir Mordred avoided a battle, and, instead, kept aloof with his\narmy, and began to burn and harry the country which was on the side of\nArthur. He took Calleva and Cunetio, and put the people to the sword,\nand took much gear from those wealthy cities; then he stole through the\ngreat forest by night and came to Palladun, which was a rich town\nbuilded upon the top of a great hill. He thought to take this unawares,\nbut it was well watched and well armed, and he strove to break into it\nand was kept about it for some days.\n\nThat delay was used well by King Arthur, for he made great haste to\npass through the wild country, filled with wide marshes and thick woods\nas it was, which separated him from his enemy. Then Mordred, hearing\nthrough the spies of the king's approach, got his host away and thought\nto pass into the lands of Devon, which were those of King Dewer, son of\nthe dead Geraint, and held firmly for Arthur.\n\nBut in the wild waste-land beside the Endless Waters, King Arthur\ncaught up with him, and barred his further way. And the king remembered\nthat this was that same land, full of gaunt standing-stones and haunted\nby trolls and witches, where Merlin had once led him, and where he had\ngained the sword Excalibur.\n\nIt was late in the day when the two armies faced each other, and both\nprepared to pass the night upon the field. Bitter was the wind that\nevening, and the skies were dun and leaden of hue, as if spring had\nbeen overcome by winter; and to shelter the king a tent had been put up\nin a little dark wood of stunted firs, called the Wood of Drood. Just\nin the deep dark before the dawn, when the blood in men's veins was\ncoldest, and the life in their hearts was weakest, a dreadful cry\nwailed out through the dark wood, and there came the sound as of\nleathery wings flapping heavily to and fro above where the king lay\nsleeping. Men started up about their ashen fires, their faces blanching\nat the terror that cried in the dark, and they heard the wailing twice\nrepeated, while none dared try to see the thing that wailed.\n\nThen, while their blood chilled and their breath stayed, they heard the\nheavy flapping pass over their heads and die away towards the camp of\nMordred; and there in the distance did the three cries sound again.\n\nMen's hearts sickened as they turned and crept the nearer to each\nother, but few dared to utter the words upon their lips.\n\nTwo knights slept in the tent with king, Sir Kay and Sir Owen; and they\nlay in the dark, trembling at the cries of terrible import. When they\npassed, the knights would not move, fearing to be the first to speak.\n\n'My Lords,' came the quiet voice of King Arthur out of the dark, 'that\nwas the voice of the Hag of Warning. Men say it hath foretold the\ndeaths of many of my house, but I know not. Yet will I take the issue\nas God shall give it me, trusting in His mercy and the blood of His Son\nJesus, and Him crucified.'\n\n'Amen,' said the two knights, and said no more.\n\nWhen, in a little while, the sun rose, flashing his warm rays into the\nfearful eyes that greeted him, men's terror quickly vanished; and when\nfires were lit and oaten cakes were browning on the irons, or collops\nsputtered on their skewers, tongues were loosened and faces began to\nsmile. But few spoke of the cries which they had heard, for all loved\ntheir king, and hoped that somehow they had dreamed an evil dream, or\nhad but heard the cries of some foul night-bird.\n\nBreakfast being ended, the captains and knights began to trim their men\nin army array, and talk was eager of the coming battle. Then were seen,\ncoming from Sir Mordred's camp, two bishops; and these were taken at\ntheir desire to Arthur, where he stood surrounded by his knights and\nchieftains.\n\n'Lord,' said one of the bishops, he that was head of the great choir or\nmonastery of Amesbury, 'cannot we make accord between you and your\nnephew? Sad it is to see so many great and valiant warriors ranged\nagainst each other. Many are sisters' sons, and all are of one speech,\none kindred. If this unnatural war doth continue, how much sorrow there\nwill be, how many noble hearts be stilled in death or broken in grief\nfor him that shall never return! How many puissant bodies, now quick\nand passionate and handsome, will be meat for snarling wolves and\ncarrion for foul birds!'\n\n'What says my rebellious nephew?' asked the king sternly.\n\n'My lord,' said the other bishop, a man of soft and silky speech, and\nhe was chief of the choir of Clovesho, 'he asks but little, and if ye\nare willing to make treaty, he also is willing. Grant him but the\nearldom of Kent and the Andred, with a seat at London, during your\ndays, and do thou appoint him king after your days. For now that Sir\nGawaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth are slain, he is the only sister's\nson you have. If ye grant these things he will be your liege, faithful\nin all things, and a strong arm against your enemies.'\n\nThen some of King Arthur's knights would have him agree to these terms,\nbut others would not, and said the king should make no treaty with a\ntraitor, but that Mordred should come and throw himself upon the mercy\nof his king and uncle.\n\nAt the last, after much counsel had been taken, King Arthur agreed to\nmeet Mordred, with fourteen of his chief men, in the space betwixt\ntheir hosts, and the king should also take fourteen knights with him.\nSo the bishops went back with this message, and King Arthur called the\nchieftains of his host about him.\n\n'I go to see this traitor, my nephew,' he said to them, 'whether he\nmeans falsely or truly with this talk of a treaty. But look ye, I in no\nwise trust him. Hold ye your men warily, and if ye see any sword drawn\namong us where we stand, do thou sound the horns of attack and come on\nfiercely, and slay that rebel and all that hold with him.'\n\nIn like wise did Mordred warn his men, 'for,' said he, knowing how\ngreatly he had sinned against his generous and noble uncle, 'I know\nwell that King Arthur and his knights would be avenged on me if they\ncould.'\n\nThe party from each army went forward over the stony hillside, until\nthey met midway between the armies, and men watched them keenly. King\nArthur spoke chidingly to his nephew Mordred, who, sour and dark of\nface, looked craftily at the faces of his uncle and his knights. And\nthe chiefs with Mordred, men for the most part of violent and ambitious\nnatures, looked haughtily at King Arthur's party. Nevertheless, there\nwas no bad blood shown, and the talk was continued, and Mordred\nrepeated the demands which the bishops had made.\n\n'But I care not to give to thee Kent and London,' said the king. 'I\ntell thee frankly, Mordred, I would not trust thee there. I fear me\nthou wouldst try some crafty plot with the Saxon pagans if I gave them\nthee, as that rebel Caros did, who for a time made himself emperor of\nthe Romans here in this land.'\n\n'Ha' done, then, my father,' said Gorfalk, the son of Mordred, an\ninsolent young man. 'Let us cease this. I doubt not we be big enough to\nget all the kingdom if we fight.'\n\nThe king looked sternly at the young man, and there was silence among\nthem all as men waited for Arthur's reply.\n\nThen it happened that a young chieftain, standing near the king, felt\nsomething bite his foot where the low leathern shoe left it naked. He\nlooked down and saw that he was treading on a viper, which had struck\nhim and was about to strike again. With a cry the knight stepped aside,\ndrew his sword, and cut the reptile in two.\n\nAs the blade flashed, silvery bright in the sunlight, a great hoarse\ncry rose like thunder from the two masses of men watching them on\neither side; trumpets blared and horns squealed, and shouts of command\nrose sharp and keen.\n\nInstantly the men standing with Arthur and Mordred looked about them,\nsaw where the young chieftain stood with drawn sword, and knew that now\nnothing could avert the battle.\n\n'The gods will have it so!' sneered Mordred.\n\nAlready the earth trembled and shook with the beat of ten thousand feet\nof the armies rushing together. A knight of Mordred's, drawing his\nsword, thrust it into the breast of one of Arthur's chieftains, with\nthe cry:\n\n'This for thy land, Sir Digon, that marches with mine!'\n\nInstantly others fell to fighting hand-to-hand, striking on targe and\nhelm; but Sir Owen, Sir Kay and Sir Bedevere surrounded the king, and\nall hurried back to the army approaching them. So likewise did Sir\nMordred.\n\nThen came the crash of battle, as line on line, with flashing swords\nheld high, the ranks of war closed. Blades rose again, stained red,\nfierce strangled cries came from men in the death-grips, helms were\ncracked, shields riven, dirks sank home, and men who once had drunk and\njested with laughing looks over the same mead-board, now met fierce eye\nto eye, and never parted until one or both fell in the swaths of the\ndeath-harvest.\n\nAll day the stubborn battle raged, and ever the king sought out the\nrebel Mordred, but never reached him. Many valiant deeds he did,\nwielding his sword Excalibur; and by his side were Owen and Kay, Lucan\nand Bedevere. So spent were they at the last that hardly could they\nlift their swords, and so sick of the slaying were they that gladly\nwould they have ceased. But ever some vicious band of Mordred's knights\nwould come upon them, and then they quitted them like men, and ceased\nnot till their enemies had fled or were slain.\n\nSuddenly the king came to himself, and, standing still, looked upon the\nfield. In the morning it had been but a bare hillside of hungry,\nstunted grass, through which the stones showed grey and sallow, like\nancient bones. Now, in the low light of the sinking orb, it was\nred--red, with the pallid faces of the dead stained a lighter red in\nthe rays of the sun. Here and there bands still fought together, cries\nof fury rose, and the groans of the dying mingled with them.\n\n'Alas!' cried the king, and looked behind him, 'where are all my noble\nknights?'\n\nThere were but two with him now, Lucan and his brother Bedevere.\n\n'Where is Owen, and Kay?' he asked.\n\n'Alas, lord,' said Bedevere, 'Sir Owen got his death-wound by the thorn\nwhere we fought those five knights but now, and Sir Kay suddenly fell\nas he walked. And when I knelt to speak to him, I found him dead.'\n\n'Alas,' said the king, 'that ever I should see this doleful day, for\nnow is my end come. But would to Heaven that I wist where is that\ntraitor Mordred, that hath caused all this sorrow and ruin.'\n\nThen, as he spoke, he looked towards the east, and saw where, by a tall\nstanding-stone, a man leaned as if spent with a wound. And he was aware\nthat this was Mordred.\n\n'Now give me my spear,' said the king to Sir Lucan, 'for yonder is the\ntraitor, and he shall not escape me.'\n\n'Lord,' said Sir Lucan in a weak voice, 'let him bide, for he hath none\nwith him, while we three are still alive.'\n\n'Now, betide me death, betide me life,' said the king, 'now that I see\nhim yonder I will slay the serpent, lest he live to work more havoc on\nthis my poor kingdom.'\n\n'God speed you well,' said Sir Bedevere, and gave the king his spear.\n\nThen the king ran towards Sir Mordred, crying:\n\n'Traitor, prepare, now is thy death-day come!'\n\nWhen Sir Mordred heard King Arthur he raised his head, then came\ntowards the king with his sword in his hand.\n\nAnd there, in the shadow of the great stone, King Arthur smote Sir\nMordred under the shield, with so keen a stroke of his spear that it\nwent through the body and out beyond. Sir Mordred, feeling that death\nwas upon him, thrust himself along the spear almost to the butt\nthereof, nigh where King Arthur held it, and grasping his sword in both\nhis hands, he struck his uncle on the side of the head, with so keen\nand fierce a blow that the sword pierced the helm and the skull.\n\nWith that stroke Sir Mordred fell stark dead to the earth, and the king\nsank in a swoon upon his body.\n\nThen Sir Bedevere and Sir Lucan, who were both sore wounded and weakly,\ncame up, and between them, with many rests upon the way, took the king\nto a little combe beside the waters, and there they took off his helm\nand bathed his wound and bound it. After which the king felt easier.\n\n'We may do naught else with thee here, lord,' said Sir Lucan, 'and it\nwere best that we got thee to some town.'\n\n'It would be better so,' said the king, 'but I fear me I have my\ndeath-wound.'\n\nWhen they had rested Sir Lucan tried to rise, so as to take up the\nking.\n\n'I may not rise,' he cried, his hands upon his head, 'my brain works\nso.'\n\nNevertheless, the knight staggered to his feet and lifted up the feet\nof the king. But the effort was too much for him, and with a deathly\ngroan he fell to the ground, and when he had twitched and struggled a\nlittle he lay dead.\n\n'Alas,' said the king, 'this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this\nnoble knight so die for my sake. He would not complain, so set was he\nto help me, and now his heart has broken.'\n\nThen Sir Bedevere went to his brother and kissed him, and closed his\neyes.\n\n'Now,' said the king, 'come hither to me, Bedevere, for my time goeth\nfast and I remember me of a promise. Therefore,' he bade Sir Bedevere,\n'do thou take Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it beyond the combe\nside there where a low thorn grows, and when thou comest there, I\ncharge thee, throw my sword in that water, and come again and tell me\nwhat thou seest.'\n\nSo Sir Bedevere departed with the sword, and on the way he looked at\nthe sword, and saw how noble was the blade and how shining, and how the\npommel and haft were full of precious stones.\n\n'If I throw this sword into the water,' said Sir Bedevere to himself,\n'how great a sin 'twould be to waste so noble a weapon.'\n\nTherefore he hid it in the branches of the thorn and returned to the\nking.\n\n'What sawest thou?' asked the king when Bedevere returned.\n\n'Sir,' he said, 'I saw the wind beat on the waves.'\n\n'Ye have not done as I bid thee,' said the king. 'Now, therefore, do\nthou go again and do as I bid thee; and as thou art dear to me, spare\nit not, but throw it in.'\n\nThen Sir Bedevere went back and took the sword in his hand; but again\nhe could not bring himself to throw away that noble sword, so again he\nhid the sword and went back to the king.\n\n'What sawest thou this time?' said the king.\n\n'Lord,' said Bedevere, 'I saw the waters ebb and flow and the sedges\ntrembling.'\n\n'Ah, traitor untrue!' said the king, deep sorrow in his voice, 'who\nwould have weened that thou who hast been so true and dear to me, and\nwho hast been named a noble knight, would betray me for the jewels on a\nsword? Now go ye again, I charge thee, and as thou shalt answer for thy\nsins at the last day, throw ye the sword far into the waters.'\n\nThen in heavy mood Sir Bedevere went the third time, and took the sword\nfrom its hiding-place, and looking away from the weapon lest its beauty\nshould soften him, he bound the girdle about the hilt, and then he\nthrew the sword with all his might far out over the water.\n\nAs he looked, inwardly lamenting, he saw the jewels flash in the low\nlight as the sword passed through the air. Then suddenly, when it\nneared the water, he marvelled to see a great arm and hand come up\nthrough the waves. The hand caught the weapon by the haft, shook it and\nbrandished it thrice, and then vanished with the sword under the waves.\n\nWith some fear in his heart Sir Bedevere went back to the king and told\nhim all that he had seen.\n\n'It is well,' said the king. 'Now have I performed my promise. Help me\nhence to some village, for I am cold and would die beneath a roof, if I\nmay.'\n\nThen Sir Bedevere took the king upon his back, thinking that he would\nfind some road in a little while which should lead them to a hamlet.\nAnd as he went along, he passed by the waterside, near the low thorn\nwhence he had thrown the sword into the water.\n\nThere, in the sedges, he marvelled to see a barge draped all in black\ncloth, and in it sat many fair ladies, all with black hoods on. When\nthey saw Sir Bedevere with the king upon his back, they shrieked and\nwept.\n\nAnd one that looked a queen, so fair and stately, yet so sad was she,\nheld out her arms towards the king, and cried unto him in a voice\nwondrous sweet, 'Come to me, brother!'\n\n'Put me into the barge,' said the king to Bedevere, 'for there I shall\nhave rest.'\n\nSoftly did Sir Bedevere lay him in the barge, and the fair ladies wept\nover the king with much mourning, and one laid his head in her lap and\ncaressed it with soft hands.\n\nThen, without sails or oars, the barge went from the shore, and fear\nand sorrow shook the soul of Sir Bedevere to see them go from him.\n\n'Alas, my lord Arthur,' he cried, 'what shall become of me if ye are\nleaving me lonely?'\n\n'Comfort thyself,' said the king in a faint voice, 'and do as well as\nthou mayest, for in me ye may no longer trust. For I will go into the\nvale of Avalon to heal me of my grievous wound, and if thou hear never\nmore of me, pray for my soul.'\n\nSir Bedevere stood watching till the barge went from his sight in the\nmists of evening, and then he wept a little, and so fared forward\nthrough the night, weeping as he thought how all the glory that was\nArthur's was now past, and how he himself was very old and very lonely.\n\nWhen morning broke he was aware of a little chapel and a hermitage\nbetween two hoar woods upon a knoll beside the marshes, and entering\ntherein he got cheer of the holy hermit and rested.\n\n                     *      *      *      *      *\n\nNow, when King Arthur had gone westwards to collect his host, Sir Owen,\nmarvelling that Sir Lancelot had sent no word in reply to the letter of\nSir Gawaine, had charged a trusty squire of his to go across to\nBrittany, to tell Sir Lancelot of all that had passed and how King\nArthur longed for his aid and his love. Nigh mad with grief was Sir\nLancelot when he had learned all, and so deep was his sorrow and so\nwild was his regret, that hardly could he wait till the ships were\nready to take him and his knights and army across to Britain.\n\nWhen they arrived at Dover, Sir Lancelot sought out the tomb of Sir\nGawaine, and there with much weeping he prayed long and earnestly for\nthe repose of the soul of that dead warrior, his once dear friend. All\nthe other knights prayed likewise for the soul of Gawaine, and Sir\nLancelot gave one hundred pounds for masses to be said, and the others\ngave according to their means.\n\nThen word was brought him of the daylong dreadful battle in the west,\nand how King Arthur was gone, mortally wounded, none knew whither, and\nhow all the knights of the Round Table were dead.\n\nSilent was Sir Lancelot at this news, but men saw how his stern face\npaled; and for a time he walked apart and would suffer none to speak to\nhim. Then he came to his knights, and all could see how his looks had\nchanged. Grief was deeply lined upon his face, and he had the air of an\naged and weary man.\n\n'My fair lords,' he said, 'I thank you all for your coming with me, but\nwe came too late. But now I go alone to find the body of my dear lord,\nand if I may, I will see my lady, Queen Gwenevere. And do ye all go\nback into your country, for now we have no place in this.'\n\nThus Sir Lancelot fared forth, and would suffer none to go with him.\nFirst he went to Amesbury, and in the convent there he saw Queen\nGwenevere. Few but very sad were the words they spake. Sir Lancelot\noffered to give her a home in Brittany, away from the trouble and the\nruin of the land, but she would not.\n\n'My lord is dead,' she said, weeping, 'and this dear kingdom may not\nlong stand, but while I live I will stay on its dear soil.'\n\nThen Sir Lancelot fared far west through the wastelands, and came to\nthe battlefield; and there he wept sorely to see the long lines of\ndead. Many were the dead knights of the Round Table whom he found\nunburied, and these with his own hands he laid in the grave, and he\nprocured a priest to say prayers over them.\n\nFurther he went beside the shores of the Endless Waters, until one day\nhe found a black barge, and stepping therein he was taken without sail\nor oars far over the wide sea, until the twilight. Then, raising his\nsorrowing eyes, he was aware of a fair green island with a valley\nbetween two sweet hills, and there was a chapel, and all about it were\ntrees all laden with blossoms.\n\nA little bell began to ring just as the barge lightly touched the\nshore, and stepping therefrom, Sir Lancelot went into the chapel, and\nheard mass. Afterwards a bishop came unto him where he kneeled, and a\nhermit, and the latter seized his hand; and when he looked up Sir\nLancelot knew it for Sir Bedevere. Neither could speak for the great\ntears that rolled down their grim faces, but Sir Bedevere drew him\nforth and led him to where a great white marble slab was lying, freshly\ncut, in the midmost part of the chapel.\n\nThereon Sir Lancelot saw the words, cut deep and wide, in black\nletters:\n\n            HIC JACET\n\n          ARTHURUS REX\n\n    QUONDAM REX QUE FUTURUS\n\nThen did Sir Lancelot's heart almost burst with sorrow; and when he had\nfinished praying and weeping, he kneeled unto the bishop and prayed him\nto shrive him and assoil him. Afterwards he besought him that he might\nlive with him, and the holy man granted his request, and there ever\nafter did Sir Lancelot, putting off all the fame and glory which he had\ngotten in the world, pass all his days and nights, serving God with\nprayers and fastings and much abstinence.\n\nWhen, within a year, Queen Gwenevere died in her cell at Amesbury, Sir\nLancelot, having been advised in a dream of her death, braved the bands\nof lawless men that now ravaged the fair land of Britain, and brought\nher body to the isle of Glastonbury. He laid it solemnly beside the\nbody of her dear lord Arthur, and thereafter he endured greater\npenance.\n\n'For,' said he, 'by my stiffnecked pride did all this evil come. If I\nhad gone straightway to my dear lord, and cast myself upon his love and\njustice, my lady the queen would not have been led to the stake, and I\nshould not unwittingly have slain young Gareth. I am the causer of all\nthe ruin and the sorrow that hath come upon this land, and never while\nI live may I forgive me.'\n\nThus evermore he prayed and mourned, day and night, but sometimes he\nslumbered a broken sleep. He ate but little, and neither the bishop nor\nSir Bedevere could make him take comfort. And if you would know the\ntime and place where Lancelot was happiest, it was when he was lying on\nthe tomb of King Arthur and Queen Gwenevere.\n\nAt last, on a sweet morn in June, they found him lying there, stark\ndead, but with a gentle smile upon his wasted face. And when they had\nmade the mass of requiem, they laid him in the tomb at the feet of the\nking and the queen, and on the slab that covered him they caused these\nwords to be graven:\n\n                    HERE LIETH\n               SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE\n     WHO WAS CHIEF OF ALL CHRISTIAN KNIGHTS;\n      THE MOST COURTEOUS MAN AND THE TRUEST\n    FRIEND, THE MEEKEST DOER OF GREAT DEEDS,\n       AND THE GENTLEST TO ALL LADIES AND\n                 WEAK CREATURES.\n                     R. I. P.","title":"King Arthur's Knights: The Tales Re-told for Boys & Girls","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":111717}