{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_24624/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_24624","id":"gutenberg_24624","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24624","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Romance","Fairy tales"],"text":"Transcriber's Note\n\nObvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of changes is\nfound at the end of the book.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: HOW GUNNAR MET HALLGERDA]\n\n\n\n\n                    THE\n              RED ROMANCE BOOK\n\n\n                 EDITED BY\n                ANDREW LANG\n\n\n               [Illustration]\n\n\n          LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.\n        39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON\n  FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET, NEW YORK\n\n\n                    1921\n\n\n\n\n_PREFACE_\n\nWHAT ROMANCES ARE\n\n(TO CHILDREN AND OTHERS)\n\n\nI once read a book about a poor little lonely boy in a great house with\na large library. This boy was pale, dull, and moping. Nobody knew what\nwas the matter with him. But somebody tracked him into the library and\nsaw him take a huge thick black book, half as tall as himself, out of a\nbookcase, and sit down and read it. The name of the book was\n_Polexander_. So he sat and sobbed over _Polexander_, because it was so\nvery dull and so very long. There were 800 pages, and he had only read\nsixty-seven. But some very stupid grown-up person had told him that he\nmust always begin a book at the beginning, and, if he once began, he\nmust read every word of it, and read nothing else till he had finished\nevery word of it.\n\nThe boy saw that he would die of weariness long before he reached the\nend of _Polexander_, but he stuck to it like the other boy who stood by\nthe burning deck long after it was 'time for him to go.' So _Polexander_\nwas taken away from him and locked up, and so his life was saved.\n\nNow, in the first place _Polexander_ was a romance, but it was not like\nthe romances in this book, for it was dreadfully long, and mainly about\nthe sorrows of lovers who cannot get married. That could not amuse a\nsmall boy. In the second place, every boy should stop reading a book as\nsoon as he finds that he does not like it, just as you are not expected\nto eat more mutton than you want to eat. Lesson books are another thing;\nyou have to read them, and if you do not you will get into trouble. They\nare not meant to be amusing, but to teach Latin grammar, or geography,\nor arithmetic, which are not gay. As to this book of Romances, if you do\nnot like one story, give it up and try another. If you do not like any\nof them, read something else that you do like.\n\nNow what are romances? They are grown-up people's fairy tales or\nstory-books, but they are the kind of story-books that grown-up people\nread long ago, when there were castles and knights, and tournaments, and\nthe chief business of gentlemen was to ride about in full armour,\nfighting, while ladies sat at home doing embroidery work, or going to\nsee the men tilt at tournaments, just as they go to see cricket matches\nnow. But they liked tournaments better, because they understood the\nrules of the game. Anybody could see when one knight knocked another\ndown, horse and all, but many ladies do not understand leg before\nwicket, or stumping.\n\nThe stories that they read were called 'romances,' but were in prose.\nBefore people could read they were not in prose but in poetry, and were\nrecited by minstrels. Mrs. Lang, who did the stories in this book, says:\n'Many hundreds of years ago, when most of these stories were told in the\nhalls of great castles, the lives of children were very different from\nwhat they are now. The little girls were taught by their mothers'\nmaidens to spin and embroider, or make simple medicines from the common\nherbs, and the boys learnt to ride and tilt, and shoot with bows and\narrows; but their tasks done, no one paid any further heed to them. They\nhad very few games, and in the long winter evenings the man who went\nfrom house to house, telling or singing the tales of brave deeds, must\nhave been welcome indeed. From him the children, who early became men\nand women, heard of the evil fate that awaited cowardice and treachery,\nand grew to understand that it was their duty through life to help those\nthat were weaker than themselves.' That was long, long ago, when nobody\nbut priests and a very few gentlemen could read and write. They just\nlistened to stories in rhyme, which the minstrels sang, striking their\nharps at the end of each verse.\n\nThe stories were really fairy tales, dressed up and spun out, and\ninstead of 'a boy' or 'a king' or 'a princess' with no name, the old\nfairy adventures were said to have happened to people with names: King\nArthur, or Charlemagne, or Bertha Broadfoot. A little real history came\nin, but altered, and mixed up with fairy tales, and done into rhyme.\n\nLater, more and more people learned to read, and now the long poems were\ndone into prose, and written in books, not printed but written books;\nand these were the Romances, very long indeed, all about fighting, and\nlove-making, and giants, and dwarfs, and magicians, and enchanted\ncastles, and dragons and flying horses. These romances were the novels\nof the people of the Middle Ages, about whom you can read in the History\nBooks of Mrs. Markham. They were not much like the novels which come\nfrom the library for your dear mothers and aunts. There is not much\nfighting in them, though there is any amount of love-making, and there\nare no giants; and if there is a knight, he is usually a grocer or a\ndoctor, quite the wrong sort of knight.\n\nHere is the beginning of a celebrated novel: 'Comedy is a game played to\nthrow reflections upon social life, and it deals with human nature in\nthe drawing-rooms of civilised men and women.' You do not want to read\nany more of that novel. It is not at all like a good old romance of\nknights and dragons and enchanted princesses and strong wars. The\nknights and ladies would not have looked at such a book, all about\ndrawing-rooms.\n\nNow, in this book, we have made the old romances much shorter, keeping\nthe liveliest parts, in which curious things happen. Some of the tales\nwere first told in Iceland eight hundred years ago, and are mostly true\nand about real people. Some are from the ancient French romances of the\nadventures of Charlemagne, and his peers and paladins. Some are from\nlater Italian poems of the same kind. 'Cupid and Psyche' is older, and\nso is the story of the man who was changed into a donkey. These are from\nan old Latin romance, written when people were still heathens, most of\nthem. Some are about the Danes in England (of whom you may have heard),\nbut there is not much history in them.\n\nMrs. Lang says: 'In this book you will read of men who, like Don\nQuixote, were often mistaken but never mean, and of women, such as Una\nand Bradamante, who kept patient and true, in spite of fierce trials and\ntemptations. I have only related a few of their adventures, but when you\ngrow older you can read them for yourselves, in the languages in which\nthey were written.'\n\n'Don Quixote' was written by a Spaniard, Cervantes, in the time of James\nI. of England, to show what would happen if a man tried to behave like a\nknight of old, after people had become more civilised and less\ninteresting. Don Quixote was laughed at, because he came too late into\ntoo old a world. But he was as brave and good a knight as the best\npaladin of them all. So about the knights and ladies and dwarfs and\ngiants, I hope you will think like Sir Walter Scott, when he was a boy,\nand read the old romances. He says: 'Heaven only knows how glad I was to\nfind myself in such company.'\n\nIf you like the kind of company, then read 'Ivanhoe,' by Sir Walter\nScott, for that is the best romance in the world.\n\nAll the stories in this book were done by Mrs. Lang, out of the old\nromances.\n\nANDREW LANG.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n  _How William of Palermo was carried off by the Werwolf_            1\n  _The Disenchantment of the Werwolf_                               13\n  _The Slaying of Hallgerda's Husbands_                             28\n  _The Death of Gunnar_                                             45\n  _Njal's Burning_                                                  71\n  _The Lady of Solace_                                              84\n  _Una and the Lion_                                                93\n  _How the Red Cross Knight slew the Dragon_                       105\n  _Amys and Amyle_                                                 128\n  _The Tale of the Cid_                                            141\n  _The Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance_                        165\n  _The Adventure of the Two Armies who turned out to be Flocks\n     of Sheep_                                                     177\n  _The Adventure of the Boiling Lights_                            190\n  _The Helmet of Mambrino_                                         194\n  _How Don Quixote was Enchanted while guarding the Castle_        202\n  _Don Quixote's Home-coming_                                      209\n  _The Meeting of Huon and Oberon, King of the Fairies_            213\n  _How Oberon saved Huon_                                          221\n  _Havelok and Goldborough_                                        234\n  _Cupid and Psyche_                                               251\n  _Sir Bevis the Strong_                                           267\n  _Ogier the Dane_                                                 287\n  _How the Ass became a Man again_                                 298\n  _Guy of Warwick_                                                 309\n  _How Bradamante conquered the Wizard_                            320\n  _The Ring of Bradamante_                                         331\n  _The Fulfilling of the Prophecy_                                 341\n  _The Knight of the Sun_                                          351\n  _How the Knight of the Sun rescued his Father_                   360\n\n\n\n\n_ILLUSTRATIONS_\n\n_COLOURED PLATES_\n\n\n  _How Gunnar met Hallgerda_                              _Frontispiece_\n  _The Werwolf carries Prince William away_            _To face p._  2\n  _The Lady of Solace_                                      \"       86\n  _At the sight of the Lion she flung down the pitcher_     \"      102\n  _The End of the Dragon_                                   \"      124\n  _Softly she rose to her feet and stole out of the wood_   \"      134\n  _Aphrodite finds Psyche's Task accomplished_              \"      264\n  _How the Fairies came to see Ogier the Dane_              \"      288\n\n\n  _PLATES_\n\n  _The Lovers meet by plan of Alexandrine_             _To face p._  8\n  _The Bearskin--Am not I a bold Beast?_                    \"       14\n  _The Fury of the Werwolf_                                 \"       24\n  _How Thorwald was slain by Thiostolf_                     \"       32\n  _Thiostolf decides to slay Glum_                          \"       40\n  _Otkell and Gunnar in the Field_                          \"       58\n  _Gunnar's last Fight and Hallgerda's Revenge_             \"       66\n  _How Kari escaped from Njal's House_                      \"       78\n  _The Lady of Solace helps the Fallen Knight_              \"       88\n  _The Red Cross Knight enters the Monster's Cave_          \"       96\n  _Una saved by the Wood-Folk_                              \"      106\n  _Arthur fights the Seven-Headed Serpent_                  \"      112\n  _In the Cave of Despair_                                  \"      120\n  _Rodrigo brings home the head of Gomez_                   \"      142\n  _Don Diego and Don Fernan show that they are cowards_     \"      154\n  _Don Quixada declared that he would give his Housekeeper\n     and his Niece into the bargain for the pleasure of\n     bestowing one kick on Ganelon the traitor_             \"      166\n  _Don Quixote determines to attack the Windmills_          \"      180\n  _How the Galley Slaves repaid Don Quixote_                \"      198\n  _The Meeting of Huon and Oberon_                          \"      216\n  _Round the Bag which held the Boy a brilliant Light was\n     shining_                                               \"      236\n  _Zephyr carries Psyche down from the Mountain_            \"      254\n  _Little Bevis avenges his Father_                         \"      268\n  _Strong Sir Bevis keeps the Two Dragons at Bay_           \"      278\n  _Bradamante defeats the Wizard with the Ring_             \"      326\n  _Roger borne away from Bradamante_                        \"      332\n  _The Two Damsels rescue Roger from the Rabble_            \"      336\n  _The Giant's Daughter reproaches the Two Brothers_        \"      360\n  _The Knight of the Sun fights the Serpent_                \"      366\n\n\n  _ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT._\n                                                                  PAGE\n  _The Emperor carries William away_                                 5\n  _The Werwolf's Visit to the Cave_                                 19\n  _Hauskuld's Pride in Hallgerda_                                   29\n  _How Gunnar slew Thorgeir, Otkell's Son_                          63\n  _Sudden Departure of Una's Parents_                               94\n  _In Archimago's Cell: the Evil Dream_                            100\n  _The Two Cups_                                                   132\n  _Sir Amyle arrives in time to save the Ladies_                   139\n  _Don Quixote belabours the Muleteer_                             175\n  _Don Quixote's Battle with the Wine-skins_                       203\n  _Huon defeats the Giant Agrapart_                                227\n  _Havelok presents Goldborough to the English People_             247\n  _Aphrodite brings Cupid to Psyche_                               252\n  _Joyfully the Eagle bore back the Urn_                           265\n  _Ogier the Dane meets Morgane le Fay at last_                    293\n  _Apuleius changes into an Ass_                                   302\n\n\n\n\n_HOW WILLIAM OF PALERMO WAS CARRIED OFF BY THE WERWOLF_\n\n\nMany hundreds of years ago there lived in the beautiful city of Palermo\na little prince who was thought, not only by his parents but by everyone\nwho saw him, to be the handsomest child in the whole world. When he was\nfour years old, his mother, the queen, made up her mind that it was time\nto take him away from his nurses, so she chose out two ladies of the\ncourt who had been friends of her own youth, and to them she entrusted\nher little son. He was to be taught to read and write, and to talk\nGreek, the language of his mother's country, and Latin, which all\nprinces ought to know, while the Great Chamberlain would see that he\nlearned to ride and shoot, and, when he grew bigger, how to wield a\nsword.\n\nFor a while everything went on as well as the king and queen could wish.\nPrince William was quick, and, besides, he could not bear to be beaten\nin anything he tried to do, whether it was making out the sense of a\nroll of parchment written in strange black letters, which was his\nreading-book, or mastering a pony which wanted to kick him off. And the\npeople of Palermo looked on, and whispered to each other:\n\n'Ah! what a king he will make!'\n\nBut soon a terrible end came to all these hopes!\n\nWilliam's father, king Embrons, had a brother who would have been the\nheir to the throne but for the little prince. He was a wicked man, and\nhated his nephew, but when the boy was born he was away at the wars, and\ndid not return till five years later. Then he lost no time in making\nfriends with the two ladies who took care of William, and slowly managed\nto gain their confidence. By-and-by he worked upon them with his\npromises and gifts, till they became as wicked as he was, and even\nagreed to kill not only the child, but the king his father.\n\nNow adjoining the palace at Palermo was a large park, planted with\nflowering trees and filled with wild beasts. The royal family loved to\nroam about the park, and often held jousts and sports on the green\ngrass, while William played with his dogs or picked flowers.\n\nOne day--it was a festival--the whole court went into the park at noon,\nafter they had finished dining, and the queen and her ladies busied\nthemselves with embroidering a quilt for the royal bed, while the king\nand his courtiers shot at a mark. Suddenly there leapt from a bush a\nhuge grey wolf with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. Before\nanyone had time to recover from his surprise, the great beast had caught\nup the child, and was bounding with him through the park, and over the\nwall into the plain by the sea. When the courtiers had regained their\nsenses, both the wolf and boy were out of sight.\n\nOh! what weeping and wailing burst forth from the king and queen when\nthey understood that their little son was gone from them for ever, only,\nas they supposed, to die a cruel death! For of course they did not know\nthat one far worse had awaited him at home.\n\nAfter the first shock, William did not very much mind what was happening\nto him. The wolf jerked him on to his back, and told him to hold fast by\nhis ears, and the boy sat comfortably among the thick hair, and did not\neven get his feet wet as they swam across the Straits of Messina. On the\nother side, not far from Rome, was a forest of tall trees, and as by\nthis time it was getting dark, the wolf placed William on a bed of soft\nfern, and broke off a branch of delicious fruits, which he gave him for\nsupper. Then he scooped out a deep pit with his paws, and lined it\nwith moss and feathery grasses, and there they both lay down and slept\ntill morning; in spite of missing his mother, in all his life William\nhad never been so happy.\n\n[Illustration: The Wer-Wolf carries Prince William away]\n\nFor eight days they stayed in the forest, and it seemed to the boy as if\nhe had never dwelt anywhere else. There was so much to see and to do,\nand when he was tired of playing the wolf told him stories.\n\nBut one morning, before he was properly awake, he felt himself gently\nshaken by a paw, and he sat up, and looked about him. 'Listen to me,'\nsaid the wolf. 'I have to go right over to the other side of the wood,\non some business of a friend's, and I shall not be back till sunset. Be\ncareful not to stray out of sight of this pit, for you may easily lose\nyourself. You will find plenty of fruit and nuts piled up under that\ncherry tree.'\n\nSo the wolf went away, and the child curled himself up for another\nsleep, and when the sun was high and its beams awakened him, he got up\nand had his breakfast. While he was eating, birds with blue and green\nfeathers came and hopped on his shoulder and pecked at the fruit he was\nputting into his mouth, and William made friends with them all, and they\nsuffered him to stroke their heads.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow there dwelt in the forest an old cowherd, who happened that morning\nto have work to do not far from the pit where William lived with the\nwolf. He took with him a big dog, which helped him to collect the cows\nwhen they wandered, and to keep off any strange beasts that threatened\nto attack them. On this particular morning there were no cows, so the\ndog ran hither and thither as he would, enjoying himself mightily, when\nsuddenly he set up a loud barking, as if he had found a prey, and the\nnoise caused the old man to hasten his steps.\n\nWhen he reached the spot from which the noise came, the dog was standing\nat the edge of a pit, out of which came a frightened cry. The old man\nlooked in, and there he saw a child clad in garments that shone like\ngold, shrinking timidly into the farthest corner.\n\n'Fear nothing, my boy,' said the cowherd; 'he will never hurt you, and\neven if he wished I would not let him;' and as he spoke he held out his\nhand. At this William took courage. He was not really a coward, but he\nfelt lonely and it seemed a long time since the wolf had gone away.\nWould he _really_ ever come back? This old man looked kind, and there\ncould be no harm in speaking to him. So he took the outstretched hand\nand scrambled out of the pit, and the cowherd gathered apples for him,\nand other fruits that grew on the tops of trees too high for the wolf to\nreach. And all the day they wandered on and on, till they came to the\ncowherd's cottage, before which an old woman was standing.\n\n'I have brought you a little boy,' he said, 'whom I found in the\nforest.'\n\n'Ah, a lucky star was shining when you got up to-day,' answered she.\n'And what is your name, my little man? And will you stay and live with\nme?'\n\n'My name is William, and you look kind like my grandmother, and I will\nstay with you,' said the boy; and the old people were very glad, and\nthey milked a cow, and gave him warm milk for his supper.\n\nWhen the wolf returned--he was not a wolf at all, but the son of the\nking of Spain, who had been enchanted by his stepmother--he was very\nunhappy at finding the pit empty. Indeed, his first thought was that a\nlion must have carried off the boy and eaten him, or that an eagle must\nhave pounced on him from the sky, and borne him away to his young ones\nfor supper. But after he had cried till he could cry no more, it\noccurred to him that before he gave up the boy for dead it would be well\nto make a search, as perchance there might be some sign of his\nwhereabouts. So he dried his eyes with his tail and jumped up quite\ncheerfully.\n\n[Illustration: The Emperor carries William away]\n\nHe began by looking to see if the bushes round about were broken and\ntorn as if some great beast had crashed through them. But they were all\njust as he had left them in the morning, with the creepers still\nknotting tree to tree. No, it was clear that no lion had been near the\nspot. Then he examined the ground carefully for a bird's feather or a\nshred of a child's dress; he did not find these either, but the marks\nof a man's foot were quite plain, and these he followed.\n\nThe track turned and twisted for about two miles, and then stopped at a\nlittle cottage with roses climbing up the walls. The wolf did not want\nto show himself, so he crept quietly round to the back, where there was\na hole in the door just big enough for the cats to come in and out of.\nThe wolf peeped through this hole and saw William eating his supper, and\nchattering away to the old woman as if he had known her all his life,\nfor he was a friendly little boy, and purred like a pussy-cat when he\nwas pleased. And when the wolf saw that all was well with the child, he\nwas glad and went his way.\n\n'William will be safer with them than with me,' he said to himself.\n\nMany years went by, and William had grown a big boy, and was very useful\nto the cowherd and his wife. He could shoot now with his bow and arrow\nin a manner which would have pleased his first teacher, and he and his\nplayfellows--the sons of charcoal-burners and woodmen--were wont to keep\nthe pots supplied at home with the game they found in the forest.\nBesides this, he filled the pails full of water from the stream, and\nchopped wood for the fire, and, sometimes, was even trusted to cook the\ndinner. And when _this_ happened William was a very proud boy indeed.\n\nOne day the emperor planned a great hunt to take place in the forest,\nand, while following a wild boar, he outstripped all his courtiers and\nlost his way. Turning first down one path and then the other, he came\nupon a boy gathering fruit, and so beautiful was he that the emperor\nthought that he must be of a fairy race.\n\n'What is your name, my child?' asked the emperor; 'and where do you\nlive?'\n\nThe boy looked round at the sound of his voice, and, taking off his cap,\nbowed low.\n\n'I am called William, noble sir,' he answered, 'and I live with a\ncowherd, my father, in a cottage near by. Other kindred have I none that\never I heard of;' for the gardens of Palermo and the life of the palace\nhad now faded into dreams in the memory of the child.\n\n'Bid your father come hither and speak to me,' said the emperor, but\nWilliam did not move.\n\n'I fear lest harm should befall him through me,' he answered, 'and that\nshall never be.' But the emperor smiled as he heard him.\n\n'Not harm, but good,' he said; and William took courage and hastened\ndown the path to the cottage.\n\n'I am the emperor,' said the stranger, when the boy and the cowherd\nreturned together. 'Tell me truly, is this your son?'\n\nThen the cowherd, trembling all over, told the whole story, and when he\nhad finished the emperor said quietly:\n\n'You have done well, but from to-day the boy shall be mine, and shall\ngrow up with my daughter.'\n\nThe heart of the cowherd sank as he thought how sorely he and his wife\nwould miss William, but he kept silence. Not so William, who broke into\nsobs and wails.\n\n'I should have fared ill if this good man and his wife had not taken me\nand nourished me. I know not whence I came or whither I shall go! None\ncan be so kind as they have been.'\n\n'Cease weeping, fair child,' said the emperor, 'some day you shall be\nable to reward the good that they have done you;' and then the cowherd\nspoke and gave him wise counsel how to behave himself at court.\n\n'Be no teller of tales, and let your words be few. Be true to your lord,\nand fair of speech to all men; and seek to help the poor when you may.'\n\n'Set him on my horse,' said the emperor, and, though William wept still\nas he bade farewell to the cowherd, and sent a sorrowful greeting to his\nwife and to his playfellows Hugonet, and Abelot, and Akarin, yet he was\npleased to be riding in such royal fashion, and soon dried his tears.\n\nThey reached the palace at last, and the emperor led William into the\nhall, and sent a messenger for Melior, his daughter.\n\n'I have brought home a present for you,' he cried, as she entered; 'and\nbe sure to treat him as you would your brother, for he has come of\ngoodly kindred, though now he does not know where he was born, or who\nwas his father.' And with that he told her the tale of how he had found\nthe boy in the wood.\n\n'I shall care for him willingly,' answered Melior, and she took him\naway, and saw that supper was set before him, and clothes provided for\nhim, and made him ready for his duties as page to the emperor.\n\nSo the boy and girl grew up together, and everyone loved William, who\nwas gentle and pleasant to all, and was skilled in what a gentleman\nshould know. Wise he was too, beyond his years, and the emperor kept him\never at his side, and took counsel with him on many subjects touching\nhis honour and the welfare of his people.\n\nAnd if the people loved him, how much more Melior, who saw him about the\ncourt all day long, and knew the store her father set on him? Yet she\nremembered with sadness certain whispers she had heard of a match\nbetween herself and a foreign prince, and if her father had promised her\nhand nought would make him break his word.\n\nSo she sighed and bewailed herself in secret, till her cousin\nAlexandrine marked that something was amiss.\n\n'Tell me all your sickness,' said Alexandrine one day, 'and what grieves\nyou so sorely. You know that you can trust me, for I have served you\ntruly, and perhaps I may be able to help you in this strait!'\n\n[Illustration: The lovers meet by plan of Alexandrine]\n\nThen Melior told her, and Alexandrine listened in amaze. From his\nchildhood William and the two girls had played together, and well\nAlexandrine knew that the emperor had cast his eyes upon another\nson-in-law. Still, she loved her cousin, and she loved William too, so\nshe said.\n\n'Mourn no longer, madam; I am skilled in magic, and can heal you. So\nweep no more.' And Melior took heart and was comforted.\n\nThat night Alexandrine caused William to dream a dream in which the\nwhole world vanished away, and only he and Melior were left. In a moment\nhe felt that as long as she was there the rest might go, and that she\nwas the princess that was waiting for every prince. But who was he that\nhe should dare to ask for the emperor's daughter? and what chance had he\namongst the noble suitors who now began to throng the palace? These\nthoughts made him very sad, and he went about his duties with a face as\nlong as Melior's was now.\n\nAlexandrine paid no heed to his gloomy looks. She was very wise, and for\nsome days left her magic to work. At last one morning she thought the\ntime had come to heal the wounds she had caused, and planned a meeting\nbetween them. After this they had no more need of her, neither did\nMelior weep any longer.\n\nFor a while they were content, and asked nothing more than to see each\nother every day, as they had always done. But soon a fresh source of\ngrief came. A war broke out, in which William, now a knight, had to\nfollow the emperor, and more than once saved the life of his master. On\ntheir return, when the enemy was put to flight, the expected ambassadors\nfrom Greece arrived at court, to seek the hand of Melior, which was\nreadily granted by her father. This news made William sick almost unto\ndeath, and Melior, who was resolved not to marry the stranger, hastened\nto Alexandrine in order to implore her help.\n\nBut Alexandrine only shook her head.\n\n'It is true,' said she, 'that, unless you manage to escape, you will be\nforced to wed the prince; but how are you to get away when there are\nguards before every door of the palace, except by the little gate, and\nto reach that you will have first to pass by the sentries, who know\nyou?'\n\n'O dear Alexandrine,' cried Melior, clasping her hands in despair. 'Do\ntry to think of some way to save us! I am sure you can; you are always\nclever, and there is nobody else.'\n\nAnd Alexandrine did think of a way, but what it was must be told in the\nnext chapter.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DISENCHANTMENT OF THE WERWOLF\n\n(WILLIAM OF PALERMO)\n\n\nEverybody will remember that William and Melior trusted to Alexandrine\nto help them to escape from the palace, before Melior was forced into\nmarriage by her father with the prince of Greece. At first Alexandrine\ndeclared that it was quite impossible to get them away unseen, but at\nlength she thought of something which might succeed, though, if it\nfailed, all three would pay a heavy penalty.\n\nAnd this was her plan, and a very good one too.\n\nShe would borrow some boy's clothes, and put them on, hiding her hair\nunder one of those tight caps that kitchen varlets wore covering all\ntheir heads; she would then go down into the big kitchens underneath the\npalace, where the wild beasts shot by the emperor were skinned and made\ninto coats for the winter. Here she would have a chance of slipping out\nunnoticed with the skins of two white bears, and in these she would sew\nup William and Melior, and would let them through the little back gate,\nfrom which they could easily escape into the forest.\n\n'Oh, I knew you would find a way!' said Melior, throwing her arms\njoyfully round her cousin's neck. 'I am quite sure it will all go right,\nonly let us make haste, for my father may find us out, or perhaps I may\nlose my courage.'\n\n'I will set about it at once,' said Alexandrine, 'and you and William\nmust be ready to-night.'\n\nSo she got her boy's clothes, which her maid stole for her out of the\nroom of one of the scullions, and dressed herself in them, smearing her\nface and hands with walnut-juice, that their whiteness might not betray\nher. She slipped down by some dark stairs into the kitchen, and joined a\ncompany of men who were hard at work on a pile of dead animals. The sun\nhad set, and in the corner of the great hall where the flaying was going\non, there was very little light, but Alexandrine marked that close to an\nopen door was a heap of bearskins, and she took up her position as near\nthem as she could. But the girl was careful not to stand too long in one\nplace; she moved about from one group of men to another, lending a hand\nhere and there and passing a merry jest, and as she did so she gave the\ntopmost skins a little shove with her foot, getting them each time\ncloser to the open door, and always watching her chance to pick them up\nand run off with them.\n\nIt came at last. The torch which lighted that end of the hall flared up\nand went out, leaving the men in darkness. One of them rose to fetch\nanother, and, quick as thought, Alexandrine caught up the bearskins and\nwas outside in the garden. From that it was easy to make her way\nupstairs unseen.\n\n'See how I have sped!' she said, throwing the skins on the floor. 'But\nnight is coming on apace, and we have no time to lose; I must sew you up\nin them at once.'\n\nThe skins were both so large that Melior and William wore all their own\nclothes beneath, and did not feel at all hot, as they expected to do.\n\n'Am I not a bold beast?' asked Melior in glee, as she caught sight of\nherself in a polished shield on the wall. 'Methinks no handsomer bear\nwas ever seen!'\n\n[Illustration: THE BEARSKINS: AM NOT I A BOLD BEAST?]\n\n'Yes, verily, madam,' answered her maiden, 'you are indeed a grisly\nghost, and no man will dare to come near you. But now stand aside, for\nit is William's turn.'\n\n'How do you like me, sweetheart?' asked he, when the last stitches had\nbeen put in.\n\n'You have so fierce an air, and are so hideous a sight, that I fear to\nlook on you!' said she. And William laughed and begged Alexandrine to\nguide them through the garden, as they were not yet used to going on all\nfours, and might stumble.\n\nAs they passed through the bushes, galloping madly--for in spite of the\ndanger they felt as though they were children again--a Greek who was\nwalking up to the palace saw them afar, and, seized with dread, took\nshelter in the nearest hut, where he told his tale. The men who heard it\npaid but little heed at the time, though they remembered it after; but\nbears were common in that country, and often came out of the forest at\nnight.\n\nNot knowing what a narrow escape they had had, the two runaways\ntravelled till sunrise, when they hid themselves in a cave on the side\nof a hill. They had nothing to eat, but were too tired to think of that\ntill they had had a good sleep, though when they woke up they began to\nwonder how they should get any food.\n\n'Oh, it will be all right!' said Melior; 'there are blackberries in\nplenty and acorns and hazel-nuts, and there is a stream just below the\ncave--do you not hear it? It will all be much nicer than anything in the\npalace.'\n\nBut William did not seem to agree with her, and wished to seek out some\nman who would give him something he liked better than nuts and acorns.\nThis, however, Melior would not hear of; they would certainly be\nfollowed and betrayed, she said, and, to please her, William ate the\nfruit and stayed in the cave, wondering what would happen on the morrow.\n\nLuckily for themselves, they did not have to wait so long before they\ngot a good supper. Their friend the werwolf had spied them from afar,\nand was ready to come to their rescue. During that day he had hidden\nhimself under a clump of bushes close to the highway, and by-and-by he\nsaw a man approaching, carrying a very fat wallet over his shoulder. The\nwolf bounded out of his cover, growling fiercely, which so frightened\nthe man that he dropped the wallet and ran into the wood. Then the wolf\npicked up the wallet, which contained a loaf of bread and some meat\nready cooked, and galloped away with it to William.\n\nThey felt quite strong and hearty again when they had finished their\nsupper, and quite ready to continue their journey. As it was night, and\nthe country was very lonely, they walked on two feet, but when morning\ncame, or they saw signs that men were about, they speedily dropped on\nall fours. And all the way the werwolf followed them, and saw that they\nnever lacked for food.\n\nMeanwhile the preparations for Melior's marriage to the prince of Greece\nwere going on blithely in the palace, and none thought of asking for the\nbride. At last, when everything was finished, the emperor bade the high\nchamberlain fetch the princess.\n\n'She is not in her room, your Majesty,' said the chamberlain, when he\nre-entered the hall; but the emperor only thought that his daughter was\ntimid, and answered that he would go and bring her himself.\n\nLike the chamberlain, he found the outer room empty and passed on to the\ndoor of the inner one, which was locked. He shook and thumped and yelled\nwith anger, till Alexandrine heard him from her distant turret, and,\nterrified though she was, hastened to find out what was the matter.\n\n'My daughter! Where is my daughter?' he cried, stammering with rage.\n\n'Asleep, sire,' answered Alexandrine.\n\n'Asleep still!' said the emperor; 'then wake her instantly, for the\nbridegroom is ready and I am waiting to lead her to him.'\n\n'Alas! sire, Melior has heard that in Greece royal brides pass their\nlives shut in a tower, and she has sworn that she will never wed one of\nthat race. But, indeed, for my part, I think that is not her true\nreason, and that she has pledged her faith to another, whom you also\nknow and love.'\n\n[Illustration: The Werwolf's visit to the Cave]\n\n'And who may that be?' asked the emperor.\n\n'The man who saved your life in battle, William himself,' answered\nAlexandrine boldly, though her limbs shook with fear.\n\nAt this news the emperor was half beside himself with grief and rage.\n\n'Where is she?' he cried; 'speak, girl, or I will shut you up in the\ntower.'\n\n'Where is William?' asked Alexandrine. 'If Melior is not here, and\nWilliam is not here, then of a surety they have gone away together.'\n\nThe emperor looked at her in silence for a moment.\n\n'The Greeks will make war on me for this insult,' he said; 'and, as for\nWilliam, a body of soldiers shall go in search of him this moment, and\nwhen he is found I will have his head cut off, and stuck on my palace\ngate as a warning to traitors.'\n\nBut the soldiers could not find him. Perhaps they did not look very\ncarefully, for, like everyone else, they loved William. Party after\nparty was sent out by the emperor, but they all returned without finding\na trace of the runaways. Then at last the Greek who had seen the two\nwhite bears galloping through the garden came to the high chamberlain\nand told his tale.\n\n'Send to the kitchen at once and ask if any bearskins are missing,'\nordered the chamberlain; and the page returned with the tidings that the\nskins of two white bears could not be found.\n\nNow the werwolf had been lurking round the palace seeking for news, and\nas soon as he heard that the emperor had ordered out his dogs to hunt\nthe white bears, he made a plan in his head to save William and Melior.\nHe hid in some bushes that lay in the path of the hounds, and let them\nget quite near him. As soon as they were close, he sprang out in front\nof their noses and they gave chase at once. And a fine dance he led\nthem!--over mountains and through swamps, under ferns that were thickly\nmatted together, and past wide lakes. And every step they took brought\nthem further away from the bears, who were lying snugly in their den.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt last even the patience of the emperor was exhausted. He gave up the\nhunt, and bade his men call off the dogs and go home.\n\n'They have escaped me this time,' said he, 'but I will have them\nby-and-by. Let a reward be offered, and posted up on the gate of every\ncity. After all, that is the surest way of capturing them.'\n\nAnd the emperor was right: the shepherds and goatherds were told that if\nthey could bring the two white bears to the gates of the palace they\nwould not need to work for the rest of their lives, and they kept a\nsharp look-out as they followed their flocks. Once a man actually saw\nthem, and gave notice to one of the royal officials, who brought a\ncompany of spearmen and surrounded the cave. Another moment, and they\nwould have been seized, had not the wolf again come to their rescue. He\nleapt out from behind a rock, and snatched up the officer's son, who had\nfollowed his father. The poor man shrieked in horror, and cried out to\nsave the boy, so they all turned and went after the wolf as before.\n\n'We are safer now in our own clothes,' said William; and they hastily\nstripped off the bearskins, and stole away, but they would not leave the\nskins behind, for they had learnt to love them.\n\nFor a long while they wandered through the forest, the werwolf ever\nwatching over them, and bringing them food. At length the news spread\nabroad, no one knew how, that William and Melior were running about as\nbears no more, but in the garments they always wore. So men began to\nlook out for them, and once they were very nearly caught by some\ncharcoal-burners. Then the wolf killed a hart and a hind, and sewed them\nin their skins and guided them across the Straits of Messina into the\nkingdom of Sicily.\n\nVery dimly, and one by one, little things that had happened in his\nchildhood began to come back to William; but he wondered greatly how he\nseemed to know this land, where he had never been before. The king his\nfather had been long dead, but the queen (his mother) and his sister\nwere besieged in the city of Palermo by the king of Spain, who was full\nof wrath because the princess had refused to marry his son. The queen\nwas in great straits, when one night she dreamed that a wolf and two\nharts had come to help her, and one bore the face of her son, while both\nhad crowns on their heads.\n\nShe could sleep no more that night, so she rose and looked out of the\nwindow on the park which lay below, and there, under the trees, were the\nhart and the hind! Panting for joy, the queen summoned a priest, and\ntold him her dream, and, as she told it, behold the skins cracked, and\nshining clothes appeared beneath.\n\n'Your dream has been fulfilled,' said the priest. 'The hind is the\ndaughter of the emperor of Rome, who fled away with yonder knight\ndressed in a hart skin!'\n\nJoyfully the queen made herself ready, and she soon joined the animals,\nwho had wandered off to a part of the park that was full of rocks and\ncaves. She greeted them with fair words, and begged William to take\nservice under her, which he did gladly.\n\n'Sweet sir, what token will you wear on your shield?' asked she; and\nWilliam answered, 'Good madam, I will have a werwolf on a shield of\ngold, and let him be made hideous and huge.'\n\n'That shall be done,' said she.\n\nWhen the shield was painted, William prayed her to give him a horse, and\nshe led him into the stable, and bade him choose one for himself. And he\nchose one that had been ridden by the late king his father. And the\nhorse knew him, though his mother did not, and it neighed from pure\ndelight. After that William called to the soldiers to rally round him,\nand there was fought a great battle, and the Spaniards were put to\nflight, and throughout Palermo the people rejoiced mightily.\n\nWhen the enemy had retreated far away, and William returned to the\npalace, where the queen and Melior were awaiting him; suddenly, from the\nwindow, they beheld the werwolf go by, and as he passed he held up his\nfoot as if he craved mercy.\n\n'What does he mean by that?' asked the queen.\n\n'It betokens great good to us,' answered William.\n\n'That is well,' said the queen; 'but the sight of that beast causes me\nmuch sorrow. For my fair son was stolen away from me by such a one, when\nhe was four years old, and never more have I heard of him.' But in her\nheart she felt, though she said nothing, that she had found him again.\n\nBy-and-by the king of Spain came back with another army, and there was\nmore fighting. In the end the Spanish king was forced to yield up his\nsword to William, who carried him captor to his mother Felice. The queen\nreceived him with great courtesy, and placed him next her at dinner, and\nthe peers who had likewise been taken prisoners sat down to feast.\n\nThe next day a council was held in the hall of the palace to consider\nthe terms of peace. The king of Spain and his son were present also, and\neveryone said in turn what penalty the enemy should pay for having\nbesieged their city and laid waste their cornfields. In the midst of\nthis grave discussion a werwolf entered through the open door, and,\ntrotting up to the Spanish king, he kissed his feet. Then he bowed to\nthe queen and to William, and went away as he came.\n\nThe sight of his tail disappearing through the door restored to the\nguards their courage, which had vanished in the presence of anything so\nunexpected. They sprang up to pursue him, but like a flash of lightning\nWilliam flung himself in their path, crying, 'If any man dare to hurt\nthat beast, I will do him to death with my own hands;' and, as they all\nknew that William meant what he said, they slunk back to their places.\n\n'Tell me, gracious king,' asked William when they were all seated afresh\nround the council table, 'why did the wolf bow to you more than to other\nmen?'\n\nThen the king made answer that long ago his first wife had died, leaving\nhim with a son, and that in a little while he had married again, and\nthat his second wife had had a son also. One day when he came back from\nthe wars she told him that his eldest son had been drowned, but he found\nout afterwards that she had changed him into a werwolf, so that her own\nchild might succeed to the crown.\n\n'And I think,' he added, 'that this werwolf may be indeed the son I\nlost.'\n\n'It may right well be thus,' cried William, 'for he has the mind of a\nman, and of a wise man too. Often has he succoured me in my great need,\nand if your wife had skill to turn him into a werwolf her charms can\nmake him a man again. Therefore, sire, neither you nor your people shall\ngo hence out of prison till he has left his beast's shape behind him. So\nbid your queen come hither, and if she says you nay I will fetch her\nmyself!'\n\nThen the king called one of his great lords, and he bade him haste to\nSpain and tell the queen what had befallen him, and to bring her with\nall speed to Palermo. Little as she liked the summons, the Spanish queen\ndared not refuse, and on her arrival she was led at once into the great\nhall, which was filled with a vast company, both of Spaniards and\nSicilians. When all were assembled William fetched the werwolf from his\nchamber, where he had lain for nights and days, waiting till his\nstepmother should come.\n\nTogether they entered the hall, but at the sight of the wicked woman who\nhad done him such ill the wolf's bristles stood up on his back, and with\na snarl that chilled the blood of all that heard it he sprang towards\nthe dais. But, luckily, William was on the watch, and, flinging his arms\nround the wolf's neck, he held him back, saying in a whisper:\n\n[Illustration: THE FURY OF THE WER-WOLF]\n\n'My dear, sweet beast, trust to me as truly as to your own brother. I\nsent for her for your sake, and if she does not undo her evil spells\nI will have her body burned to coals, and her ashes scattered to the\nwinds.'\n\nThe wicked queen knew well what doom awaited her, and that she could\nresist no longer. Sinking on her knees before the wolf, she confessed\nthe ill she had wrought, and added:\n\n'Sweet Alfonso, soon shall the people see your seemly face, and your\nbody as it would have been but for me!' At that she led the wolf into a\nprivate chamber, and, drawing from her wallet a thread of red silk, she\nbound it round a ring she wore, which no witchcraft could prevail\nagainst. This ring she hung round the wolf's neck, and afterwards read\nhim some rhymes out of a book. Then the werwolf looked at his body, and,\nbehold, he was a man again!\n\nThere were great rejoicings at the court of Palermo when prince Alfonso\ncame among them once more. He forgave the queen for her wickedness, and\nrebuked his father for having stirred up such a wanton and bloody war.\n\n'Plague and famine would have preyed upon this land,' he said, 'had not\nthis knight, whose real name is unknown to you, come to your aid. He is\nthe rightful lord of this country, for he is the son of king Embrons and\nqueen Felice, and I am the werwolf who carried him away, to save him\nfrom a cruel death that was planned for him by his own uncle!'\n\nSo the tale ends and everyone was made happy. The werwolf, now prince\nAlfonso, married William's sister, and in due time ruled the kingdom of\nSpain, and William and Melior lived at Palermo till the emperor her\nfather died, when the Romans offered him the crown in his stead.\n\nAnd if you want to know any more about them, you must read the story for\nyourselves.\n\n(Old Romance of _William of Palermo_.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE SLAYING OF HALLGERDA'S HUSBANDS\n\n\nIf any traveller had visited Iceland nearly a thousand years ago, he\nwould have found the island full of busy, industrious people, who made\nthe most of their short summer, and tilled the ground so well that they\ngenerally reaped a golden harvest. Many of the families were akin, and\nhad fled some sixty years earlier from Norway and the islands of the sea\nbecause the king, Harald Fairhair, had introduced new laws, which\ndispleased them. They were soon joined, for one reason and another, by\ndwellers in Orkney and Shetland and the Faroe Islands and the Hebrides,\nand, being men of one race, they easily adopted the same customs and\nobeyed the same laws.\n\nNow the Northmen had many good qualities and many very troublesome ones.\nThe father of every household had absolute power over all his children;\nhe fixed the amount of money that should be paid in exchange for his\ndaughter at her marriage, and the sum that was due for the wounded slave\nor 'thrall' as he was called, or even for his murdered son; or, if he\nthought better, he could refuse to take any money at all as the price of\nhis injuries, and could then avenge blood by blood.\n\nBut once he had declared his purpose he was bound to abide by his word.\n\nFond though they were of fighting, the Northmen had their own notions of\nfair dealing. If you had killed a man, you had to confess it; if you\nslew him at night, or when he was sleeping, you were guilty of murder,\nand if you refused to throw gravel or sand over his body, thus denying\nyour enemy the rights of burial, you were considered a dastard even by\nyour friends.\n\n[Illustration: HAUSKULD'S PRIDE IN HALLGERDA]\n\nNow in the valley or dale of the river Laxa dwelt two brothers, each in\nhis own house. One was named Hauskuld, and the other Hrut. This Hrut was\nmuch younger than Hauskuld, and was handsome, brave, and, like so many\nof the Northmen, very gentle when not engaged in war. Like many of them\nalso, the gift was given him of reading the future.\n\nOne day Hauskuld made a feast, and Hrut came with many of his kinsmen,\nand took his place next his brother Hauskuld. They were all seated in\nthe great hall of the house and near the fire Hauskuld's little\ndaughter, Hallgerda, was playing with some other children. Fair and blue\neyed were they all, but Hallgerda was taller and more beautiful than\nany, and her hair fell in long bright curls far below her waist. 'Come\nhither,' said Hauskuld, holding out his hand, and, taking her by the\nchin, he kissed her and bade her go back to her companions. Then,\nturning to his brother he asked:\n\n'Well, is she not fair to look upon?' but Hrut held his peace. Again\nHauskuld would know what was in the thoughts of Hrut concerning the\nmaiden, and this time Hrut made answer:\n\n'Of a truth fair is the maid, and great will be the havoc wrought by her\namong men. But one thing I would know, which of our race has given her\nthose thief's eyes?'\n\nAt that Hauskuld waxed wroth, and bade Hrut begone to his own house.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter this some years went by. Hrut left Iceland and spent some time at\nthe Court of Norway, and then he came back and married, and had much\ntrouble with his wife, Unna. But after they had parted and she had gone\nback to her father, Hrut was a free man again, and he went to visit his\nbrother Hauskuld, whose daughter Hallgerda had now become a woman. Tall\nand stately she was, and fair, but sly and greedy of gain, as in the\ndays of her childhood, and more she loved Thiostolf, whose wife had\nbrought her up, than Hauskuld her father, or Hrut her uncle.\n\nWhen Hallgerda went back to Hauskuld her father, he saw that he must be\nlooking out for a husband for her, as the fame of her beauty would go\nfar. It was indeed not long before one came to her, Thorwald, son of\nOswif, who, besides the broad lands which he possessed on the island,\nowned the Bear Isles out in the sea, where fish were to be had in\nabundance.\n\nOswif, Thorwald's father, knew more about the maiden than did Thorwald,\nwho had been on a journey, and he tried to turn his son's thought to\nsome other damsel, but Thorwald only answered, 'Whatever you may say,\nshe is the only woman I will marry;' and Oswif made reply, 'Well, after\nall, the risk is yours and not mine.'\n\nSo they two set out for Hauskuld's house and he bade them welcome\nheartily. They wasted no time before telling him their business, and\nHauskuld answered that for his part he could desire no more honourable\nmatch for his daughter, but he would not hide from them that her temper\nwas hard and cruel.\n\n'That shall not stand between us,' said Thorwald, 'so tell me what I\nshall pay for her.'\n\nAnd the bargain was made, and Thorwald rode home with his father, but\nHallgerda was never asked if she wished to wed Thorwald or not.\n\nWhen Hauskuld told his daughter that she was to be married to Thorwald,\nshe was not pleased, and said that if her father had loved her as much\nas he pretended to do he would have consulted her in such a matter.\nBesides, she did not think that the match was in any way worthy of her.\n\nBut, grumble as she might, there was no getting out of it, and, as\nHauskuld would listen to nothing, she sought for her foster-father,\nThiostolf, who never had been known to say her nay. When she had told\nher story, he bade her be of good cheer, prophesying that Thorwald\nshould not be her only husband, and that if she was not happy she had\nonly to come to him and he would do her bidding, be it what it might,\nsave as regarded Hauskuld and Hrut.\n\nThen Hallgerda was comforted, and went home to prepare the bridal feast,\nto which all their friends and kinsfolk were bidden. And when the\nmarriage was over, she rode home with her husband Thorwald, and\nThiostolf her foster-father was ever at her side, and she talked more to\nhim than to Thorwald. And there he stayed all the winter.\n\nNow, as time went on, Thorwald began to repent that he had not hearkened\nto the words of his father. His wife paid him scant attention, and she\nwasted his goods, and was noted among all the women of the dales for her\nskill in driving a hard bargain. And, beyond all that, folk whispered\nthat she was not careful to ask whether the things she took were her own\nor someone else's. This irked Thorwald sore; but worse was to follow.\nThe spring came late that year, and Hallgerda told Thorwald that the\nstorehouse was empty of meat and fish, and he must go out to the Bear\nIsles and fetch some more. At this Thorwald reproached her, saying that\nit was her fault if garners were not yet full, and on Hallgerda's\ntaunting him with being a miser, struck her such a blow in the face that\nblood spouted, and when he left her to row with his men to the islands,\nHallgerda sat still, vowing vengeance.\n\nIt was not long in coming. Soon after, Thiostolf chanced to pass that\nway, and, seeing the blood on her face, asked whence it sprang.\n\n'From the hand of my husband Thorwald,' answered she, and reproached\nThiostolf for suffering such dealings.\n\n[Illustration: HOW THORWALD WAS SLAIN BY THIOSTOLF]\n\n'I knew not of it,' said Thiostolf, 'but I will avenge it speedily;' and\nhe went to the shore, and put off in a boat, taking nothing but a great\naxe with him. He found Thorwald and his men on the beach of the biggest\nisland, loading his vessel with meat and fish from the storehouses. Then\nhe began to pick a quarrel with Thorwald and spoke words that vexed\nhim more and more, till Thorwald bent forward to seize a knife which lay\nnear him. This was the moment for which the other had been waiting. He\nlifted his axe and gave a blow at Hallgerda's husband, and, though\nThorwald tried to defend himself, a second stroke clove his skull.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Your axe is bloody,' said Hallgerda, who was standing outside the door.\n\n'Yes; and _this_ time you can choose your own husband,' answered\nThiostolf; but Hallgerda only asked calmly:\n\n'So Thorwald is dead?' and as Thiostolf nodded she went on: 'You must go\nnorthward, to Swan my kinsman; he will hide you from your enemies.'\n\nAfter that she unlocked her chests and dismissed her maidens with gifts;\nthen she mounted her horse and rode home to her father.\n\n'Where is Thorwald?' asked Hrut, who had heard nothing.\n\n'He is dead,' answered Hallgerda.\n\n'By the hand of Thiostolf?' said her father.\n\n'By his hand, and by that of no other;' and Hallgerda passed by them and\nentered the house.\n\nAs soon as Oswif, Thorwald's father, had heard the tidings, he guessed\nthat Thiostolf must have gone northward to Swan, and calling his men\nround him they all rode to the Bearfirth. But before they were in sight\nSwan cried to Thiostolf, 'Oswif is coming, but we need fear nothing,\nthey will never see us,' and he took a goatskin and wrapped it round his\nhead, and said to it: 'Be thou darkness and fog, and fright and wonder,\nto those who seek us.' And immediately a thick fog and black darkness\nfell over all things, and Oswif and his men lost their way, and tumbled\noff their horses and tripped over large stones, till Oswif resolved to\ngive up seeking Thiostolf and Swan, and to go himself to Hauskuld.\n\nNow Hauskuld was abiding at home, and with him was Hrut his brother.\nOswif got off his horse, and, throwing its bridle over a stake driven\ninto the ground, he said to Hauskuld: 'I have come to ask atonement for\nmy son's life.'\n\n'It was not I who slew your son,' answered Hauskuld; 'but as he is\nslain, it is just that you should seek atonement from somebody.'\n\n'You have much need to give him what he asks,' said Hrut, 'for it is not\nwell that evil tongues should be busy with your daughter's name.'\n\n'Then give the judgment yourself,' replied Hauskuld.\n\n'That will I do, in truth,' said Hrut; 'and be sure that I will not\nspare you, as I know it was Hallgerda wrought his death;' so he offered\nhis hand to Oswif, as a token that his award would be accepted, and that\nat the Great Council of the nation he would not summon Hauskuld for\nThorwald's murder. And Oswif took his hand, and Hauskuld's, and Hrut\nbade his brother pay down two hundred pounds in silver to Oswif, while\nhe himself gave him a stout cloak. And Oswif went away well pleased with\nthe award.\n\nFor some time Hallgerda dwelt in her father's house, and she brought\nwith her a share of Thorwald's goods, and was very rich. But men kept\naway from her, having heard tales of her evil ways. At length Glum, the\nyoungest son of Olaf the Lame, told his brother that he would go no more\ntrading in strange lands, but would remain at home, and meant to take to\nhimself a wife, if the one on whom he had set his heart would come to\nhim.\n\nSo one day a company of the men, with Glum and Thorarin his brother at\ntheir head, rode into the Dales to the door of Hauskuld's dwelling.\nHauskuld greeted them heartily and begged them to stay all night,\nsending secretly for Hrut, whose counsel he always asked when any matter\nof importance was talked over.\n\n'Do you know what they want?' said Hrut next morning, when his brother\nmet him on the road.\n\n'No,' replied Hauskuld, 'they have not spoken to me of any business.'\n\n'Then I will tell you,' answered Hrut. 'They have come to ask Hallgerda\nin marriage.'\n\n'And what shall I do?' said Hauskuld.\n\n'Tell them you would like the match,' replied Hrut, 'but hide nothing.\nLet them know all there is of good and evil concerning her.'\n\nThey reached the house as he spoke, and the guests came out, and\nThorarin opened his business by entreating Hauskuld to give his daughter\nHallgerda to Glum his brother. 'You know,' he added, 'that he is rich\nand strong, and thought well of by all men.'\n\n'Yes, I know that,' answered Hauskuld; 'but once before I chose a\nhusband for my daughter, and matters turned out ill for all of us.'\n\n'That will be no hindrance,' replied Thorarin, 'for the lot of one man\nis not the lot of all men. And things might have fared better had it not\nbeen for the meddling of Thiostolf.'\n\n'You speak truth,' said Hrut, who had listened to their talk in silence;\n'and the marriage may yet turn out well if you will do as I tell you.\nSee that you suffer not Thiostolf to ride with her to Glum's house, and\nthat he never sleeps in the house for more than three nights running,\nwithout Glum's leave, on pain of outlawry and death by Glum himself. And\nif Glum will hearken to my counsel, leave to stay he will never give.\nBut it is time to let Hallgerda know of the matter, and she shall say\nwhether Glum is to her mind.'\n\nAnd Thorarin agreed, and Hauskuld sent to summon his daughter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow, though nothing had been said to Hallgerda as to the business which\nbrought all these men to her father's house, perhaps she may have\nguessed something, for when she appeared she was attended by her two\nwomen, and clad in her festal garments. She wore a dress of scarlet,\ngirdled by a silver belt, and over it a mantle of soft dark blue, while\nher thick yellow hair was unbound, and fell almost to her knees. She\nsmiled and spoke kindly to the visitors, then sat herself down between\nher father and uncle. After that Glum spoke.\n\n'Your father and Thorarin my brother have had talk about a marriage\nbetwixt you and me, Hallgerda. Is it your will, as it is theirs? Tell me\nall that is in your heart. For, if you like me not, I will straightway\nride back again.'\n\n'The match is to my liking,' answered Hallgerda, 'and better suited to\nmy condition than what my father made for me before. And you are to my\nliking also, if our tempers do not fall out.'\n\n'Let Hallgerda betroth herself,' said Hrut, when they had told her what\nterms had been arranged, and that Glum should bring goods or money to an\nequal value to Hallgerda's, and that they two should divide the whole.\n\nAfter that the betrothal ceremony took place, and Glum went away, and\nreturned no more till his wedding.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was a great company in Hauskuld's hall to witness Hallgerda's\nmarriage, and when the feast began Thiostolf might have been seen\nstalking about holding his axe aloft; but, as the guests pretended not\nto know he was there, no harm came of it.\n\nFor some time Glum and his wife lived happily together, though Hallgerda\nproved herself the same greedy yet wasteful woman she had been before.\nAt the end of a year a daughter was born to her, whom she named\nThorgerda, and the child grew up to be as beautiful as her mother. But\nby-and-by trouble came to them through Thiostolf, who had been driven\naway by Hauskuld for beating one of his thralls. Thiostolf vowed\nvengeance in his heart, and rode south to Glum's house.\n\nHallgerda was pleased to see him, but when she heard his tale she said\nshe could not give him shelter without the consent of Glum. So when her\nhusband came in she ran quickly to greet him, and, putting her arms\nround his neck, she asked if he would agree to something she wished very\nmuch.\n\n'If it is anything I can do in honour,' answered Glum, 'do it I will of\na surety.'\n\nThen she told him how her father had cast out Thiostolf, and that he had\ncome to her for shelter, and she wished him to remain, if it was Glum's\nwill. And Glum answered that, if she wished it greatly, Thiostolf should\nremain, unless he betook himself to evil courses.\n\nFor a while Thiostolf went warily, and no fault did Glum find with him;\nthen he fell to marring everything, as he had done in Thorwald's time,\nand to no one would he listen save to Hallgerda only. In vain Thorarin\nwarned Glum that things would have an ill ending, but Glum only smiled,\nand let Hallgerda have her way.\n\nWhen autumn came, and the days grew short and cold, the men went to\nbring their flocks home from the pastures where they had been feeding\nall the summer. It was hard work, for the sheep often strayed far, and,\nbesides, the flocks got mixed up, and needed to be separated one from\nthe other. One day, when the shepherds had brought tidings that many of\nGlum's sheep were missing, Glum bade Thiostolf go into the hills and see\nif he could find those that were lost.\n\nBut Thiostolf grew angry, and answered rudely:\n\n'I am not your slave, and it is not my work to bring in sheep. If you\nmean to go yourself, perhaps I will consent to go with you.'\n\nAt this Glum was greatly angered, and, seeking Hallgerda, he told her\nwhat had happened, adding as he did so:\n\n'I will not have Thiostolf here any longer.'\n\nThen Hallgerda waxed very wrathful, and she upheld Thiostolf in his ill\ndoing.\n\nAt last the patience of Glum gave way, and he struck her a blow in the\nface, and crying, 'Words are wasted on you,' went off to his own\nbusiness. Hallgerda, who loved him much in spite of her unruly tongue,\nwept bitterly at the thought of what had happened, and, as evil fate\nwould have it, Thiostolf heard her, and saw the red mark across her\ncheek.\n\n'It shall not be there again,' he said, but Hallgerda answered:\n\n'It is not for you to come between Glum and me.'\n\nWhen he heard this, Thiostolf only smiled and said nothing, but got\nready to go with Glum and his men, to seek after the sheep. After long\nsearchings they found many of those that were missing, and he sent some\nof his men one way and some another, till at length by chance he and\nThiostolf were left alone. They soon came upon a flock of wild sheep,\nand tried to drive them down the steep side of a hill towards Glum's\nhouse, but it was of no use, and as fast as the sheep were collected\ntogether they all scattered again. Very soon, Glum and Thiostolf grew\ntired and ill-tempered, and each told the other he was stupid and lazy.\nAt length, Glum taunted Thiostolf with being a thrall, and from that\nblows quickly followed. Both men drew their axes, but Thiostolf struck\nso hard at Glum that he rolled dead upon the ground.\n\nAt the sight of Glum lying dead at his feet, Thiostolf's wrath cooled\nsomewhat. He stooped and covered Glum's body with stones, and took a\ngold ring from his finger. After that he took the road back to Varmalek,\nand found Hallgerda sitting in front of the door. Her eyes fell\ninstantly on the bloody axe, and Thiostolf saw this and said hastily:\n\n'Glum, your husband, is slain.'\n\n[Illustration: THIOSTOLF DECIDES TO SLAY GLUM]\n\n'Then it is by your hand,' she answered.\n\n'Yes, it is,' said Thiostolf, and added after a moment's pause: 'What is\nbest to be done now?'\n\n'Go to Hrut, and ask him,' replied Hallgerda, and Thiostolf went.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Glum is slain' said Thiostolf to Hrut, who had come down to the door in\nanswer to Thiostolf's knock.\n\n'Who slew him?' asked Hrut.\n\n'I slew him,' answered Thiostolf.\n\n'Why did you come here?' asked Hrut again.\n\n'Because Hallgerda sent me,' answered Thiostolf.\n\n'Then Hallgerda had no part in his slaying,' said Hrut, with a sound of\nrelief in his voice; but as he spoke he drew his sword, which Thiostolf\nsaw, and thrust at Hrut with his axe. Hrut, too, saw, and sprang quickly\naside, knocking up as he did so the handle of the axe, so that it fell\nfull on the ground. Turning himself swiftly, Hrut dealt Thiostolf a blow\nwhich brought him to his knees, and a stab in the heart finished the\nwork.\n\nAfter that Hrut's house-carles laid stones on Thiostolf's body, while he\nhimself rode away to tell Hauskuld all that had befallen. And soon after\nThorarin, Glum's brother, came there too, with eleven men at his back.\nHe asked Hauskuld what atonement he would make for Glum, but Hauskuld\nanswered that it was neither he nor his daughter who had slain Glum, and\nthat Hrut had avenged himself on Thiostolf. To this Thorarin said\nnothing, but Hrut offered to give him gifts, and so peace lay between\nthem.\n\nNow, Hrut's wife, Unna, was of kin to two brothers, Gunnar and Kolskegg.\nBoth were tall, brave men, but there was not Gunnar's like in all the\ncountry round for beauty, and for skill in shooting, jumping, and\nswimming. And, besides this, he was beautiful and gentle, faithful to\nthe friends he made, but not making them readily. His chief friend was\nNjal, from whom he ever sought counsel, for Njal was a wise man and\ncould see far into the future.\n\nHaving a mind to see something of the world, Gunnar set sail for Norway,\nwhere he stayed some time, and had many adventures. It was early in the\nsummer when he and Kolskegg sailed home to Iceland, where men were\nassembling for the great Council, or Thing.\n\nGunnar's first act was to ride off to Njal's house, and Gunnar asked if\nhe would be present at the Thing. 'No, truly,' answered Njal; 'stay you\nat home or bad will come of it.'\n\nAnd Gunnar! What evil was likely to befall him, who wished to live at\npeace with everyone? But Njal only shook his head and said slowly:\n\n'I remain in my own house, and if I had my way you should do so also.'\n\nBut Gunnar would not listen, and rode straight off to the Thing.\n\nWhat happened to him when he got there will be told in another story.\n\n(_Saga_)\n\n\n\n\n_THE DEATH OF GUNNAR_\n\n\nNow of all the men gathered together at the Thing of the year 974, no\nman was handsomer or more splendidly clad than Gunnar. He was arrayed in\nthe scarlet raiment given him by King Harald, and he bore on his arm a\ngold ring, given him by Hacon the Earl, and the horse he rode had a\nshining black skin.\n\nA brave figure he made one morning as he left the Hill of Laws and\npassed out beyond the tents of the men of Mossfell. And as he went there\ncame to meet him a woman whose dress was no less rich than his. She\nstopped as he drew near, and told him that she was Hallgerda, Hauskuld's\ndaughter, and that she knew well that he was Gunnar the traveller, and\nshe wished to hear some of the wonders of the lands beyond the seas. So\nhe sat down, and they two talked together for long, and they agreed\nwell, and became friends. After a while he asked her if she had a\nhusband.\n\n'No,' she replied; men feared her, for they held that she brought them\nill-luck; but at that Gunnar laughed, and said, 'What would you answer\nif I asked you to marry me?'\n\n'Are you jesting?' said Hallgerda.\n\n'No, of a sooth,' replied Gunnar.\n\n'Then go and see what my father has to say to it,' answered Hallgerda,\nand Gunnar went.\n\nHauskuld was inside his booth when Gunnar arrived. Hrut was there\nlikewise, and bade him welcome. For a while the talk ran upon the\nbusiness of the Thing, and then Gunnar turned and asked what answer\nHauskuld would give if he offered to lay down money for Hallgerda.\n\n'What do you say, Hrut?' inquired Hauskuld.\n\n'It ought not to be,' replied Hrut. 'No man has aught but good to say of\nyou; no man has aught but ill to say of her. And this I must not hide\nfrom you.'\n\n'I thank you for your plain speech,' said Gunnar; 'but my soul is still\nset on wedding Hallgerda. And we have spoken together, and are agreed in\nthis matter.'\n\nBut though Hrut knew that his words were vain, he told Gunnar all that\nhad happened in respect of Hallgerda and her two husbands. And Gunnar\nweighed it for a while, and then he said, 'You know the saying,\n\"Forewarned is forearmed.\" Doubtless it is true, all that you have told\nof Hallgerda, but I am strong, and have travelled far, and if we can\nmake a bargain, so shall it be.'\n\nSo a messenger was sent for Hallgerda, and she betrothed herself, as she\nhad done to Glum, and after that Gunnar rode over to Njal, and told him\nwhat things had happened.\n\n'Evil will come of it betwixt you and me,' said Njal sadly.\n\n'No woman, or man either, shall ever work ill between us,' answered\nGunnar, who loved Njal more than his own father.\n\n'She works ill wherever she goes,' replied Njal, 'and you will never\ncease making atonements for her;' but he said no more, for he was a wise\nman and wasted no words, and when Gunnar asked him to come to the\nwedding feast he gave his promise that he would be there.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe winter after Gunnar's wedding, he and Hallgerda were bidden to a\ngreat feast at Njal's house. Njal and his wife greeted them heartily,\nand by-and-by Helgi, Njal's son, came, and with him Thorhalla his wife.\nThen Bergthora, Njal's wife, went up to Hallgerda, and said, 'Give place\nto Thorhalla,' but Hallgerda would not, and she fell to quarrelling with\nBergthora, and at last Bergthora taunted Hallgerda with having plotted\nto do Thorwald her husband to death. At that Hallgerda turned and said\nto Gunnar: 'It is nothing to be married to the strongest man in Iceland,\nif you avenge not these insults, Gunnar.'\n\nBut Gunnar cried that he would take no part in women's quarrels, least\nof all in Njal's house, and bade Hallgerda come home with him.\n\n'We shall meet again, Bergthora,' said Hallgerda as she mounted the\nsleigh. Then they rode back to Lithend and spent the rest of the winter\nthere.\n\nWhen the spring came, Gunnar went to the Thing, bidding Hallgerda take\nheed, and to give no cause of offence to his friends. But she would give\nno promise, and he set forth with a heavy heart.\n\nBy ill-fortune, Njal and Gunnar owned a wood between them, and when Njal\nand his sons departed to the Thing, Bergthora, Njal's wife, ordered\nSwart her servant to cut her some branches for kindling fires from this\nvery forest. These tidings reached the ears of Hallgerda, and she\nmuttered with a grim face, 'It is the last time that Swart shall steal\nmy wood,' and bade Kol, her bailiff, start early next morning and seek\nSwart.\n\n'And when I find him?' asked Kol; but Hallgerda only turned away\nangrily.\n\n'You, the worst of men, ask that?' said she. 'Why, you shall kill him,\nof course.'\n\nSo Kol took his axe, though he was ill at ease, for he knew that evil\nwould come of it, and he mounted one of Gunnar's horses and fared to the\nwood.\n\nHe soon saw Swart and his men piling up bundles of firewood, so he left\nhis horse in a hollow, and crouched down behind some bushes, till he\nheard Swart bid the men carry the wood to Njal's house, as he himself\nhad more work to do. He began to look about for a tall straight young\nstem with which to make himself a bow, when Kol sprang out of the bushes\nand dealt Swart such a stroke with his axe that he fell dead without a\nword. After that Kol went back and told Hallgerda.\n\nAnd Hallgerda spoke cheering words, and said he need have no fear, for\nthat she would protect him; but Kol's heart was heavy.\n\nNow Hallgerda had forced Kol to slay Swart, to bring about a quarrel\nbetween her husband and Njal, so she straightway sent a messenger to\nseek Gunnar at the Thing, and tell him what had befallen Swart. Gunnar\nlistened in silence to the messenger's tale; then he called his men\naround him, and they all went to Njal's tent, and begged him to come out\nand speak to Gunnar.\n\n'Swart, your house servant has been killed by Hallgerda and Kol her\nman,' said Gunnar gravely when Njal stood before him; and he told the\ntale as he had heard it from the messenger.\n\n'It is for you, Njal, to fix the atonement,' he said at the end.\n\n'You will have work to atone for all Hallgerda's misdoings,' answered\nNjal, 'and it will take all our old friendship to keep us from\nquarrelling now. But I have it in mind that at the last you shall win\nthrough, but after hard fighting. As to the atonement, as you are my\nfriend and have no hand in this, I will fix it at twelve ounces of\nsilver. And if it should come to be your turn to settle an award, I\nshall not expect to pay more than that.'\n\nSo Gunnar laid down the money and gave it to Bergthora his wife when he\ncame home with his sons from the Thing. And Bergthora was content, but\nsaid to her husband that it should not be spent, as it would some day do\nto make atonement for Kol.\n\nAlthough Hallgerda met her husband bravely and answered him boldly, in\nsecret she trembled a little at his stern face and sharp words, as he\ntold her that she was to remember that whatever quarrels she might\nchoose to begin, the ending of them would always lie with him. But she\npretended not to care, and went out among her neighbours as usual,\ntelling all who would listen the tale of the killing of Swart. At length\nthis reached the ears of Bergthora, and she was sore angered, but bided\nher time in silence.\n\nWhen Njal and his sons went up to the pastures to see after the cattle,\nand the thralls were busy working in the fields, Bergthora the mistress\nwas left alone in the house. On this day a man mounted on a black horse\nand armed with a spear and a short sword rode up to the door and asked\nher if she could find something for him to do. He was skilled in many\nthings, he said, but his temper was hot, and had oftentimes been his\nbane.\n\n'I will give you work,' answered Bergthora, 'but you must do whatever I\nbid you, even though it should be to slay a man.'\n\n'You have plenty of other men whom you can better trust on such\nbusiness,' replied the man, as if he repented of his bargain; but\nBergthora only told him that she expected her servants to do as they\nwere bid, and sent the man to put his horse in the stable.\n\nDuring that summer another Thing was held and Njal and his sons went to\nit, and likewise Gunnar. But Bergthora was left alone in the house with\nher servants.\n\nThen she called Atli, the new man, and bade him seek out Kol, that he\nmight slay him, so Atli took his horse and his sword and spear and\ndeparted.\n\nHe found Kol in the place where some men had shown him, and he spoke to\nKol civilly, but only received rude tones in answer. So, without more\nado, Atli thrust at him, and Kol, though wounded, swung his axe above\nhis head; but his eyes had grown dim, and he could not see to aim, and\nhe fell to the ground and rolled over.\n\nAtli left the body where it was, and rode on till he came to some of\nGunnar's men, and bade them go and tell Hallgerda that Kol was dead.\n\n'Did you kill him?' asked the man.\n\n'Well, I don't expect Hallgerda will think that he dealt his own\ndeath-blow,' answered Atli; and with that he rode back to Bergthora, who\npraised him for the swiftness with which he had done her bidding. But\nAtli did not seem content, and at last he said:\n\n'What will Njal think?'\n\n'Oh, never fear him,' replied Bergthora, 'for he took with him the money\nof the atonement for the slaying of Swart, and now he can pay it over\nfor Kol. But in spite of the atonement, beware of Hallgerda, who knows\nnought of promises.'\n\nWhen Hallgerda heard of Kol's slaying, she bade a messenger ride to\nGunnar at the Thing, and Gunnar sent to seek out Njal and Skarphedinn\nhis son. They came to his tent, and he greeted them, and then Njal said\nthat Bergthora his wife had done great wrong in breaking the atonement,\nand that Gunnar must now fix the award for Kol.\n\n'Let it be the same as that which I paid for Swart,' said Gunnar; and\nNjal laid down the money and they parted, and no ill blood was between\nthem, though their wives were still resolved to do each other all the\nill they could.\n\nNjal was too wise a man not to know that Hallgerda would seek revenge on\nAtli for the slaying of Kol, and he begged Atli would take service far\naway to the east, so that Hallgerda might not reach him. But Atli told\nNjal that he would sooner be slain in his service than live free in the\nservice of another master, and he would gladly stay where he was if Njal\nwould grant him the atonement due to a free man.\n\nThis Njal granted, and Atli remained in his house.\n\nHallgerda soon came to know what had happened, and she sent messengers\nboth to Bergthora and to Gunnar at the Thing to tell them about it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Hallgerda my wife has caused Atli to be slain!' said Gunnar to Njal and\nto Skarphedinn his son. 'What atonement must I make for him?'\n\n'The atonement will be heavy, for he was no thrall, but a freeman, and I\nfear it may cause strife between us,' replied Njal; but Gunnar stretched\nout his hand and said that no woman should sow strife betwixt him and\nNjal. Then Njal fixed a hundred ounces of silver, and Gunnar laid it\ndown before him.\n\n'Hallgerda does not let our servants die of old age,' said Skarphedinn,\nas they rode home from the Thing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow the words came true, that Gunnar had spoken, and 'blow for blow'\ngrew to be the rule between Hallgerda and Bergthora; but for all that\nthere was no quarrel between Njal and Gunnar.\n\nSo the years went by, and many Things had been held, and much\nblood-money had been paid, when one spring there was a great dearth of\nhay throughout all Iceland, and much cattle died. Gunnar, who was wise\nas well as rich, had seen what was coming and had laid up stores of both\ndried meat and of hay. As long as they lasted, he shared them with his\nneighbours, but when his barns were empty he called Kolskegg his brother\nand two of his friends, and they all fared to Kirkby, where dwelt Otkell\nthe son of Skarf.\n\nThis Otkell owned many flocks and herds and wide pastures, and Gunnar\nhoped that his barns might yet be full.\n\n'I have come to buy meat and hay, if there is any in your storehouses,\nfor mine are empty!' said Gunnar.\n\n'I have yet many storehouses untouched,' answered Otkell, 'but I will\nsell you nothing.'\n\n'Will you give me them, then?' asked Gunnar, 'and I will pay you back\nsome time in what you will.'\n\n'I will neither give nor sell,' said Otkell.\n\n'Let us take what we want and leave the money,' said Thrain, who had\ncome with Gunnar, but Gunnar answered: 'I am no robber!' and was turning\nto go when Otkell stopped him.\n\n'Will you buy a thrall from me? He is a good thrall,' said Otkell, 'but\nI have no need of him.'\n\nAnd Gunnar bought the thrall, and they all went home to Lithend\ntogether.\n\nWhen Njal heard that Otkell would not sell to Gunnar, he was very wroth\nand rode up into the hills with all his sons, and took meat from his\nstorehouses and bound it upon five horses, and hay from his barns and\nbound it upon ten horses, and they drove them all to Lithend, which was\nGunnar's house.\n\n'Never ask another man for aught when you can ask me,' said Njal, and\nGunnar answered:\n\n'Your gifts are great, but truly your love is greater.'\n\nIn a few weeks the summer began, and, as was his custom, Gunnar rode to\nthe Thing, leaving Hallgerda in the house at Lithend.\n\nThe day after he had ridden away with his men Hallgerda sent for Malcolm\nthe thrall, and said to him:\n\n'I have somewhat for you to do! Take with you two horses besides the one\nyou ride, and go to Kirkby and steal meat enough to load the two horses,\nand butter and cheese as well. But take heed, when all is done, to set\nthe storehouses on fire, so that none can trace that the goods have\nvanished.'\n\nMalcolm the thrall lifted his head and looked at her.\n\n'I have never been a thief, in spite of all my ill-deeds,' said he.\n\nBut Hallgerda only laughed and made sport of him.\n\n'Do you think men have kept silent about your misdeeds?' she asked.\n'Hie hence when I bid you, or you shall not see the new moon rise!'\n\nAnd Malcolm the thrall knew that she spoke no jesting words, and he did\nher bidding; and none would have known of the thing had he not dropped\nhis knife when he was trying to mend the thong of his shoe, and his belt\nalso.\n\nA few days after that Gunnar and his men returned home, and many guests\nwith him. The table was set by Hallgerda herself, and besides meat there\nwere also great cheeses and jars of butter. Well Gunnar knew that Njal\nhad not sent these, and he asked Hallgerda whence they came.\n\n'It beseems a man to eat what is before him and not to trouble himself\nfurther,' answered Hallgerda; but Gunnar cried out:\n\n'I will have no part in food that is ill come by,' and with that he gave\nher a buffet on the cheek.\n\n'I shall remember that,' said Hallgerda, and she got up and went out.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next morning, Skamkell, Otkell's friend, was riding to bring in some\nsheep, when he saw something bright on the side of the path. He got off\nhis horse to see what it was, and found the belt and knife which Malcolm\nhad dropped, and he took them straight to Kirkby.\n\n'Did you ever see these things before?' asked Skamkell.\n\n'Yes, often,' answered Otkell; 'they are the knife and belt of Malcolm\nthe thrall. And they asked many men the same question, and they all knew\nthem likewise. Then they went toward Mord the son of Valgard and took\ncounsel with him, how to charge Gunnar's thrall with the theft and the\nburning; for they feared Gunnar, the mighty man of war. At last, for\nthree silver marks Mord agreed to give them his help, and bade them\nfollow out his plan.\n\nIt was this. That they should send women over the country with goods of\nhousekeeping use, and mark what was given them in exchange. 'Take heed\nthat you note carefully,' said Mord, 'because no man will keep in his\nhouse the things that he has stolen, if he has a chance of getting rid\nof them. Set therefore apart whatever you get from each house, and bring\nit to me.'\n\nAnd it was done exactly as Mord commanded, and in fourteen days the\nwomen came back, all bearing large bundles.\n\n'Who gave you the most?' asked Mord, and one woman answered:\n\n'Hallgerda, the wife of Gunnar; she gave us a cheese cut into great\nslices.'\n\n'I will keep that cheese,' said Mord.\n\nWhen the women had gone, Mord rode away to Otkell's farm, and bade him\nfetch the cheese-mould of Thorgerda his wife. And when it was brought,\nMord took the slices and laid them in it, and they filled up the mould.\n\nAfter this they all saw that Hallgerda had stolen the cheese, and, now\nthat Mord had found the thief, he went back to his own house.\n\nThe tidings soon spread far and wide, and reached the ears of Kolskegg,\nwho rode over to Lithend, so that he might speak with Gunnar.\n\n'Know you that it is said by every man that it was Hallgerda who caused\nthe fire at Kirkby, that she might steal the cheese and butter?' asked\nhe.\n\n'I have thought before that it must be so, but how can I set it right?'\nanswered Gunnar.\n\n'You must make atonement to Otkell, and it is better there should be no\ndelay,' replied Kolskegg.\n\n'I will do your bidding,' said Gunnar; and, mounting his horse, he took\neleven with him, beside Thrain and Lambi his friends, and they all fared\nto Kirkby. There, Otkell came out to greet them, and with him were\nSkamkell and two other men, Hallkell and Hallbjorm.\n\n'I am here,' said Gunnar, 'to offer atonement for the misdeed of my wife\nand the thrall you sold me, for it was they who caused the fire and\nstole the cheeses. And, if it pleases you, let the award be fixed by the\nbest of the men round!'\n\n'That sounds fairer than it is, Gunnar,' put in Skamkell, 'for you are a\nman of many things, whereas Otkell has few.'\n\n'Well,' said Gunnar, 'then I will offer atonement of twice the value of\nall that Otkell lost;' but again it was Skamkell and not Otkell who\nreplied:\n\n'Beware, Otkell, of giving him the right of making the award when it\nbelongs to you.'\n\nAnd Otkell answered: 'I will fix the award myself, Gunnar.'\n\n'Then fix it,' said Gunnar, who was waxing wroth at this delay; but once\nmore Otkell turned to Skamkell, and asked what he should answer.\n\n'Let the award be made by Gizur the white and Geir the priest,' and this\nsaying pleased Otkell.\n\n'Do you as you will,' replied Gunnar, 'but do not think that men will\nspeak well of your refusing the choices that I gave you.'\n\nAnd after that he rode home with his men.\n\nThen Hallbjorm spoke to Otkell, saying: 'Ill was it to refuse the offers\nof Gunnar, which were good offers, as you know well. Can it be that you\nthink yourself a match for Gunnar in fight, when he has proved himself\nbetter than any man in the island? But go and see Gizur the white and\nGeir the priest at once, and see if the offers of Gunnar do not seem\ngood to them! For he is a just and gentle-hearted man, and perchance he\nwill still hearken to you, if you accept them.'\n\nSo Otkell, who ever listened to the last speaker, bade, them bring out\nhis horse and set forth, Skamkell walking by his side. In a little\nwhile, when they had gone a mile or two, Skamkell said: 'You have much\nto look to at Kirkby, and no one but yourself can see after the men. Get\nhome, therefore, and let me ride to Gizur the white and Geir the priest\ninstead of you.'\n\n'Go, then,' answered Otkell, who was lazy and never took the trouble to\nthink for himself; 'but see you do not tell them lies, as you are wont\nto do.'\n\n'I will lie no more than I can help, master,' answered Skamkell, jumping\non Otkell's horse.\n\nOtkell fared home and found Hallbjorm in front of the house.\n\n'Has anything befallen you that you have returned on foot?' asked he;\nand Otkell, who feared him, said hurriedly:\n\n'I had many men to look over, and much work to do, so I sent Skamkell in\nmy stead,' But Hallbjorm held his peace and eyed him scornfully.\n\n'He who makes a thrall his friend rues it ever more,' he answered at\nlast. 'And it is ill done when men's lives are at stake to send the\nbiggest liar in Iceland on such an errand.'\n\n'If you are afraid now, what would you be if Gunnar's bill were\nsinging,' asked Otkell, who was always brave when there were none to\nslay, and whose courage always waxed great when there were none to\nfight.\n\nHallbjorm laughed as he heard him.\n\n'Who can tell who will fear most at the sound of that singing? But this\nyou know well, that when the fight has begun Gunnar does not give his\nbill much time to sing!'\n\nNow when Skamkell reached Mossfell, he told truly to Gizur the white the\noffers Gunnar had made.\n\n'Why did not Otkell accept them?' asked Gizur, 'they were generous and\nnoble, as Gunnar's offers are.'\n\n'Otkell wished to do you honour,' replied Skamkell; but Gizur for all\nanswer bade Geir the priest be sent for, and next morning, as soon as\nhe arrived, Gizur told him the story, and after he had finished he said:\n\n'Let Skamkell tell it again, for I misdoubt him greatly.'\n\nSo Skamkell was called in, but he was wary, and he told his tale the\nsecond time as he had done the first, and though Gizur still misdoubted\nhim he could find no fault.\n\n'Mayhap you speak the truth,' he said; 'but I know the wickedness of\nyour deeds, and if you die in your bed your face belies you.'\n\nAnd after a little more talking Skamkell rode home to Kirkby.\n\n'Gizur and Geir greet you,' said Skamkell, 'and they wish that this\nmatter should have a peaceful ending. They will that Gunnar shall be\nsummoned as having received and eaten the goods, likewise Hallgerda for\nstealing them!'\n\nSo Otkell followed this counsel, and five days before the opening of the\nAlthing he rode with his brother and Skamkell and a great following to\nLithend.\n\nWhen Gunnar heard what errand they were on, he was very wroth, and after\nOtkell had read the summons, and departed with his men, he went away to\nseek Njal.\n\nBut Njal told him not to trouble, as before the Thing was over he should\nbe held in greater honour than before.\n\nGizur the white rode to the Thing also, and he spoke to Otkell, and\nasked why he had summoned Gunnar to the Thing. Otkell listened in amaze\nand then answered that he had done so because of the counsel that Gizur\nhimself and Geir the priest had told Skamkell.\n\n'He lied, then,' replied Gizur; 'we gave no such counsel;' and Gunnar\nand his friends were called, and Gizur stood forth and bade Gunnar make\nhis own award. At first Gunnar refused, but at length, after Gizur and\nGeir the priest swore that what Skamkell had said was false, he agreed\nto do it. And his award was this: that atonement in full should be made\nfor the burnt storehouses and for the stolen food. 'But for the thrall,'\nsaid Gunnar, 'I will give nothing, for you knew what he was when you\nsold him to me. Therefore I will restore him to you. On the other hand,\nthe ill-words which you have spoken of me, and the way in which you\nsought to put me to shame, I count to be worth full as great an\natonement as the burning of a few sheds, of the stealing of a few\ncheeses. So that for money we stand equal. One thing more I would say,\nBeware lest you seek again to do me evil.'\n\nSo spake Gunnar, and no man said him nay. But after a little Gizur asked\nthat Gunnar might forgive the wrongs Otkell had done him, and hold him\nhis friend. At this Gunnar laughed out in scorn and answered:\n\n'Let Skamkell be his friend. It is to him Otkell looks for counsel. They\nare fitting mates. But one piece of counsel I will give him, and that is\nto take shelter with his kinsfolk, for if he stays in this country his\nend will be speedy.'\n\nFor a while Gunnar rested in peace at home and there was no more\nquarrelling. He gathered in his harvest and tended his cattle, ploughed\nhis fields, and so the autumn and winter passed away and the spring\ncame.\n\nOne day when the sun was shining Gunnar took his small axe, and a bag of\ncorn, and set out to sow seed. And while he was stooping to do this,\nOtkell galloped past, on a wild horse that carried him faster than he\nwould, and he did not see Gunnar. As ill-chance would have it, Gunnar\nraised himself at that moment from stooping over the furrow, and\nOtkell's spur tore his ear, and he was very wroth.\n\n'You summon me first, and then you ride over me,' he said, and, as was\nhis wont, Skamkell made answer:\n\n[Illustration: OTKELL AND GUNNAR IN THE FIELD]\n\n'The wound might have been far sorer, but your anger was greater at\nthe Thing, when you judged the atonement and clenched your bill in your\nfist.'\n\n'When we next meet my bill shall have something to say to you,' said\nGunnar, and went on sowing his corn.\n\nThe corn was all sown, and Gunnar was beginning to think of other work,\nwhen one morning his shepherd came riding fast.\n\n'I passed eight men in Markfleet,' said he; 'their faces were set this\nway, and Skamkell was with them. He ever speaks ill of you, and I have\nheard him tell how you shed tears when Otkell rode over you.'\n\n'It does not do to mind words,' answered Gunnar; 'but for the warning\nyou have given me you shall henceforth do the work that pleases you. Now\ngo to sleep.'\n\nSo the shepherd slept, and Gunnar took the saddle off his horse, and\nlaid his own saddle on it; he fetched his shield, and buckled on his\nsword, and then he took his bill, and as his hand touched it it sang\nloudly. Rannveig his mother heard the sound, and came out from the door\nto the place where Gunnar was fastening on his helmet.\n\n'Never have I seen you so full of wrath,' said she. But Gunnar answered\nher nothing and rode quickly away.\n\nRannveig went back to the sitting-room, where many men were talking,\nand, looking at them, she said:\n\n'Loud is your talk, but the bill sang louder when Gunnar rode away.'\n\nWhen Kolskegg heard that, he saddled his horse and hasted after Gunnar.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGunnar's horse was swift and steady, and he never drew rein till he\nreached the ford which he knew Otkell's men must pass. There he tied up\nhis horse, and awaited them on foot. When Otkell's men came up, they,\ntoo, sprang to the ground, and Hallbjorm strode towards Gunnar.\n\n'Keep back,' said Gunnar, 'I have no quarrel with brave men like you,'\nbut Hallbjorm answered:\n\n'I cannot for shame stand by while you kill my brother;' and he smote\nwith his spear at Gunnar. While they were fighting, Skamkell struck at\nGunnar's back with his axe, but Gunnar turned round, and, with his bill\ncaught the axe from beneath, so that it fell out of Skamkell's hands. A\nsecond thrust with the bill stretched Skamkell on the ground, and after\nhim Otkell and three others. They slew eight men in all, Kolskegg\naiding.\n\nAfter that they rode home, and as they went Gunnar said: 'I wonder if I\nam less base than others because I kill men less willingly than they.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe first thing Gunnar did was to seek counsel of Njal, who bid him take\ncare never to break the peace which was made between him and his foes,\nand never to slay more than one man of the same race, 'else your life\nwill be but short.'\n\n'Do you know the death you yourself will die?' he asked.\n\n'Yes, I know it,' answered Njal.\n\n'And what is it?' asked Gunnar once more.\n\n'One that none could guess,' replied Njal, and Gunnar went away.\n\nNow at the next Thing there was great dispute over this suit, but in the\nend it was settled to Gunnar's honour, and Gizur the white and Geir the\npriest gave pledges that they would keep the peace. But there were other\nmen who thought they had been wronged by Gunnar, and laid plots to anger\nhim, so that he might be outlawed and forced to leave the country.\n\nBy ill-fortune the words which Njal had spoken when he bade Gunnar never\nto slay more than one man of the same race were noised abroad, and his\nenemies made a plan by which Gunnar should be forced to fight Thorgeir,\nson of Otkell, so that his doom might come upon him.\n\n[Illustration: How Gunnar slew Thorgeir, Otkell's son.]\n\nThus matters stood for a while, and then Gunnar rode down to the isles\nto see what his thralls were doing, and his foes heard of it, and\nresolved to lie in wait for him at the Rang river.\n\nBut when Gunnar returned he was not alone, as they expected he would be,\nfor Kolskegg his brother was at his side, and carried the short sword\nwhich some of them knew well, while Gunnar was armed with his sword and\nhis bill.\n\nThe two were yet far from the Rang river when the bill which Gunnar bore\nin his hand sweated with blood, and Kolskegg, who had not yet seen this\nsight, grew cold with terror.\n\n'This has some dreadful meaning,' said he; and Gunnar nodded.\n\n'It only happens before a great fight,' he answered, 'and they are\ncalled \"wound drops\" in other lands. So beware. Let us not be taken\nunawares;' and they looked well about them, till they saw some men lying\nhidden on the banks on the other side of the ford.\n\nLong it were to tell of that fierce fight, and of the men that were\nslain by Kolskegg and Gunnar. At last Thorgeir, Otkell's son, forced his\nway to the front and swung his sword at Gunnar. The blow would have been\ndeadly had it fallen, but, leaping aside, he thrust his bill through\nThorgeir's body, and flung him far into the river.\n\nAt that the other men turned and fled away.\n\n'Our money-chests will be emptied for atonement for these men,' said\nGunnar as they drew near Lithend, and when they told their mother,\nRannveig shook her head.\n\n'I fear lest ill should come of it,' said she.\n\nAnd ill _did_ come of it.\n\nNjal's heart was sore when Gunnar told him of the fight by the Rang\nriver, for he said:\n\n'You have gone against my counsel, and have slain two men of the same\nrace. So take heed, if you break the award, your life will pay forfeit.\nBut whatever befalls I am always your friend.'\n\nSoon the Thing was held, and upon the Hill of Laws Gizur the white\nsummoned Gunnar, for manslaughter of Thorgeir, Otkell's son, and\ndemanded that his goods should be forfeited and his body outlawed, and\nthat no man should help or harbour him.\n\nAfter this there was much talking, but at last the award was given by\ntwelve men.\n\nAnd this was it.\n\nMoney was to be paid down for the men slain, and Gunnar and Kolskegg\nwere to depart from Iceland and not return for three winters. But if\nGunnar should break the settlement and stay at home, any man might slay\nhim as he would.\n\nGunnar promised to keep the award, but he did not hold it a just one.\n\nThen Kolskegg began to inquire of the vessels that were sailing that\nsummer, and he settled that he would go on board the ship of Armfin of\nthe Bay, and Gunnar his brother would go with him.\n\nThey sent down to the shore those things that they might need in foreign\nlands, and then Gunnar bade farewell to Njal and his men, and thanked\nhis friends for the help they had given him.\n\nAt the last he took leave of the thralls at Lithend, and of his mother,\nand told them that, since his own country had outlawed him, he would\nnever return to it. Then he threw his arms round every man, and without\nlooking back sprang into the saddle.\n\nAs they rode along the Mark fleet, his horse stumbled, and Gunnar fell\nto the ground. When he got up he did not mount at once, but stood and\nlooked round him for a while. Suddenly he turned and said to Kolskegg:\n'Never has my home seemed to me so fair as now when the corn is ripe and\nready for cutting. Come what may, I will not leave it.'\n\n'Do not let your foes triumph over you,' answered Kolskegg. 'For if you\nshould break your atonement, any man may deal with you as he will.'\n\n'I will go no whither,' repeated Gunnar, 'and I would that you would stay\nwith me.'\n\n'I cannot do this thing,' answered Kolskegg; 'but if you go back, tell\nmy mother and my kindred that I bid them farewell for ever, for you will\nsoon be dead, and I shall have naught to bind me to Iceland.'\n\nHallgerda's heart was filled with joy when Gunnar came under the\ndoorway, but Rannveig said nothing, for her heart was sad.\n\nAll that winter Gunnar sat fast at Lithend and would not be prevailed on\nto leave it, and when the winter had gone and the Thing had met, Gizur\nthe white proclaimed Gunnar an outlaw for having broken his atonement.\nThen he called together all his foes, and they planned together how that\nthey should ride to Lithend and slay him. But Njal heard what they had\nbeen saying, and he warned Gunnar.\n\n'You have always dealt truly and kindly with me,' said Gunnar, when Njal\nhad finished speaking, 'and if ill befall me, take heed, I pray you, of\nmy son and Hogni. As for Grani, he has an evil nature, and there is no\nturning him from bad deeds.'\n\nIt was in the autumn that Mord, the son of Valgard, sent word to\nGunnar's foes that the time had come to make the attack upon Lithend, as\nall his men had gone to the haymaking on the isles of the sea. So they\nset forth secretly, but stopped first at the farm nearest to Lithend,\nwhere they seized the farmer, and warned him that unless he came with\nthem and put to death the hound Sam which had guarded Gunnar ever since\nOlaf the Peacock had bestowed him as a gift, his own life should be\nforfeit. Thorkell the farmer was sore at heart when he heard what was\nrequired of him, but he took his axe and went with the rest. It was easy\nto entice Sam the hound into a hollow dell; but when he saw the crowd of\nmen behind Thorkell he knew that evil was afoot, and sprang on Thorkell\nand tore open his throat. Then Aumond of Witchwood smote him on the head\nwith his axe, and Sam gave a howl which was not the utterance of any\nmortal dog, and rolled over.\n\n[Illustration: GUNNAR'S LAST FIGHT & HALLGERDA'S REVENGE]\n\nGunnar, who was sleeping in the narrow space above his great wooden\nhall, heard the awful sound, and said to himself: 'So they have killed\nthee, Sam, my fosterling. Well, I will follow thee soon;' and, taking\nhis bill in his hand, he went up into the roof of the hall, where among\nthe beams were little slits for windows. In the winter there were\nshutters fastened over these little slits, but now they were left open.\n\nFrom the beam on which he was crouching Gunnar saw a red tunic slipping\nby the window, and he thrust swiftly out his bill. In a moment a man's\nbody fell upon the ground below.\n\n'Well, is Gunnar at home?' said Gizur, and Thorgrim the Easterling\nanswered: 'Go and see for yourselves; but if Gunnar is not at home, his\nbill is,' and those were his last words, for the thrust had been mortal.\n\nIt hardly seemed possible that one man could keep such a force at bay,\nbut wherever they went Gunnar's arrows followed them. Three times they\ncame on, and three times they fell back, and Gunnar's heart beat high,\nfor he thought that perchance their courage might fail, and that they\nwould return whither they had come.\n\n'One of their own arrows sticks outside the window,' he said, laughing\nloud in his glee; 'I will send it to kill its master.' But his mother\nanswered: 'It is ill to waken a sleeping dog, my son.'\n\nHer words were wise, but Gunnar would not listen to them. He shot the\narrow into the midst of the men gathered beneath him, and knew not that\nit had dealt a death-blow, or that Gizur the white had been watching its\ncourse.\n\n'The arm that drew in that shaft had a ring on it--a gold ring such as\nGunnar wears,' said he, 'and if they had not shot away their own arrows\nthey would not be needing ours;' and with that he urged them to make a\nfresh attack.\n\n'Let us set the house on fire,' said Mord, but Gizur answered him hotly,\nand bade him find out some other plan.\n\nNow Mord was a man of many thoughts, and great skill in planning, so he\nlooked about him to see if there was aught else he could do. Lying near\nwere some ropes, and as soon as he saw them he cried out, 'If we can\ntwist one end of the ropes round the beams, and the other round this\nrock, we can twist them tight, and pull the roof off the hall.'\n\nAnd this was done; and when the roof fell down they beheld Gunnar\nstanding on the beam, shooting arrows at his enemies.\n\nAt this Mord cried once more that the house should be burned, but the\nrest called shame on him, and then Thorbrand crept up on one side and\ncut Gunnar's bowstring with his axe. But before he could reach the\nground again Gunnar had seized his bill, and driven it through his body.\n\nThen, without looking round, Gunnar said swiftly to Hallgerda his wife:\n'Let you and my mother cut off two locks of hair from your heads, and\ntwist them into my bowstring, so that I may shoot at them once more.'\n\n'Does aught depend on it?' she asked. 'My life,' he said; and Hallgerda\nmade answer: 'Do you remember that time when you struck me in the face?'\nsaid she; 'well, now you shall die for it.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor many a day men sang of the fight which Gunnar made for his life and\nthe numbers that he slew before he himself was struck down and slain.\n\n'We have laid low a great chief,' said Gizur, 'and many hearts will be\nsore because of his slaying. But, though his body is dead, his name\nshall live for ever.'\n\n(_Saga_)\n\n\n\n\nNJAL'S BURNING\n\n\nNow, Valgard the Cunning was dying. And he sent for his son Mord and\nbade him stir up strife between Njal's sons and their brother Hauskuld\nthe priest, for he ever hated Njal, and longed to be avenged on him. So\nMord fared to Hauskuld, and told him tales of what his brothers had said\nof him, but Hauskuld bade him begone, for he would listen to none of his\nstories. Then Mord left Hauskuld the priest, and had ready a long tale,\nhow that Hauskuld had meant to burn them while they sat at a feast in\nWhiteness, had not Hogni, Gunnar's son, come by. And as this plan had\nfailed, he set about gathering his men together to slay his brothers as\nthey rode home, but neither Grani, son of Gunnar, nor Gunnar, son of\nLambi, had the heart to do it.\n\nAt first, neither Njal's sons, nor Kari, who had married their sister,\nwould give ear to Mord's false words, but in spite of themselves\nill-feelings began to spring up in their breasts towards Hauskuld.\n\nThus things went on for many months, and whenever Mord met one of Njal's\nsons, or Kari, who had married their sister, he had new stories to tell\nthem, till at length their hearts grew hot, and they determined that\nthey would slay Hauskuld, lest perchance he might first slay them.\n\nHauskuld was sowing his corn when his brothers, and with them Mord,\nValgard's son, came up to kill him. Skarphedinn, Njal's son, was their\nleader, and had bidden the rest each to give Hauskuld a wound. But the\nfirst blow dealt by Skarphedinn brought him on his knees, and he died\npraying that they might be forgiven for the ill they had brought on him,\nguiltless.\n\nWhen he was dead they went home and told Njal what they had done.\n\n'It had been well if two of you had died and Hauskuld had lived,' said\nNjal after he had heard the tidings, 'for I know better than you what\nwill be the end of this.'\n\n'And what will be the end?' asked Skarphedinn.\n\n'My death, and yours, and your mother's,' answered Njal.\n\n'Shall I die also?' he asked; but Njal shook his head.\n\n'Good fortune will ever be with you!' he answered, and turned away and\nwept.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow all men knew that at the next Thing a suit would be brought for the\nslaying of Hauskuld, and Njal and his sons made ready to fare to it, and\nto hear the award which should be given. But first sundry of Njal's\nfriends came to see him and offered to stand by him, and to set up their\ntents beside his, and among them were Gizur the white and Asgrim. And at\nthe Thing an award was made, but was made void by a quarrel between\nFlosi, the friend of Hauskuld the slain, and Skarphedinn, and Njal and\nhis sons returned home, and Njal's heart was heavy.\n\n'Are you riding back to your wife?' asked he of Kari, his son-in-law;\nand Kari made answer, 'Whatever happens to you, happens to me!' and they\nall stayed at Bergthorasknoll.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the house dwelt an old, old woman, so old that she had nursed\nBergthora, Njal's wife, and she was wise and could see into the future.\nNjal's sons laughed at her warnings, and took no heed to them, but for\nall that they knew well that it was often the truth she told them. One\nday Skarphedinn was standing outside the door, and the old woman came\nout with a stick in her hand, and she passed silently by him, and\nwalked up the path to where a pile of dried shrubs lay above the house.\n\n'May a curse be upon you!' she cried, shaking her stick over it; and\nSkarphedinn, who had followed after her, asked wherefore she was wroth\nwith the pile.\n\n'Because with the fire lighted from this pile there will be a great\nburning,' said she. 'And Njal and his sons will be burnt, and Bergthora,\nmy foster-child. So carry it away and scatter it in the water, or else\nset fire to it before your enemies can get here!'\n\n'What is the use of doing anything?' answered Skarphedinn, 'for if it is\nwritten that we should be burned, our foes will find some other fuel,\nthough I were to scatter this stack to the four winds;' and he went away\nlaughing.\n\nAll through the summer the old nurse was ever begging Njal to do away\nwith the stack of vetch, but the harvest was plentiful in the pastures\nand the men never came home save to sleep.\n\n'We can bring in that vetch stack any time,' they said.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe harvest was stored in the barns, and a good harvest it was. There\nhad been none such since the day that Gunnar had fared from Lithend with\nKolskegg, and had returned to his ruin. One day, when Grim and Helgi,\nNjal's sons, had ridden away to Holar to see their children, who were at\nnurse there, they heard strange tidings from some poor woman, that the\ncountry side was stirring and that bands of men were gathering together,\nand were seen riding along the same road.\n\nAt this news Grim and Helgi looked at each other.\n\n'Let us go home to Bergthorasknoll,' said they.\n\nNow they had told their mother they would sleep that night at Holar,\nwith their children, so she gave no thought to them; but in the evening,\nwhen the hour had come to prepare supper, Bergthora bade every man\nchoose whatever dish he liked best, 'for,' said she, 'this is the last\nfood you will eat in this house!'\n\n'Of a truth you must be ill to speak such words,' cried they.\n\n'They are true words,' she said again; 'and that you may know them to be\ntrue, I will give you a sign. Before the meat that is on the board\nto-night is eaten, Grim and Helgi will be in the house!' and she held\nher peace and went out.\n\nWhen the food was prepared, Bergthora called to them, and all sat down\nbut Njal, who lingered in the doorway.\n\n'What hinders you eating with the rest?' asked Bergthora; and Njal, as\nhe answered, put his hand before his eyes.\n\n'A vision has come to me,' he said slowly--'the wall is thrown down, and\nthe board is wet with blood.'\n\nAt this the men's faces grew pale, and a strange look came into their\neyes, but Skarphedinn bade them be of good cheer, and to remember that,\nwhatever might befall, all men would look to them to bear themselves\nbravely.\n\nThen Grim and Helgi entered with their tidings, and every one had in his\nmind what Bergthora had said, and knew that ill was in store.\n\n'Let no man sleep to-night,' said Njal, 'but take heed to his arms.'\n\nThe band of Njal's foes, headed by Flosi, had ridden to a valley behind\nthe house, and had fastened their horses there. After that they walked\nslowly up the path, to the front of the house, where Njal and his sons,\nand Kari, his-son-in-law, and his thralls, thirty in all, stood up to\nmeet them.\n\nThen both sides halted and spoke together. Flosi's counsel was to fall\non them where they stood, though he knew that few would there be left to\ntell the tale to their children.\n\nNjal, for his part, desired that his men might return inside the hall,\nfor the house was strong; 'and if Gunnar alone could keep them at bay\nthey will never prevail against us,' he said.\n\n'Ah, but these chiefs are not of the kind that slew Gunnar,' answered\nSkarphedinn, 'for they turned a deaf ear to Mord's evil counsel to set\nfire to Lithend, so that Gunnar and his wife and mother should be burnt\nup in it. But this band care nothing for what is fair and honourable, so\nlong as we leave our bones behind us.'\n\nThen Helgi spoke:\n\n'Let us do as our father wills. He knows best,' and Skarphedinn said:\n\n'If he wishes us to enter the hall, and all to be burnt together, I am\nready to do it. I care little what death I shall die, and if the time of\nmy doom is come, it matters nothing that we try to escape.' And so\nsaying he turned to Kari, and bade him stand by his side.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'They are all mad,' cried Flosi, as he saw Njal and his sons and Kari,\nhis son-in-law, take their place on the inside of the door. 'Surely none\nof them can escape us now;' and the fight began with a spear which was\nthrown at Skarphedinn.\n\nBut victory was not so near as Flosi thought. Man after man fell back\nwounded or dead, yet Skarphedinn and his brethren remained without a\nwound.\n\n'We shall never put them to flight with our spears,' said Flosi, 'and\nthere are only two ways open. Either we give up our vengeance, and await\nthe death that will surely befall us at their hands; or else we must set\nfire to the house, and burn them in it. And I know not what else we can\ndo; yet that is a mean and cowardly deed, which will lie heavily on our\nsouls.'\n\nSo they gathered wood and made a great stack before the door, and\nSkarphedinn laughed, and asked if they were turning cooks.\n\nIt was Grani, the son of Gunnar, whose soul was black like his mother\nHallgerda's, who answered him.\n\n'You will not wish better cooking when _you_ are put on the spit;' but\nhe had better have left Skarphedinn alone, for the men around heard his\nreply, and looked curiously on Grani.\n\n'Your deeds become your mother's son,' said Skarphedinn. 'It was I who\navenged your father, therefore it is natural to one of your kind that\nyou should wish to slay me,' and he stepped back to pick up some fresh\narrows.\n\nIn spite of Grani's boastful words, the pile of wood was slow in\ncatching, for the women threw whey and water upon it from the little\nwindows in the roof, so that the flames were quenched as fast as they\nsprang up. The men grew angry and impatient, and at last Kol,\nThorstein's son, said to Flosi:\n\n'It avails nought to kindle the fire here; but there is a pile of dry\nvetch at the back, just above the house, and we can light it, and put\nthe burning wood on the beams under the roof.'\n\nSo he crept round unseen, and did as he had said, and the other men\nheaped up wood before the doors of the house, so that none could escape,\nand those within the hall knew nothing that was doing, till a great\nlight filled the place, and they saw that the roof was burning.\n\nThen horrible dread overwhelmed the souls of the women, and they broke\nforth into weeping and wailing, till Njal spoke words of comfort to\nthem, and bade them keep up their hearts, for God would not suffer them\nto burn both in this world and in the next. And when he had stilled\ntheir fears he went near the door, and asked:\n\n'Is Flosi nigh at hand?'\n\n'Yes,' answered Flosi.\n\n'Will you suffer my sons to atone?' asked Njal once more, 'or let them\nleave the house?' but Flosi said:\n\n'The women and children and thralls may go out, but, as for your sons,\nthe time for atonement is past, and I will not leave this spot as long\nas one of them remains alive.'\n\nWhen Njal heard that, he went back into the house and called the women\nand children and thralls round him, and bade Thorhalla, the wife of\nHelgi, go out first, for she was a brave woman. And Thorhalla went,\nafter bidding farewell to Helgi her husband.\n\nBut Astrid whispered softly to Helgi:\n\n'I will tie a woman's kerchief about your head, and wrap you in a cloak,\nand the women folk will stand about you, and none shall know that you\nare not a woman also.'\n\nHelgi did not like this plan, for he thought it shame to steal away in\nhis sister's garments; but they prayed him not to be stiff-necked, and\nat length he suffered the cloak to be put round him.\n\nNow the children of Njal were all tall, but Helgi was tallest of all,\nexcept his brother Skarphedinn. And Flosi marked him, and said to his\nmen:\n\n'I like not the height of the woman who went yonder, nor the breadth of\nher shoulders. Seize her and hold her fast.'\n\nAs soon as Helgi heard that he threw his cloak aside and thrust at a man\nwith his sword, and cut off his leg. But Flosi was close behind, and\nstretched Helgi dead in front of him.\n\nAfter that he went back to the house, and offered Njal that he should\ncome outside, but Njal answered that he was too old to avenge his sons,\nand that he would not outlive them, for that would be a shame and\ndisgrace to him.\n\n'Come out, then, Bergthora,' said Flosi, 'for I will not suffer you to\nburn inside.'\n\nBut Bergthora made answer:\n\n'Long years from my youth have I lived with Njal, and I vowed on the day\nof betrothal that his death should be mine;' and without more words\nthey went into the house.\n\n'I am weary,' said Njal to his wife, 'let us lay down on our bed and\nrest;' and Bergthora bowed her head, and spoke to the boy Thord, the son\nof Kari:\n\n'Come to the door with me and go forth with your kinsmen. I will not\nhave you stay here to burn.' But the boy shook off the hand she had laid\non his shoulder.\n\n'You promised me when I was little, grandmother, that I should never go\nfrom you till I wished it of myself. And I would rather die with you\nthan live after you.'\n\nBergthora was silent, but she led the boy to the bed, and he climbed in,\nand laid himself down. Then Njal said to his head man:\n\n'Bring hither the oxhide and put it on the bed, and watch how we lay\nourselves down, so that you may know where to find our bones. For not\none inch will we stir, whatever befall.'\n\nAnd he laid himself down, and bade the boy lie between himself and\nBergthora.\n\nSo they waited.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the doors and in the windows of the roof Skarphedinn and Grim were\ncasting away burning brands, and hurling spears as if they had had\ntwenty hands instead of two. At last Flosi called to his men to let be,\ntill the fire had its way, for many had been killed and wounded already.\n\nAnd now a beam which held up the oak fell in, and then another and\nanother. 'Surely my father must be dead,' said Skarphedinn, 'that he\nmakes no sound,' and, followed by Grim and Kari, he went to the end of\nthe hall where a cross beam had fallen.\n\n'The smoke is thick here,' said Kari, 'thick enough to hide a man; let\nus leap out one by one, and we shall be away before they have seen us.\nSkarphedinn, you jump first!'\n\n[Illustration: HOW KARI ESCAPED FROM NJAL'S HOUSE]\n\n'No!' answered Skarphedinn, 'you go first and I will follow; or, if I\nfollow not, you will avenge me.'\n\n'I have a chance of my life,' said Kari, 'and I will take it. We must\neach do as seems best to him, but I fear me that we see each other no\nmore;' and catching up a huge blazing beam, he threw it over the edge of\nthe roof, among the men who were gathered below.\n\nThey scattered at once like leaves in a storm, and at that instant Kari,\nwith his tunic and hair already burning, leaped from the roof and crept\naway in the smoke. The man who stood nearest on the ground thought he\nsaw something dark moving, and he asked his neighbour:\n\n'Think you that was one of them jumping from the beam?' but the man\nanswered: 'Nay, but it may have been Skarphedinn hurling a firebrand;'\nand then they went to their own work, and paid no more heed to the\nfigure on the roof.\n\nSo Kari was left free to escape, and he put out the fire that was\nburning him, and rested in a safe place till he could seek shelter with\nhis friends.\n\nThrice Skarphedinn tried to leap after Kari, and thrice the beam broke\nunder his weight, and he was forced to climb back again. Then part of\nthe wall fell in, and Skarphedinn fell down with it on to the floor of\nthe hall.\n\nIn a moment the face of Gunnar, son of Lambi, was seen on top of the\nwall, and he cried out, 'Are those tears on your cheeks, Skarphedinn?'\nand Skarphedinn made answer:\n\n'Now am I finding out in truth how smoke can force tears from one's\neyes. But methinks I see laughter in yours, Gunnar.'\n\n'Of a surety,' said Gunnar, 'never have I laughed so much since the day\nyou slew Thrain in Markfleet.'\n\n'Here is a remembrance of that day for you,' said Skarphedinn, and he\ntook from his pouch Thrain's tooth, and flung it at Gunnar. And it\nknocked out Gunnar's eye, and he fell from the roof.\n\nThen Skarphedinn went to Grim, and hand in hand they two tried to stamp\nout the burning beams, but before they had crossed the hall Grim dropped\ndead, and the roof fell in, and shut Skarphedinn in a corner, so that he\ncould not move.\n\nAt daylight a man rode up who had met Kari, and had learned from him\nthat when he had jumped from the roof both Skarphedinn and Grim were\nstill alive, but that was many hours before, and both must long since be\ndead.\n\nThen Flosi and some of his men drew nearer and climbed up the gable, for\nthe fire had burned low, and only threw out a flame here and there. And\nas they looked into the hall beneath them, which was a mass of charred\nand fallen wood, there seemed to rise up from the red ashes a song of\ntriumph, and they held their breath and looked into each other's faces.\n\n'Is it Skarphedinn's song?' asked Glum, 'and is it a token that he is\ndead? or a sign that he is alive? Let us look for him.'\n\n'That shall not be,' said Flosi quickly. 'Fool that you are, do you not\nknow that even now Kari is gathering together a band to avenge his\nkinsmen? Therefore let every man take his horse and ride up to the\nThree-corner Fell, and there we can hide and take counsel how we can\nescape from our enemies.'\n\nSo it was done, and not a whit too soon, for a very great company\nscattered over the country, seeking Flosi and his Band of Burners--for\nby this ill name men knew them.\n\nAs for Kari himself, he begged Hjallti, Njal's cousin, to go with him to\nBergthorasknoll and find Njal's bones and bury them. And, as they went,\nmen joined them, till they numbered nigh on a hundred when they reached\nBergthorasknoll.\n\nKari entered the hall first and led them up to the spot where the bed\nhad stood, and where a great heap of ashes now covered it. The ashes\ntook long to clear away, and underneath was the oxhide, charred and\nshrivelled. But when the oxhide was pulled away they saw the three\nbodies fresh and whole, as they had laid them down. Only one finger of\nthe boy was burned, where he had thrust it outside the hide.\n\nWhen they saw this a great joy fell on the hearts of all, and Hjallti\nsaid:\n\n'Never have I seen a dead man with a face as bright as this!' And the\nother men said likewise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter that they sought for Skarphedinn, and then found him, fastened by\nthe beam into the corner, and he had driven his axe into the wall of the\ngable, so that it had to be broken out. And they sought the bones of\nGrim, and found them lying in the middle of the hall, where he had\ndropped down dead. And they sought the bones of other men, and found\nthem, and nine bodies in all were carried into the church and buried\nthere.\n\nAnd that is Burnt Njal's story.\n\n[The _Saga of Burnt Njal_.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY OF SOLACE\n\n\nThere was once an emperor who had two things that he loved more than all\nthe world--his daughter and his garden. The finest linen and the richest\nsilks of India or China decked the princess from the moment she was old\nenough to run alone, and the ships that brought them brought also the\nfairest flowers and sweetest fruits that grew in distant lands. All the\ntime that he was not presiding over his council, or hearing the\npetitions of his people, the emperor passed in his garden, watching the\nflowers open and the fruits ripen, and by-and-by he planted trees and\nshrubs and made walks and alleys, till altogether the garden was the\nmost beautiful as well as the largest that had ever been seen.\n\nThe years passed, and the princess reached the age of fourteen; quite\nold enough to be married, thought the kings and princes who were looking\nout for a bride for their sons. The emperor's heart sank when he heard\nrumours of embassies that were coming to rob him of his daughter, and he\nshut himself up in his room to try to invent a plan by which he might\nkeep the princess, without giving offence to the powerful monarchs who\nhad asked for her hand.\n\nFor a long while he sat with his head on his hands, thinking steadily,\nbut every scheme had some drawback. At length his face brightened and he\nsprang up from his seat.\n\n'Yes! that will do,' he cried, and went down to attend his council,\nlooking quite a different man from what he had been a few hours before.\n\nThe embassies and the princes continued to arrive, and they all got the\nsame answer. 'The emperor was proud of the honour done to himself and\nhis daughter, and would give her in marriage to any man who would pass\nthrough the garden and bring him a branch of the tree which stood at the\nfurther end.' Nothing could surely be more easy, and every prince in\nturn as he heard the conditions felt that the fairest damsel on the\nwhole earth was already his wife.\n\nBut though each man went gaily in, none ever came out, nor was it ever\nknown what had befallen them. At last so many had entered that fatal\ngate that it seemed as if there could be no more princes or nobles left,\nand the emperor began to breathe again at the thought that he would be\nable after all to keep his daughter.\n\nBut one day a knight of great renown, named Tirius, arrived from beyond\nthe seas and knocked at the gate of the castle. Like the others, he was\nwelcomed and feasted, and when the feast was ended he craved that the\nemperor would grant him the hand of the princess on whatever condition\nhe might choose.\n\n'Right willingly,' answered the emperor; 'there is only one condition I\nhave laid down, and that is an easy one, though for some strange reason\nno one as yet has been able to fulfil it. You have merely to walk\nthrough the garden that you see below, and bring me back a branch from a\ntree bearing golden fruit, which stands on the opposite side. If fame\nspeaks true, this is child's play to the adventures in which you have\nborne so noble a part.'\n\n'In good sooth,' said the knight, who saw clearly that there was more in\nthe matter than appeared--'in good sooth your condition likes me well.\nStill, as fortune is ever inconstant, and may be tired of dealing me\nfavours, I would first ask as a boon a sight of your fair daughter and\nleave to hearken to her voice. After that I will delay no longer, but\nproceed on my quest.'\n\n'I will take you to her myself,' answered the emperor, who thought that\nhe might show this small mercy to a man who was going to his death, and\nhe led his guest down long passages and through lofty halls, till they\nreached the princess's apartments.\n\n'In five minutes my chamberlain shall come for you, and he shall show\nyou the way to the garden,' said the emperor, 'and meanwhile I bid you\nfarewell;' and, leaving Tirius to enter alone, he went to seek his\nministers.\n\nIt would be hard to say whether the knight or the princess was most\namazed as they stood gazing at each other--he at her beauty and she at\nhis boldness, for never before had any man crossed her threshold. For a\nmoment both were silent; then the knight, remembering how short a time\nwas allowed him, aroused himself from his dream and spoke:\n\n'Gentle damsel, help me now in my need, for I have been drawn hither by\nlove. Full well I know that many have had this adventure before me, and\nhave entered that garden and never returned from it. Without your aid my\nfate will be such as theirs, and therefore, I pray you, tell me what I\nshould do so that I may win through without harm.'\n\nNow the knight was a goodly man and tall, and perhaps the princess may\nhave bewailed in secret the noble youths who had fallen victims to her\nfather's pleasure. But, however that might be, she smiled and made\nreply:\n\n'I am ready to marry any man on whom my father wishes to bestow me, and\nyou say you have come hither for love of me. Still, you have asked of me\na hard thing, for it beseems not a daughter to betray her father's\nconfidence. Yet, as I am loth that any more fair youths should lose\ntheir lives for my sake, I will give you this counsel. You must first\npass through a forest, which is the home of a lady who is known to\nall as the \"Lady of Solace.\" Go to her, and she will give you the help\nyou need to journey safely through the garden.'\n\n[Illustration: The Lady of Solace]\n\nThe princess had scarcely finished these words when the voice of the\nchamberlain was heard without, bidding him withdraw, and, glancing\ngratefully at her, the knight bowed low and took his leave.\n\nIn the great hall the chamberlain quitted him, telling him to take his\nease and rest till the emperor should return, but instead the knight\nwaited till he was alone and then plunged straight into the forest.\n\nHe walked on for a little way till he reached a green space, and there\nhe stopped and cried, 'Where is the Lady of Solace?' Then he sat down on\na stone and waited. In a short time he saw coming towards him two\nladies, one bearing a basin and the other a cloth.\n\n'We give you greeting, sir,' they said; 'the Lady of Solace has sent us\nto you, and she bids you first wash your feet in this basin, and then go\nwith us to her palace.' So the knight washed his feet, and dried them in\nthe white cloth, and rose up and went with the ladies to the palace,\nwhich was built of blue marble, and the fairest that ever he saw. The\nLady of Solace was fair likewise and of a marvellous sweet countenance,\nand her voice was soft like the voice of a thrush as she asked him what\nhe wanted with her. At that the knight told his errand, and how the\nprincess had bade him come to her, for she alone could help him to win\nthrough the enchanted garden.\n\n'I am called the Lady of Solace,' said she, with a smile which seemed\nmade up of all the beautiful things in the world, 'and I give succour to\nall those who need it. Here is a ball of thread; take it and bind it\nround the post of the gate of the garden, and hold fast the thread in\nyour hand, unwinding it as you go. For if you lose the clue, you will\nperish like those before you. And more. A lion dwells in the garden, who\nwill spring out and devour you, as he has devoured the rest. Therefore,\narm yourself with armour, and see that the armour be anointed thickly\nwith ointment. When the lion sees you, he will take your arm or your leg\ninto his mouth, and his teeth shall stick fast in the ointment, and when\nyou sunder yourself from him his teeth shall be drawn out, and you shall\nkill him easily. But during the fight beware lest you let go the clue.\n\n'And after the lion shall come four men, who will set on you and seek to\nturn you from their path; but beware of them also, and if you are in\nperil call to me, and I will succour you. And now return to the palace\nand put on your armour, and so, farewell.'\n\nWhen the knight heard this he was right glad, and stole back to the\npalace, where he found that the emperor was still sitting at his\ncouncil. He sat down in the great hall to await him, but the time seemed\nvery long before his host entered.\n\n'How have you sped?' asked he.\n\n'My lord, now that through your goodness I have seen the princess,' said\nthe knight, 'there can be but one ending to my journey. I go at once in\nquest of the tree, and I am content whatever fate may befall me.'\n\n'May fortune be with you!' answered the emperor, who never failed to\ngive good wishes to his daughter's suitors, as he felt quite sure that\nthey would be of no use.\n\nSo the knight bowed low and left the hall, going straight to the\ngatekeeper's house, where he had put off his armour on arriving. On\npretence of sharpening his sword, he borrowed a pot of ointment from the\nman, and, unseen by him, rubbed the paste thickly over his armour. After\nthis he looked about to see that no one was watching him, and took the\npath that led to the garden.\n\n[Illustration: THE LADY OF SOLACE HELPS THE FALLEN KNIGHT]\n\nA large iron gate supported by two posts stood at the entrance, and\nround one of these he firmly bound one end of the thread which the Lady\nof Solace had given him. Holding the other end in his hand, he\nadvanced for a long while without seeing or hearing any strange thing,\ntill a roar close to him caused him to start. The knight had just time\nto draw his sword and hold up his shield before the lion was upon him;\nbut, as he had been forewarned, the great beast dashed aside the shield,\nand fastened his teeth in the arm that held it. The pain was such that\nthe knight leaped backwards, but the lion's teeth were fixed fast in the\nointment, and they all came out of his mouth, so that he could bite no\nmore. And when he rushed at his enemy with his claws they stuck also, so\nthat the knight with a blow of his sword was able to kill him with ease.\n\nMightily he rejoiced at seeing his foe dead before him, and by ill\nfortune he forgot that, had it not been for the counsel of the Lady of\nSolace, it was _he_ who would have been slain, and not the lion. He\nswelled with pride and conceit at the ease with which he had won the\nvictory, and never noted that the clue of thread was no longer in his\nhands.\n\n'Ah, lovely princess, I come to seek my reward,' cried he to himself,\nand turned his face towards the palace. But a little way on he spied\nseven trees, very fair to view, all covered with fruit that shone\ntemptingly in the sun. He gathered a cluster that hung just above his\nhead, and when he had eaten that, he thought that it tasted so delicious\nhe really must have another, and another also.\n\nHe was still eating when three men passed by, and asked him what he was\ndoing there. The knight was so puffed up that he did not answer them\ncivilly after his manner, but gave them rude words, for which in return\nhe received buffets. In the end, the men dragged him away from the tree\nand flung him into a ditch that was full of water, and his armour\nweighed him down, so that he could not get out. Then at last he\nremembered his clue, and felt for it, but it was not there, and his\npride broke down, and he saw that he had brought his ruin on himself.\nAnd in despair he lifted up his voice and cried, 'O Lady of Solace, help\nme, I beseech you, in my great need, for I am nigh dead.' He shut his\neyes for very misery, but opened them again in a moment, for a lady\nstood by him, and she said:\n\n'Did not I tell you that if you lost the clue you could never more find\nyour way out of the garden? I will lift you out of the ditch, but, for\nthe clue, you must seek for it yourself till you find it.' And with that\nshe vanished.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNot that day did the knight find the clue, nor the next, nor the next.\nFaint and weary was he, but he dared not eat of the fruit that was\naround him, some hanging from the boughs of trees and some growing on\nthe ground. At length he wandered back to the spot where he had fought\nwith the lion, and there, covered with blood, lay the clue he had so\nlong sought. By its help he was led to the tree with the golden fruit,\nwhich stood at the far end of the garden, and plucking one of the boughs\nhe turned to retrace his steps, wondering, now that he held the thread,\nat the shortness of the way.\n\n'Here is the branch, O Emperor! and now give me the princess,' he said,\nkneeling and laying the bough down on the steps of the throne. And the\nemperor could not gainsay him, but bade his officers fetch his daughter,\nand after they had been married she went with her husband into his own\ncountry, where they lived happily till they died.\n\n[From the _Gesta Romanorum_.]\n\n\n\n\nUNA AND THE LION\n\n\nOnce upon a time there lived a king and queen who had only one child, a\nlittle girl, whom they named Una, and they all lived happily at home for\nmany years till Una had grown into a woman.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt seemed as if they were some of the fortunate people to whom nothing\never happens, when suddenly, just as everything appeared going well and\npeacefully with them, a fearful dragon, larger and more horrible than\nany dragon which had yet been heard of, arrived one night, seized the\nking and queen as they were walking in the garden after the heat of the\nday, and carried them prisoners to a strong castle. Luckily, Una was at\nthat moment sitting among her maidens on the top of a high tower\nembroidering a kirtle, or she would have shared the same fate.\n\nWhen the princess learnt what had befallen her parents, she was struck\ndumb with grief, but she had been taught that no misfortune was ever\nmended by tears, so she soon dried her eyes, and began to think what was\nbest to do, and to whom she could turn for help. She ran quickly over in\nher mind the knights who thronged her father's court, but there was not\none amongst them to whose hands their rescue could be entrusted. One\nspent his days in writing pretty verses to the ladies who were about the\nqueen, another passed his time in putting on suits more brilliant than\nany worn by his friends, a third loved hawking, but did not welcome the\nrough life and hard living of real warfare; no, she must seek a champion\nout of her own country if her parents were to be delivered out of the\npower of the dragon. Then all at once she remembered a certain Red Cross\nKnight whose fame had spread even to her distant land, and, ordering her\nwhite ass to be saddled, she set forth in quest of him.\n\nIt were long to tell the adventures Una met with on the way, but at last\nshe found the knight resting after a hard-won fight, and told him her\ntale.\n\n[Illustration: Sudden DEPARTURE of UNA'S PARENTS]\n\n'Right willingly will I help you, princess,' said he, 'only you must\nride with me and guide me to the castle, for I know nothing of the\ncountries that lie beyond the sea;' and Una heard his words with joy,\nand called softly to her ass, who was cropping the short green grass\nbeside her.\n\n'Let us go forth at once,' she cried gaily, and sprang into her saddle.\nThe knight hastily fastened on his armour, and, placing a blood-red\ncross upon his breast, swung himself on to his horse's back. And so\nthey rode over the plain, a trusty dwarf following far behind, and a\nsnow-white lamb, held by a golden cord, trotting by Una's side.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter some hours they left the plain and entered a forest, where the\ntrees and bushes grew so thick that no path could they see. At first, in\ntheir eagerness to escape the storm which was sweeping up the plain\nbehind them, they hardly took heed where they were going; and besides,\nthe beauty of the flowers and the sweet scent of the fruit caused them\nto forget the trouble they would have to find the road again. But when\nthe sound of the thunder ceased, and the lightning no longer darted\nthrough the leaves, they were startled to perceive they had wandered\nthey knew not whither. No sun could they see to show them which was east\nand which west, neither was there any man to tell them what they fain\nwould know. At length they stopped, for before them lay a cave\nstretching far away into the darkness.\n\n'We can rest there this night,' said the Red Cross Knight, leaping to\nthe ground, and handing his spear to the dwarf; 'and first, you, lady,\nshall remain, here, while I enter and make sure that no fierce or\nloathsome beasts lurk in the corners.' But Una turned pale as she\nlistened.\n\n'The perils of this place I better know than you,' she answered gravely.\n'In this den dwells a vile monster, hated by God and man.' And the voice\nof the dwarf cried also, 'Fly, fly! this is no place for living men.'\nThey might have spared their warnings; when did youth ever heed them?\nThe knight looked into the cave, and\n\n        Forth into the darksome hole he went.\n    His glistening armour made a little glooming light,\n    By which he saw the ugly monster plain,\n    Half like a serpent horribly displayed,\n    The other half did woman's shape retain.\n\nIt was too late to turn back, even had he wished it; but indeed it was\nthe monster who looked round, as if to find a way to flee. Before her\nstood the knight, his sword drawn, waiting for a fair chance to plunge\nit into her throat. Escape there was none, and she prepared for battle.\n\nThe knight fought valiantly, but never had he met a foe like this. The\nmonster was so large and so scaly that he could not get round her, while\nhis sword glanced, blunted, from off her skin. Blow after blow he\nstruck, but they only served to increase her fury, till, gathering all\nher strength together, she wound her great tail about his body, pressing\nhim close against her horny bosom.\n\n'Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee,' cried Una, who had\nbeen watching the combat as well as the darkness would let her; and the\nknight heard, and seized the monster by the throat, till she was forced\nto let go her hold on him. Then, grasping his sword, he cut her head\nclean from her body.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFain would they now leave the dreadful wood which had been the nurse of\nsuch an evil creature, and by following a track where the leaves grew\nless thickly, they at last found themselves on the other side of the\nplain, just as the sun was sinking to rest. They pushed on fast, hoping\nto find a shelter for the night, but none could they spy. The plain\nseemed bare, save for one old man in the guise of a hermit who was\napproaching them.\n\nHim the Red Cross Knight stopped and asked if he knew of any adventures\nwhich might await him in that place. The old man, who was in truth the\nmagician Archimago, the professor of lore which could read the secrets\nof men's hearts, answered that the hour was late for the undertaking of\nsuch things, and bade them rest for the night in his cell hard by. So\nsaying, he led them into a little dell amidst a group of trees, in\nwhich stood a chapel and the dwelling of the hermit.\n\n[Illustration: THE RED CROSS KNIGHT ENTERS THE MONSTER'S CAVE]\n\nIt was but a short space before both knight and lady were sleeping\nsoundly on the beds of fern which the hermit told them he had always at\nhand for the entertainment of guests. But, for himself, he crept unseen\nto a little cave inside a rock, and taking out his magic books he sought\ntherein for mighty charms to trouble sleepy minds!\n\nHe soon found what he wanted, and repeated some strange words aloud. In\nan instant there fluttered round him a crowd of little sprites awaiting\nhis bidding, but he motioned all aside except two--one of whom he kept\nwith him and the other he sent on a message to the house of Morpheus,\nthe god of sleep.\n\n'I come from Archimago the wizard,' said the sprite when he reached his\njourney's end. 'Give me, I pray you, as swiftly as may be, a bad dream,\nthat I may carry it back to him.'\n\nSlowly the god rose up, and, going to his storehouse, where lay dreams\nof all sorts--dreams to make people happy, dreams to make people\nmiserable, dreams to stir people to good, and dreams to move them to\nevery kind of wickedness--he took from the shelf a small but very black\nlittle dream, which the sprite tied round his neck, and hurried to the\ncave of Archimago.\n\nThe wizard took the dream in silence, and, going into the den where the\nknight was sleeping, laid it softly on his forehead. In a moment his\nface clouded over; evil thoughts of Una sprang into his mind, till at\nlength, unable to bear any longer the grief of mistrusting her he so\nloved and honoured, the knight called to the dwarf to bring him his\nhorse, and together they rode away. But when Una woke and found both of\nher companions departed she wept sorely. Then, mounting her milk-white\nass, she set out to follow them.\n\nMeanwhile the Red Cross Knight was wandering he knew not whither, so\ndeep were the wounds in his heart. He rode on with his bridle hanging\nloosely on his horse's neck, till a bend in the path brought him face to\nface with a mighty Saracen, bearing on his arm a shield with the words\n'Sans foy' written across it. By his side, mounted on a palfrey hung\nwith golden bells, was a lady clad in scarlet robes embroidered with\njewels, who chattered merrily as they passed along.\n\n[Illustration: IN ARCHIMAGO'S CELL. The evil dream.]\n\nIt was she who first perceived the approach of an enemy, and, turning to\nSansfoy, bade him begin the attack. He, nothing loth, dashed forward to\nmeet the knight, who had barely time to steady himself to receive the\nblow, which caused him to reel in his saddle. The blow was indeed so\nhard that it would have pierced the knight's armour had it not been for\nthe cross upon his breast; which, when the Saracen saw, he cursed the\npower of the holy emblem, and prepared himself for a fresh attack.\n\nBut either the Christian knight was the more skilful swordsman, or the\ncross lent new strength to his arm, for the fight was not a long one.\nOnly a few strokes had passed between them, when the boastful Sansfoy\nfell from his horse, and rolled heavily to the ground. The lady hardly\nwaited for the issue of the combat, and galloped off lest she too should\nbe in danger. But the knight did not wage war on ladies, and, calling to\nthe dwarf to bring the Saracen's shield as a trophy, he spurred quickly\nafter her.\n\nHe did not take long to come up with her for, in truth, she intended to\nbe overtaken, and turned a woeful countenance to the young knight, who\nlistened, believing, to the false tale she told. Pitying her from his\nheart, he assured her of his care and protection, and while they are\nfaring through the woods together, let us see what had become of Una.\n\nThe maiden was herself wandering distraught, seated on her 'unhastie\nbeast,' when with a fearful roar a lion rushed out from a thicket with\neyes glaring and teeth gleaming, seeking to devour his prey. But at the\nsight of Una's tender beauty he stopped suddenly, and, stooping down, he\nkissed her feet and licked her hands.\n\nAt this kindness on the part of the great creature, Una bent her head\nand wept grievously. 'He, my lion and my noble lord, how does he find it\nin his cruel heart to hate her that him loved?' she moaned sadly, and\nthe lion again looked pityingly at her, and at last the maiden checked\nher sobs and bade her ass go on, the lion walking by her side during the\nday, and sleeping at her feet by night.\n\nThey had travelled far and for many days, through a wilderness untrodden\nby either man or beast, when at the foot of a mountain they spied a\ndamsel bearing on her shoulder a pot of water. At sight of the lion she\nflung down the pitcher, and ran to the hut where she dwelt, without once\nlooking behind her. In the cottage sat her blind mother, not knowing\nwhat could be the meaning of the shrieks and cries uttered by her\ndaughter, who shut the door quickly after her, and caught trembling hold\nof her mother's hands.\n\nIt was the first lion the girl had ever seen, or she would have known\nthat if he was determined to enter, it was not a wicket-gate that would\nprevent him. As neither mother nor daughter replied to Una's gentle\nprayer for a night's lodging, her 'unruly page' put his paw on the\nlittle door, which opened with a crash. The maiden then stepped softly\nover the threshold, begging afresh that she might pass the night in one\ncorner, and receiving no answer--for the women were still too terrified\nto speak--she curled herself up on the earthen floor with the lion\nbeside her.\n\nAbout midnight there arrived at the door, which Una had refastened, a\nthief laden with spoils of churches, and whatever else he had managed to\npick up by stealth. To spend the night in thieving was his custom, and\nhither he brought his spoils, as he thought none would suspect a blind\nwoman and her daughter of harbouring stolen goods.\n\nMany times he called, but the two women were in grievous dread of the\nlion, and durst not move from the corner where they were crouching; at\nlast the man grew angry, and burst the door asunder, as the lion had\ndone before him. He entered the hut, and straightway beheld the dreadful\nbeast, with glaring eyes and gleaming teeth, as Una had first beheld\nhim. But Kirkrapine (such was his name) had neither beauty nor goodness\nto still the lion's rage, and in another moment his body was rent in\na thousand pieces.\n\n[Illustration: At the sight of the Lion, she flung down the pitcher]\n\nThe sun had scarce sent his first beams above the horizon when Una left\nthe hut, mounted on her ass, and, followed by the lion, again began her\nquest of the Red Cross Knight. But, alas! though she found him not, she\nmet her ancient foe, the magician Archimago, who had taken on himself\nthe form of him whom she sought. Too true and unsuspecting was she, to\ndream of guile in others, and the welcome she gave him was from her\nwhole heart. In the guise of the knight, Archimago greeted her fondly,\nand bade her tell him the story of her woes, and how came she to take\nthe lion for her companion. And so they journeyed, the flowers seeming\nsweeter and the skies brighter to Una, as they went, when suddenly they\nbeheld\n\n    One pricking towards them with hasty heat;\n    Full strongly armed, and on a courser free.\n\nOn his shield the words 'Sans loy' could be read, written in letters of\nblood.\n\nNow, though Archimago had clad himself in the outward shape of the Red\nCross Knight, he lacked his courage and his skill in war; and his heart\nwas faint from fear, when the Saracen reined back his horse and prepared\nfor battle. In the shock of the rush the wizard was borne backwards, and\nthe blood from his side dyed the ground.\n\n'The life that from Sansfoy thou tookest, Sansloy shall from thee take,'\ncried the Paynim, and was unlacing the vizor of the fallen man to deal\nhim his death-stroke when a cry from Una stayed his hand for a moment,\nthough it was not her prayers for mercy that would have kept him from\ndrawing his sword, but the sight of the hoary head beneath the helmet,\nwhich startled him.\n\n'Archimago!' he stammered, 'what mishap is this?' And still Archimago\nlay on the ground stunned, and answered nothing.\n\nFor a moment Una gazed in amazement at the strange sight before her, and\nwondered what was the meaning of these things. Then she turned to fly,\nbut, quick as thought, the Saracen plucked at her robe to stop her.\n\nNow when the lion, her fierce servant, saw that Paynim knight lay hands\non his sovereign lady, he sprang on him with gaping jaws, and almost\ntore the shield from his arm. But the knight leapt swiftly back, and\nswinging his sword plunged it into the heart of the faithful creature,\nwho rolled over and died amidst the tears of his mistress.\n\nAfter which the knight set Una on his steed before him and bore her\naway.\n\n[Spenser's _Faerie Queene_.]\n\n\n\n\nHOW THE RED CROSS KNIGHT SLEW THE DRAGON\n\n\nWhile Una was riding through forest and over plains, with her faithful\nlion for her guard, the knight whom she sought had given himself over\ninto the care of Duessa (for such was the name of Sansfoy's companion),\nby whom he was led to the gates of a splendid palace. The broad road up\nto it was worn by the feet of hosts of travellers; but though many\npeeped through the doors few returned. As the knight stood aside and\nwatched, all manner of strange people passed before him, though none\nspoke. At length a man, but newly issued from the palace, and bearing a\nshield with the words 'Sans joy' written across it, stopped suddenly in\nfront of the knight's page, then snatched from his arm a shield like his\nown, bearing the name 'Sansfoy.' The page, overcome by the quickness of\nthe action, did not resist, but a blow on the helmet from the Red Cross\nKnight made Sansjoy stagger where he stood.\n\nThe fight was fierce, and no one could tell with whom the victory lay\ntill the queen of that place came by, and bade them cease their\nbrawling, for on the morrow they should meet in the lists.\n\nBut the battle next day went against the Paynim, in spite of the\npresence of the queen and the counsel of the false Duessa. Short would\nhave been his shrift had not thick darkness fallen about him, and when\nthe Red Cross Knight cried to him to begin the fray afresh, only silence\nanswered him.\n\nThen the false Duessa, ever wont to take the side of him who wins,\nhurried up to him, and whispered, as she had whispered to Sansjoy, 'The\nconquest yours, I yours, the shield and glory yours;' but the knight did\nnot heed her, for his eye was ever bent on the wall of thick darkness\nwhich shut in his foe. Indeed, so busy were his thoughts that he never\nknew that blood was streaming from his wounds, till the queen ordered\nhim to be carried into the palace, and ointments to be laid on his body.\n\nAs was her custom, Duessa talked much and loudly of the care she would\ngive him, and of his speedy cure under her hands; but when night fell\nshe stole forth and came to the spot where Sansjoy lay, still covered\nwith the enchanted cloud. Then, in an iron chariot, borrowed from the\nQueen of Darkness, she drove him down to the underworld, and across the\nriver which divides the kingdom of the living from that of the dead.\nHere giving him into the hands of the oldest and greatest of physicians,\nshe went her way to the bedside of the Red Cross Knight.\n\nBut for all that concerned that knight she might well have stayed in the\nkingdom of darkness; for in her absence the dwarf, wandering through the\npalace, had come upon a dungeon full of wretched captives, who filled\nthe air with their wailings.\n\nFilled with fear, the dwarf hastened back to his master and prayed him\nto flee that place before the sun rose. Which the young knight gladly\ndid, creeping away through a secret postern, though it was hard to find\na footing amidst the corpses piled up on all sides, which had come to a\nbad end by reason of their own folly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration: UNA SAVED BY THE WOOD-FOLK]\n\nAnd what had become of Una when she had fallen into the power of\nSansloy? Well, trembling she had followed him into the midst of a\nforest, where, to her wonder, from every bush sprang a host of fauns and\npeople of the wood, and ran towards her. When the Saracen beheld\nthem, he was so distraught with fear that he galloped right away,\nleaving Una behind him. But she, not knowing what to fear the most,\nstood shaking with dread, till the wood folk pressed around her, and,\nkneeling on the ground stroked lovingly her hands and feet. Then she\nunderstood that she was safe amongst them, and let them lead her where\nthey would, and smiled at their songs and merry dances. If she could not\nbe with the Red Cross Knight, then it mattered little where she was, and\nit gave her a feeling of rest and safety to lie hidden among the woods,\nwith a people who would let nothing harmful come near her.\n\nSo she stayed with them long, and taught them many things, while they in\ntheir turn showed her how to play on their pipes and to dance the\nprettiest and most graceful of their dances.\n\nTime passed in this wise, when one day it chanced that a noble knight,\nSatyrane by name, came to seek his kindred among the woodfolk. He\nwondered greatly to find so lovely a maid among them, and still more to\nsee how eagerly they listened to her teachings, and henceforth he formed\npart of the throng that sat at her feet when the heat of the day was\nover.\n\nIn this manner Una and the knight Satyrane soon became friends, and at\nlength one day she poured out all her sad tale, and besought his help in\nher search for the Red Cross Knight. It was not easy to escape from the\nkind people who always thronged about her, and her heart was sore at the\nthought of leaving them, but she felt that for her captive parents'\nsake, as well as for the knight's, she could delay no longer.\n\nTherefore one morning, when the wood folk had gone to hold a feast in\nthe forest, she rode away in company with Satyrane, and issuing from the\nforest soon reached the open plain. Towards evening they met a weary\npilgrim, whose clothes were worn and soiled, and so true a pilgrim did\nhe look, that Una did not know him to be the wizard Archimago. The\nknight instantly drew rein, and asked what tidings he could impart, and\nUna begged with faltering voice that he would tell her aught concerning\na knight whose armour bore a red cross.\n\n'Alas! dear dame,' answered he slowly, 'these eyes did see that knight,\nboth living and eke dead;' and with that he told her all his story.\n\nWhen he had finished, it was Satyrane who spoke.\n\n'Where is that Paynim's son, that him of life, and us of joy hath reft?'\nAnd the pilgrim made answer that he was hard by, washing his wounds at a\nfountain.\n\nSatyrane wasted no more words, but went right straight to the fountain,\nwhere he found Sansloy, whom he challenged instantly to fight. Sansloy\nhastily buckled on his armour, and cried that, though he had not slain\nthe Red Cross Knight, he hoped to lay his champion in the dust. Then,\nboth combatants being ready, the battle began.\n\nThe sight was too dreadful for Una to bear, and she galloped away, not\nknowing that her deadliest foe, the wizard Archimago, was following her.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeanwhile Duessa had left the splendid palace, and was riding over the\ncountry in pursuit of the Red Cross Knight, for it was bitter to her to\nsee any escape, who had ever been under her thrall. Her good fortune,\nwhich never seemed to forsake her, before long led her to his side,\nwhere he lay resting on the banks of a stream, and he greeted her\ngladly.\n\nThe sun was hot, and the water rippling clear over the stones seemed\ninviting. The knight was tired, and leaned down to drink, never knowing\nthat the stream was enchanted. But in a moment his strength seemed to\nfail, and his arms grew weak as a child's, though he felt nothing till a\nhorrible bellowing sounded in the wood. At the dreadful sound he started\nup and looked around for his armour, but before he could reach it a\nhideous giant was upon him.\n\nThe fight did not take long, and in a short while the Red Cross Knight\nwas a prisoner in the hands of the giant, who, accompanied by the false\nDuessa, carried his captive to a dungeon of his castle. After the door\nwas safely locked and barred, the two then retired into the large hall,\nwhere they ate and made merry.\n\nFrom that day the giant brought forth his choicest treasures with which\nto deck Duessa. Her robes were purple, and a triple crown of gold was on\nher head, and, what she liked not so well, he gave her a seven-headed\nserpent to ride on.\n\nNow the faithful dwarf had watched the fate of his master, and when he\nsaw him borne away senseless by the giant, he took up the armour which\nhad been lain aside in the hour of need, and set out he knew not\nwhither.\n\nHe had gone but a little distance when he met Una, who read at a glance\nthe evil tidings he had brought. She fell off her ass in a deadly swoon,\nand the dwarf, whose heart was nigh as sore, rubbed her temples with\nwater and strove to bring her back to life. But when she heard the tale\nof all that had befallen the Red Cross Knight since last she had parted\nfrom him, she would fain have died, till the thought sprang suddenly\ninto her mind that perhaps she might still rescue him. So with fresh\nhope she took the road to the giant's castle, but the way was far, and\nshe was woefully tired before even its towers were in sight. Brave\nthough she was, the maiden's courage failed her at last, and she began\nto weep afresh, when her eyes happened to light upon a good knight\nriding to meet her. He was clad in armour that shone more than any\nman's, and well it might, as it had been welded by the great enchanter\nMerlin. On the crest of his helmet a golden dragon spread his wings: and\nin the centre of his breast-plate a precious stone shone forth amidst a\ncircle of smaller ones, 'like Hesperus among the lesser lights.'\n\nAs he drew near, and saw before him a lady in distress, he reined in his\nhorse, and with gentle words drew from her all her trouble.\n\n'Be of good cheer,' he said, when the tale was ended, 'and take comfort;\nfor never will I forsake you till I have freed your captive knight.'\n\nAnd, though she knew him not, at his promise Una took heart of grace,\nand bade the dwarf lead them to the giant's castle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nConducted by the dwarf and followed by the squire, the knight and lady\nsoon reached the castle. Bidding Una to await him outside, and calling\nto his squire to come with him, they both walked up to the gates, which\nwere fast shut, though no man was guarding them.\n\n'Blow your horn,' said the knight, and the squire blew a blast. At the\nsound, the gates flew open, and the giant came foaming from his chamber\nto see what insolent thief had dared disturb his peace.\n\nAnd the giant did not come alone. Close after him rode Duessa, 'high\nmounted on her many-headed beast'; and at this sight the knight raised\nhis shield and eagerly began the attack.\n\nBut, horrible though the serpent was, he was not the sole foe that the\nknight had to fight with. The giant's only weapon was his club, but that\nwas as thick as a man's body, and studded with iron points besides.\nLuckily for the knight, this was not the first giant to whom he had\ngiven battle, and ere the mighty blow could fall he sprang lightly to\none side, and the club lay buried so deep in the ground that before the\ngiant could draw it out again, his left arm was smitten off by the\nknight's sword.\n\n[Illustration: ARTHUR FIGHTS THE SEVEN-HEADED SERPENT]\n\nThe giant's roars of pain might have been heard in the uttermost parts\nof the kingdom, and Duessa quickly guided her baleful beast to the help\nof her wounded friend. But her way was barred by the squire, who, sword\nin hand, 'stood like a bulwark' between his lord and the serpent.\nDuessa, full of wrath at being foiled, turned the serpent on him, but\nnot one foot would the squire move till, beside herself with anger, the\nwitch drew out her cup and sprinkled him with the poisonous water. Then\nthe strength went out of his arms and the courage from his heart, and he\nsank helpless on the ground before the snake, who fain would have\ntrampled the life out of him, and it would have fared ill with him had\nnot the knight rushed swiftly to his rescue, and dealt the snake such a\nwound that the garments of Duessa were all soaked in blood. She shrieked\nto the giant that she would be lost if he did not come to her aid, and\nthe giant, whose one arm seemed to have gained the strength of two,\nstruck the knight such a blow on the helmet that he sank heavily on the\nground.\n\nThe giant raised a shout of joy, but he triumphed too soon. The knight,\nin falling, caught the covering of his shield upon his spear, and rent\nit from top to toe. The brilliance that flowed from it burnt into the\neyes of the giant, so that he was 'blinded by excess of light,' and sank\nsightless on the ground. At a fresh cry from Duessa he struggled to his\nfeet, but all in vain. He had no power to hurt nor to defend, and fell\nback so heavily that the very earth shook beneath him, and was an easy\nprey for his foe, who smote his head from his body.\n\nDuessa, as we know, never stayed with those with whom the world went\nill, and she was stealing away quietly, when once more the squire\nstopped her.\n\n'You are captive to my lord,' he said, and, holding her firmly, led her\nback.\n\nThen Una came running full of grateful words, but when she saw Duessa a\ncloud of fierce wrath passed over her face.\n\n'Beware lest that wicked woman escape,' cried she, 'for she it is who\nhas worked all this ill, and thrown my dearest lord into the dungeon.\nOh, hear how piteously he calls to you for aid!'\n\n'I give her into your keeping,' answered the knight, turning to the\nsquire, 'and beware of her wiles, for they are many;' and, leaving the\nrest behind him, he strode into the castle, meeting no man as he went.\n\nAt last there crept forth from one corner an old, old man with a huge\nbunch of rusty keys hanging from his arm. The knight asked him in gentle\nspeech whence had gone all the people who dwelt in the castle, but he\nanswered only that he could not tell, till the knight waxed impatient,\nand took the keys from him.\n\nThe doors of all the rooms opened easily enough, and inside he found the\nstrangest medley. Everywhere blood lay thick upon the floors, while the\nwalls were covered with cloth of gold and splendid tapestry. No signs\nwere there of any living creature, yet he knew that in some hiding-place\nin the castle the captive lay concealed.\n\nThe knight had come to the last door of all. It was of iron, and no key\non the bunch would open it. On one side was a little grating, and\nthrough it he called loudly, lest perchance any man might hear his\nvoice.\n\nAt that there answered him a hollow empty sound, and for a while he\ncould not make out any words. Then from out the wailing in the darkness\nsomething spoke:\n\n'Oh, who is that which brings me happy choice of death? Three moons have\nwaxed and waned since I beheld the face of heaven? Oh, welcome, welcome\nart thou who hast come to end my weary life!'\n\nThe moaning sound of the voice thrilled the brave champion with horror.\nPutting his shoulder to the iron door, he gave a mighty heave, and the\nhinges gave way. Nothing could he see, for the darkness was terrible,\nand his foot, which he stretched cautiously inward, touched no floor.\nAnd, besides, the foul smells rushed out, poisoning him with their\nfumes.\n\nBut when he had grown in some measure used to the darkness and the\nodours, he began to think how he could best deliver the Red Cross Knight\nfrom the pit into which he had fallen. To this end he sought through the\ncastle till he found some lengths of rope, which he carried back with\nhim, as he did not know how deep the pit might be. He knotted three or\nfour together and let the rope down, but even when a faint cry from the\ncaptive told him that it had reached the bottom, his labours were not\nended yet. Twice the knots gave way, by good fortune, before the man was\nmore than a foot or two from the ground, and other pieces of rope had to\nbe fetched. Then, when all was made fast, the prisoner had grown so weak\nthat he could scarce draw himself up; and again the knight feared\ngreatly lest he himself should not have strength to hold fast the rope.\nBut at length his courage and patience prevailed, and the Red Cross\nKnight, hollow-eyed, and thin as a skeleton, looked once more upon the\nsun.\n\nHis parents might have gazed on him and not known him for their child,\nbut Una's heart leapt when the unknown knight brought him to her.\n\n'Welcome,' she said, 'welcome in weal or woe. Your presence I have\nlacked for many a day,' and fain would she have heard the tale of his\nsufferings, had not the knight, who knew that men love not to speak of\ntheir sorrows, begged her to tend the captive carefully, so that his\nforces might come to him again. Further, he bade them remember that they\nhad in their power the woman who had been the cause of all their grief,\nand the time had come to give sentence on her.\n\n'I cannot slay her, now she is mine to slay,' answered Una, 'but strip\nher robe of scarlet from off her, and let her go whither she will.'\n\nWith her robes and her jewels went all the magic arts that gave her\nyouth and beauty. Instead of the dazzling maiden who had wrought so much\nhavoc in the world, there stood before them an old bald-headed shaking\ncrone, that seemed as ancient as the earth itself. Silently they gazed,\nthen turned away in horror, while Duessa wandered into paths of which\nshe alone knew the ending.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was not until they had rested themselves awhile in the castle that\nthe stranger knight told who he was and why he came there. He was, he\nsaid, Arthur, the ward of Merlin, and had ridden far and long in quest\nof the Faerie Queen. And having fulfilled his vow to Una, in delivering\nthe Red Cross Knight out of the power of the giant, he bade both\nfarewell, leaving behind him, as a remembrance of their friendship a\ndiamond box containing a precious ointment, which would cure any wound,\nhowever deep or poisonous.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo they parted, but not yet was the Red Cross Knight able to face the\nmonstrous dragon who held captive Una's royal parents. For some weeks\ntherefore he rested in the castle till his strength came back, then once\nmore he and Una rode forth side by side.\n\nThey had not gone far when they beheld an armed knight galloping fast\ntowards them, and as he went ever glancing over his shoulder as if\nfearful of some dread thing behind. His matted hair streamed in the wind\nand the fingers which grasped the reins were like the claws of an eagle.\nStranger than all, round his neck was tied a hempen rope. 'He seems to\nbe afraid of himself,' thought the Red Cross Knight as he checked his\nhorse to offer help to the flying man before him.\n\nAt first it seemed as if his words fell on dumb ears, but patiently he\nrepeated them over and over again, and at length an answer came from\nthe shaking figure:\n\n'For God's sake, Sir Knight, do not, I pray you, stay me, for look, HE\ncomes, HE comes fast after me;' and as he spoke he urged on his horse\nafresh. But the Red Cross Knight caught his bridle and bade him fear\nnothing, as he was safe with him, and to tell him why such awful fear\npossessed his soul.\n\nAt last the stricken man poured forth his tale, and the Red Cross Knight\nlearned that once he was happy and free, like other men, till on an\nill-starred day he and a friend had fallen in with a cursed wight who\ncalled himself 'Despair,' who had plucked all hope from their breasts,\nand bade them seek death, the one with a rope, the other with a knife.\nHis friend, whose love had been disdained by a proud lady, fell an easy\nprey to the persuasions of the giant, and it was the sight of his corpse\nlying weltering in his blood that drove this man to ride away while yet\nthe rope hung loose. 'O sir,' he added when the sad tale was told--'O\nsir, be warned by me, and never let yourself stray into his presence!\nHis subtle tongue, like dropping honey, melts into the heart, and ere\none be aware, his power is gone and weakness doth remain.'\n\nBut the Red Cross Knight made answer that he would never rest till he\nhad seen with his own eyes that baleful being, and begged the stranger,\nwhose name was Trevisan, to guide him hither.\n\n'I will ride back with you, as you ask it of me,' said Sir Trevisan\nunwillingly, 'but not for all the gold in the world will I stay with you\nwhen you reach his cave, for sooner would I die than see his deadly\nface!'\n\n'Ride on, then, and I will follow,' answered the Red Cross Knight.\n\nThe cave lay in the side of a cliff, and was dark and gloomy as a tomb.\nThe only sounds they heard were the hooting of an owl and the wails and\nhowls of wandering ghosts; the only sights were the corpses of men\nhanging on trees or lying stark upon the ground. Sir Trevisan turned\nhis horse's head and would fain have fled, but the Red Cross Knight\nstopped him.\n\n'You are safe with me,' he said confidently, and the other, who was ever\nweak of will, waited.\n\nThey entered the cave, and found the doer of all that evil seated on the\nfloor, his eyes as the eyes of a dead man, and his body well nigh as\nmuch a skeleton as any of his victims. On the grass beneath him lay a\nbody that was still warm, and in its bleeding wound a rusty knife still\nstood. The sight stirred the blood in the knight's veins, and he\nchallenged the murderer to fight where he stood.\n\n'Are you distraught, you foolish man,' was all his answer, 'that you\nshould talk in this wild way? It was his own guilt which drove him to\nhis end. He loathed his life, why should he then prolong it? Is it not\nthe part of a friend to free his feet when they stick fast in the mud,\nand to point to the door that leads to rest, even if some little pain\nmust be suffered in the passage? Is not short pain well borne that\nbrings long ease--sleep after toil, port after stormy seas?'\n\nThe Red Cross Knight listened wonderingly. Then he answered:\n\n'The soldier may not cease to watch nor leave his stand until his\ncaptain bid.'\n\nBut the cursed wight replied boldly, 'The longer life, I wot, the\ngreater sin. The greater sin, the greater punishment. Therefore, I pray\nyou go no further, but lie down and betake you to your rest. A longer\nlife means old age and sickness, and every kind of sorrow. So lay it\ndown while things are yet well with you.'\n\n[Illustration: IN THE CAVE OF DESPAIR]\n\nIn spite of Sir Trevisan's warning, the fair-sounding words found an\necho in the heart of the Red Cross Knight, as they had done in the\nhearts of many men before him. The miscreant saw that his courage was\nwavering, and forthwith he brought forth a store of swords, ropes,\npoisons, and a brazier of fire, and bade him choose what manner of\ndeath he would prefer. The knight gazed at them all, like one who walks\nin sleep, but touched none of them, and the miscreant, beholding this,\nchose out a dagger bright and new, and thrust it in his shaking hand.\nThe young man looked at it, his face reddened and then grew pale again,\nand slowly, as if against his will, he lifted the dagger.\n\nA shriek from Una, who had only just reached the cave, caused him to\ndrop his arm again, and in an instant she had snatched it from his limp\nfingers, and had flung it on the ground.\n\n'Come away, come away,' she cried, 'let no vain words bewitch you! What\nhave you to do with despair, after all the brave deeds you have done?\nArise, Sir knight, arise and leave this cursed place. Have you forgotten\nthat other work awaits you?'\n\nThe voice of Una broke the spell which had possessed him. Once more his\neye grew bright and his arm strong. He mounted his horse and rode away\nby Una's side without ever looking behind him. If he had, he would have\nseen that the miscreant had placed a rope round his own neck, and hanged\nhimself on a tree. But even so he could not die; the death to which he\ndrove others remained far from him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe ease with which the Red Cross Knight had been mastered by the wily\ntalk of the gloomy miscreant in the cave showed Una that his mind, if\nnot his body, was still weak from his long imprisonment in the dungeon.\nShe saw that before he could fight the dragon who had carried off her\nparents he needed yet more repose, and luckily she knew of a house not\nfar off where they would be made welcome for as long as they chose to\nstay. Hither they fared, and for many weeks the knight's armour was laid\naway, and the ladies who dwelt in that place gave him all the strength\nand counsel that they could think of. Then, when at last he had become\nwhat he had been of yore, Una bade farewell to her hosts with great\nthanks, and set out for the royal castle. After three days the walls of\na high tower might be seen dimly across the plain.\n\n'It is there that my parents are kept imprisoned by the dragon,' said\nUna, pointing to it with her hand, 'and I see the watchman watching for\ngood tidings, if haply such there be. Ah, he has waited long!'\n\nAs she spoke, a roaring hideous sound was heard that seemed to shake the\nground and to fill all the air with terror. Turning their heads, they\nbeheld on their right a huge dragon, lying stretched upon the sunny side\nof a great hill, himself like a great hill. But no sooner did he see the\nshining armour of the knight than he roused himself and made ready for\nbattle.\n\nHastily the Red Cross Knight bade Una withdraw herself to another hill,\nfrom which she could see the fight without herself being in danger.\nCrouching behind a rock, she watched the dreadful beast approaching,\nhalf flying and half walking as he went. Run he could not, his size was\ntoo vast.\n\nHer heart sank as she looked, for how could mortal man get the better of\nsuch a creature! Besides the brazen scales which thickly covered his\nbody, his wings were like two sails, and at the tip of each huge feather\nwas a many-pronged claw; while his back was hidden with the folds of his\ntail, which lay doubled in a hundred coils, and in his mouth were three\nrows of sharp-pointed teeth. Una could look no more; she shut her eyes\nand waited.\n\nThe knight felt that if he was to win the victory at all it must be by\nmeans of his lightness of foot, as the monster was so large he could not\nturn himself about quickly. So, getting a little behind his head, he\ntried to pierce his neck between the scaly plates, but the spear glanced\noff harmlessly, and a stroke from the tip of the tail laid both him and\nhis horse on the ground.\n\n[Illustration: THE END OF THE DRAGON]\n\nThey rose again instantly, and returned to the charge, but a second blow\nmet with no better fate. Then the dragon in wrath spread wide his sails\nand rose heavily above the earth, till, suddenly and swiftly darting\ndown his head, he snatched both horse and man off the ground. But here\nthe knight had the advantage, for with his spear he stung the beast so\nsore that the monster speedily set his captives again on the earth.\n\nNot giving the dragon time to gather himself up, the knight dealt him a\nblow under the left wing. With a roar of agony, the beast snapped the\nspear asunder with his claws, and pulled out the head. At that a sea of\nblood gushed from the wound which would have turned a water-mill, and in\nhis pain and rage flames of fire gushed from his mouth.\n\nUnwinding his tail from his back, he coiled it like lightning about the\nlegs of the horse, which fell to the ground with his rider. But in an\ninstant the knight was on his feet, and by the mere force of his blows\nforced his enemy to reel, though the brazen scales were still unpierced.\nThough his courage was as great as ever, the young man began to lose\npatience, when of a sudden he noticed that the monster could no longer\nrise into the air by reason of his wounded wing. That sight gave him\nheart, and he drew near once more, only to be scorched by the deadly\nfire from the dragon's jaws. Half blinded and suffocated, he staggered,\nwhich the dragon seeing, he dealt the knight such a blow that he fell\nbackwards into a well that lay behind.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'So that is the end of him,' said the dragon to himself; but, if he had\nonly known, it was the beginning, for the well into which the knight had\nfallen was the well of life, which could cure all hurts and heal all\nwounds.\n\nAll night Una watched at her post, for darkness had come before the\nknight received his final blow. In the morning, before the sun had risen\nabove the plain, she was looking for the knight, who was lying she knew\nnot where. Her eyes dropping by chance on the well, she was sore amazed\nto see him rise out of it fairer and mightier than before. With a rush\nhe fell upon the dragon, who had gone to sleep, safe in the knowledge of\nhis victory, and, taking his sword in both hands, he drove right through\nthe brazen scales, and wounded him deep in his skull. In vain did the\nmonster roar and struggle; the blows rained thick and fast, and most of\nhis tail was cut from his body.\n\nAgain and again the knight was overthrown, and again and again he rose\nto his feet, and laid about him as valiantly as ever. But while the\nfight was still hanging in the balance, the dragon thrust his head\nforward with wide-open jaws, thinking to swallow his enemy and make an\nend of him. Quick as thought the knight sprang aside, and, thrusting his\nsword in the yawning gulf up to the hilt, gave the dragon his\ndeath-blow.\n\nDown he fell, fire and smoke gushing from his nostrils--down he fell,\nand men thought some mighty mountain must have cast up rocks on the\nearth.\n\nThe victor himself trembled, and it was long ere Una dared draw near,\ndreading lest the direful fiend should stir. But when at last she knew\nhim dead, she came joyfully forth, and, bursting into happy tears,\nfaltered her gratitude for the good he had wrought her.\n\nThere is little more to be told of Una and the Red Cross knight.\n\nThe watchman on the wall, who had seen the dreadful battle, was the\nfirst to tell the king and queen that the dragon was dead and that they\nwere free. Then the king commanded the trumpets to sound and the people\nto assemble, so that fitting rejoicings might be made at the destruction\nof their foe.\n\nThis being done, a mighty procession came down, headed by the king and\nqueen, to lay laurel boughs at the feet of the victor, and to set a\ngarland of bay on the head of the maiden. Once more Duessa and\nArchimago sought to prevent the betrothal of the Red Cross Knight and\nUna by a plot to send the wizard in the guise of a messenger,\nproclaiming the knight to have been already bound to the daughter of the\nemperor, but the false tale was easily seen through, and Archimago\nthrown into a dungeon.\n\nAfter that the king himself performed the marriage rite, and a solemn\nfeast was held through the land, but the wedded pair were not long left\ntogether. A vow the knight had made when he received his spurs to do the\nFaerie Queen six years of service called him from Una's side, and, sad\nthough the parting might be, both held their word too high ever to break\nit.\n\n[From _The Faerie Queene_.]\n\n\n\n\n_AMYS AND AMYLE_\n\n\nSome time in the Middle Ages there lived in the Duchy of Lombardy,\nwhich, as everybody knows, is part of Italy, two knights, who loved each\nother like brothers. And, what is more to be wondered at, their wives\nwere the best friends in the world. To complete the happiness of the two\ncouples, two little boys were born to them on the same day, and they\nwere given the names of Amys and Amyle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow it generally happens that when parents are very anxious for their\nchildren to be friends, because they are the same age, or neighbours, or\nfor some equally good reason, the young people make up their minds to\nhate each other. However, Amys and Amyle did not disappoint their\nfathers and mothers in this way. From the moment they could walk they\nwere never seen apart; if they ever _did_ quarrel no one ever heard of\nit; and by the time they were twelve years old they had grown so like\neach other that even their parents could hardly tell the difference\nbetween them. Indeed, the likeness between them is supposed to have\ngiven rise to the proverb, 'A miss is as good as a mile.'\n\nIt was in that year that the duke, their liege lord, bade all his\nvassals to a great festival to be held in his castle, and many of them\ntook their sons with them, to show them some of the customs of chivalry.\nAmys and Amyle went with the rest, and endless were the mistakes made\nabout them. The boys themselves, who were merry little fellows,\ndelighted in increasing the confusion, and played so many pranks that\nthe duke declared that they must remain at the court with him, as his\nlife would be too dull without them.\n\nPerhaps the knights thought that their homes would be dull too, but, if\nso, they did not dare say so; only their wives noticed, as they entered\nthe castle gates, that their heads were bowed, as if some ill had\nbefallen them.\n\nAt first the boys felt unhappy and lonely in this strange new world, and\nclung to each other more closely than ever, but, after a little, they\ngot used to the change, and learned eagerly how to shoot at a mark and\ntilt at a ring, or to sing sweet love-songs to the sound of a lute.\n\nSo the years passed away till Amys and Amyle were eighteen years old,\nand thought themselves men, and were ready to cross lances with the\nbravest. The first step they took towards proving to the world that no\ntie of blood could bind them closer than the love they bore one to\nanother, was to swear the oaths which made them brothers in arms, and\nobliged them to fight in each other's quarrels, avenge each other's\nwrongs--even to sacrifice what the other held most dear in the service\nof his friend. Marriage itself was not more sacred.\n\nAll this time the duke had been too busy with his own affairs to have\nthe youths much in his company, though he took care that they had the\nbest chances of learning everything that they ought to know. When,\nhowever, he heard that Amys and Amyle had sworn the solemn oaths that\nmade them brothers in arms, he ordered a tournament to be held in their\nhonour, and, when it was over, knighted them on the field. He further\ndeclared that henceforth Sir Amys should be his chief butler and Sir\nAmyle his head steward over his household, thus the steward whom Amyle\ndisplaced became their deadly enemy.\n\nAlthough the young men knew a great deal about hunting, and wrestling,\nand other such sports, they had no idea what the duties of a butler and\na steward might be. But what they _did_ know was that they would have to\nbe very careful, for the eyes of the old steward were watching eagerly\nto report any mistakes to the duke their master. Luckily for them, they\nwere favourites with everyone, and if now and then they forgot their\nwork, or slipped away for a day's hunting, well! the task was done by\nsomebody, and not even the old steward could find out by whom.\n\nEverything seemed going smoothly, and the new-made knights were in\ndanger of being spoilt by the favour of the ladies of the court, when a\nsudden stop was put to all their pleasures. One day a man-at-arms riding\na jaded horse appeared at the palace gateway, and demanded to be led\ninto the presence of the good knight Sir Amyle.\n\n'Oh, my lord,' said he, and knew not that it was Amys before whom he was\nkneeling, 'it is grievous news that I bear unto you. Your father and\nmother, that noble knight and his lady, died of a pestilence but seven\ndays agone, and none save you can take their place. Therefore am I sent\nunto you.'\n\n'_My_ father and mother?' cried Amys, staggering back.\n\n'Yes, my lord, yours,' answered the man. 'At least----' he stammered, as\nSir Amyle came and stood by his friend, 'I know not if indeed it may be\nyours. It is long years since I have seen you, and this knight and you\nhave but one face. But it is Sir Amyle with whom I would speak.'\n\nThen Amys laid his hand on his brother's shoulder.\n\n'Be comforted,' he said softly. 'Am I not with thee? and, though I\ncannot go with thee now, I will follow thee shortly unless thou quickly\nreturn to me.'\n\nEarly next morning Amyle started with a heavy heart for the home which\nhe had left six years before; but before his departure he had caused to\nbe made two cups of gold, delicately wrought with figures of birds and\nbeasts, such as he and Amys had often chased in the forests and lakes of\nLombardy. The cups were no more to be told from each other than were\nAmys and Amyle themselves, and Amyle placed them in the pockets of his\nsaddle till the moment came for him to part from Sir Amys, who had\nridden with him as far as he might. Then, drawing out one of the cups,\nAmyle placed it in his friend's hands.\n\n'Farewell, my brother,' he said. 'Be true to me as I will be true to\nyou, according to the oath which we sware, that as long as we both shall\nlive nothing and nobody shall stand between me and thee.'\n\nAnd Sir Amys repeated the words of his oath, then slowly turned his\nhorse's head towards the castle.\n\nSeven days' hard riding brought Sir Amyle back to his native place, and\nfor many months he had much to do in setting aside the pretenders who\nhad sprung up to claim his father's lands. When at last peace was\nrestored and the false traitors had been thrown into prison, a petition\non the part of his vassals to take a wife and settle down amongst them,\nturned his thoughts in other directions.\n\nIt was the custom of the country that the ruler of those lands should\nchoose his wife from the most beautiful maidens in the Duchy of\nLombardy, no matter what might be their degree. So a herald was sent\nforth to proclaim that any damsel who wished to fill this high place was\nto present herself in the courtyard of the palace on the morning\nfollowing the next new moon, where the chamberlain would receive her.\nOh, what a fluttering of hearts there was in the towns and villages, as\nthe herald, with his silver trumpet and his satin coat of red and\nyellow, covered with figures of strange beasts, passed up and down the\nstreets! How the girls all ran to their mirrors, and turned themselves\nthis way and that to see if there could possibly be a chance for them!\nPerhaps it was the fault of the headdress they wore that their faces\nseemed so long and their noses so big, or surely something was wrong\nwith the glass that their cheeks looked so yellow! But even when it was\nproved beyond a doubt that neither headdress nor mirror was to blame in\nthe matter, there were enough lovely maidens and to spare in the\ncourtyard of the castle on the day following the new moon.\n\n[Illustration: THE TWO CUPS]\n\n'He is certain to choose _you_,' said one, who in her secret heart\nthought it was impossible that _she_ should be passed over.\n\n'Oh no; fair men's eyes alway rest upon dark women,' answered the girl,\nwhose locks were brighter than the sun, though while she spoke she was\nreally thinking that no one could bear comparison with her. And then all\ngrew silent, for there was heard a blast of trumpets announcing that Sir\nAmyle was at hand.\n\nThe young knight had donned for this occasion a close-fitting coat of\nsilver cloth, while a short blue velvet mantle hung from his shoulders.\nHe walked slowly down the ranks of the maidens, watching each carefully,\nand noting the way in which she received his gaze. Some looked down and\nblushed; some looked up and smiled, but one there was who did neither,\nonly stood calm and pale as the young man drew near.\n\nShe was a tall girl with dark hair and soft grey eyes, and the\nchamberlain had doubted long, before he told her father that she might\ntake her stand with the rest. None would have chosen her as Queen of a\nTourney, or bidden her preside over a Court of Love, yet there was that\nin her face which had caused Amyle to pause before her and to hold out\nhis hand.\n\nSo they were married, and by the side of his wife Sir Amyle for a while\nforgot his brother.\n\nMeanwhile Sir Amys dwelt sorrowfully at the court, defending himself as\nbest he might against the wiles of the black-hearted steward, who now\nreceived him with smiles and fair words. Nay, he even desired that they\nshould become brothers at arms, but to this Sir Amys replied that,\nhaving made oath to one brother at arms, the rules of chivalry did not\nallow him to take another.\n\nAt these words the steward threw off the mask with which he had sought\nto beguile Sir Amys.\n\n'You will have cause to rue this day,' roared he, nearly choking in his\nwrath; 'you dog, you white-livered cur!' but Amys only smiled, and bade\nhim do his worst.\n\nBy this time the duke's only daughter, Belisante, had reached the age of\nfifteen, and on her birthday her father proclaimed a great tournament,\nwhich was to last for fourteen days. Knights from far and near flocked\nto break a lance in honour of the fair damsel, but, though many doughty\ndeeds were done, the prize fell to Sir Amys. When he came up to receive\nthe golden circlet from the hands of the duchess--for the duke held his\ndaughter to be of too tender years to be queen of the tourney--Belisante\nlooked earnestly at the knight whose praises had rung in her ears ever\nsince her childhood. It was almost the first time her eyes had beheld\nhim, for she had lived in one of her father's distant castles, and had\nseldom visited the court.\n\nNow we all know full well that whenever we form to ourselves the picture\nof a man or woman of whom great things are said, woeful is in general\nthe disappointment. But even in that assembly Sir Amys was taller and\nstronger and fairer to look upon than the rest.\n\n'He shall be my knight,' said Belisante to herself, never dreaming that\nany man alive could pass her by. But Sir Amys' thoughts dwelt not upon\nwomen, and he hardly so much as marked her where she sat.\n\nThis slight was more than the spoiled damsel could bear. She fell sick\nwith love and anger, and for many days lay in bed, pondering how she\nshould win the love of Sir Amys.\n\nA full week went by, and still she had never had speech of him--nor had\neven so much as caught sight of him as he followed her father to the\nchase. But one morning her lady brought her word--for indeed she had\nguessed something of her mistress's heart--that Sir Amys had so wearied\nhimself in pursuit of a boar the previous evening that he had let his\nlord ride forth alone. So Belisante bade her maiden bring her kirtle of\ngreen silk, and clasp it with her golden belt set with precious\nstones, and place a veil of shining white upon her hair; then seeking\nher mother they went down into the garden together.\n\n[Illustration: Softly she rose to her feet and stole out of the wood]\n\nIt was not long before her quick-glancing eyes beheld Sir Amys lying\nunder a tree by the side of a stream, but in her guile she took no heed\nof him, but turned away and entered a little wood.\n\n'I can sleep now,' she said, stretching herself on a bank of soft moss.\n'Listen to the birds, how sweetly they sing! Methinks I hear the voice\nof the nightingale, for the trees make such darkness that he knows not\nnight from day.'\n\n'Let us leave her,' answered her mother, and signing to her ladies they\nall returned to the castle.\n\nFor a moment Belisante lay still, feigning to sleep; then she raised\nherself on her arm and looked about her. Nothing was to be seen save the\ngreen darkness about her, nothing was to be heard save the songs of the\nbirds. Softly she rose to her feet, and stole out of the wood to the\norchard where Sir Amys was resting, thinking, though she guessed it not,\nof his brother in arms Amyle.\n\nHe sprang to his feet in surprise as Belisante the Fair drew near him;\nbut she begged him to sit beside her, and told him how that she had been\nsick of love, and besought him of his grace not to withhold this good\ngift from her. Sir Amys hearkened to her words, not knowing if he had\nheard aright, but, calling his wits to his aid, he answered that she was\nthe daughter of a great prince while he was only the son of a poor\nknight, and that marriage between them might never be. This speech so\nwrought upon Belisante that she broke out in such tears and entreaties\nthat Sir Amys, to gain time to ponder what best to do, replied that if\nin eight days her mind was still set on him, he would ask her hand in\nmarriage.\n\nBy ill-luck for both the knight and the maiden, the steward, who had\nbeen seeking a chance of doing Sir Amys an ill turn, had seen Belisante\nleave the wood and go in search of Sir Amys. Creeping stealthily up to\nthem, he hid himself behind a clump of bushes and heard all that was\nsaid. Cunningly he made his plan, and on the eighth day he waylaid the\nduke and told him that Sir Amys was about to repay all the kindness\nshown him by a secret marriage with the duke's daughter.\n\nSir Amys was keeping guard that day in the hall of the palace, when,\nsword in hand, his liege lord stood before him charging him with\nbeguiling his daughter. In another moment Amys would have fallen dead,\nbut behind him was a little room, and into this he stepped, shutting the\ndoor, so that the sword stuck in the hard wood as it came against it.\nThis mischance somewhat cooled the duke's anger, and, bidding Sir Amys\ncome out and speak with him, he again accused him of having sought to\nsteal away his daughter, whom he wished to betrothe to the emperor's\nson.\n\nSir Amys was in sore straits. If he could have borne the penalty alone,\nhe would have suffered gladly whatever sentence the duke might have\npassed on him; but this could not be. So, to save Belisante from her\nfather's wrath, he swore a great oath that there was no truth in that\ntale, and, flinging down his glove, offered to fight any man whom the\nduke should appoint, and prove his innocence on his body. Then the king\nbade his steward pick up Sir Amys' glove, and fixed a morning, fourteen\ndays hence, when the two should meet in single combat.\n\nStill it was not enough that Sir Amys and the steward should agree to\nfight; it was needful also that sureties should be found, and such was\nthe steward's power at court that all men feared to come forward on\nbehalf of Sir Amys. The young man would have fared badly, and indeed\nwould at once have been thrown into prison, had not both Belisante and\nher mother offered themselves as sureties for his presence when the day\narrived.\n\nBut not all the wiles of the fair Belisante could chase the gloom from\nthe face of Sir Amys. He never forgot that he had sworn a false oath,\nand it was to no purpose that Belisante reminded him of all the ill\ndeeds done by the steward to him and others. 'This time,' he said sadly,\n'_I_ have the wrong and _he_ the right, therefore I am afraid to fight,'\nand no other answer could she wring from him.\n\nWay out of the tangle there seemed none. Fight Sir Amys could not, with\nthe weight of a false oath on his soul, yet to run away were to confess\nall, and leave Belisante to bear her father's anger alone. Turn his\nthoughts which side he would, escape seemed barred, till the image of\nSir Amyle flashed across him. 'Fool, why had he not remembered him\nearlier? Luckily there was yet time, and he could ride with full speed\nto his brother's castle, and bid him return to take the battle on\nhimself.' With a gladder face than he had known for long, he sought out\nthe duchess and her daughter, and told them his plan.\n\nBefore the sun rose Sir Amys was in the saddle, and so busy was he with\nall that had befallen him that he pushed on and never drew rein till his\nhorse dropped dead under him from sheer weariness. As there was no town\nor house where he might find another, he was forced to proceed on foot.\nBut by-and-by he too fell from lack of sleep, and when Sir Amyle was\nreturning home through the forest after a day's hunting, he discovered\nhis brother stretched across the path in the shade of a tree.\n\nJoy at meeting gave new life to Sir Amys, and, sitting up, he told his\nfriend all his woes, and how he dare not fight with a false oath on his\nconscience.\n\n'Oh! that is easily to be managed,' cried Sir Amyle, with a great laugh.\n'Go home to my castle,' said he, 'and tell my wife that you have sent\nthe horse to Sir Amys, at court, as you heard he had sore need of one.\nNone will know you from me, no more than they did of old, and, as to my\nwife, it was but now I told her that business called me to the most\ndistant parts of my lands, so this very night you can bid her farewell.'\n\nSir Amys did as his brother bade him, and Sir Amyle hastened with all\nspeed to the duke's palace.\n\nHe was only just in time. The hour for the fight had come, and the\nsteward had entered the lists, and, looking round in triumph, proclaimed\nto all whom it might concern that his adversary knew himself to be a\ntraitor to his lord, and had fled. Therefore, according to all the rules\nof chivalry, a fire should be made, and his sureties burned before all\nthe people.\n\nAt these dreadful words, the hearts of the king and his wife and\ndaughter trembled within them. For the steward had spoken truly, and the\norder for the execution must be given. It was in vain that the men\nworked right slowly; linger as they might, the pile was ready at last,\nand with one despairing glance round, the duchess and her daughter were\nbravely walking up to it, when Sir Amyle hastily pushed his way to the\nduke and demanded that the captives should be instantly set free. Then,\nfollowed by the duchess and Belisante, he entered the palace to gird\nhimself with the armour of Sir Amys.\n\nWhen his helmet and sword were buckled on him, he prayed them to leave\nhim, as he would fain be alone for a short space before he mounted his\nhorse. So the two ladies embraced him and left him, wishing him\nGod-speed. As the door closed upon them, Sir Amyle held up his sword and\nmuttered a prayer before it.\n\n'Come weal or woe, I will help my brother,' he said softly; then\nmounting his horse he rode into the lists, and, kneeling, took the oath\nthat he was guiltless of wrong and would prove his innocence on the body\nof his foe.\n\n[Illustration: SIR AMYLE ARRIVES IN TIME TO SAVE THE LADIES]\n\nThe fight lasted but a short time; the steward's sword was keen, and he\nknew how to use it, and it was not long before he had given Sir Amyle a\nsharp thrust through the shoulder, and the young knight reeled in his\nsaddle. The steward uttered a cry of fierce joy, and raised his arm to\ndeal a second blow, when Sir Amyle suddenly spurred his horse to one\nside and pierced his enemy to the heart. Then, all bleeding as he was,\nthe false Amys cut off the head of the traitor, and gave it to the\nduke, proving to him and to all the court that the right had conquered.\nBut hardly had he done so when, faint from loss of blood, he fell\nsenseless on the ground, and was carried into the palace, where the\nduke's best leeches were called in to attend him. In a few days the\nfever left him, and he was able to receive a visit from the duke\nhimself.\n\n'O Amys, my friend, how I have misjudged you!' cried the duke, falling\non his knees weeping; 'but I will let my people know that you were\nalways true, and you shall marry my daughter as soon as you can stand\nupon your feet, and I will hold a feast, and proclaim you heir to my\nduchy.'\n\nAnd the wounded man gave him thanks and grace, but sent off a messenger\nin all haste to Sir Amys, bidding him be by a spring in the forest, nine\ndays hence, which message Sir Amys obeyed, wondering what had passed.\nThen the two knights changed their clothes once more, and Sir Amyle\nreturned to his wife and Sir Amys to his bride, and they lived happily\nto the end of their lives.\n\n[Adapted and shortened from _Early English Metrical Romances_.]\n\n\n\n\n_THE TALE OF THE CID_\n\n\nIn the year 1025, when Canute the Dane was sitting on the throne of\nEngland, there was born in the ancient Spanish city of Burgos a baby, to\nwhom was given the name of Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar. He came of noble blood\non both sides of the House, and his forefathers had borne some of the\nhighest offices of the land, and from his childhood the boy had been\ntaught that it was his duty never to fall one whit behind them in\ncourage and in honour. As he grew older, he burned more and more for a\nchance to show the metal of which he was made, and longed to join the\ncompanies of knights that were ever going forth to fight the Arabs, who\nfor nearly four hundred years had reigned over the fairest provinces of\nSpain. But to all his prayers, his father, Don Diego Lainez, turned a\ndeaf ear.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Wait, wait, my son!' he would say; 'the little shoot must first grow\ninto a tree. Go now and practise that sword-thrust in which you failed\nyesterday.'\n\nIt was when he was sixteen that the longed-for opportunity came.\n\nDon Diego Lainez, now old and weak, had gone to do his homage to King\nFernando, who had managed to unite the small kingdoms of Northern Spain\nunder his banner. Some dispute arose between him and the powerful count,\nDon Lozano Gomez, probably as to which had the right to pass first into\nthe presence of their king, and in the presence of the whole court Don\nLozano spoke words of deadly insult to the old man, and even gave him a\nbuffet on the cheek. The courtiers all cried shame, and Don Diego's hand\nclutched the pommel of his sword, but his rage had deprived him of the\nlittle strength that remained, and he was powerless to draw it. At this\nthe count laughed scornfully, and, bowing mockingly to the king, who\nheld it best that men should settle their own quarrels, rode away to his\ncastle. Then, without another word, Don Diego turned and mounted his\nhorse and set out homewards.\n\nA broken man and older by ten years was he when he entered his hall, but\nmany days passed before any could guess what had wrought this change in\nhim. All night he lay awake staring into the darkness, and when food was\nbrought him it was carried away untasted, and his wife whispered to her\nladies, 'If we rouse him not he will surely die! Would that I knew what\nhas stricken him like this?'\n\nFifteen days went by in this manner, and none thought to see him leave\nhis bed again, when one morning he strode into the hall with some of the\nfire of his former years, and called his sons to him. One by one he\nsigned to each to draw near, and taking their soft hands in his palms,\npressed so hard that the boys cried to him to loosen his grasp, or they\nwould die of the pain. But when he came to Rodrigo, he heard no prayers\nof mercy from _him_, only threats and hot words uttered with blazing\neyes and cheeks burning with anger. And the old man wept for joy, and\ncried:\n\n'Thou art indeed my true son; your rage calms me, your fury heals me. It\nis you who will redeem my honour, which I held lost.' And then he told\nthe youth the tale of what had passed at court.\n\n'Take my blessing,' were his last words, 'and take this sword also,\nwhich shall deal the count his death-blow. After that, you shall do\ngreater deeds still.'\n\n[Illustration: RODRIGO BRINGS HOME THE HEAD OF GOMEZ]\n\nYoung though he was, Rodrigo had heard enough of war to know Lozano\nGomez would not prove an easy prey; but, easy or not, he meant to\nfight him. So, vowing to his sword that should he ever bring dishonour\non the weapon that had done his House good service, he would sheathe it\nin his breast, he mounted his horse and rode to meet his foe.\n\n'Is it a knightly or a brave deed, think you, to smite an old man who\ncannot defend himself?' asked he. 'But when you dealt that blow you may\nhave thought that his sons were yet in their cradles, and that there was\nnone to avenge him. Well, traitor, you are wrong. _I_ am his son, and\nhis honour is mine, so look to yourself, lest I take your head home with\nme.'\n\nAnd Gomez laughed to hear him, and bade him cease crowing like a young\ncock, but a furious onslaught from Rodrigo cut his words short, and\nhardly did he escape being unhorsed. Before he had steadied himself in\nthe saddle Rodrigo had charged again, and this time his enemy was borne\nto the ground.\n\n'So may all dastards die!' cried the victor, as he cut off his head.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDon Diego Lainez was sitting at the table in his great hall, the tears\nrolling down his cheeks as the shameful scene of his dishonour rose up\nbefore him. Suddenly a clatter of hoofs was heard in the courtyard, and\nthe doors swung open. The men-at-arms gathered round the board rose to\ntheir feet as Rodrigo entered, carrying the head of Count Gomez by the\nlong front lock. Taking Don Diego by the arm, he shook him roughly:\n\n'Open your eyes wide, my father, and raise your head, and let your heart\nbe merry, for I have cut down the poisonous weed; I have stamped out the\nplague-spot; the robe of your honour is stainless as of yore.'\n\nFor a moment the old man kept silence, and then he looked up, his face\nshining.\n\n'Son of my heart,' he said, 'it is enough. From henceforth the seat of\nhonour is yours, and you shall take my place as the head of my House.'\n\nFrom that day the young knights vied with each other in gaining leave to\nride in the train of Rodrigo Diaz, or 'the Cid' as he was afterwards\ncalled, and to this name was later added the proud title of 'Campeador.'\nThree hundred youths in splendid attire followed him to the court of\nFernando, when he went in his turn to do the king homage, and stood by\nhis side as he challenged anyone of the blood of Count Lozano to fight\nand avenge his death; but no one came. Then his father and his noble\ncompany left their horses to kiss the hand of the king, but Rodrigo\nremained in his saddle.\n\n'Get down, get down, Rodrigo!' cried his father, fearing lest the king\nshould resent his rudeness. 'Swear fealty to thy lord, and kiss his\nhand, as a loyal subject should do.'\n\nNow, ever since he had fought with Count Gomez, Rodrigo had felt himself\nto be a man, and, more than that, to be much greater than other men, and\nhe was not pleased to be scolded by his father in the presence of so\nmany people. Still, he was wise enough to know that it would do him no\ngood in the eyes of the nobles gathered round, to disobey his father,\nand slowly he got down from his horse to do homage with the rest. But so\nclumsy was he that, as he knelt, his sword nearly fell out of its\nsheath, and the king, thinking Rodrigo meant to kill him, started back,\nexclaiming:\n\n'Away, away! you devil! If you have the form of a man, your deeds are\nthose of a lion.'\n\n'It is base to kiss the hand of such a craven,' answered Rodrigo in\nanger, 'and I hold that my father has heaped disgrace on his family by\nhumbling himself in such a fashion!' And so saying, he rode away, with\nhis followers behind him.\n\nA few centuries later a man might have lost his head for such words, but\nin those days people were accustomed to speak their minds even to\nkings, and little harm came of it. Six weeks later, Rodrigo had\nforgotten all about it, and, what was more to the purpose, so had the\nking, at any rate he pretended to do so, and when Don Diego sent his son\nto do his business with Fernando, who was at Burgos, the young man went\nwillingly. The morning after he reached the city he was dining in the\nhall of the palace with the king and his nobles, when word was brought\nto the royal table that Ximena, the daughter of Count Gomez, and her\ntrain stood at the gates, and demanded an audience of the king. Fernando\nrose from his seat, and, signing to his nobles to follow him, he went to\nmeet Ximena.\n\nA figure of woe was she, clothed all in black, even her face hidden by a\nblack veil. Throwing herself on her knees, she implored that justice\nmight be done on the murderer of her father, for not till then would the\nstain be wiped out which had killed her mother and was killing her. 'He\nrides to and fro under my lattice,' said she, 'and the hawk on his wrist\nslays my doves, and my mantle is sprinkled with their blood. If you do\nnot do me right, O king, you are not fit to reign, or to call yourself a\nknight.'\n\nThus spake Ximena, and the king sat silent and pondered her words. 'I\ncannot punish Don Rodrigo, either by imprisonment or death,' he said to\nhimself, 'for my nobles would not suffer it; I must find some other way\nto satisfy Ximena.' Then turning to her, he bade her go home, and added\nthat no damsel should have cause to complain that wrong had been done\nthem at his hands.\n\nThen Ximena rode away, and by-and-by Rodrigo departed also.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSix months later King Fernando was seated in the great hall of his\npalace of Burgos, dispensing justice to high and low, when there entered\nonce more Ximena, followed by thirty esquires and pages.\n\n'I come, though I know it is in vain,' she cried, when she had made her\nway to the foot of the throne. 'Five times I have appeared to demand my\nrights, and no longer will I be put off with empty words. No king are\nyou, who are swayed this way and that by every man that passes, and dare\nnot even avenge your friends, for fear of what may come of it.'\n\n'Not so,' answered the king; 'but is there no other way by which your\nquarrel may be appeased? Has Rodrigo on his side suffered no insult? You\nhave heard of the fame he has lately won, when he took captive the five\nMoorish kings who broke suddenly into the land and ravaged it with fire\nand sword. And to prove that it was fame and not gold he wanted he set\nthem all free, with only a promise of homage from them. Ah, if there\nwere but a few more like him, Spain would soon be rid of the Moors.\nHappy is the woman he shall choose for his wife; she will live all her\ndays in safety and in honour.'\n\nThen the king paused, and watched to see how Ximena took his words.\n\nShe was silent for some moments, but the king could not see her face, as\nshe had pulled her veil over it. Suddenly she raised her head, and cast\nthe veil back over her shoulders.\n\n'It is true, O king, what you speak, and I will forego my vengeance.\nNay, I think my father himself would have it so. Give me Don Rodrigo for\nmy husband; all my days I will be a loyal wife to him, and his honour\nshall be mine.'\n\nPerhaps the king was not so surprised as some of his courtiers as they\nlistened to Ximena's request. If he smiled, his beard was thick enough\nto hide it, and he answered gravely:\n\n'You say well, my daughter, and I will to-day send a messenger bidding\nDon Rodrigo meet me at Palencia, and I will give him lands and riches,\nso that in wealth as in birth he may be equal to you.'\n\nWhen the messengers reached Don Rodrigo, with the offer of Ximena's\nhand, his heart was glad, and, calling his friends to dress themselves\nin their most splendid cloaks and brightest armour, he rode at their\nhead towards the city of Palencia. Ximena with her train was already in\nthe royal palace, and in the presence of the king the two plighted their\ntroth. But Rodrigo swore by the cross on his sword that the marriage\nrite should not be fulfilled till he had beaten five foes in the field,\nand, leaving Ximena under the care of his mother, he bade her farewell,\nand set forth to accomplish his vow.\n\nHowever, he was not destined to be absent very long, for in those days\nenemies were not far to seek, and in less than two months the wedding\npreparations began. His brothers took pride in arraying him themselves,\nand buttoning on the doublet of black satin which his father had worn in\nmany of his battles, while over this he wore a jacket of stout leather\nand a loose cloak lined with plush.\n\nAt the last he girded on his sword Tizona, the Dread of the World, then,\nsurrounded by his friends and his family, the bridegroom walked to the\ncourt, where the king, the bishop, and all the nobles were awaiting him.\n\nSoon the noise of trumpets was heard, and there entered Ximena dressed\nin a robe of fine white cloth, brought from London across the seas, with\na border of silver embroidered on it. On her head was a close hood of\nthe same stuff, and high shoes of red leather were on her feet. Round\nher neck was a necklace made of eight round medals, with a little figure\nof St. Michael hanging from them.\n\nDon Rodrigo went forward to lift Ximena from her horse, and kissed her,\nwhispering as he did so:\n\n'It is true, O my lady, that I killed your father, but I did it in fair\nfight, as man to man. And in his stead you shall have a husband that\nwill care for you and protect you to the end of your life.'\n\nNow, although Don Rodrigo was married, he did not stay at home much more\nthan he had done in other days, and his sword was ever unsheathed in the\nservice of his king. He was the champion chosen by Fernando to meet in\nsingle combat Martino Gonzalez, the stoutest knight in Spain, and decide\na quarrel between Castile and Aragon. The victory lay with Rodrigo, and\nno sooner was the duel over than he rode off to fight the Moors in the\nNorth of Spain. At length the patience of Ximena was worn out, and she\nwrote a letter to Fernando in which she told him plainly all that was in\nher mind.\n\n'What was the use,' she asked, 'of her marrying Rodrigo if the king kept\nhim for ever engaged in his service, and away from her?' She had no\nfather, and might as well have no husband, and she implored his master\nto think upon her loneliness, and to let Rodrigo return to her side.\n\nBut the king would make no promises, and by-and-by Ximena had a little\ngirl to comfort her, to whom Fernando stood godfather.\n\nIt seems strange that after these great deeds King Fernando never\nthought of making Don Rodrigo a knight, but so it was. Not till the long\nsiege of the city of Coimbra was ended, and the Moorish mosque turned\ninto a Christian church, was the order of knighthood conferred on Don\nRodrigo in return for the mighty works that he had done. But Don Rodrigo\nknew well that his sword-thrusts would have availed him nothing had it\nnot been for the aid of a Greek bishop who dreamed when at the shrine of\nSt. James that the gates of the city would only fall when a successor of\nthe Apostle should appear before them. So the bishop arose and clad\nhimself in armour and rode into the Christian hosts, and as he drew\nnear, the walls fell down like Jericho of old, and the army entered in\ntriumph.\n\nAfter this the Cid, as men now called him, from a Moorish word which\nmeant a man of great valour and fame, went home for a short space to see\nhis wife and his little daughter, who by this time was seven years old\nand had never beheld her father. Rest was sweet to Don Rodrigo, but\nbefore it could grow irksome to him he was summoned to court by the\ndeath of Fernando, who left all his children under the wardship of the\nCid. Unluckily, the old man's will had not been a wise one, and bitter\nquarrels soon raged between the new king Sancho and his brothers and\nsisters. In vain Don Rodrigo tried to heal the feuds, but war soon broke\nout, and by his oath of allegiance he was forced, sorely against his\nwish, to fight under the king's banner. By his aid Sancho despoiled his\ntwo brothers and one of his sisters of the lands which were theirs by\nright, but when the king demanded that he should go as envoy and bid the\nprincess Do\u00f1a Urraca yield up her town of Zamora in exchange for much\ngold, the Cid prayed him to send someone else, for he could not take\narms against the princess whom he had known when they were children\ntogether. His words, however, were useless. The king would listen to\nnothing, and the Cid rode forth to Zamora with a heavy heart. Silently\nhe bore the reproaches of Do\u00f1a Urraca, and returned in five days to tell\nFernando that the citizens of Zamora had sworn in his presence, that the\ncity would never be given up till they all lay dead upon her walls. This\nanswer so infuriated Don Sancho that he falsely accused the Cid of\nhaving put the words into the mouths of his enemies, and bade him begone\nout of the kingdom.\n\nBut a man like the Cid could not lightly be dismissed, and very soon the\nking was forced to humble himself, and send messengers to beg his\nforgiveness. The Campeador was too generous to bear malice, and rode\njoyfully back, to find Sancho besieging Zamora. And an ill day it was\nfor the king when he resolved to wrest his sister's possessions from\nher; for one of her citizens, spurred by love to his lady, gained\nadmittance into the royal camp and offered to betray the city. A\ncouncillor of the princess, the old Arias Gonzalo, cried to the king\nfrom the walls to lend no ear unto the man's words, for he was a\ntraitor; but Dolfos had a wily tongue, and easily persuaded Sancho to\ncome with him to see the small door across the trench by which the army\nmight enter. They were hardly outside the camp when Dolfos struck him\nbetween the shoulders with his spear, and the king rolled in his death\nagony on the ground. The sight was seen by Don Rodrigo, who had watched\neagerly and anxiously the movements of Dolfos, and now sprang towards\nthe traitor with his drawn sword. But Dolfos was too quick for him, and\nthe postern was flung open by some of the men of Zamora, before the Cid\ncould get across the trench.\n\n'Oh, fool was I not to have fastened on my spurs, and then I should have\ncaught him!' cried Don Rodrigo shaking with rage, as he turned sadly\nback to stand by the bedside of his dying master, waiting for the\nvengeance which the future would bring.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow directly she heard that King Sancho was dead, Do\u00f1a Urraca, his\nsister, the lady of Zamora, sent the tidings to her brother, Don\nAlfonso, in exile at Toledo.\n\n'We have been sent to summon you, King Alfonso,' said the messengers\nwhen they found him, falling on their knees as they spoke. 'Don Sancho\nwas foully stabbed by Bellido el Dolfos, and the men of Castile and Leon\ncall on you to take his place. Don Rodrigo only hangs back, and swears\nhe will never take the oath of fealty till you have proved that you had\nno part in the murder of your brother.'\n\nDon Alfonso felt glad at their words. He had received nothing but ill at\nthe hands of his brother, and he hurried to place himself at the head of\nthe army of Castile. But the Arab ruler was not willing to let him go,\nand many days passed before he was able to escape at night, climbing\nsilently with a few followers down the walls of Toledo; then, turning\nthe shoes on the feet of their horses, so that the track should point\nsouth instead of north, they made the best of their way to Zamora.\n\nThe nobles received the king with joy, and, kneeling to kiss his hand,\nvowed to be true to him. The Cid alone held aloof.\n\n'You are heir to the throne, Don Alfonso,' said he, 'but before I bend\nthe knee to you I demand that you and twelve of your vassals shall swear\nthat you are innocent, in deed or in word, of the blood of your\nbrother.'\n\n'I will swear it,' answered Alfonso, 'when and where you please, and\ntwelve men of Leon shall swear it likewise.'\n\n'You shall swear to me in the holy cathedral of Santa Gadea in Burgos,'\nsaid the Cid; and thither they all rode silently and solemnly, while Don\nRodrigo, standing at the altar, held out the crucifix to the kneeling\nking. But though the oath was taken freely, both by Alfonso and his\nvassals, deep in the heart of the Cid lay a doubt of his truth.\n\n'You shall swear it thrice,' he said, and Alfonso, devoured as he was\nwith rage, knew the Cid's power too well to disobey, though his face\ngrew pale with wrath.\n\n'You shall answer for this,' he cried as he rose to his feet, and from\nthat day the king never ceased to seek for an excuse to compass Don\nRodrigo's banishment. At last he found one.\n\nThe Moorish king of Toledo laid a complaint against the Cid that, in\nspite of his alliance with Alfonso of Castile, his lands had been\nravaged and his people made captive. Well Alfonso knew that it was the\nMoors themselves who had broken faith with him, and had wasted the\nSpanish territories which lay along their borders, but he eagerly\nsnatched at the plea, and bade the Cid go, an exile, from Castile, while\nhis possessions were declared forfeit.\n\nWith every insult heaped on him that the king could invent, the Cid left\nthe city and rode to his castle of Bivar, only to find that his enemies\nhad been before him and had stripped it bare, while his wife and\nchildren had sought refuge in the convent of San Pedro de Carde\u00f1a.\n\nIt was on his way thither that the Cid in his dire distress did the one\nmean deed recorded of him, which he never ceased to bewail during his\nlife, and afterwards on his deathbed. He had reckoned on finding money\nfor his needs at Bivar, and there was none, and he knew not what to do.\nIn this strait he invited two rich Jews to his tent under the walls of\nBurgos, and, pointing to two large chests which stood on the ground, he\ntold the Jews that they were filled with silver plate, and begged that\nthey would take them, and give him a thousand crowns in exchange. The\nJews, used though they were to being cheated and despoiled by\nChristians, yet trusted to the honour of the Cid, and counted out the\nmoney. Then, placing the coffers on the backs of two stout mules, they\nreturned with them into Burgos, first promising that they would not open\nthem till a year had passed. At the time appointed they lifted the lid,\nand, behold, the coffers were full of sand!'\n\nBut except in this matter, for which his repentance was bitter, the Cid\nnever ceased in his exile to be true to his knighthood, and in all the\nwars which he and his followers made on the Moors he always sent part of\nthe spoils to Alfonso. At length the king found that he could not do\nwithout him. Young knights there were in plenty, but neither in battle\nnor in the council chamber could they vie with Don Rodrigo; so after\nmany years, when the Cid had captured strong cities and great towns\nfrom the Moors, Alfonso sent messengers to say that he was willing to\npardon him. And the Cid vowed anew to serve him, but his heart was heavy\nfor the death of his only son in the siege of Consuegra.\n\n[Illustration: DON DIEGO AND DON FERNAN SHOW THAT THEY ARE COWARDS]\n\nFrom time to time the king's jealousy broke out afresh, and more than\nonce Don Rodrigo was banished, but in the end the Cid always returned to\nCastile, for in truth, as we have said, the land prospered but little in\nhis absence. After conquering the Moors in Valencia and elsewhere, his\nfame and wealth grew greater than ever, and two of the proudest nobles\nin Castile, the counts of Carrion, prayed Alfonso to use his rights as\nliege lord, and to grant them the Cid's daughters in marriage. Now, the\nproposal pleased Don Rodrigo but little, and his wife even less. He knew\nsomething of the two young men who wished to be his sons-in-law, and he\nfelt that it was his wealth, and not his daughters, that was wooed.\nBesides, he liked not the boastfulness of the two brothers, and feared\nthat beneath their proud and haughty ways the hearts of cowards might be\nhidden. But outwardly all was fair-seeming, and when the king in a\nmeeting on the banks of the Tagus bade the Cid consider well the matter,\nDon Rodrigo could only reply that, in his view, his daughters were as\nyet too young to be wedded, but that they and all that belonged to him\nwere in the hands of the king, to be dealt with as he thought best. To\nwhich the king answered that he knew the maidens to be wise beyond their\nyears, and, summoning the counts of Carrion to his presence, he informed\nthem that he had resolved to grant their desire, and bade them kneel and\nkiss the Cid's hand, which they did with joy. So the next day they all\nrode back to Valencia, and the Cid made a feast for fifteen days, and\nthe marriage rite was performed by the Bishop Geronymo, mighty in\nbattle.\n\nIt was not long after the wedding that the counts showed of what metal\nthey were made, and that the Cid had read them truly. One evening they\nand Don Bermudo, nephew of the Cid, were sitting laughing and jesting in\nthe hall of the castle, when a cry arose from without, 'Beware of the\nlion; he has broken from his den'; and in an instant the huge beast had\nsprung through the door. Don Bermudo sat still, waiting to see what the\nlion would do, but Don Diego, the elder count, took refuge in a closet,\nwhile Don Fernan, his brother, hid himself under the bed on which the\nCid was stretched sleeping. The noise awoke Don Rodrigo, who sprang up,\nwhen the lion at once lay down on the ground and began to lick his feet.\nThe Cid stooped and stroked its head, then calling to the beast to\nfollow, he led it back to its den, which it entered quietly, for it knew\nits master well.\n\n'Where are my sons-in-law?' asked he as he entered. 'Methought I heard\ntheir voices but a moment agone.'\n\n'Here,' cried one of his nephews, and 'here' cried another, and the\ncounts were dragged forth, their fine clothes disordered and their faces\npale with fear.\n\nThe Cid looked at them silently, till they grew red with shame and\nanger.\n\n'Are these your wedding garments?' said he at last. 'Truly I should\nscarce have guessed it'; and he passed on, leaving hate and a longing\nfor revenge in the young men's hearts.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe matter of the lion did not dwell long in the mind of the Cid, for\nnews was speedily brought him that the Moorish king of Morocco was\nadvancing with an army to besiege the fair city of Valencia. He quickly\ngathered together a host large enough to give battle in the plain\noutside the walls, but while mounting his horse Babieca he counselled\nhis sons-in-law to remain in safety behind the walls of the town. This\nthey would gladly have done, but dared not set at naught the mocking\neyes of the knights around them, so, clad in shining armour, they rode\nforth with the rest. Hardly had the fight begun, when a Moor attacked\nthe younger brother, who turned and fled. Another instant and he would\nhave sunk to the ground, pierced by the enemy's lance, when Don Bermudo\nsuddenly appeared, and engaged the Moor in deadly combat. After a hard\nstruggle the infidel was overborne and slain, and the victor turned to\nDon Fernan Gonzalez:\n\n'Take his horse and his armour,' he said, 'and tell the Cid it was you\nwho killed him; I will not gainsay you.' And, as cowards are generally\nliars also, Don Fernan gladly snatched at the crown of glory that\nbelonged to another.\n\nDon Bermudo was rewarded for his generous deed when he saw the joy of\nthe Cid. Perhaps he had condemned them wrongly, thought Don Rodrigo, and\nthat the souls of men were at last awaking in them. So he praised them\nfor their valour, and if there were those present who could have told a\ndifferent tale, they held their peace.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut whether they were, perforce, following the Cid in the field, or\nbasking in the wealth and pleasures of Valencia, the counts of Carrion\nnever forgot or forgave the scorn they had read in the eyes of the Cid\non the day when they had hidden from the lion. Together they plotted to\ntake vengeance on them, and it was a vengeance as mean as their souls.\n\nOne morning they entered the great hall of Valencia, where the Cid was\nsitting, and prayed him to give them their wives, and let them depart\nforthwith to their lands. Their words were fair, yet the Cid felt\ntroubled; why, he knew not.\n\n'I gave you my daughters to wife, at my king's bidding,' answered he at\nlast, 'and I cannot withhold them from you if indeed you desire to take\nthem unto your own lands. But see that they are treated as beseems\nthem; if not, woe to you.'\n\nAnd the counts of Carrion, with treason in their hearts, promised that\nall honour should await their brides.\n\nEight days hence, the procession passed out of the city gates, and the\nCid went first, with Do\u00f1a Elvira on his right hand, and Do\u00f1a Sol on his\nleft. For the space of a league he rode, and then he reined up his\nhorse. Calling his nephew Don Ordo\u00f1o to his side, he bade him follow\nunperceived, and bring back news of what befell his daughters.\n\nAnd so they parted.\n\nFor many miles the procession went slowly on, and was received with\nkindness and hospitality by the great Moslem lords through whose country\nthe road lay, a kindness repaid whenever possible by theft and cruelty\nby the counts of Carrion. Then, when they had reached a wood which was\nneither in the lordship of the Cid nor of the Moors, they felt that the\ntime for which they had so long waited was come. Ordering the guards and\nattendants to ride forward to the Castle of Carrion and prepare for\ntheir reception, the counts scarcely delayed until they were out of\ntheir sight before they dragged their wives from their mules, and\nstripped their bodies bare. Next, seizing them by their hair, they flung\nthem to the ground, and dug their spurs into them till their bodies were\ncovered with blood.\n\n'Farewell, beautiful damsels,' they cried mockingly, bowing low, 'you\nwere never fit mates for the counts of Carrion, and, besides, it was\nneedful to avenge the affront that the Cid your father put on us in the\nmatter of the fierce beast who would have slain us.' And, stooping low\nfrom their horses, the base knights rode away.\n\nFrom a distant hill Don Ordo\u00f1o had seen and heard all that had passed,\nand he now came forth to help and comfort his cousins. 'Take heart,' he\nsaid, 'I will bring you your lost garments, and if you have lost your\nhusbands, who deserve nothing better than the fate of traitors, remember\nthat you have yet a father, without a peer throughout the world.'\n\nNone can tell the wrath of the Cid when his daughters came home. Little\nhe said, for he was ever a man of few words, but he sent forthwith\nmessengers to the king, telling him of the base deeds of the counts of\nCarrion, and begging for leave to plead his cause before the Parliament\nat Toledo. This permission Alfonso granted gladly, and bade the counts\nof Carrion to be present also and answer the Cid.\n\nMany days they waited ere Don Rodrigo, accompanied by his wife and\ndaughters, and followed by a train of nobles, rode through the gates.\nThe king was sitting surrounded by the Cortes or Parliament, but he\ndesired that the Cid should be brought to him at once, and then\ncommanded him to set forth his wrongs.\n\n'It is you, O king, and not I, who gave my daughters in marriage to\nthese base men, therefore it is you, and not I, who must answer for\nthis. I ask you that you will force them to restore my swords Colada and\nTizona that I girded on them when they bore my children from Valencia.'\nAnd the hearts of the counts were glad when they heard his words, and\nthey hasted to place the gold-pommelled swords in the hands of the Cid.\n\nNext, Don Rodrigo demanded that the dowries of his daughters should be\ngiven back to him, and this also the king adjudged to be his right.\nLast, he set forth the treatment his daughters had suffered from the\ncounts of Carrion, and challenged them and also their uncle, who had\never given them evil counsel, to fight with three of his knights that\nday.\n\nBefore the combat could take place a sound as of armed men was heard in\nthe courtyard, and in rode two youths covered with golden armour and\ntall plumed helmets, and one was Don Ramiro of Navarre, and the other\nDon Sancho of Aragon.\n\n'It has reached our ears,' said they, 'that the marriages between the\ncounts of Carrion and the daughters of the Cid are about to be set\naside, and we have come to pray that the ladies may be given to us to\nwife.'\n\nAnd the king answered: 'If it pleases the Cid, it pleases me also, but\nthe Cortes here present must grant its consent.'\n\nSo the Cid kissed the hand of the king in token of the honour done him,\nand the Cortes cried with one voice that the man who allied himself with\nDon Rodrigo de Bivar was honoured above all. Therefore, the weddings\nwere celebrated without delay, the counts of Carrion having been\npronounced outlaws and their former marriages null and void.\n\nThis matter being settled, the king directed that there should be no\nmore delay in arranging the fight between the champions of the Cid and\nthe counts of Carrion, which at the request of the counts was to be held\nthree weeks later in their own castle. Don Rodrigo himself did not mean\nto fight. His honour was, he knew, safe in the hands of Don Bermudo and\nhis other nephews, and he rode blithely home to Valencia. But Alfonso\ndeclared that he would be present to see that the combat was fairly\nfought, and it was well that he went, for the counts, thinking\nthemselves safe on their own lands, had planned treachery. However, the\nking, mistrusting them, made a proclamation that in case of false\ndealing the traitor should be slain upon the field, and his possessions\nbe forfeit. Baulked in this direction, the counts then entreated the\nking to forbid their foes to use the swords Tizona and Colada which they\nhad been forced to give up, but Alfonso answered that it was now too\nlate to make conditions, and they must get to the fight with stout\nhearts. This they could not do, for they had not got them, but, finding\nthere was no help for it, they mounted their horses and put their lances\nin rest.\n\nBetween such adversaries the combat lasted but a short while. Fernan\nGonzalez was soon unhorsed by Don Bermudo; Don Diego and his uncle\nconfessed themselves vanquished. Their lands were declared forfeit by\nthe judges, though their lives were granted them; but the tale of their\ncowardice spread far and wide, and none would speak to them or have\ndealings with them.\n\nThus was the Cid avenged.\n\nFor five years the Cid lived on in Valencia wearied of wars, and turning\nhis thoughts to repenting him of his sins, and chief among them the\nwrong he had done many years before to the two Jews of Burgos. His\nstrength grew daily less, till at length he could rise from his bed no\nmore, neither could he eat food. While he lay in this manner, tidings\nwere brought him that the Moors were preparing to besiege Valencia. This\nnews roused the dying man, and for a moment it seemed as if he might be\nwell again. Clearly he gave his orders how best to resist the attack,\nand bade his followers fight under the banner of Bishop Geronymo. 'As\nfor me,' he said, 'you shall take my body and fill it with sweet spices,\nand shall set me once more on Babieca, and place Tizona in my hand. With\ncords shall you fasten me to the saddle, and so you shall lead me forth\nto my last fight with the Moors. Ximena my wife will care for Babieca,\nand when he is dead she will bury him where no Moorish dogs may root up\nhis grave. And let no women be hired to make mourning for me. I want no\ntears to be shed over me but the tears of Ximena my wife. But for the\nChristians in this city, well know I that they are too few men to\nconquer the Moors, therefore let them prepare their goods, and steal\nforth by night, and take refuge in Castile. So farewell to you all, and\npray that God may have mercy on my soul.'\n\nThus the Cid died, and all was done as he had said, and the king put\nrich garments on him, and set Tizona in his hand, and seated him in a\ncarved chair by the altar of San Pedro de Carde\u00f1a.\n\n[_El Romanzo del Cid._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL COUNTENANCE\n\n\nEverybody knows that in the old times, when Arthur was king or Charles\nthe Great emperor, no gentleman ever rested content until he had\nreceived the honour of knighthood. When once he was made a knight, he\nleft his home and the court, and rode off in search of adventures,\nseeking to help people in distress who had no one else to help them.\n\nAfter a while, however, the knights grew selfish and lazy. They liked\nbetter to hunt the deer through the forest than wicked robbers who had\ncarried off beautiful ladies. 'It was the king's business,' they said,\n'to take care of his subjects, not theirs,' so they dwelt in their own\ncastles, and many of them became great lords almost as powerful as the\nking himself.\n\nBut though the knights no longer went in search of noble adventures, as\nknights of earlier days had been wont to do, there were plenty of books\nin which they could read if they chose of the wonderful deeds of their\nforefathers. Lancelot and Roland, Bernardo del Carpio, the Cid, Amadis\nde Gaule, and many more, were as well known to them as their own\nbrothers, and if we will only take the trouble they may be known to us\ntoo.\n\nNow, several hundreds of years after Lancelot and Roland and all the\nrest had been laid in their graves, a baby belonging to the family of\nQuixada was born in that part of Spain called La Mancha. We are not told\nanything of his boyhood, or even of his manhood till he reached the age\nof fifty, but we know that he was poor; that he lived with a housekeeper\nand a niece to take care of him, and that he passed all his days in\ncompany with these old books until the courts and forests which were the\nscenes of the adventures of those knights of bygone years were more real\nto him than any of his own doings.\n\n'I wish all those books could be burned,' said the noble gentleman's\nhousekeeper one day to his niece. 'My poor master's wits are surely\ngoing, for he never understands one word you say to him. Indeed, if you\nspeak, he hardly seems to see you, much less to hear you!'\n\nWhat the housekeeper said was true. The things that belonged to her\nmaster's every-day life vanished completely bit by bit. If his niece\nrelated to him some scrap of news which a neighbour had run in to tell\nher, he would answer her with a story of the giant Morgante, who alone\namong his ill-bred race had manners that befitted a Spanish knight. If\nthe housekeeper lamented that the flour in her storehouse would not last\nout the winter, he turned a deaf ear to all her complaints, and declared\nthat he would give her and his niece into the bargain for the pleasure\nof bestowing one kick on Ganelon the traitor.\n\nAt last one day things came to a climax. When the hour of dinner came\nround, Don Quixada was nowhere to be found. His niece sought him in his\nbedroom, in the little tower where his books were kept, and even in the\nstable, where lay the old horse who had served him for more years than\none could count. He was in none of these; but just as she was leaving\nthe stable a strange noise seemed to come from over the girl's head, and\non looking up she beheld her uncle rubbing a rusty sword that had lain\nthere long before anybody could remember, while by his side were a steel\ncap and other pieces of armour.\n\n[Illustration: Don Quixada declared that he would give his housekeeper\nand his niece into the bargain for the pleasure of bestowing one kick on\nGanelon the traitor.]\n\nFrom that moment Don Quixada became deaf and blind to the things of\nthis world. He was in despair because the steel cap was not a proper\nhelmet, but only a morion without a vizor to let down. Perhaps a smith\nmight have made him what he wanted, but the Don was too proud to ask\nhim, and, getting some cardboard, cut and painted it like a vizor, and\nthen fastened it to the morion. Nothing could look--at a little\ndistance--more like the helmet the Cid might have worn, but Don Quixada\nknew well that no knight ever went forth in search of adventures without\nfirst proving the goodness of his armour, so, fixing the helmet against\nthe wall, he made a slash at it with his sword. He only dealt two\nstrokes, whereas his enemy might give him twenty, but those two swept\nclean through the vizor, and destroyed in three minutes a whole week's\nwork. So there was nothing for it but to begin over again, and this time\nthe Don took the precaution of lining the vizor with iron.\n\n'It looks beautiful,' he cried when it was finished; but he took care\nnot to try his blade upon it.\n\nHis next act was to go into the stable and rub down his horse's coat,\nand to give it a feed of corn, vainly hoping that in a few days its ribs\nmight become less plainly visible.\n\n'It is not right,' he said to himself, one morning, as he stood watching\nthe animal that was greedily eating out of its manger--'it is not right\nthat a knight's good horse should go forth without a name. Even the\nheathen Alexander bestowed a high-sounding title on his own steed; and\nso, likewise, did those Christian warriors, Roland and the Cid!' But,\ntry as he might, no name would come to him except such as were unworthy\nof the horse and his rider, and for four nights and days he pondered the\nquestion.\n\nSuddenly, at the moment he had least expected it, when he was eating the\nplain broth his housekeeper had set before him, the inspiration came.\n\n'Rozinante!' he cried triumphantly, laying down his spoon--'Rozinante!\nNeither the Cid's horse nor Roland's bore a finer name than that!'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis weighty matter being settled, the Don now began to think of\nhimself, and, not being satisfied with the name his fathers had handed\ndown to him, resolved to take one that was more noble, and better suited\nto a knight who was destined to do deeds that would keep him alive in\nthe memory of men. For eight days he took heed of nothing save this one\nthing, and on the ninth he found what he had sought.\n\n'The world shall know me as Don Quixote,' he said; 'and as the noble\nAmadis himself was not content to bear this sole title, but added to it\nthe name of his own country, so I, in like manner, will add the name of\nmine, and henceforth will appear to all, as the good knight Don Quixote\nde la Mancha!'\n\nNow Don Quixote de la Mancha had read far too many books about the\ncustoms of chivalry not to be aware that every knight worshipped some\nlady of whose beauty he boasted upon all occasions and whose token he\nwore upon his helmet in battle. It was not very easy for Don Quixote to\nfind such a lady, for all his life long, the company which he met in his\nbooks had been dearer to him than that which he could have had outside\nhis home.\n\n'A knight without a liege lady is a tree without fruit, a body without\nsoul,' he thought. 'Of what use will it be if I meet with some giant\nsuch as always crosses the path of a wandering knight, and disarm him in\nour first encounter, unless I have a lady at whose feet he can kneel?'\nSo without losing more time he began to search the neighbouring villages\nfor such a damsel, whose token he might wear, and at length found one\nwith enough beauty for him to fall in love with, whose humble name of\nAldonza he changed for that of Dulcinea del Toboso.\n\nThe sun had hardly risen on the following morning when Don Quixote\nlaced on his helmet, braced on his shield, took his lance in hand, and\nmounted Rozinante.\n\nNever during his fifty years had he felt his heart so light, and he rode\nforth into the wide plain, expecting to find a giant or a distressed\nlady behind every bush. But his joy was short-lived, for suddenly it\ncame to his mind that in the days of chivalry it never was known that\nany man went in quest of adventures without being first made a knight,\nand that no such good fortune had happened to him. This thought was so\nterrible that he reeled in his saddle, and was near turning the head of\nRozinante towards his own stable; but Don Quixote was a man of good\ncourage, and in a short while he remembered on how many knights Sir\nLancelot had conferred the honour of knighthood, and he determined to\nclaim his spurs from the first that he managed to conquer in fight. Till\nthen, he must, as soon as might be, make his armour white, in token that\nas yet he had had no adventures. In this manner he took heart again.\n\nAll that day he rode, without either bite or sup, and, of the two,\nRozinante fared the better, for he at least found a tuft of coarse grass\nto eat. At nightfall a light as big as a faint star was seen gleaming in\nthe distance, and both master and horse plucked up courage once more.\nThey hastened towards it, and discovered that the light came from a\nsmall inn, which Don Quixote's fancy instantly changed into a castle\nwith four towers and pinnacles of shining silver, surrounded by a moat.\nHe paused a moment, expecting a dwarf to appear on the battlements and\nannounce by the blasts of his trumpet that a knight was approaching,\nbut, as no dwarf could be seen, he dismounted at the door, where he was\nreceived with courtesy by the landlord or the governor of the castle, as\nDon Quixote took him to be.\n\nAt the sight of this strange figure, which looked as if it had gone to\nsleep a thousand years ago, and had only just woke up again, the\nlandlord had as much ado to keep from laughter as the muleteers and\nsome women who were standing before the door. But being a civil man, and\nsomewhat puzzled, he held the stirrup for Don Quixote to alight,\noffering to give him everything that would make him comfortable except a\nbed, which was not to be had. The Don made little of this, as became a\ngood knight, and bade the landlord look well after Rozinante, for no\nbetter horse would ever stand in his stable. The man, who had seen many\nbeasts in his day, did not rate him quite so highly, but said nothing,\nand after placing the horse in the stable returned to the house to see\nafter the master.\n\nAs it happened, it was easier to provide for the wants of Rozinante than\nfor those of Don Quixote, for the muleteers had eaten up everything in\nthe kitchen, and nothing was left save a little dried fish and black\nbread. Don Quixote, however, was quite content; indeed, he imagined it\nthe most splendid supper in the world, and when he had finished he fell\non his knees before the landlord.\n\n'Never will I rise again, noble sir,' said he, 'until you grant my\nprayer, which shall be an occasion of glory to you and of gain to all\nmen.'\n\nThe landlord, not being used to such conduct on the part of his guests,\ntried to lift Don Quixote on to his feet, but the knight vowed that he\nwould not move till his prayer was granted.\n\n'The gift I would ask of you,' continued the Don, now rising to his\nfeet, 'is that to-night I may watch my arms in the chapel of your\ncastle, and at sunrise I shall kneel before you to be made a knight.\nThen I shall bid you farewell, and set forth on my journey through the\nworld, righting wrongs and helping the oppressed, after the manner of\nthe knights of old.'\n\n'I am honoured indeed,' replied the landlord, who by this time saw very\nclearly that the poor gentleman was weak in his wits, and had a mind to\ndivert himself. 'As a youth, I myself wandered through the land, and my\nname, the champion of all who needed it, was known to every court in\nSpain, till a deadly thrust in my side, from a false knight, forced me\nto lay down my arms, and to return to this my castle, giving shelter and\nwelcome to any knights that ask it. But as to the chapel, it is but a\nweek since it was made level with the ground, being but a poor place,\nand in no way worthy of the service of noble knights; but keep your\nwatch in the courtyard of my castle, as your books will have told you\nthat others have done in case of need. Afterwards, I will admit you into\nthe Order of Chivalry, but before you take up your vigil tell me, I pray\nyou, what money you have brought with you?'\n\nThis question surprised the Don very much.\n\n'I have brought none,' he answered presently, 'for never did I hear that\neither Roland or Percival or any of the great knight-errants whose\nexample I fain would follow, carried any money with them.'\n\n'That is because they thought it no more needful to say that they\ncarried money or clean shirts than that they carried a sword or a box of\nointment to cure the wounds of themselves or their foes, in case no\nmaiden or enchanter with a flask of water was on the spot,' replied the\nlandlord; and he spoke so long and so earnestly on the subject that the\nDon promised never again to start on a quest without money and a box of\nointment, besides at least three clean shirts.\n\nIt was now high time for his watch to begin, and the landlord led the\nway to a great yard at the side of the inn. Here the Don took his arms,\nand piled them on a trough of stone that stood near a well. Then bearing\nhis lance he walked up and down beside his trough.\n\nFor an hour or two he paced the yard, watched, though he knew it not, by\nmany eyes from the inn windows, which, with the aid of a bright moon,\ncould see all that happened as clearly as if it were day. At length a\nmuleteer who had a long journey before him drove up his team to the\ntrough, which was fed by the neighbouring well, and in order to let his\ncattle drink, stretched out his arms to remove the sword and helmet\nwhich lay there. The Don perceived his aim, and cried in a voice of\nthunder:\n\n'What man are you, ignorant of the laws of chivalry, who dares to touch\nthe arms of the bravest knight who ever wore a sword? Take heed lest you\nlay a finger upon them, for if you do your life shall pay the forfeit.'\n\nIt might have been as well for the muleteer if he had listened, and had\nled his cattle to water elsewhere, but, looking at the Don's tall lean\nfigure and his own stout fists, he only laughed rudely, and, seizing\nboth sword and helmet, threw them across the yard. The Don paused a\nmoment, wondering if he saw aright; then raising his eyes to heaven he\nexclaimed:\n\n'O Lady Dulcinea, peerless in thy beauty, help me to avenge this insult\nthat has been put upon me'; and, lifting high his lance, he brought it\ndown with such a force on the head of the man that he fell to the ground\nwithout a word, and the Don began his walk afresh.\n\nHe had not been pacing the yard above half an hour when another man, not\nknowing what had befallen his friend, drove his beasts up to the trough,\nand was stooping to move the Don's arms, so that the cattle could get at\nthe water, when a mighty blow fell on _his_ head, splitting it nearly\ninto pieces.\n\nAt this noise the people from the inn ran out, and seeing the two\nmuleteers stretched wounded on the ground picked up stones wherewith to\nstone the knight. The Don, however, fronted them with such courage that\nthey did not dare to venture near him, and the landlord, making use of\ntheir fears, called on them to leave him alone, for that he was a\nmadman, and the law would not touch him, even though he should kill them\nall. Then, wishing to be done with the business and with his guest, he\nmade excuses for the rude fellows, who had only got what they deserved,\nand said that, as there was no chapel to his castle, he could dub him\nknight where he stood, for, the watch of arms having been completed, all\nthat was needful was a slap on the neck with a palm of the hand and the\ntouch of the sword on the shoulder.\n\n[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE BELABOURS THE MULETEER]\n\nSo Don Quixada was turned into Don Quixote de la Mancha, and, mounting\nRozinante, he left the inn, and with a joyful heart started to seek his\nfirst adventure.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES WHO TURNED OUT TO BE FLOCKS OF SHEEP\n\n\nThe first adventure of the new knight did not turn out at all to his\nliking, nor answered his expectations, for in all the books of chivalry\nwhich he had read, never had he heard of a good knight being sorely\nwounded by a mere pack of common fellows, as happened to himself shortly\nafter leaving the inn; though indeed he comforted his soul by thinking\nthat, had not Rozinante stumbled over a stone and fallen, it would have\nfared ill with his foes.\n\nHe lay upon the ground for some time, aching in every bone, and\nrepeating in a weak voice some lines out of his favourite romance of the\n'Marquis of Mantua,' when a labourer from his own village came by and\nwent to see if the man stretched on his back across the road was dead or\nonly wounded.\n\n'What ails you, master?' asked he; but as the vizor over the Don's face\nprevented his answer being understood, the labourer pulled it off with\nsome trouble, and then stood, staring with surprise.\n\n'Master Quixada!' cried he, wiping off the blood as he spoke, 'what\nvillain has served you like this?' but, as Don Quixote only replied to\nhis questions with long stories of the heroes of romance, the man gave\nit up, and after gathering up the stray bits of armour, and even the\nbroken lance, helped the Don on to his own ass and took Rozinante by the\nbridle.\n\nIn this manner Don Quixote returned home.\n\nWhen the knight dismounted and entered the house he found his\nhousekeeper and niece filled with dismay, and bewailing his loss to the\npriest and the barber, who were wont to spend many an hour in company\nwith the Don, listening to the strange tales that were always on his\ntongue. The joy with which they heard his well-known knock, in the\nmiddle of their discourses, was somewhat spoilt when they saw the\ncondition he was in, and he stopped them quickly when they flew to\nembrace him.\n\n'Let no one touch me,' cried he, 'for by the falling of my horse I am\nsore wounded. Carry me to bed, and summon the wise woman Urganda to heal\nme with her enchanted water.'\n\n'Oh, never fear, your worship, we can cure you without her,' answered\nthe housekeeper; 'and right glad we are to see you back, wounded or\nnot.'\n\nSo between them all they bore him up the narrow stairs and laid him on\nhis bed. And when he was undressed they sought his wounds, but found\nnone, only a black bruise so they told him.\n\n'Is it so?' he answered. 'Then the deeds that I did were yet more\nvalorous than I thought. It was while I was fighting with ten giants,\nthe biggest and strongest who ever gave battle to any Christian knight,\nthat Rozinante fell, and I with him.'\n\n'Oh! so there are giants in the dance now,' whispered the priest to the\nbarber. 'I will not close my eyes this night till the books which have\nbrought this evil are safely in the fire.' And, so saying, they left Don\nQuixote to sleep.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe was still sleeping next morning, when the priest came to ask for the\nkeys of the little room where Don Quixote kept the old books he so much\nloved. They were handed to him with joy by the girl, who held books to\nbe the enemy of all mankind, and when they all four entered they found\nmore than a hundred volumes large and small, which was a great number\nfor so poor a gentleman. One by one the priest examined them, and\ncondemned them to the flames, unless by chance there was any doubt about\ntheir wickedness; that is, unless they had been written by a friend of\nthe priest. In these cases, after the barber had been consulted, the\nbooks escaped the doom of the rest.\n\nFor fifteen days Don Quixote stayed at home and seemed content to stay\nthere, passing the evenings in talk with the priest and the barber.\nNothing was needed, he said, to put right the wrongs of the world, save\na new order of knighthood, of which he had set the example. After much\nof this talk he suddenly remembered that a knight ever had a squire\nriding behind him, and that before he rode forth on his next quest he\nmust needs provide himself with such an one. This was almost as hard a\nmatter as finding a liege lady, but at length he bethought him of a poor\npeasant living in the same village, who possessed a wife and children,\nand not much else. This man he sent for, and promised him such great\nthings and such noble rewards that Sancho Panza, for such was his name,\nreadily agreed to serve him. 'Who knows,' said Don Quixote, 'what island\nI may conquer, and it would then fall to you to be the governor, or if\nyou disdain the island, and would prefer to follow my fortune, I can\nmake you Count at least! But, remember, my business admits of no delay,\nand next week we go forth to seek adventures. Meanwhile, I will give you\nmoney wherewith to provide all that is needful for our journeying, and\ntake heed that you bring wallets with you.'\n\n'Worshipful knight,' answered Sancho Panza, 'I will do all that you bid\nme, but, by your leave, I will bring my ass also, for she is a good ass,\nand never did I walk when a beast was at hand.'\n\n'I know not,' replied Don Quixote, 'if any knight was ever yet followed\nby a squire mounted on an ass's back. Yet, bring the beast, for it will\ndoubtless not be long before I meet some discourteous knight, whom I\nwill speedily overcome, and his horse shall be yours.'\n\nWhen all was ready, Sancho Panza bade his wife and children farewell,\nand, joining his master, they rode for some hours across a wide plain\nwithout seeing anything which would enable them to prove their valour.\nAt length Don Quixote reined up Rozinante with a jerk, and turning to\nhis squire he said:\n\n'Fortune is on our side, friend Sancho. Look there, what huge giants are\nstanding in a row! thirty of them at the least! It is a glorious chance\nfor a new-made knight to give battle to these giants, and to rid the\ncountry of this wretched horde.'\n\n'What giants?' asked Sancho, staring about him. 'I see none.'\n\n'Those drawn up over there,' replied the Don. 'Never did I behold such\narms! Those nearest us must be two miles long.'\n\n'Go not within reach of them, good master,' answered Sancho anxiously,\n'for they are no giants, but windmills, and what you take for arms are\nthe sails, by which the wind turns the mill-stones.'\n\n'How little do you know, friend Sancho, of these sorts of adventures!'\nreplied Don Quixote. 'I tell you, those are no windmills, but giants.\nKnow, however, that I will have no man with me who shivers with fear at\nthe sight of a foe, so if you are afraid you had better fall to praying,\nand I will fight them alone.'\n\n[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE DETERMINES TO ATTACK THE WINDMILLS]\n\nAnd with that he put spurs to Rozinante and galloped towards the\nwindmills, heedless of the shouts of Sancho Panza, which indeed he never\nheard. Bending his body and holding his lance in rest, like all the\npictures of knights when charging, he rushed on, crying as he went, 'Do\nnot fly from me, cowards that you are! It is but a single knight with\nwhom you must do battle!' And, calling on the Lady Dulcinea to come\nto his aid, he thrust his lance through the sail of the nearest\nwindmill, which happened to be turned by a sharp gust of wind. The sail\nstruck Rozinante so violently on the side that he and his master rolled\nover together, while the lance broke into small pieces.\n\nWhen Sancho Panza saw what had befallen the Don--though indeed it was no\nmore than he had expected--he rode up hastily to give him help. Both man\nand horse were half stunned with the blow; but, though Don Quixote's\nbody was bruised, his spirit was unconquered, and to Sancho's complaint\nthat no one could have doubted that the windmills were giants save those\nwho had other windmills in their brains, he only answered:\n\n'Be silent, my friend, and do not talk of things of which you know\nnothing. For of this I am sure, that the enchanter Friston, who robbed\nme of my books, has changed these knights into windmills to rob me of my\nglory also. But in the end, his black arts will have little power\nagainst my keen blade!'\n\n'I pray that it may be so,' said Sancho, as he still held the stirrup\nfor his master, when he struggled, not without pain, to mount Rozinante.\n\n'Sit straighter in your saddle,' went on the worthy man; 'you lean too\nmuch on one side, but that doubtless comes from the fall you have had.'\n\n'You speak truly,' replied Don Quixote; 'and if I do not complain of my\nhurt, it is because it was never heard that any knight complained of a\nwound, however sore!'\n\n'If that is so, I am thankful that I am only a squire,' answered Sancho;\n'for this I can say, that I shall cry as loud as I please for any pain,\nhowever little it may be--unless squires are forbidden to cry out as\nwell as knights-errant.'\n\nAt this Don Quixote laughed, in spite of his hurts, and bade him\ncomplain whenever he pleased, for squires might lawfully do what was\nforbidden to knighthood. And with that the conversation ended, as\nSancho declared it was their hour for dinner.\n\nTowards three o'clock they returned to the road, which Don Quixote had\nleft on catching sight of the windmills. But before entering it the\nknight thought well to give a warning to his squire.\n\n'I would have you know, brother Sancho,' said he, 'that in whatsoever\ndanger you may see me you shall stand aside, and never seek to defend\nme, unless those who set on me should come of base forefathers, and not\nbe people of gentle birth. For if those who attack me are knights, it is\nforbidden by the laws of chivalry that a knight be attacked by any man\nthat has himself not received the honour of knighthood.'\n\n'Your lordship shall be obeyed in all that you say,' answered Sancho,\n'and the more readily that I am a man of peace, and like not brawls.\nBut, see, who are these that approach us?'\n\nThe question was natural, for the procession advancing along the road\nwas a strange one, even at that day. First came two monks of the Order\nof St. Benedict, mounted on mules so large that Don Quixote, with some\nreason, took them to be dromedaries. The better to conceal their faces\nthey had masks, and carried parasols. After them came a coach which had\nfor a guard four or five mounted men and two muleteers, and inside the\ncoach was seated a lady on her way to join her husband in the city of\nSeville. In reality the monks were strangers to her, and had nothing to\ndo with her party, but this Don Quixote did not know, and, being ever on\nthe watch to give help to any who needed it, he said:\n\n'Either my eyes deceive me, or this is the most wonderful adventure that\never fell to the lot of a knight. For those black shapeless monsters\nthat you see yonder are magicians carrying off some princess, and I must\nundo this wrong with all the strength I have.'\n\n'Look you, master,' answered Sancho hastily, 'if you take up with this\nadventure, you will fare worse than you did with the windmills. Those\nare no magicians but monks of St. Benedict, while the others are\ntravellers, journeying for business or pleasure. Think, I pray you, lest\nit be a snare of the Evil One.'\n\n'I have often told you, Sancho, that, being what you are, you can know\nnothing of adventures,' replied Don Quixote; 'but what I have said, I\ndo, as you will see'; and as he spoke he planted himself in the middle\nof the road, and awaited the approach of the friars.\n\nAs soon as they drew near enough for his voice to reach their ears, Don\nQuixote cried loudly:\n\n'Fiends and scum of all the wicked, set free on this instant the captive\nprincess whom you hold imprisoned in that coach, or else prepare for\ndeath, which is the just punishment of all your crimes.'\n\nThe monks reined in their mules and stared at Don Quixote, whose figure,\nto say truth, was no less startling than his words. At first they were\nvery angry, then gentler counsels prevailed, and they answered:\n\n'Fair sir, we are neither fiends nor scum, but only two friars of St.\nBenedict, who are riding peacefully along the king's highway, and know\nnothing of any captive princess.'\n\n'Miscreants that you are, do you think I am a man to be deceived by\nfalse speeches?' cried the Don, now beside himself with fury, and,\ndashing with his lance in rest at the friar next him, he would indeed\nhave given him his last shrift had not the monk slipped cleverly from\nthe other side of his saddle, so that the lance passed over his head.\nHis companion, fearing that like treatment was in store for him,\ngalloped away with all his might.\n\nAs for the squire, directly he saw the man fall to the ground he ran up\nand began to strip off his clothes, till he was stopped in this\nproceeding by a blow on his head from one of the attendants of the two\nmonks. The friar, left to himself, jumped on his mule, and rode off\npale and trembling to rejoin his companion, while Don Quixote busied\nhimself with conversing with the lady in the coach, and assuring her of\nhis protection.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt were long indeed to tell of the many battles delivered by Don\nQuixote, who troubled himself little about the sore wounds he received\non his own body as long as he could give aid to those in distress. What\ngrieved him far more than mere sword-thrusts or bruises was the loss of\nhis helmet.\n\nBut, come what might, his spirit was never daunted, though he could not\ndeny that, as Sancho Panza truly said, never had they gained any battle,\nunless they counted one which was doubtful, and even at that the knight\nhad come off the poorer by half an ear and half a helmet.\n\n'From the first day we set out,' went on the good squire, 'until this\nmoment, we have received nothing but blows and more blows, beatings and\nmore beatings, over and above the tossing I once got in a blanket. And\nyou tell me that the fellows who maltreat me so are enchanted, and would\nnot feel my blows if I had a chance of returning them. In truth, my eyes\nare too dull to see where lies the pleasure of conquering one's foes, of\nwhich your worship is always telling me.'\n\n'Ah, Sancho, that is just what grieves me,' answered Don Quixote sadly;\n'but henceforth I will seek to gird myself always with a sword that\nshall be enchanted in such a manner that it will defend me from any\nspells they may try to throw over me. Maybe that Fortune will send me\nthat of Amadis, one of the keenest blades in the world, and the best\nsword that ever knight had. But look, do you see that cloud of dust\nrising out there? That tells us that a large army, made up of men and\nnations without number, are marching towards us.'\n\n'By that way of reckoning,' answered the squire, 'another army must be\nadvancing to meet them, for behind us the cloud is just as thick.'\n\nFilled with joy at the thought of fighting two armies, Don Quixote\nturned to look, and his heart beat high. The dust was so thick that\nneither he nor Sancho could perceive that the clouds of dust were caused\nby two immense flocks of sheep. To the mind of the knight they _could_\nbe nothing but vast armies, and this he declared so positively that at\nlength Sancho Panza came to believe it also. The squire, however, looked\non the fact with very different feelings to his master, and asked\nanxiously:\n\n'Noble sir, what are we to do?'\n\n'What _can_ we do,' replied the knight, 'except fly to the help of those\nwho need it? For you must know, friend Sancho, that the army in front of\nus is led by the Emperor Alifanfaron, while the other, which is marching\nto meet him, is Pentapolin of the Uplifted Arm, so called because he\nrides into battle with his right arm bare.'\n\n'And what is their quarrel?' asked Sancho.\n\n'Alifanfaron is a Moslem, yet desires to marry the daughter of\nPentapolin,' replied Don Quixote, 'but her father will not give her to\nhim till he ceases to be an unbeliever.'\n\n'By my beard,' cried Sancho, 'if I see this Pentapolin driven back I\nwill strike a blow for him with all my might.'\n\n'And you will do well,' replied Don Quixote, 'for in such battles it is\nnot necessary to be a knight.'\n\n'But what shall I do with my ass?' inquired the squire anxiously, 'for I\nsuppose that until this day no man has ever yet ridden into combat on an\nass.'\n\n'Let him loose,' said Don Quixote, 'and think no more of him, for after\nwe have vanquished our enemies we shall have such choice of horses that\nI may light upon one even better than Rozinante! But let us stand on\nyonder little hill, for I would fain describe to you the names and arms\nof the noble knights that are approaching.'\n\nFor a long while he spoke, telling his squire of the countries from\nwhich those leaders of the armies had come. And truly it was wonderful\nto listen to him, seeing that they were all children of his own brain.\nFrom time to time Sancho Panza stared hard at the dust, trying to see as\nmuch as his master, and at last he cried:\n\n'If there is a knight or a giant there, they must be enchanted like the\nrest; for, look as I may, I cannot see them.'\n\n'How can you speak such words?' answered Don Quixote reproachfully. 'Do\nyou not hear the horses neighing, the drums beating, the trumpets\nsounding?'\n\n'No, I hear nothing of all that,' replied Sancho stoutly; 'all _I_ hear\nis the bleating of sheep and of ewes.' And as he spoke the dust was\nlifted by the wind, and he saw the two flocks in front of them.\n\n'It is the deadly fear which has overtaken you,' answered Don Quixote,\n'which has clouded your eyes and ears, and made everything seem\ndifferent from what it is. If you are afraid, stand aside then, for my\narm alone carries victory with it'; and, so saying, he touched Rozinante\nwith his spurs, and with his lance in rest galloped down the hill,\nunheeding the cries of Sancho, who shrieked out that it was only a flock\nof sheep that he saw, and that there were neither giants nor knights to\nfight with.\n\nHe might have spared his voice, for Don Quixote, if he heard him, which\nis doubtful, rode on without turning his head, shouting defiance at the\nMoslem leader, and spearing the sheep which could not get out of his\nway, as if they were indeed the soldiers he took them for.\n\nWhen the shepherds had recovered from this unexpected onslaught, they\nshouted with all their might to Don Quixote to leave off spearing their\nsheep, but, as he paid no heed to their warnings, they took out the\nslings they carried with them, and whirling them round their heads let\nfly large stones. Don Quixote, however, cared no more for the stones\nthan he had done for the cries, and galloped up and down wildly, calling\nas he went:\n\n'Proud Alifanfaron, where can I find you? I, a solitary knight,\nchallenge you to meet me in single combat, that I may avenge the wrongs\nthat you have done to the noble Pentapolin!' Doubtless the knight would\nhave said still more had not a stone hit him on his side at that very\nmoment, breaking two of his ribs. At first he thought he was dead, but,\nrecollecting the balsam which he kept in his wallet, he drank a draught\nof it, although it was only intended to be laid on the outside of wounds\nand bruises.\n\nHe was still in the act of swallowing it when another missile struck him\nfull on the face, and knocked out some of his teeth. He reeled in his\nsaddle from the blow, and then fell heavily to the ground.\n\nThe shepherds, frightened at what they had done, ran up to look at him,\nand seeing him lying there senseless, drove quickly off the rest of\ntheir flock, leaving the seven that Don Quixote had speared stretched\nbeside him.\n\nDirectly the shepherds had departed, Sancho Panza came down to look\nafter his master, and finding him bruised and bleeding, but not stunned,\nhe fell to reproaching him for his folly. But the knight only answered\nthat if the enemies around him seemed to bear the likeness of sheep, it\nwas only because they had been enchanted, and that their fellows now\nmarching along the road would soon regain their proper shape, and become\nstraight men and tall again.\n\nThen, with Sancho's help, he mounted Rozinante, and the two rode slowly\nalong the road, hoping that they might shortly discover an inn, where\nthey could get food and rest.\n\n\n\n\n_THE ADVENTURE OF THE BOBBING LIGHTS_\n\n\nBoth Rozinante and his master had fared so ill at the hands of the\nshepherds that they journeyed but slowly, and darkness fell without\ntheir having reached an inn, or even caught sight of one. This grieved\nsorely both knight and squire, for not only did all Don Quixote's bones\nache from the stoning he had undergone, but somehow or other their\nwallets had been also lost, and it was many hours since they had broken\ntheir fast.\n\nIn this plight they travelled, man and beast hanging their heads with\nfatigue, when they saw on the road, coming towards them, a great\nmultitude of lights, bobbing up and down, as if all the stars of heaven\nwere shifting their places. Neither Don Quixote nor Sancho felt much at\ntheir ease at this strange spectacle, and both pulled up their beasts,\nand waited trembling. Even Don Quixote feared he knew not what, and the\nhair stood up on his head, in spite of his valour, as he said to Sancho:\n\n'There lies before me, Sancho, a great and perilous adventure, and one\nin which I must bear a stout heart.'\n\n'It seems to be an adventure of phantoms,' whispered Sancho fearfully,\n'which never was to my liking.'\n\n'Whatever phantoms they be,' answered the knight, 'they shall not touch\na hair of your head,' replied Don Quixote soothingly. 'If they mocked at\nyou in the inn, it was for reason that I could not leap the fence. But\nhere, where the ground is open, I can lay about me as I will.'\n\n'And what if they bewitch you, as they did that other time?' asked the\nsquire. 'How much will the open ground profit you then'?\n\n'Trust to me,' replied Don Quixote, 'for my experience is greater than\nyours'; and Sancho said no more.\n\nThey stood a little on one side watching the lights approaching, and\nsoon they saw a host of men clad in white riding along the road. The\nsquire's teeth chattered at the sight of them, and his terror increased\nwhen he was able to make out that the moving stars were flaming torches\nwhich men in white shirts carried in their hands, and that behind them\nfollowed a litter draped in black. After the litter came six other men\ndressed in black and mounted on mules. And Sancho had no doubt that he\nsaw before him shadows from the next world.\n\nThough Don Quixote's heart quailed for a moment at the strangeness of\nthe vision, he soon recalled his valour. In an instant his fancy had\nchanged the litter into a bier, and the occupant into a knight who had\nbeen done to death by foul means, and whom he was bound in honour to\navenge. So he moved forward to the middle of the road, and cried in a\nloud voice:\n\n'Proud knights, whoever you may be, stand and give me account of\nyourselves, and tell me who it is that lies in that bier. For either you\nhave done an ill deed to some man, or else a wrong has been done to\nyou.'\n\n'Pardon me, fair sir,' answered the foremost of the white-shirted men,\n'but we are in haste, and the inn is far. We have no time for\nparleying.'\n\nThis reply only confirmed Don Quixote's worst suspicions.\n\n'Stop, or you are a dead man,' cried he in tones of thunder. 'Tell me\nwho you are and whither you are going, or else I will fight you all';\nand with that he seized the mule by the bridle. The mule, not being used\nto such rough treatment, reared herself up on her hind legs, so that her\nrider slipped off her back. At this sight one of the other men ran to\nhis aid, calling the knight all the ill names he could think of, which\nso inflamed the anger of Don Quixote that he laid about him with his\nspear on every side. Even Rozinante seemed to have gotten a new spirit\nas well as a new body, for he turned him about so nimbly that soon the\nplain was covered with flying white men, still holding the bobbing\ntorches. The mourners who rode behind did not escape so easily, for\ntheir long skirts and cloaks hindered them from moving, and Don Quixote\nstruck and beat them just as he would, till they took him to be a giant\nor enchanter rather than a man.\n\nSancho, as was his custom, bore no part in the fray, but stood by and\nsaid to himself: 'Had ever any man such a master!'\n\nWhen Don Quixote's rage was somewhat abated, he paused and gazed about\nhim. Then, seeing a burning torch lying on the ground, and a figure near\nit, he went up, and perceived by the light that it was the man whom he\nhad first attacked.\n\n'Yield, or I will slay you!' he shouted, and the man answered grimly:\n\n'I seem to have \"yielded\" as much as can be required of me, as my leg is\nbroken. If you are indeed a Christian knight, I pray you of your\nnobility to spare my life, as I am a member of the Holy Church.'\n\n'Who brought you here, then?' asked Don Quixote.\n\n'Who? My ill fortune,' replied he. 'I and the eleven priests who have\nfled with the torches set forth as escort to the body of the gentleman\nthat lies in the litter, bearing it to its tomb in the city of Segovia,\nwhere he was born.'\n\n'And who killed him?' said Don Quixote, who never imagined that any man\ncould die naturally.\n\n'He died by reason of a most pestilent fever,' answered the wounded man.\n\n'Then,' replied Don Quixote, 'I am delivered from the duty of avenging\nhis death, which would otherwise have fallen to me. For in case you are\nignorant, I would have you know that I am the knight Don Quixote de la\nMancha, and it is my place to wander through the world, helping those\nthat suffer wrongs and punishing those who inflict them.'\n\n'As to helping those who suffer wrongs,' replied the churchman, 'for my\npart I can see nothing but that it is you and no other who have\ninflicted the wrong upon me. For whereas I was whole before, you have\ngiven me a thrust which has broken my leg, and I shall remain injured\nfor ever.'\n\n'You and your friends the priests,' answered Don Quixote, in no wise\nabashed by this remark, 'have wrought the evil yourselves by coming in\nsuch wise, and by night, that no man could think but that you were ill\ncreatures from another world.'\n\n'Then, if you repent you of the wrong that you have done me,' said the\nman, 'I pray you, worshipful knight, to deliver my leg from the bondage\nof this ass, who has my leg fastened between the stirrup and the\nsaddle.'\n\nThe kind heart of Don Quixote was shocked at his thoughtlessness, and he\nanswered quickly:\n\n'You should have told me of your pain before, or I might have talked on\ntill to-morrow'; and he called to Sancho Panza, who was busily robbing\nthe mule that carried the provisions. Hearing his master's voice, Sancho\nleft off with an ill grace, and, placing the bag of food on his own\ndonkey, went to see what his master wanted.\n\nBetween them both they set the mule on its feet, and the man on its\nsaddle. Don Quixote then put the torch in his hand and bade him ride\nafter his companions, and not to forget to ask their pardon in his name\nfor the wrong he had unconsciously done them.\n\n'And,' added the squire, 'if your friends should ask the name of this\ngentleman, who now craves their forgiveness, tell them that it is the\nfamous Don Quixote, the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance!'\n\n\n\n\n_THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO_\n\n\nThe morning after the last adventure Don Quixote and his squire were\nriding along the road, when the knight saw in front of him a man on\nhorseback, with something on his head which looked as if it were made of\ngold.\n\n'If my eyes do not deceive me,' he said, turning to Sancho Panza, 'here\ncomes one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino.'\n\n'If I had your worship's leave to speak,' answered Sancho, who was by\nthis time beginning to learn a little wisdom, 'I could give many reasons\nto show that you are mistaken.'\n\n'How _can_ I be mistaken?' cried Don Quixote angrily. 'Do not you see\nfor yourself that a knight is coming towards us, mounted on a grey horse\nand with a golden helmet on his head?'\n\n'All that _I_ can see,' replied the squire, 'is that the man is mounted\non a grey donkey like my own, and he has on his head something that\nglitters.'\n\n'What you see,' answered Don Quixote solemnly, 'is the helmet of\nMambrino.[194-1] Go, stand aside and let _me_ deal with him, for without\neven speaking to him I will get possession of his helmet, for which my\nsoul has always longed.'\n\n    [194-1] Mambrino was one of the Moorish kings, to whom the helmet\n    belonged. He who wore it could not be wounded in battle.\n\nTruth to tell, the real story of the helmet, for so Don Quixote took it\nto be, was very simple. A rich man who lived in a village only a few\nmiles away had sent for the nearest barber to shave and bleed him. The\nman started, taking with him a brass basin, which he was accustomed to\nuse, and, as a shower of rain soon came on, he put the basin on his head\nto save his hat, which was a new one. The ass, as Sancho Panza rightly\nsaid, was very like his own.\n\nThe good man was jogging comfortably along, thinking what he would like\nfor supper, when suddenly he saw Don Quixote galloping towards him, head\nbent and lance in rest. As he drew near he cried loudly:\n\n'Defend yourself, or give me up the helmet, to which you have no right.'\n\nThe barber was so taken by surprise that for a moment he did nothing;\nthen he had only just time to escape the lance thrust by sliding off his\nass and running so swiftly over the plain that even the wind could\nscarcely overtake him. In his flight the basin fell from his head, to\nthe great pleasure of Don Quixote, who bade his squire bring it to him.\n\n'The Unbeliever who wore this helmet first must have had indeed a large\nhead,' cried he, turning it over in his hands, seeking the vizor; 'yet,\neven so, half of it is wanting.'\n\nAt this Sancho began to laugh, and his master asked him what he found to\ndivert him so much.\n\n'I cannot but laugh when I think how large was the head of the\nUnbeliever,' replied Sancho gravely, knowing that the knight did not\nlove the mirth of other men. 'But, to my mind, the helmet looks exactly\nlike a barber's basin.'\n\n'Listen to me,' answered Don Quixote, 'and I will tell you what has\nhappened. By a strange accident this famous helmet must have fallen to\nthe lot of someone who did not know the value of his prize. But, seeing\nit was pure gold, he melted half of it for his own uses, and the rest he\nmade into a barber's basin. Be sure that in the first village where I\ncan meet with a skilled workman I will have it restored to its own\nshape again, and meanwhile I will wear it as it is, for half a helmet is\nbetter than none.'\n\n'And what,' inquired Sancho, 'shall we do with the grey horse that looks\nso like an ass? The beast is a good beast.'\n\n'Leave the ass or horse, whichever it pleases you to call it,' replied\nthe Don, 'for no knight ever takes the steed of his foe, unless it is\nwon in fair fight. And perchance, when we have ridden out of sight, its\nmaster will come back and seek for it.'\n\nSancho, however, was not overmuch pleased by this speech.\n\n'Truly the laws of chivalry are strict,' he grumbled, 'if they will not\nlet a man change one donkey for another! And is it forbidden to change\nthe pack-saddle also?'\n\n'Of that I am in doubt,' replied Don Quixote; 'and until I have certain\ninformation on this point, if your need is great, you may take what you\nneed.'\n\nSancho hardly expected such good fortune to befall him, and stripping\nthe ass of his harness he speedily put it upon his own beast, and then\nlaid out the dinner he had stolen from the sumpter mule for himself and\nhis master.\n\nNot long after this event, as Don Quixote and his squire were riding\nalong the road, discoursing as they went of matters of chivalry, they\nsaw approaching them from a distance a dozen men or more, with iron\nchains round their necks, stringing them together like beads on a\nrosary, and bearing iron fetters on their hands. By their side were two\nmen on horseback carrying firelocks, and two on foot with swords and\nspears.\n\n'Look!' cried Sancho Panza, 'here come a gang of slaves, sent to the\ngalleys by the king.'\n\n'What is that you say--_sent_?' asked Don Quixote. 'Can any king _send_\nhis subjects where they have no mind to go?'\n\n'They are men who have been guilty of many crimes,' replied the squire,\n'and to punish them they are being led by force to the galleys.'\n\n'They go,' inquired Don Quixote, 'by force and not willingly?'\n\n'You speak truly,' answered Sancho Panza.\n\n'Then if that is so,' said the knight, 'it is my duty to set them free.'\n\n'But think a moment, your worship,' cried Sancho, terrified at the\nconsequences of this new idea; 'they are bad men, and deserve punishment\nfor the crimes they have committed.'\n\nDon Quixote was silent. In fact, he had heard nothing of what his squire\nhad said. Instead he rode up to the galley-slaves, who by this time were\nquite near, and politely begged one of the soldiers who had charge of\nthem to tell him of his courtesy where these people were going, and why\nthey were chained in such a manner.\n\nThe guard, who had never read any of the romances of chivalry, and was\nquite ignorant of the speech of knights, answered roughly that they were\nfelons going to the galleys, and that was all that mattered to anybody.\nBut Don Quixote was not to be put aside like this.\n\n'By your leave,' he said, 'I would speak with them, and ask of every man\nthe reason of his misfortune.'\n\nNow this civility of the knight made the soldiers feel ashamed of their\nown rudeness, so one of them replied more gently than before:\n\n'We have here set down the crimes of every man singly, but if your\nworship pleases you may inquire of the prisoners yourself. And be sure\nyou will hear all about their tricks, and more too, for it is a mighty\npleasure to them to tell their tales.'\n\nThe soldier spoke truly; and wonderful were the stories which Don\nQuixote listened to and believed, until the knight, smitten by\ncompassion, turned to the guards and implored them to set free the poor\nfellows, whose sins would be punished elsewhere.\n\n'I ask you to do this as a favour,' he ended, 'for I would willingly owe\nyou this grace. But, if you deny me, my arm and my sword will teach you\nto do it by force.'\n\n'That is a merry jest indeed,' cried the soldier. 'So we are to let go\nthe king's prisoners just because you tell us to do it. You had better\nmind your own business, fair sir, and set that pot straight on your\nhead, and do not waste your time in looking for five feet in a cat.'\n\nDon Quixote was so furious at the man's words that he felled him to the\nearth with a blow from his sword, while for a moment the other guards\nstood mute from surprise. Then seizing their weapons they rushed at Don\nQuixote, who sat firm in his saddle as became a knight, awaiting their\nonslaught. But for all his valour it would have gone hard with him had\nnot the attention of the soldiers been hastily called off by the\ngalley-slaves, who were taking advantage of the tumult to break their\nfetters. The chief among them had snatched the sword and firelock of the\nman whom Don Quixote had overthrown, and by merely pointing it at the\nother guards he so frightened them that they fled in all directions,\nfollowed by a shower of stones from the rest of the captives.\n\n'Let us depart from here,' whispered Sancho Panza, knowing better than\nhis master in what a sorry plight they might presently find themselves.\n'If we once reach those hills, none can overtake us.'\n\n'It is well,' replied the knight; 'but first I must settle this matter,'\nand, calling together the prisoners, he bade them go with all speed and\npresent themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and say that\nthey had come by the command of the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance,\nand further to relate the doughty deeds by which they had been set free.\n\n[Illustration: HOW THE GALLEY SLAVES REPAID DON QUIXOTE]\n\nAt this the convicts only laughed, and replied that if they were to\nfulfil his desires and travel together in a body they would soon be\ntaken captive by their enemies, and would be no better off than before,\nbut that in gratitude for his services they would be willing to pray for\nhim, which they could do at their leisure.\n\nThis discourse enraged Don Quixote nearly as much as the words of the\nguard had done, and he answered the fellow in terms so abusive that the\nconvict's patience, which was never very great, gave way altogether, and\nhe and his comrades, picking up what stones lay about, flung them with\nsuch hearty goodwill at the knight and Rozinante, that at length they\nknocked him right out of the saddle. The man then dragged the basin from\nhis head, and after dealing him some mighty blows with it dashed it to\nthe ground, where it broke in pieces. They next took the coat which he\nwore over his armour, and stripped the squire of all but his shirt.\nHaving done this, they went their ways, fearing lest they might be\novertaken.\n\n\n\n\n_HOW DON QUIXOTE WAS ENCHANTED WHILE GUARDING THE CASTLE_\n\n\nIn the course of their adventures Don Quixote and his squire found\nthemselves at the door of an inn which they had already visited, where\nthey met with many friends. The hours were passed in pleasant discourse,\nand in the telling and reading of strange stories; the company parted at\nnight well satisfied with their entertainment.\n\nDon Quixote, however, did not share in these joys, for he was sorely\ncast down by reason of wounds he had received a few days previously in\nseeking to right a wrong. So, leaving the remainder of the guests to\neach other's society, he threw himself on the bed that had been made for\nhim, and soon fell fast asleep.\n\nThe guests below had forgotten all about him, so absorbed were they in\nthe interest of a tale of woeful ending, when the voice of Sancho Panza\nburst upon their ears.\n\n'Hasten! hasten! good sirs; hasten and help my master in the hardest\nbattle I have ever seen him fight. By my faith, he has dealt such a blow\nto the giant that his head he has cut clean off.'\n\n'What is that you say?' asked the priest, who was reading out the tale.\n'Are you out of your senses, Sancho?' But his question was lost in a\nfurious noise from above, in which Don Quixote might be heard crying:\n\n'Rogue, thief, villain! I have you fast, and little will your sword\navail you'; then followed loud blows against the wall.\n\n[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE'S BATTLE WITH THE WINE-SKINS]\n\n'Quick, quick! don't stand there listening, but fly to the aid of my\nmaster. Though, indeed, by this time there can be little need, for the\ngiant must be dead already, and will trouble the world no more. For I\nsaw his blood spurt and run all over the floor, and his head is cut off\nand fallen to one side.'\n\n'As I am alive,' exclaimed the innkeeper, 'I fear that Don Quixote has\nbeen fighting with one of the wine-skins that I put to hang near the\nbed, and it is wine not blood that is spilt on the ground.' And he ran\ninto the room, followed by the rest, to see what had really happened.\n\nThey all stopped short at the sight of Don Quixote, who did, in truth,\npresent a most strange figure. The only garments he had on were a shirt\nand a little red cap; his legs were bare, and round his left arm was\nrolled the bed covering, while in the right he held a sword, with which\nhe was cutting and thrusting at everything about him, uttering cries all\nthe while, as if in truth he were engaged in deadly combat with a giant.\nYet his eyes were tight shut, and it was clear to all that he was fast\nasleep; but in his dream he had slashed at so many of the skins that the\nwhole room was full of wine. When the innkeeper perceived this, the loss\nof his wine so enraged him that he in his turn flew at the knight, and\nstruck him such hard blows with his fists that, had not the priest and\nanother man pulled him off, the war with the giant would soon have\nended.\n\nStill, curious to say, it was not until a pannikin of cold water had\nbeen poured over him by the barber that Don Quixote awoke, and even then\nhe did not understand what he had been doing, and why he stood there in\nsuch a dress.\n\nNow the priest had caught hold of Don Quixote's hands, so that he should\nnot beat those who were pouring the water over him, and the knight,\nhaving only partly come to his senses, took him for the princess, for\nwhose sake he had made war on the giant.\n\n'Fair and gracious lady,' he said, falling on his knees, 'may your life\nhenceforth be freed from the terror of this ill-born creature!'\n\n'Well, did I not speak truly?' asked Sancho Panza proudly. 'Has not my\nmaster properly salted the giant? I have got my earldom safe at last.'\nFor Sancho never ceased to believe in the knight's promises.\n\nEveryone was driven to laugh at the strange foolery of both master and\nman, except the innkeeper, whose mind was still sore at the loss of his\nwine-skins. The priest and the barber first busied themselves in getting\nDon Quixote, now quite worn out with his adventure, safely into bed, and\nthen went to administer the best consolation they could to the poor man.\n\nMany days passed before Don Quixote was well enough to leave the inn,\nbut at length he seemed to be cured of the fatigue he had undergone\nduring his previous adventures, and had bidden his squire get all things\nready for his departure. Maritornes, the servant at the inn, and the\ninnkeeper's daughter, having overheard the plans of Don Quixote,\nresolved that he should not leave them before they had played him some\nmerry tricks.\n\nThat night, when everyone else had gone to bed, and Don Quixote, armed,\nand mounted on Rozinante, was keeping guard in front of the inn, the two\ngirls crept up to a loft. Nowhere in the inn was there such a thing as a\nproper window, but in the loft was a hole through which the knight could\nbe seen, leaning on his lance uttering deep sighs and broken words about\nthe Lady Dulcinea.\n\nThe innkeeper's daughter, falling in with his humour, advanced to the\nhole, and invited him to draw a little nearer. Nothing more was needed\nthan for Don Quixote to imagine that the damsel was sick of love for\nhim, and he told her straightway that any service he could do her short\nof proclaiming her his liege lady she might command. Upon this,\nMaritornes informed him that her mistress would be content were she\npermitted to kiss his hand, which Don Quixote answered might be done\nwithout wrong to the Lady Dulcinea. So, without more ado, he passed it\nthrough the hole, when it was instantly seized by Maritornes, who\nslipped a noose of rope over his wrist, and tied the other end of it\ntightly to the door of the loft.\n\nAfter that they both ran off, overflowing with laughter, leaving the\nknight to reproach them for their ill-usage.\n\nThere the poor knight remained, mounted on Rozinante, his arm in the\nhole and his hand fastened to the door, fearing lest Rozinante should\nmove and he should be left hanging. But in this he did wrong to his\nhorse, who was happy enough to stand still.\n\nThen Don Quixote, seeing himself bound, instead of seeking to unloose\nhimself as many others would have tried to do, sat quietly in his\nsaddle, and dreamed dreams of the enchantment which had befallen him.\nAnd thus he stayed till the day dawned.\n\nHis dreams were rudely broken into when there drew up at the inn door\nfour men well armed and mounted. As no one answered their knock, they\nrepeated it more loudly, when Don Quixote cried to them:\n\n'Knights or squires, or whoever you may be, it is not for you to knock\nat the gates of this castle; for sure, any man might tell that those\nwithin are asleep, or else it is their custom not to open until the sun\ntouches the whole floor. You must wait until it is broad day, and then\nit will be seen whether you can be admitted within the gates.'\n\n'What sort of castle is this, which receives no guests without such\nceremonies?' mocked one of the men. 'If you are the innkeeper, bid your\nservants open to us without delay. We are neither knights nor squires,\nbut honest travellers, who need corn for our horses, and that without\ndelay.'\n\n'Have I the air of an innkeeper?' asked Don Quixote loftily.\n\n'I do not know of what you have the air,' answered the man, 'but this I\n_do_ know, and that is that you are jesting when you call this inn a\ncastle.'\n\n'But it _is_ a castle,' replied Don Quixote, 'and one of the finest in\nthe whole country! And within are those who carry crowns on their heads\nand sceptres in their hands.'\n\n'It may well be that inside are players with crowns and sceptres both,'\nanswered the traveller, 'for in so small an inn no real kings and their\ntrains would find a place'; and, being weary of talking, he knocked at\nthe door with more violence than before.\n\nMeanwhile, one of the horses had drawn near to Rozinante, wondering what\nthe strange creature could be, of a form like unto his own, but to all\noutward seeming formed of wood. Rozinante, cheered by the presence of\none of his own kind, moved his body a little, which caused Don Quixote\nto slip from his saddle, and to remain hanging by his arm, though his\nfeet almost touched the ground. The pain of thus being suspended from\nhis arm was so great that, knight though he was, he shrieked in agony,\ntill the people in the inn ran to the doors to see what was the matter.\n\nMaritornes alone, fearing punishment, slipped round another way, and\nunfastened the cord which bound Don Quixote, who dropped to the ground\nas the travellers came up, and in answer to their questions mounted\nRozinante, and, after riding round the field, reined up suddenly in\nfront of them, crying:\n\n'Whoever shall proclaim that I have suffered enchantment I give him the\nlie, and challenge him to meet me in single combat.'\n\nBut instead of answering his defiance the guests merely stood and stared\nat him, till the innkeeper whispered that he was a noble gentleman, a\nlittle touched in his wits, so they took no further notice of his words.\nThis so enraged Don Quixote that he was only withheld from fighting them\nall by remembering that nowhere in the records of chivalry was it\nlawful to undertake a second adventure before the first had drawn to a\ngood end.\n\nMeanwhile a new strife had begun in the inn, for two of the travellers\nwho had lodged there during the night were found trying to leave the inn\nwithout paying their reckoning. But it happened that the landlord\ndetected their purpose and held them fast, upon which the two fellows\nset on him with blows, till his daughter ran to Don Quixote and implored\nhis help.\n\n'Beautiful damsel,' replied the knight slowly, 'just now I cannot listen\nto your prayer, for the laws of chivalry forbid my engaging in a fresh\nadventure. But tell your father to keep his assailants at bay, while I\nride to the Princess Micomicona, in whose service I already am, and ask\nher leave to aid him in his trouble.'\n\n'And long before your return,' cried Maritornes, 'my poor master will be\nin another world'; but Don Quixote, not heeding her, turned his back,\nand, falling on his knees before a lady present, begged that she would\ngrant him permission to rescue the lord of the castle.\n\nThis being given, the knight braced on his shield and drew his sword,\nand hastened to the inn door, where the two men were still beating the\nlandlord. But the moment he reached the combatants he stopped and drew\nback, in spite of the entreaties of Maritornes and of the innkeeper's\nwife.\n\n'It has come into my mind,' he said, 'that it is not lawful for me to\ngive battle to any except belted knights. Now there are no knights here,\nand the task belongs to my squire Sancho, who I will bid to undertake it\nin my stead.'\n\nSo the fight still raged, till at length the men's arms grew tired,\nwhich, Don Quixote seeing, he persuaded them to make peace, and the two\nguests to pay the sum which they rightly owed the landlord.\n\n\n\n\n_DON QUIXOTE'S HOME-COMING_\n\n\nBy this time the company of friends who had been passing their days so\npleasantly at the inn, were called away by other business, but, not\nliking to leave Don Quixote to himself, they contrived a plan by which\nthe priest and barber were to carry him home, where they hoped his wits\nmight come back to him.\n\nSo they set about making secretly a large cage of poles, having the\nsides latticed, so that Don Quixote should receive both air and light,\nand this cage was to be placed on a bullock-cart which happened to be\ngoing in the same direction. The rest of the company put on masks and\ndisguised themselves in various manners, so that the knight might not\nknow them again.\n\nThese preparations being finished, they stole softly into his room at\nthe dead of night and tied his hands and feet firmly together. He woke\nwith a start, and, seeing the array of strange figures about him, took\nthem to be the phantoms which hovered about the enchanted castle, and\nbelieved without doubt that he himself was enchanted likewise, for he\ncould neither move nor fight.\n\nThis reasoning pleased the priest greatly, as in just such a manner he\nhad reckoned that the knight would behave. Sancho alone had been left in\nthe garments that he commonly wore, and he was not deceived by the\nghosts who passed before him. But he looked on and said nothing till he\nshould see how the matter turned out.\n\nWhen all was ready, Don Quixote was picked up and carried to the cage,\nwhere they laid him at full length, but taking good care to nail the\ndoor, so that it could not be opened. Then a voice was heard from behind\nto utter a prophecy, which Don Quixote understood to mean that he was\nsetting forth on his wedding journey, and that he was to be bound in\nmarriage to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, whose name he had always\nupheld in battle.\n\nThe knight responded joyfully to the words he heard, beseeching the\nmighty enchanter in whose power he was not to leave him in his prison\ntill these glorious promises had been fulfilled, and appealing to Sancho\nnever to part from him either in good or ill fortune. Sancho bowed in\nanswer and kissed his master's hand; then the ghosts took up the cage\nand placed it on a waggon.\n\nDon Quixote beguiled the way after his usual fashion, recalling the\nstories of enchantments he had read, yet never finding a knight who had\nbeen enchanted after his fashion.\n\n'No knight that ever _I_ heard,' said he, 'was drawn by such heavy and\nsluggish animals. Strange it is indeed to be carried to adventures in an\nox-cart, instead of flying through the air on a griffin or a cloud! Yet,\nmayhap, the new chivalry, of which I am the first knight, may have new\nways'; and with that he contented himself, and discoursed to Sancho\nabout the ghosts, while Rozinante and the ass were saddled. Then Sancho\nmounted his ass and took Rozinante's rein, the priest meanwhile giving\nthe troopers a few pence a day to ride by the ox-cart as far as Don\nQuixote's native village.\n\nAfter allowing Don Quixote to bid farewell to the good people gathered\nat the inn door, the priest, still masked, gave the signal to the\ndriver, and the cart drawn by the oxen started at a foot's pace. The\ntroopers rode on each side to guard it, and behind them came Sancho\nriding on his ass, leading Rozinante, while the priest and the barber,\nmounted on a pair of fine mules, brought up the rear.\n\nThey journeyed in silence for some time, till the driver of the ox-cart,\nwho was a lazy fellow, called a halt as he himself wished to rest, and\nthe grass was rich and green for the oxen. Soon they were joined by a\ncompany of well-dressed men on horseback, who stopped in surprise on\nseeing such a strange sight as that of a man in a cage. The leader of\nthe party, who made himself known to them as a canon of Toledo, entered\ninto conversation with the captive knight. Don Quixote informed him that\nhe was enchanted by reason of envy of his glorious deeds, which was\ndenied by Sancho Panza, who declared that when he was at liberty his\nmaster ate, drank, and slept like other people, and if no one hindered\nhim would talk more than thirty lawyers.\n\nThe canon and his friends rode on with the priest for some distance, as\nhe desired greatly to hear the tale of Don Quixote's adventures, for\nnever before had he met with such a strange man. In the heat of the day\nthey again rested in a shady spot, and here, at the petition of the\nsquire, Don Quixote was unloosed from his bonds and set at liberty.\n\nFor a while he was content to pass the hours of his journey in hearing\nand telling of matters of chivalry, rejoicing to find himself once more\non the back of Rozinante. But unfortunately the sight of a procession of\nmen in white approaching him stirred up all his anger, for, as was his\ncustom, he instantly divined that they were assembled for some unlawful\npurpose, though in sooth they were a body of penitents praying that rain\nmight fall upon their thirsty land. He dashed up to battle, followed by\nSancho on foot, who arrived just at the moment that his master fell to\nthe ground stunned by a tremendous blow. The penitents who formed the\nprocession, seeing so many men running up, received them with fists and\ncandlesticks, but when one of them cast his eyes on the priest who was\njourneying with Don Quixote he found that he had known him formerly,\nand begged him to tell what all this might mean.\n\nBy the time the story was told Don Quixote's wits began to return to\nhim, and he called to Sancho to put him back into the cage, as he had\nbeen nigh dead, and could not hold himself on Rozinante.\n\n'With all my heart,' answered Sancho, thankful that the adventure had\nended no worse; 'and if these gentlemen will do us the honour to go with\nus, we will return home and there make plans for adventures that will\nbring us more profit and glory.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe villagers were all gathered together in the great square, when at\nthe end of six days a cage containing a man passed through their midst.\nThe people pressed close to see who the captive might be, and when they\nsaw it was Don Quixote, they sent a boy to tell his housekeeper and his\nniece that the knight had come back looking pale and lean from his\nwanderings.\n\nLoud were the cries raised by the good women when they saw him in so\nsorry a plight, and they undressed him and put him to bed with what\nspeed they were able.\n\n'Keep him there as long as you may,' said the priest who had brought\nhim; but it is whispered that this period of rest and repose did not\nlast, and that soon Don Quixote might have been seen again mounted on\nRozinante and seeking adventures.\n\n[_Don Quixote._]\n\n\n\n\n_THE MEETING OF HUON AND OBERON, KING OF THE FAIRIES_\n\n\nIn the days of the emperor Charles the Great there lived two young men\nnamed Huon and Gerard, sons of the duke of Bordeaux and heirs of his\nlands. Now by all the rules of chivalry they were bound to hasten to\nParis as soon as their father died and do homage to the emperor as their\nliege lord; but, like many other youths, they were careless of their\nduties, and put off the long and tedious journey from day to day.\n\nThis conduct was particularly foolish, because there was present at the\nemperor's court the famous earl Amaury, who, rich though he was, coveted\nthe estates of the duke of Bordeaux, and whispered in the ear of his\nmaster that the young men were rebels and traitors. By this time Charles\nwas old, and his mind, as well as his body, had waxed feeble; the crown\nwas too heavy for him, and he was thinking of resigning it to his son\nCharlot. So Amaury cunningly represented to him that he must summon the\nyoung men to his court without delay, and then himself plotted with\nCharlot to waylay and kill them. But, though they made their plans with\ngreat care, fortune was on the side of Huon and Gerard, for they\ndefended themselves so bravely that, though they were taken by surprise,\nGerard only received a slight wound, while Charlot was slain by Huon.\n\nWhen Amaury returned to Paris with these dreadful tidings, the emperor\nwas beside himself with anger, and ordered Amaury to fight a duel with\nHuon, who was the elder of the two, and bid him take heed not to spare\nhim. As Huon was young and slight, and Amaury one of the strongest men\nat the court, neither the emperor nor the earl ever had a moment's doubt\nwith whom the victory would lie; but if Amaury was more powerful, Huon\nwas quicker on his feet, and before long he had stretched his enemy dead\nupon the ground.\n\nThe emperor was watching the fight from a window of his palace, and his\nanger at the triumph of Huon was so great that it very near killed him.\nStill, as the duel had been fairly fought, he dared not punish Huon, and\nhe was forced to content himself with sending him on a mission to the\nking of Babylon, knowing well the perils which would beset him on the\nway.\n\nThe small vessel in which Huon sailed for Jerusalem met with so many\ndangers that oftentimes the young duke thought that he would be dead\nlong before he had touched the shores of Palestine. Thrice they were\nattacked by pirates, who were hardly beaten off; twice such terrible\nstorms arose that they were almost driven on the rocks, and once they\nhad much ado to avoid being drawn into a whirlpool. But somehow or other\nthey escaped everything, and Huon was safely landed on the holy soil\nwith his uncle Garyn and a few followers.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe was at first so thankful to be on dry land again that he felt as if\nhis journey was already over, but he soon found that the worst part was\nyet to come. Leaving Jerusalem behind them, the little band entered a\ndesert, dreary and boundless as far as they could see. Hunger and thirst\nthey suffered, and death felt very near them, when at last they reached\na tiny hut, before which an old man was sitting. At the sight of Huon,\nthin and wasted as he had grown, the old man broke into sobs, crying\nthat his face was like unto the face of the duke of Bordeaux, whom he\nhad known when he was young.\n\n'Thirty years have I dwelt in these deserts,' said he, 'and never have\nmy eyes lighted on the face of a Christian man.'\n\nThen Huon answered that he was indeed the son of the duke of Bordeaux\nwhom he had known in his youth, and while they rested each man told his\ntale.\n\n'It is indeed good fortune that guided you here,' said Gerames when Huon\nhad ended his story, 'for without me and my counsel never would you have\nreached the kingdom of Babylon. There are two roads which lead to that\ngreat city; one will take you forty days, and the other fifteen days,\nbut if you will be ruled by me you will travel by the longer.'\n\n'And wherefore?' asked Huon, whose body was still sore from the\nhardships he had suffered, and whose ears had been tickled with the\ntidings of the soft couches and lovely gardens of Babylon the Great.\n\n'The short way leads through a wood which is the home of fairies and\nother strange creatures,' answered Gerames, 'and in it dwells Oberon,\nthe king of them all, in stature no higher than a child of three years\nold, but with a face more beautiful than any worn by mortal man. His\nvoice is softer and his words more sweet than we are wont to use; but\nbeware of listening to them, for should you speak to him one word, you\nwill fall into his power for ever. But if you hold your peace think not\nto escape that way, for he will be so wroth with you that he will cause\nall manner of tempests to spring up, and a great and black river to rise\nbefore you. Fear not to pass this river, black and swift though it be,\nfor it is but a fantasy, and will not even wet the feet of your horse.\nAnd now that I have told you the ills that lie in that wood, I pray you\nhearken to my counsel, and ride by the way that is longer.'\n\nHuon paused before he answered. In sooth, Gerames' words had not\nawakened dread in his soul. Instead, he desired greatly to meet that\ndwarf, and to try whose will should prove strongest. So he answered that\nit would ill become a knight, and the son of his father, to shun a\nmeeting with anyone, be he man or fairy, and it might be well for him to\ntake the short road, for many adventures might befall him by the longer.\n\n'Sir,' said Gerames, 'be it as you will; whichever way you take I will\ngo with you.'\n\nThen Huon and Gerames rode at the rear of their company, and entered the\nwood where Oberon, king of the Fairies, abode. For two days they had\nneither food nor drink, and Huon repented him of his journey and wished\nthat he had hearkened to Gerames, as perchance the other road might have\nbeen easier.\n\n'Let us all alight and seek for food,' said he; but at that moment,\nOberon, richly dressed, and covered with precious stones, appeared\nbefore them. A magic bow was in his hand, whose arrows never failed to\nhit the beast he aimed at, while round his neck was slung a horn. Now\nthis horn was unlike any other in the whole world, for one blast of it\ncould cure a man's sickness, even if he was nigh to death, or make him\nfeel satisfied if he lacked meat, or joyful though he was poor, or\nsummon whomsoever he wanted, if he was distant a hundred days' journey.\n\nSeeing the doleful plight of the little company, Oberon blew the third\nblast, and, behold! Huon and his companions began to sing and dance, as\nif good fortune had come to them.\n\n'Ah, what strange thing has come to pass!' cried the young knight. 'But\nnow I was like to fall from my horse from hunger, but in an instant I am\nfilled and wish for nothing.'\n\n'Sir,' said Gerames, 'it is Oberon who has wrought this; but do not\nsuffer yourself to be drawn into speech with him, or you will rue it.'\n\n'Have no fears for me,' answered Huon, 'I will be steadfast.'\n\n[Illustration: The Meeting of Huon and Oberon]\n\nHe held his head very high when Oberon the dwarf came up, and begged\nthe knight to speak to him; but Huon only leaped on his horse and signed\nto his men to do likewise. At that the dwarf waxed angry, and bade a\ntempest arise, and with it came such a rain and hail that they were sore\naffrighted. Many times Gerames prayed them to take courage, for these\nwere devices of the fairy king, and would not really hurt them, and as\nlong as they spoke no words they would be safe.\n\n'Have no doubt of me,' answered Huon.\n\nFor a while they lost sight of the dwarf, and Huon vainly hoped that\nthey had beaten him off, and that they were rid of him. But in a little\ntime they reached a bridge which spanned a great river, and on the\nbridge was Oberon himself. Fain would they have slipped past him, but\nthe bridge was narrow, and Oberon stood in the middle. Once more he\nspoke soft words to Huon, and offered to do him service, but Huon held\nhis peace. Again Oberon was angered sorely, and blew a blast which\nhindered the company from riding onwards, while four hundred knights of\nhis own came galloping up.\n\n'Slay these men at once,' he cried, shaking with wrath, but their leader\nimplored him to spare them for a space.\n\n'It will be time enough to kill them if they still keep silence,' said\nhe; and Oberon agreed that he would give them yet another chance, and\nHuon and his companions rode hastily onwards.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'We have left him full five miles behind us,' said Huon, drawing rein;\n'and now that he is not here to trouble us I will say that never in my\nlife did I see so fair a creature. Nor do I think he can do us any ill.\nIf he should come again, I fain would speak to him, and I pray you,\nGerames, not to be displeased with me thereat.'\n\nGerames' heart was heavy at these words, but he knew well the wilfulness\nof young men, and he answered nothing. For fifteen days they rode on,\nand Gerames began to hope that Oberon had given up their pursuit, when\nsuddenly he again appeared.\n\n'Noble sir,' he said to Huon, 'have you resolved in good sooth not to\nspeak to me? I know all your past life, and the task set you by the\nemperor, and without my help never will you come to the end of that\nbusiness. Therefore, be warned by me, and go no further.'\n\n'You are welcome, sir,' answered Huon at last, and Oberon laughed for\nvery joy.\n\n'Never did you give a greeting so profitable as this one,' he said, and\nthey rode on together.\n\n\n\n\n_HOW OBERON SAVED HUON_\n\n\nOberon was so rejoiced that Huon had at last made friends with him, that\nhe did everything that he could think of to give pleasure to the knight\nand his friends.\n\n'There is nothing in the world that I cannot have by wishing for it,'\nsaid he, 'and all I possess is yours. And to prove that my words are not\nvain I will set before you the richest feast that ever you ate. After\nyou have finished, you shall go whithersoever you will.'\n\nSo they ate and drank to their hearts' content, but, before they\ndeparted, Oberon bade one of his fairy knights to bring him his golden\ncup, which he showed to Huon.\n\n'Behold,' he said, 'this cup is empty, and will so remain, if any man\nwho has done a deadly sin should seek to drink of it. But he who has led\na goodly life, the moment that he takes it in his hands it will become\nfull of wine. Make proof of it yourself, and if you are found worthy the\ncup shall be yours.'\n\n'Alas, sir,' answered Huon, 'I fear very greatly that I have sinned too\ndeeply for that cup to have any virtue for me, but yet I have repented,\nand desire from henceforth to wrong no one.' Then he lifted the cup, and\nthe wine brimmed over.\n\nOberon was right glad when he saw this sight, and gave the cup into his\nkeeping.\n\n'As long as you are true and faithful, you shall never lack drink in\nit,' said he, 'but if you do falsely to any man, it will lose all its\nvirtue and my help will go from you also. I have likewise another gift\nfor you: take this horn of ivory, and when you are in great straits,\nand will blow it, however far I may be, I will come to you, and will\nbring with me a great company to lend you aid. But beware, as you set\nstore by my friendship and by your life, that you do not blow the horn\nlightly.'\n\n'I give you great thanks for your kindness, and will hearken to your\nwords,' said Huon; 'and now, I pray, let me depart hence to do the\nemperor's bidding.'\n\nSo the knight and the fairy king took leave of each other, and they\nfared on their way, and in the evening they sat and rested in a green\nmeadow, and ate and drank of the food that Oberon had given them. Now\nHuon was uplifted by the gifts the king had given him, and thought that\nhe himself must be in some way better than other men, to be singled out\nfor such honour, and, as young men will, he began to boast and talk\nidly, making pretence that he doubted the magic qualities of the horn\nand the cup, so that he might prove them at once before his company.\n\n'It was a fair adventure for me when I spoke to Oberon,' said he, 'and\nthat I did not listen to the counsel of Gerames. When I fulfil my\nmission and return unto the court of the emperor, I will present him\nwith the cup, the like of which he has not got in all his treasury. But\nas for the horn, how do I know if Oberon spoke the truth concerning it?'\n\n'Oh, sir, be not rash, I entreat you!' cried Gerames, 'for he charged\nyou straitly not to blow the horn save in your direst need.'\n\n'Ay, surely,' answered Huon, 'but for all that I will try what power it\nhas,' and, raising it to his mouth, he blew a loud blast.\n\nAt that all the company rose up, and sang and danced joyfully, and\nGaryn, Huon's uncle, begged him to blow the horn once more.\n\nOberon heard it, though he was full many miles away.\n\n'What man is so bold as to seek to do him ill whom I love best in all\nthe world?' said Oberon. 'I wish myself and a hundred good men in his\ncompany'; and in an instant Huon and his friends beheld the horses'\nskins flashing in the bushes. Then Huon's soul smote him, and he bowed\nhis head before Oberon, saying:\n\n'Sir, I have done ill; tell me quickly if death must be my punishment?'\n\n'Where are those that would work you evil?' asked Oberon sternly; but in\nspite of his wrath Huon took heart of grace, and, confessing his folly,\nprayed for pardon, which Oberon granted him for very pity, knowing, he\nsaid, that Huon would have much to suffer, some things through the\nwicked ways of others, but more from his own pride and self-will. Then,\nbidding the young man farewell afresh, the fairy king rode back to the\nwood.\n\nAll befell just as the fairy king had foretold. Giants and mortals alike\nbarred his way; small would have been his chance of ever reaching\nBabylon had not Oberon himself watched over him, and sent him help when\nhe knew it not. Only one thing he asked of Huon in return--to keep\nhimself from ill-doing and lies, so that he might be worthy to drink\nfrom the golden cup.\n\nAnd thus it came to pass that after many perils Huon knocked at the\nfirst of the four gates of the city.\n\nNo sound was heard in answer to his knock, so he seized the great bell\nthat hung there, and rang it loudly. At this a porter opened a little\nlattice, and asked what great lord it might be who demanded admittance\nin so rude a fashion, to which Huon answered hotly that he was an envoy\nfrom the emperor Charles, and that if the porter refused him entrance he\nwould have to answer for it to his own master.\n\nAt that the porter said that if the stranger was an infidel like\nthemselves, the gates should be thrown open at once, but that, should he\nallow any Christian to enter, he would pay for it with his head.\n\n'But I am as much a Saracen as yourself,' said Huon, who only thought of\ngetting into Babylon and paid no heed to the lie he was telling, or to\nthe dishonour of his words. Then the gates were opened wide, and he\nentered.\n\nIt was not till he was crossing the bridge which stood before the second\ngate that the wickedness of what he had done came upon him, and then he\nfelt ashamed, and sorry, and frightened altogether. And how should he\npass through the other three gates without again denying his faith and\nsteeping himself in dishonour? He was about to turn back in despair,\nwhen he remembered the two good gifts of a giant whom he had overcome--a\nsuit of armour which no sword could pierce, and a ring which would throw\nopen all doors. So he showed the ring to the porters that guarded all\nthe other three doors, and soon found himself in the garden of the\npalace.\n\nEven the groves of palms, and the trees of delicious fruits, could not\nmake him forget the lie he had uttered. Indeed, if he had wished to do\nso, he could not, for presently he came to a fountain beside which was\nwritten that no traitor should drink thereof on pain of being destroyed\nby the serpent that dwelt therein. At this Huon suddenly felt himself\nforsaken of all, and he sat down and wept bitterly.\n\n'O noble King Oberon, listen to me once more,' he cried, and tremblingly\nblew his horn.\n\n'I help no liars,' said the fairy king when the blast echoed through the\nforest, and, though Huon could not hear his answer, the silence soon\ntold him what it was.\n\n'If he slays me, at least it will be soon over,' he thought to himself,\nand, putting forth all his strength, he blew a fresh blast.\n\nThis time it was so loud that it reached the ears of the lord of\nBabylon, who was sitting at a feast in the Hall of Moonbeams. And he\nrose up, together with his nobles and their squires and their wives and\ndaughters, and every one in the palace from the least to the greatest,\nand began to dance and sing. They sang and danced as long as the horn\nkept on blowing, and when it had ceased the ruler of Babylon called to\nhis lords and bade them follow him into the garden, as of a surety some\ngreat enchanter must have strayed therein.\n\n'Seek him and bring him to me, wherever I be,' commanded the emir; but\nthe gardens were so large, and it took so long to find Huon, that the\nemir went back into the palace and laid himself down on a pile of soft\ncushions at the end of the hall.\n\nBy his side on a great carved chair was the king of a neighbouring\ncountry, who arrived hither only a few days before to beg for the hand\nof the emir's fair daughter, the princess Esclaramonde, who was said to\nbe the loveliest maiden in the whole world. To be sure, it was whispered\namong the courtiers that the princess did not look on him with a\nfavourable eye, when she had watched his arrival from behind her\nlattice, and that more than once she had protested that she was too ill\nto leave her room when sent for by her father; but of course, if\nmarriage was resolved upon, it would have to be.\n\nHuon had heard talk of these things between his guards when they were\nmarching through the gardens that were almost as big as a town, and up\nthe long flight of marble steps that led to the palace. He said nothing;\nperhaps by this time he had learnt a little wisdom, but he knew who the\nman was whose dress was so rich and his air so proud, and before anyone\neven saw him lift his arm the king's head was rolling in the dust.\n\nFor a moment all remained still, too astonished to speak. Then the emir\nrecovered his wits, and ordered Huon to be carried off to a dungeon, and\nnot to be let go or the guards lives would be forfeit. But quick as\nthought Huon held out his hand with the ring on it.\n\n'Do you know this?' he said, and the king started back at the sight of\nit, and cried to the soldiers to let the prisoner go, for in that place\nhe might do whatsoever he would. At this permission Huon turned to where\nthe princess Esclaramonde was sitting by her father, and kissed her\nthrice.\n\nThe emir was not altogether pleased at this fashion of Huon's, but he\nsaid nothing, and in a moment the knight told him how the emperor had\nsent him to pray the emir to become a Christian, otherwise he should\nproceed against him with a mighty host.\n\nThe emir laughed in scorn as he listened to Huon's vain boast.\n\n'Fifteen envoys has he despatched on a like errand,' answered he, 'and\nall fifteen have I hanged. Right willingly should you make the sixteenth\nbut for the ring which you wear. Tell me, I pray you, whence you got\nit?'\n\nBut when Huon confessed that it had been given him by the giant, the\nemir waxed more wroth than before, and ordered his guards to seize him\nand cast him into prison, which in the end they did, though he resisted\nthem well by reason of the harness that was on him.\n\nFor a long space Huon lingered in that dark prison, and sad indeed would\nhave been his lot had it not been for the secret visits of the princess\nEsclaramonde, who, the better to preserve his life, assured her father\nof his death.\n\nAt length, when the emir was sore beset by the army of the giant\nAgrapart, she deemed it a favourable time to betray to her father that\nHuon was still alive in his prison, and was ready to do battle with the\ngiant if, as was usual in that country, the princess's hand should be\ngiven to the victor. Both the emir and the giant agreed that their\nquarrel should stand or fall by single combat, and so the fight began.\n\n[Illustration: HUON DEFEATS THE GIANT AGRAPART]\n\nHuon felt in his heart that there was more at stake than even the hand\nof the princess. He stood forth as the champion of Christendom amidst a\nhost of pagans, and it behoved him to strike with all his strength. In\nthe end the victory was his, and the giant Agrapart was overcome, but\nhis life was spared on condition that he would serve the emir faithfully\nall his days, which solemn oath he took gladly. After that, Huon drew\nout the cup the fairy king had given him, and, having made the sign of\nthe cross over it, it was filled with wine, and he drank of it. For he\nhad long since repented of the lie he had told, and was clean again.\nThen the emir tried to drink also, but no wine would come.\n\n'You must forsake your false gods, and be a Christian such as I am,'\nsaid Huon, 'and if you like not fair words you shall see how an armed\nhost pleases you;' but, as was natural, the ruler of Babylon was not the\nman to be moved by such persuasions. He angrily bade Huon cease, and to\nspeak to him no more on the matter or all the hosts of Charlemagne\nhimself should not avail to save his head.\n\n'You will repent you too late,' said Huon, and blew his horn.\n\nAt first the emir and his courtiers began to dance and sing wildly, they\nknew not wherefore, while in the wood far away Oberon heard the sound.\n'Huon, my friend, has great need of me,' he thought to himself, 'and his\nill-doings have been punished enough, so I will pardon him, for there is\nnot in all the world so noble a man. Therefore I wish myself at his\nside, with a thousand men behind me.' And in another moment, no man\ncould tell how, Oberon and his men were within the walls of Babylon. The\nguards of the palace fell before them on every hand, till at last they\nreached the emir himself.\n\n'He is yours to spare or to slay,' said Oberon, and once more the knight\ngave the Paynim his choice.\n\n'Be a Christian or you die,' said Huon, and the emir made answer:\n\n'I will never forsake my own.' They were the last words he spoke, for\nhis head rolled upon the floor. After that Huon cut off the emir's beard\nand pulled out four of his teeth, and hid them in the beard of his old\nfriend Gerames, who had lately returned to Babylon.\n\n'Now I must leave you,' said Oberon, when these things were over. 'See\nthat in all ways you behave yourself as a good and true knight should\ndo, and have no share in ill-doings. I bid you take ship and carry the\nprincess Esclaramonde, your bride, into France, and guard her from all\nills on the way. And if you do not that which I bid you, great evil\nshall happen unto you.'\n\nBut, alas! no sooner was the ship out of sight of land than the good\ncounsels of Oberon faded out of Huon's mind, and he fell into many sins.\nThe cup would not fill with wine, and Oberon was deaf to the blast of\nthe horn. Then an awful tempest arose; the ship struck on a rock and was\nrent in pieces, and all were drowned save Huon and the princess, who\nwere washed on an island. But even here they were not safe, for Huon was\nbound and tortured, and left under a tree, while Esclaramonde was\ncarried away by the pirates who were dwellers on the isle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeanwhile, the knowledge of Huon's plight had reached Oberon, and, angry\nthough he was, he began to think how best to send help to him, when a\nmonster of the sea, called Mallebron, who had before given him aid on\nhis journey to Babylon, begged to be allowed to deliver him once more.\n\n'It pleases me well,' answered Oberon, 'that this caitiff Huon should\nsuffer pain for the evil that he has wrought, but if you love him so\nmuch that for his sake you shall endure to wear the shape of a fish for\ntwenty years longer I will grant you your wish on two conditions. Carry\nhim away from the island and place him on the mainland, only never more\nlet mine eyes light on him. Be careful also to bring back to me my\ngolden cup, my horn, and my fairy armour, for it is long since he has\nshown himself unworthy of them.'\n\nSo Mallebron swam straightway to the island, and, finding Huon fast\nbound, as Oberon had said, he loosed him, and he stood on his feet. But\nwhen Huon heard the message of Oberon he was sore angered, and,\nforgetting his own misdeeds, complained bitterly of Oberon's hardness\nof heart in commanding that the gifts he had given him should be yielded\nup again. But, wail as he might, he could not move Mallebron, who bade\nhim farewell, and departed with Oberon's treasures.\n\nIt were long to tell of Huon's adventures after he had left the island.\nAt one time he took service with a minstrel and was his varlet. At\nanother time he was forced to play chess for the hand of a king's\ndaughter, but refused to marry her when he had won the game.\nUnknowingly, he once fought with Gerames, and only found out who he was\nin the course of the battle. He afterwards entered the city with him,\nand visited Esclaramonde, who was a captive in the palace, and right\nglad were they to meet. After that he and some French knights who had\njoined him were besieged in the castle by the Paynims, and were rescued\nby a French ship, which carried Huon and Esclaramonde and all the\ncompany on their way to Wana, together with much treasure which they had\nfound in the castle.\n\nBut, happy though Huon felt on the road home again, he heard with wrath\nthat Gerard, his brother, had persuaded the emperor that by now Huon\nmust be dead, and that _he_ was rightful heir to the duchy. It was so\nlong since any tidings had been received of Huon--for none had fared\nthat way--that some thought Gerard spoke reasonably, and upheld his\nsuit, which in the end was granted by Charles. And no sooner was the new\nduke invested with the lands than he began to oppress all his subjects,\ntill the duchess his mother died of grief at the misery of her people.\n\n'He shall pay me for that,' muttered Huon grimly.\n\nThere was one thing, however, that could not be delayed a moment more\nthan was needed, and this was the marriage between Huon and\nEsclaramonde, for the princess had promised to become a Christian and to\nreceive baptism at the hands of the pope. So they bade the captain put\ninto the port nearest to Rome, and, taking horse, rode thither as fast\nas they might.\n\nThe pope was seated on his throne with his threefold crown on his head,\nholding counsel with his cardinals, when Huon and his company entered\nthe hall two by two, and saluted humbly. At the sight of Huon leading\nEsclaramonde by the hand, the pope, who had once visited the court of\nthe duke of Bordeaux, and remembered the face of Huon, rose up to greet\nhim, kissed him on both cheeks, and bade him tell his adventures, and\nhow he had fared.\n\n'Ill enough, good sir, and these others also,' answered Huon; 'but I\nhave by grace won through it all, and I have brought the daughter of the\ngreat emir of the Paynims, whom I desire you should make my wife, after\nshe has been baptized by your hands.'\n\n'Huon,' said the pope, 'all this pleases me right well to do, and it is\nmy will that you tarry with me here this night.'\n\nSo they tarried; and the next day the wedding feast was held, and there\nwere great rejoicings in the pope's palace. And early the next morning,\nHuon and his wife and his friends took ship for Bordeaux.\n\nBut not yet were Huon's trials ended. Gerard, his brother, had no mind\nto give up his lands and honours lightly, and many were the plots that\nhe laid against Huon. Indeed, he not only contrived to throw the\nnew-comers into prison, but prevailed on the emperor to journey himself\nto Bordeaux, to the intent that Huon should be put to death, which would\nhave happened had it not been for the timely help of Oberon.\n\nIt was thus it came about.\n\nThe fairy king was seated at dinner in his palace in the wood, when the\nknowledge came to him that the emperor Charles had taken an oath to hang\nHuon ere he slept, and at the thought thereof he broke into weeping.\n\n'I have sore punished the sins he has committed,' said he, 'and great\nhas been my wrath. But now it is time that I help him, or he will be\ngone from me. So I wish my table and all that is on it near to the\nemperor's table, only about two feet higher. And I will that on my table\nbe set my cup and horn and armour. And I wish that with me shall go a\nhundred thousand men, such as I am wont to have in battle.'\n\nGreat was the marvel of the emperor when this table appeared beside him,\nand he took it for an enchantment of duke Names; but Huon and Gerames\nand Esclaramonde, who were present at the feast with fetters on their\nwrists, knew that Oberon had come to their deliverance.\n\nSoon the clank of swords was heard throughout the streets, and you could\nnot see the stones for the armed men who stood on them.\n\n'See that none leave the gates,' said Oberon, 'and when you hear the\nblast of my ivory horn, come to me in the palace, and slay everyone you\nshall meet on the way'; and so saying he entered the hall, and many of\nhis lords with him. Their dresses were the richest that had ever been\nseen, and on their necks they wore collars of precious stones. As the\nking passed by Charles, he knocked against him, so that his hat fell\nupon the ground.\n\n'Who is this dwarf who so rudely has shouldered me?' asked the emperor,\n'and whence comes he? I will see what he will do, for, small as he is,\nhe is the fairest creature that ever I saw.'\n\nLeaving the emperor behind him, the fairy king came to the spot where\nHuon and the captives were standing, and he wished that the fetters\nmight fall off their feet, and that they might be free men. Then\nsilently he led them before Charles, and caused them to sit down at his\nown table, and bade the lords of the court drink out of the magic cup\nafter Huon and Esclaramonde and Gerames had drunk out of it. But only\nfor duke Names would the wine bubble up.\n\nAfterwards Oberon ordered Gerard to confess his sins and his plots that\nhe had plotted, which out of very shame he was constrained to do, and\nthen Oberon prayed the emperor to command Gerard and those who had\nhelped him to work ill to be hanged on the gallows which had been reared\nfor Huon, and this was done also; and the emperor Charles and Huon, duke\nof Bordeaux, made reconciliation together.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Come to me in my city of Mommur four years from now, Huon,' said\nOberon, 'and I will give you my realm and my dignity, for I know in\ntruth I shall not long abide in this world. But beware, as you love your\nlife, that you fail not to be with me at the day I have appointed, else\nI shall cause you to die an ill-death.'\n\nWhen he heard, Huon stooped down and kissed his feet, and said:\n\n'Sir, for this great boon I thank you.'\n\n[From _Huon of Bordeaux_.]\n\n\n\n\n_HAVELOK AND GOLDBOROUGH_\n\n\nOnce upon a time there lived in England a king called Athelwold, who\nruled the land so well that everyone was rich and happy: or, if they\nwere not, it was their own fault. His people all loved him dearly, and\nwould do anything for him, and when he went to war there was no\nsovereign that could count on a larger following of stout brave men. He\nwas quite a youth when he came to the throne, and at first all sorts of\ntraitors and robbers from other countries took refuge in his kingdom,\nbut Athelwold sought them out so carefully and punished them so severely\nthat they soon betook themselves and their crimes elsewhere.\n\nNow one thing grieved the king sorely. He had no son to sit on his\nthrone after he was dead, to protect the poor and put down the lawless.\nAnd how was his little daughter, who was not yet fourteen, to keep\norder, or to uphold the laws?\n\n'If she were a woman grown, it might be different,' he thought to\nhimself, 'for Goldborough sees clearly and acts promptly. But as yet she\nhas little knowledge, and her ways are those of a child. And full well I\nknow that my death is nigh at hand, and there is none to watch over\nher.'\n\nLong the king pondered in his mind what he could best do for his\ndaughter's safety and the welfare of his people, and in the end he sent\nmessengers with letters to all his earls and barons from Roxborough to\nDover, bidding them come to his castle of Winchester as swiftly as they\nmight, for he could no more mount his horse, neither could he swallow\nmeat or pasties.\n\nSadly his vassals received the summons, for each loved him as his own\nfather, and not one lurked behind. The king gave them a glad welcome,\nbut they could not forbear shedding tears when they saw his weakness and\nheard his feeble voice. Athelwold let them have their way a little\nwhile, and then he said:\n\n'I am dying, as you see, and I have sent for you hither, to ask you all\nto tell me which of you will best guard my daughter when I am dead, till\nshe has come to years when she can guard herself.'\n\nAnd they answered as one man:\n\n'Earl Godrich of Cornwall.'\n\nThen the king bade the priest bring the holy vessels, and earl Godrich\nswore on them that he would be faithful and true in peace and in war to\nGoldborough; and, further, that he would seek out a man who was better\nand fairer and stronger than all others to be her husband, so that the\nland might have peace, as in the days of Athelwold.\n\nAfter the earl had sworn to fulfil what the king required of him,\nAthelwold made his will, and gave England into the keeping of Godrich.\nThis done, he lay back in his bed, and that same morning he died in the\narms of his daughter.\n\nBut bad indeed was the choice which king Athelwold's vassals had made\nwhen they proclaimed earl Godrich as the fittest guardian for the young\nprincess. In the beginning, indeed, while Goldborough was still a child,\neverything went smoothly. The earl appointed justices and sheriffs to\ncarry out the laws, and, though he took more heed to gather riches for\nhimself than to protect his people, yet on the whole he governed well.\n\nThus six years passed away, and Goldborough was twenty years old. She\nhad lived far away from the castle of Winchester, and had never seen her\nguardian since the day that her father had been buried, and, for his\npart, he had hardly remembered her, he was so busy making laws and\namassing treasures. Still, other people recollected Goldborough, if he\ndid not, and one Eastertide, when the princess's twentieth birthday was\nat hand, an old pilgrim chanced to stop at Winchester on his way to\nCanterbury. He had but lately passed through the town where Goldborough\nwas living, and had many tales to tell of her fair and gracious ways.\n\nGodrich let him talk, but his face was gloomy and he answered nought.\nBut, though his tongue was silent, his heart was base and his thoughts\nwere evil.\n\n'Have I toiled all these years for nothing?' he said to himself, 'and\nshall England be ruled by a fool, a maiden? I have a son, a full fair\nknave; he shall have England and be king.'\n\nSo Goldborough was brought from her woods and gardens, and shut up in\nthe castle of Dover, where none might visit her. And no company had she\nbut her foster-sister, and an old woman who had been her nurse.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the time when Athelwold ruled England there reigned in Denmark a king\ncalled Birkabeyn, who had three children, two girls named Swanborough\nand Helfled and a boy called Havelok. Birkabeyn was strong and healthy,\nand thought to live many years, when a wound in battle proved his\ndeath-blow. Like Goldborough, the children were all young, and he was\nforced to choose someone to protect them till they were of full age. The\nman on whom Birkabeyn's choice fell was his own close friend, who had\nserved him all his life, and who, he thought, loved his children well.\nAnd so perhaps the earl would have done had not such power been given\ninto his hands, but this he was not proof against. No sooner had the\nking died than he caused the three children to be cast into prison,\nwhere he murdered the two girls himself.\n\n[Illustration: ROUND THE BAG WHICH HELD THE BOY A BRILLIANT LIGHT WAS\nSHINING]\n\nAt the dreadful fate of his sisters, Havelok, who was the youngest, fell\non his knees and implored the wicked earl to spare him.\n\n'If it is Denmark you want, it shall be yours,' cried the boy, 'and\nnever will I seek to take it from you. Nay, give me a ship, and to-day I\nwill leave the country for ever.'\n\nEven the earl's heart was for a moment softened by the child's tears and\nprayers, and at first he thought that he would let him go, as it would\nbe many years before he would be old enough to be an enemy. But then he\nremembered that, if Havelok died unwedded, he and his sons would be\nheirs to the crown, for he was the king's cousin. However, he pretended\nto grant the child's prayer, and bade him follow him down to the shore,\nwhere dwelt an old fisherman. Havelok wandered down to the water, and\nwondered which of the ships drawn up on the beach he should set sail in,\nand where he would go. He was still terrified at the death of sisters,\nand shook with fear as long as their murderer was in sight.\n\nMeanwhile the earl was speaking to the fisherman, who stood at the door\nof his cottage, which was built just out of reach of the waves.\n\n'Grim,' he said, 'to-day you are my thrall, but to-morrow you shall be a\nfree man if you will do my bidding. Take the boy that stands there, and\nthrow him into the sea, that he drown. Fear nothing: the penalty will be\nmine, not yours.'\n\n'Your bidding shall be done,' answered the fisherman, 'though the deed\nis but little to my liking.'\n\n'So be it,' said the earl, and went home to hold counsel with his family\nhow best to take possession of the crown.\n\nGrim took down a cord from a hook in the roof, and went out to the\nchild, who screamed with terror as he drew near, but there was no one to\nhelp him, and Grim thrust a cloth in his mouth to stifle his cries,\nwhile he bound his hands behind his back with a cord. When this was\ndone, he put the boy in a black bag, and carried him to his wife, who\nflung him on the floor, where he lay for many hours, thinking every\nmoment that he would be thrown down a well or stabbed by a dagger.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt midnight, when all was still, and the men in the ships were sleeping\nsoundly, Grim arose, and told his wife to kindle a fire and to light a\ncandle.\n\n'Why, there is a light in the room already,' said she, 'and it seems to\ncome from the farthest corner, and to shine as brightly as if it were\nthe sun itself'; and with that she sprang out of bed and ran over the\nfloor, calling to Grim to follow her.\n\nAnd in truth it was as she had said, for round the bag which held the\nboy a brilliant light was shining.\n\n'If we touch him we shall rue it all our lives,' she whispered to her\nhusband; then, stooping, she cut the knots which held the bag, and drew\nout Havelok, who was well-nigh dead with fright and suffocation. Next\nshe stripped him of his clothes, and on his shoulder she found the mark\nof a tiny cross, from which the light came.\n\n'He is born to be king,' said Grim softly, 'and surely it is he and no\nother who is the son of Birkabeyn, and who some day shall come to his\nown. It is easy to see that he will grow into a man, tall and strong,\nwho shall come back from over the sea where I shall send him, and avenge\nhimself on the traitor.' Then Grim fell on his knees before Havelok and\nprayed his forgiveness.\n\n'You shall stay here awhile,' he said, 'till I can fit out a ship, and\nin it we will all set sail, you, and I, and my wife and my three sons,\nbut it must be done in secret, lest the earl should come to know of it.'\n\nSo they gave Havelok bread to eat and milk to drink, and laid him in a\nbed in a dark corner, where no man could see him, and the next day Grim\nset out for the traitor's castle to ask for the reward that had been\npromised him.\n\n'Your bidding is done, and I have come to claim my freedom,' said Grim\nwhen he stood in the presence of the traitor. But the earl made answer:\n\n'Who is there to know what lies betwixt us? Go home, and be my thrall,\nas you have ever been.'\n\nFull of rage though he was, Grim dared say no more, lest his head should\npay forfeit; but the earl's words had filled him with fear, and he\nhastened to get ready a ship and to fill it during the night with food\nenough to last them for three weeks. By that time, he thought, they\nwould reach the shores of England.\n\nWhen all was finished, Grim and his wife, his three sons and two\ndaughters and little Havelok, stole away very early one morning before\nthe sun was up, and set sail southwards. A north wind soon sprang up and\ndrove him, in ten days, to the mouth of a great river called the Humber.\nHere he steered his ship on to the beach, and then they all got out and\nset up a tent, till they could look about for a little and see what best\nto do.\n\nIt was a wild place where they landed, and for many miles there was not\neven a hut to be seen, but Grim liked it well, and he built houses for\nhimself and his family, and by-and-by more people came thither also, and\na town was built and was called Grimsby, after Grim. But that happened\nafterwards.\n\nFish were plentiful at the mouth of the river--lampreys and sturgeon and\nturbot and great cod--and Grim and his sons were good fishers, both with\nnet and line, and Havelok soon learned to fish too, and was as happy as\nany boy could be. Sometimes he stayed at home with the women while the\nothers carried fish round the country in baskets.\n\nTwelve years passed in this manner, during which Grim had prospered\ngreatly, but he began to get old, and the long journeys with heavy\npanniers on his back tried him sorely. This Havelok perceived, and one\nday he spoke:\n\n'I am a man grown, and shall I sit at home idle mending nets while my\nfather travels over the whole country-side carrying weights too heavy\nfor him to bear? Not so! To-morrow I go forth, and my father shall take\nhis seat by the fire, and shall mend the nets.'\n\nWhatever Havelok said he did, and early the next morning he took the\npanniers on his shoulders, and started for the houses where Grim was\nwont to sell his fish. But soon, none could tell why, a bad time came,\nand there was no corn in the land, and no fish in the sea. And Grim felt\npity in his heart for Havelok, who was young and strong, and needed more\nmeat than other men. So one day Grim spoke:\n\n'Havelok, dear son, you have come upon evil days, and must stay with us\nno longer. Go to the city of Lincoln. It is a rich town, and there you\nmay find work for all you need. But, woe is me! no clothes can I give\nyou, save this old sail, which the women shall fashion into doublet and\nhose for you.'\n\nThe sail was soon cut and fashioned by Grim's wife and daughters, but\nthere was nothing to make into shoes, and Havelok walked into Lincoln\nbarefoot, and he fasted from meat for two or three days; at length the\nearl's cook took him into his service as porter, and his chief duty was\nto carry the earl's fish into the castle. But the cook had many porters\nbesides Havelok, and when the cry of 'barmen' was heard they all tried\none to outdo the other in obtaining the pot in which lay the hot fish.\nHowever, Havelok was taller and stronger than the rest, and generally\nwas able to thrust the others on one side.\n\nBesides bearing the cauldron of fish, Havelok had many things to do. He\nhad to fill a huge tub in the kitchen with water, and to cut wood for\nthe fire, and to do anything the cook told him. And, whatever happened,\nhe was full of mirth, and would jest and play with the children who ran\nabout the back of the castle.\n\nAt last his clothes, which had been fashioned out of the old sail, fell\ninto holes, and the cook, out of pity and liking, bought him some new\nones, and when he put them on there was no man, be he who he might, that\nwas fairer to see. Then folk began to notice that he was taller than any\nman in the castle, and that he was very strong. Very soon a chance came\nto him to prove his strength.\n\nGodrich the earl--or the king, as he called himself--now held his court\nat Lincoln, and summoned a parliament to be held there to settle the\naffairs of the nation. They came in great companies, and everyone had a\nfollowing, and so many were they that they were forced to dwell in tents\noutside the city walls. It was not long before they fell to wrestling\nand such sports.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor a while Havelok looked on, and bided his time. He took no part in\nthe wrestling, though there was not a champion on the ground that he\ncould not easily have overcome.\n\nWhen they were tired of throwing each other, someone proposed that they\nshould put the stone, and a large smooth piece of rock was chosen. Man\nafter man came forward, but hardly one could raise it from the ground,\nfar less cast it any distance from him. At this moment the cook strolled\nup and saw his scullion standing there.\n\n'It is your turn,' he said to Havelok; 'show them what you can do, for\nthe honour of Lincoln,' and Havelok obeyed him. He lifted the mighty\nstone to the height of his shoulder, and sent it spinning through the\nair.\n\n'Measure the cast,' said the cook proudly; and when it was measured it\nwas found to be twelve feet beyond the cast of any other man.\n\nLittle was talked of that day but the wonderful throw of the young\nscullion, and soon it reached the ears of the knights at court, and in\ntime, Godrich himself. As he listened to the tale, there flashed across\nhis memory the words of the dying Athelwold: 'Find out the man who is\nbetter and fairer and stronger than any man in the world, and give him\nto be husband to my daughter.' Was there any man living stronger than\nthis Havelok? and could he himself be ill-spoken of if he should carry\nout Athelwold's dying wish? So thought Godrich; but far back in his\nheart he knew that once Goldborough was wedded to a scullion there would\nbe small chance of her becoming queen.\n\nNext morning a knight mounted on a big bay horse, and attended by two\nmen-at-arms, might have been seen riding southwards through the fair\ncounty of Lincoln, and in twenty days' time he returned, bringing with\nhim the princess. Godrich greeted her with tokens of great joy, and told\nher that, as her father had bidden him, he had found at last the fairest\nand strongest man in the world, and he should be her husband.\n\nGoldborough listened quietly to his words, and when he had ended she\nlooked at him.\n\n'Let him be as strong and fair as he may,' she said, 'but if he is not a\nking or a king's son he is no husband for me.'\n\nAt this Godrich waxed wrath, and his whole body trembled with anger.\n\n'Your father bade me swear to him when he was dying that you should\nmarry the strongest man in the world, and none other,' cried he, 'and,\nby the Rood, it is he you seek to disobey, and not me. The man who is to\nbe your husband is the servant of my cook, and to-morrow we will have\nthe wedding.'\n\nThe heart of Goldborough was filled with horror when she heard the fate\nthat was in store for her, and she fell weeping on her knees before the\nearl to implore him the rather to let her enter a convent; but Godrich\nanswered her nothing, and strode out of the hall.\n\nThe bells were ringing next day when Havelok woke, and before he was\ndressed a message came ordering him to go at once to the earl's\npresence. He wondered for what cause he was wanted, for never yet had he\nhad speech of the earl, and still more surprised was he to find Godrich\nclad in his most splendid robes, as if for a festival. But if Havelok\nwas astonished at all this, he was nearly struck dumb by the words which\nhe heard.\n\n'Master, will you take a wife?' and the young man gazed at him in\nsilence; for why should the ruler of all England take heed whether his\nscullion was wedded or not?\n\n'Will you take a wife?' asked Godrich again, in tones of impatience;\nthen Havelok found his voice.\n\n'No, by heaven I will not,' he cried; 'what should I do with a wife? I\ncould neither feed, nor clothe, nor shoe her! For myself, I should have\nno clothes either, had it not been for the bounty of your cook.'\n\nIn his rage Godrich seized a thick staff and laid it across his\nscullion's shoulder.\n\n'Promise me that you will wed her within an hour, or I will hang you on\nthe nearest tree,' he cried; and Havelok, who had no liking for death,\nconsented.\n\nHis purpose thus gained with Havelok, the earl now summoned Goldborough,\nwhom he threatened to burn if she withstood him. All night the princess\nhad wept and pondered how to escape so dreadful a doom, but at last she\ntook comfort in the thought that in accepting this husband, however\nlowly born he might be, she would be fulfilling her father's wishes. So\nas soon as Godrich gave her a chance to speak she said she would resist\nhim no longer.\n\nThen Godrich for the first time in six years felt that he was indeed\nKing of England.\n\n'You are a wise maiden,' cried he, his face glowing with joy; 'and, to\nshow you how well I love you, I will give you much gold, and you shall\nhave an archbishop to bless your marriage.' And so it was done.\n\nBoth Havelok and his wife felt that they could stay in Lincoln no\nlonger, and the next day they bought two horses and set forth for\nGrimsby. To Havelok's great grief he found that the fisherman had died\njust before, after a few days' illness, but his sons and daughters gave\nthem a glad greeting, and bade them stay in their house, promising that\nthey themselves would be their servants.\n\nWeary with travel, Havelok soon went to bed, but Goldborough knelt\npraying before the window, when suddenly a bright light filled the room.\nShe turned to see what it might be, and beheld it issuing from a cross\non Havelok's shoulder. While she gazed wondering, she heard a voice\nsaying, 'Goldborough, let sorrow depart from you, for your husband is no\nscullion, but the son of a king, and he shall rule over England and\nDenmark.' At that her heart grew light again, and she kissed Havelok and\nwoke him, and told him what the voice had said.\n\n'Let us sail at once,' added she, 'for who knows when Godrich the\ntraitor may change his mind? And bid the sons of Grim sail with us.'\n\nGoldborough's counsel seemed good to Havelok, and he rose in haste and\nsought Grim's sons, whom he found setting forth to fish. He begged them\nto wait, and to listen to his story, which Grim had always hidden from\nthem, and when they heard it, they said that they would go with him, and\nhelp him to slay the murderer of his sisters and the robber of his\ncrown.\n\n'You shall be rich men the day he dies,' vowed Havelok; and the boat was\nmade ready for sea.\n\nA fair wind blew them to Denmark, and Havelok left his wife with his\nthree foster-brothers, and betook himself to the house of Ubbe the earl,\nwhom his father had loved dearly. He said no word as to his birth, but\nasked him leave to trade on his lands, offering a ring as\nearnest-money.\n\n[Illustration: HAVELOK PRESENTS GOLDBOROUGH TO THE ENGLISH PEOPLE.]\n\nUbbe looked at the ring, and then at the young man who gave it.\n\n'You look fitter to do a knight's work than to buy and sell,' he said,\nand Havelok answered:\n\n'That will come, fair sir, but I must first go softly. Meanwhile I have\nleft my wife Goldborough under the care of her foster-brothers, and can\ntarry here no longer.'\n\n'Bring her hither,' said Ubbe, 'and dwell with her in this castle, and\nif no man has dubbed you knight I will take that upon me.'\n\nAnd so it was done, and the heart of Goldborough rejoiced, for by this\ntime she loved her husband dearly.\n\nThat same midnight Ubbe was wakened by a great light, which seemed to\nfill the castle. He rose from his bed, and went from room to room, and\nall were bright as day, though he could not tell why. Then he came to\nthe room where Havelok and Goldborough lay asleep, and out of Havelok's\nmouth came a flame like that of a hundred and ninety-seven candles. And\non his shoulder was the cross of kingship, and that was shining too.\n\nWhen Ubbe saw that, he knew that Havelok was indeed the son of\nBirkabeyn, his friend, and the rightful king of Denmark; and, waking the\nsleeping man, he bade him sit up and receive his homage. After that he\nsent for his lords, and commanded that they should swear fealty to their\nking. And when the lords had sworn, Ubbe summoned the people, and told\nthem, what many had known before, that the earl had betrayed his trust,\nand that now he should pay forfeit of his wickedness.\n\nBlithe were Havelok and Goldborough that day as they moved amidst the\ngroups of men who shared in the sports which the people of Denmark ever\nloved, and once more Havelok cast the stone further than any one there\ncould throw it. His first act, after he had been proclaimed king, was to\nmake Grim's three faithful sons barons with fair lands. Then he bid them\ngo and seek the earl, and bring him back with them.\n\nThis was not done without a hard fight, for the earl and his men\ndefended themselves stoutly; but at length he was bound and placed upon\nan old horse and carried before Havelok, who was waiting in the castle\nwith his lords about him.\n\n'What judgment will ye pass on him, fair lords?' asked the king.\n\n'That he may be hanged as beseems a murderer and a traitor, and that his\nhead be planted over the chief gate of the town as a warning to all,'\nthey said with one voice, and this was done also.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor a while Havelok stayed in Denmark to see to the affairs of the\nkingdom, and then, leaving Ubbe to rule, he set sail for England with\nGoldborough his wife, and a large army, in many ships with high carved\nprows. Once again he landed at the mouth of the Humber, and his first\nact was to found a church in memory of Grim. Next, he placed his army in\norder of battle, and awaited the attack of his enemy. Godrich the earl\nhad heard that he had come, and had hastily collected a great host, with\nwhich he marched upon Lincoln. The attack was begun by the English, and\nfierce was the fight. Many were killed, both of English and Danes. At\nlast, just as the English were being beaten slowly back, Havelok and\nGodrich came face to face with each other. Bitterly the earl then rued\nthe day when he had married Goldborough to the strongest man in the\nworld, scullion though he were! Many times Havelok might have slain him,\nbut such was not his purpose, and, taking a cord from his waist, he\nbound the traitor's arms, and bade one of his knights ride and fetch\nGoldborough, whom he had left under a guard at a little distance.\n\nWhen she drew near, Havelok commanded that a flag of truce should be\nwaved, so that the fighting might cease. Then, taking his wife by the\nhand, he led her forward, and told her story to them all, and how\nGodrich the earl had wronged her. And the English fell on their faces\nand did obeisance, and vowed to serve her faithfully all the days of\ntheir lives.\n\n'And what is the law of England respecting a traitor?' asked Havelok,\nwhen Goldborough had been proclaimed queen with trumpets and shouting.\n\n'That he be laid on an ass and burned at the stake,' cried they. And\nthis was done also.\n\nAfter this, Havelok gave his two foster-sisters in marriage to great\nlords, and made the cook to whom he had owed his good fortune earl of\nCornwall in place of the wicked Godrich. He left Ubbe to rule in\nDenmark, while he and Goldborough remained in England, but every two\nyears he sailed across the sea to be sure that all went well in the\ncountry of his birth.\n\nAnd for sixty years Havelok and Goldborough lived happily together and\nhad many children, and wherever Havelok went, Goldborough went too.\n\n[_The Lay of Havelok the Dane._ Early English Text Society.]\n\n\n\n\n_CUPID AND PSYCHE_\n\n\nOnce upon a time there lived a king who had three daughters. The two\nelder girls were very fair, and many were their suitors, but the\nyoungest was so beautiful that it was whispered in the city that the\ngoddess Aphrodite was not her equal in loveliness, and as she walked\nthrough the streets men touched their foreheads, and bowed low to the\nground, as if Aphrodite herself had passed by.\n\nNow it was not long since the shepherd Paris had given the goddess the\ngolden apple, in token that neither on the earth nor even on Olympus was\na woman to be found as fair as she. And when she heard of the honours\npaid to Psyche, she rose up in her wrath and sent a winged messenger for\nCupid, her son.\n\n'Come with me,' she said, when Cupid appeared before her, 'I have\nsomewhat to show you'; and without further speech the two flew through\nthe air together, till they reached the palace where Psyche was\nsleeping.\n\n'That is the maiden to whom men pay the homage due to me alone,' she\nwhispered, while her grey eyes darted gleams like fire. 'I have brought\nyou hither that you may avenge me by pricking her with an arrow that\nwill fill her heart with love for one of the basest of mortals. And now\nI must depart in haste, for Oceanos awaits me.'\n\nAphrodite vanished, but Cupid remained where he was, gazing on the\nsleeping maiden and confessing in his heart that those who paid her the\nhonours due to his mother were not much to blame.\n\n'Never will I do you such wrong,' he murmured, 'as to mate you with some\nbase wretch, who has no thought beyond the wine-cup. From me and my\ndarts you are safe. But am I safe from yours?' Then, fearing to stay any\nlonger, lest his mother should wax wroth with him, he also took his way\nto the palace of Oceanos.\n\n[Illustration: APHRODITE BRINGS CUPID TO PSYCHE]\n\nIf Aphrodite had not been a goddess, and had known a little more about\nthe hearts of men, she might not have envied Psyche so bitterly; for,\nthough all men bowed down before her and worshipped her beauty, each\nfelt that she was too far above him to woo for his bride. So that, while\nher sisters had homes and children of their own, Psyche remained unasked\nand unsought in her father's palace.\n\nAt length the king grew frightened as months and years slipped by, and\nPsyche was past the age when Greek maidens left the hearth where they\nhad grown into girlhood. He summoned some wise men to give him counsel,\nbut they shook their heads, and bade him consult the oracle of his\nfathers. It was a three days' journey to his shrine, and then no man\nknew when the oracle would speak, so the king took with him sheep and\noxen, and skins of wine for himself and his followers.\n\nTen days later he returned to the city with bowed head and white face.\nThe queen, with anxious heart, had been watching his arrival from the\nroof of the palace, and awaited him at the door of the women's\napartments.\n\n'What has happened?' she said, as she greeted him; but he drew her on\none side, where none might hear them.\n\n'The oracle has spoken,' answered he, 'and decrees that Psyche shall be\nleft upon a barren rock till a hideous monster shall come and devour\nher. And it is for this that men have paid her honours which were the\nportion only of the gods! Far better had she been born with the hair of\nMedusa and the hump of Heph\u00e6stos.'\n\nAt these dreadful tidings the queen and her maidens broke into weeping,\nand when the news spread through the city no sounds but those of wailing\nwere heard. Only the voice of Psyche was silent among them. She moved\nabout as one that was sleeping, and indeed she felt as if the boat, with\nits grim ferryman, had already borne her across the Styx. So the days\npassed on, and one evening a white-clad priest arrived from the shrine\nto bid the king tarry no longer.\n\nThat night a sad procession left the gates of the city, and in the midst\nwas Psyche, clad in garments of black, and led by her father, while her\nmother followed weeping behind. Singers wailed out a dirge, which was\nscarcely heard above the sobs of the mourners, and the torches burned\ndimly and soon went out.\n\nThe sun was rising when they reached the bare rock on top of a high\nmountain where the oracle had directed that Psyche should be left to\nperish. She made no sign when her father and mother took her in their\narms for the last time, and, though they cried bitterly, she never shed\na tear. What was the use? It was the will of the gods, and so it had to\nbe!\n\nNot daring to look back, the king and queen took their way home to their\ndesolate palace, and Psyche leaned against the rock trembling with fear\nlest every moment the monster should appear in sight. She was very\ntired, for the road to the mountain had been long and stony, and she was\nlikewise exhausted by her grief, so that slowly a deep sleep crept over\nher, and for a while her sorrows were forgotten.\n\nWhile she thus slumbered, Cupid, unknown to herself, had been watching\nover her, and at his bidding Zephyr approached and played round her\ngarments and among her hair. Then, lifting her gently up, he carried her\ndown the mountain side, and laid her upon a bed of lilies in the valley.\n\nWhile she slept, pleasant dreams floated through her mind, and her\nterrors and grief were forgotten. She awoke feeling happy, though she\ncould not have told why, for she was in a strange place and alone. In\nthe distance, through some trees, the spray of a fountain glimmered\nwhite, and she rose and walked slowly towards it. By the fountain was a\npalace, finer by far than the one in which Psyche had lived, for that\nwas built of stone, while this was all of ivory and gold. Vast it was,\nand full of precious things, as Psyche saw for herself when, filled with\nwonder mixed with a little fear, she stepped across the threshold.\n\n[Illustration: ZEPHYR CARRIES PSYCHE DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN]\n\n'This palace is as large as a city,' the maiden said aloud, as she\npassed from room to room without coming to an end of the marvels; 'but\nhow strange to find that there is no one here to enjoy these treasures,\nor to guard them!' She started, as out of the silence a voice answered\nher:\n\n'The palace with all it contains is yours, lady. Therefore, bathe\nyourself, if you will, or rest your limbs upon silken cushions, till the\nfeast is prepared, and we your handmaids clothe you in fine raiment. You\nhave only to command, and we obey you.'\n\nBy this time all fear had departed from Psyche, and with gladness she\nbathed herself and slept. When she opened her eyes she beheld in front\nof her a table covered with dishes of every kind, and with wines of\npurple and amber hues. As before, she could see no one, though she heard\nthe sound of voices, and when she had finished, and lay back on her\ncushions, unseen fingers struck a lyre, and sang the songs that she\nloved.\n\nSo the hours flew by, and the sun was sinking, when suddenly a veil of\ngolden tissue was placed on her head, and at the same time a voice that\nshe had not heard spoke thus:\n\n'Dip your hands in this sacred water'; and Psyche obeyed, and, as her\nfingers sank into the basin she felt a light touch, as if other fingers\nwere there also.\n\n'Break this cake and eat half,' said the voice again; and Psyche did so,\nand she saw that the rest of the cake vanished bit by bit, as if someone\nelse were eating it also.\n\n'Now you are my wife, Psyche,' whispered the voice softly; 'but take\nheed to what I say, if you would not bring ruin on yourself, and cause\nme to leave you for ever. Your sisters, I well know, will soon seek you\nout, for they think they love you, though their love is of the kind that\nquickly turns to hate. Even now they are with your parents weeping over\nyour fate, but a few days hence they will go to the rock, hoping to\ngather tidings of your last moments. It may chance that at last they may\nwander to this enchanted place, but as you value your happiness and your\nlife do not answer their questions, or lift your eyes towards them.'\n\nPsyche promised she would do her unseen husband's bidding, and the weeks\nslipped swiftly by, but one morning she felt suddenly lonely and broke\ninto wailing that she might never look on her sisters' faces again, or\neven tell them that she was alive. All the long bright hours she sat in\nher palace weeping, and when darkness fell, and she heard her husband's\nvoice, she put out her arms and drew him to her.\n\n'What is it?' he asked gently, and she felt soft fingers stroking her\nhair.\n\nThen Psyche poured out all her woe. How could she be happy, even in this\nlovely place, when her sisters were grieving for her loss? If she might\nonly see them once, if she might only tell them that she was safe, then\nshe would ask for nothing more. If not--why, it was a pity the monster\nhad not devoured her.\n\nThere was a silence after Psyche had poured forth her entreaties, and\nthen the bridegroom spoke, but his voice seemed somehow changed from\nwhat it had been before.\n\n'You shall do as you wish,' he said, 'though I fear that ill will come\nof it. Send for your sisters if you please, and give them anything that\nthe palace contains. But once again let me beseech you to answer nothing\nto their questions, or we shall be parted for ever.'\n\n'Never, never, shall that be,' cried Psyche, embracing her husband with\ndelight. And, whoever and whatever you may be, I would not give you up,\neven for the god Cupid. I will tell them nothing, but bid, I pray you,\nZephyr, your servant, to carry them hither to-morrow, as he carried\nme.'\n\nNext morning Zephyr found the two sisters seated on the rock, tearing\ntheir hair and beating their breasts with sorrow. 'Psyche! Psyche,' they\ncried, and the mountains echoed 'Psyche! Psyche,' but no other sound\nanswered them. Suddenly they felt themselves gently lifted from the\nearth, and wafted through the air to the door of the palace, where stood\nPsyche herself.\n\n'Psyche! Psyche!' they cried again, but this time with joy and wonder,\nand for a while they forgot everything else in the world. Then Psyche\nbade them tell her of her father and mother, and how the days had passed\nsince she had left them, and she pictured to herself their gladness when\nthey heard how different had been her fate from that which the oracle\nhad foretold.\n\nAfter her sisters had made known to her everything they had to tell,\nPsyche invited them to see the palace, and, calling to the voices,\nordered them to prepare baths with sweet-smelling spices, and to set\nforth a banquet for her guests. At these tokens of riches and splendour,\nenvy began to arise in their hearts, and curiosity also. They looked at\neach other, and the glances of their eyes promised no good to Psyche.\n\n'But where is your husband?' asked the eldest. 'Are we not to see him\nalso?'\n\n'Yes,' said the other, 'you have not even told us what he is like, and\nour mother will assuredly wish to know that.'\n\nTheir questions recalled to Psyche's mind the danger against which she\nhad been warned, and she answered hastily:\n\n'Oh, he is young and very handsome--the handsomest man in all the world,\nI think. But he spends much of his time in hunting, and has now gone far\ninto the mountains to chase the boar. It was thus that, feeling myself\nlonely, I sent a messenger for you. And now, come and choose what you\nwill out of the treasure-chamber, for the hour of your departure draws\nnigh!'\n\nThe sight of gold and precious stones heaped up in the treasure-chamber\nonly made the sisters more jealous than before; but their jealousy did\nnot prevent their carrying off the most splendid necklaces they could\nfind before Psyche summoned Zephyr to bear them unseen back to their own\nhomes.\n\n'Why has Fortune treated her so differently from us?' cried the eldest,\nbefore they were out of sight of the palace. 'Why should _she_ have\nboundless riches, and be married to a man who is young and handsome, and\nown slaves who fly through the air as if they were birds? Far indeed are\nthe days when she sat in our father's house, and no suitor came to woo!\nBut, though she was lonely and forlorn enough in the city, here she is\ntreated as if she were a goddess, while I am linked to a husband whose\nhead is bald, and whose back is a hump!'\n\n'My plight is worse than yours,' groaned the other sister, 'for I have\nto spend my time nursing a man who is always ill and rarely suffers me\nto leave his side. But do not let us flatter her pride by telling our\nfather and mother of the honours Fate has heaped on her. Rather let us\nconsider how best to humble her and bring her low.'\n\nMeanwhile night had fallen, and Psyche's husband came to her side.\n\n'Did you take heed to my warnings,' asked he, 'and refuse to answer the\nquestions of your sisters?'\n\n'Oh yes,' cried Psyche; 'I told them nothing that they wished to know. I\nsaid that you were young and handsome, and gave me the most beautiful\nthings in the world, but that they could not see you to-day, for you\nwere hunting in the mountains.'\n\n'So far it is well, then,' sighed he; 'but remember that even at this\nmoment they are plotting how they may destroy you, by filling your heart\nwith their own evil curiosity, so that one day you may ask to see my\nface. But recollect, the moment you do this I vanish for ever.'\n\n'Ah, you do not trust me,' sobbed Psyche; 'yet I have shown you that I\ncan be silent! Let me prove it again by suffering Zephyr to bring my\nsisters once more, and then never, never will I crave another boon from\nyou.'\n\nFor long her husband refused to grant her what she asked, but at last,\nwearied by her tears and prayers, he told her that this once she might\nbid Zephyr bring her sisters to her. Eagerly they ran through the garden\ninto the palace, and greeted Psyche with warm embraces and gentle words,\nwhile she on her part did everything she could think of to give them\npleasure. As before, she bade them choose whatever they most desired,\nand when they had returned from the treasure-chamber and were eating\nfruit under the trees by the fountain the elder sister spoke:\n\n'How it grieves me to see you the victim of such deceit, and how I long\nto be able to ward off the danger!'\n\n'What do you mean by such words?' asked Psyche, turning pale. 'No one is\ndeceiving me, and no goddess could be happier than I.'\n\n'Ah! you do not know--I dare not tell you,' gasped the other in broken\naccents. 'Sister, you try; I cannot shape the words.'\n\n'It is hard, but my duty demands it of me,' said the second sister. It\nis--oh, how shall I tell it?--your husband is not such as you think, but\na huge serpent whose neck swells with venom, and whose tongue darts\npoison. The men who work in the fields have watched him swimming across\nthe river as darkness falls, at the moment that he goes to seek you!'\n\nTheir groans and sobs, no less than their words, convinced Psyche, who\nfell straightway into the pit they had digged for her.\n\n'It is true,' she said with a trembling voice, 'that never yet have I\nbeheld my husband's face, and that many times he has warned me that the\nmoment my eyes light upon him he will abandon me for ever. His words\nwere always sweet and gentle, and his touch hardly resembles the skin of\na serpent. It is not easy to believe; but yet, if you know, I pray you,\nof your love for me, to come to my aid in this deadly peril.'\n\n'Ah, hapless one, it is for that we are here,' answered the elder; 'and\nthis is what you must do. This very night, fill a lamp full of oil, and\ncover it with a dark cloth, so that not a ray of light can be seen; then\ntake a sharp knife and hide it in your bosom. After the serpent is sound\nasleep, steal softly across the room, and snatch the cloth from the\nlamp, so that you may see where to strike home, for if he should wake\nbefore you have cut off his head your life will be forfeit.'\n\nHaving said this, they both hurriedly embraced their sister, and were\nwafted home on the wings of Zephyr.\n\nLeft alone, Psyche flung herself on the ground, and for many hours lay\ntrying to subdue her misery. At one moment she thought that she could\nnot do it--that her sisters might be wrong after all. But her faith in\nthem was strong, and as night approached she rose up to do their\nbidding.\n\nSo well did she feign happiness that her husband heard no change in her\nvoice as she bade him welcome, and, having travelled far that day, he\nsoon laid himself down on the couch and fell sound asleep. Then Psyche\nseized the lamp and snatched off the covering, but by its light she saw\nstretched on the cushions, not a huge and hideous serpent, but the most\nbeautiful of all the gods, Cupid himself.\n\nAt this sight her knees knocked together with surprise, and she gave a\nstep backwards, and the lamp, trembling in her hand, let fall a drop of\nburning oil on Cupid's shoulder. He sprang to his feet, and with one\nreproachful look he turned, and would have flown away had not Psyche\ngrasped his leg, and was borne up with him into the air, till at length\nher strength gave way and she fell to the ground, where for some time\nshe remained unconscious.\n\nWhen her senses came back, she was so miserable that she sought eternal\nforgetfulness in a neighbouring stream, but the river, in pity, carried\nher gently along and placed her on a bank of flowers. Finding that even\nthe river would have none of her, she rose up, and resolved to wander\nnight and day through the world till she should find her husband.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe first spot at which she halted was a temple on the top of a high\nmountain, where, to her surprise, she saw blades of wheat, ears of\nbarley, sheaves of oats, scythes and ploughs, all scattered about in\nwild confusion. Never before had she seen such disorder about a temple,\nand, stooping down, she began to separate one thing from another and to\nplace them in heaps.\n\nWhile she was busy with this, a voice cried to her from afar:\n\n'Unhappy girl, my heart bleeds for you! Yet even while you are pursued\nby the wrath of Aphrodite, you can labour in my service. May you find\nsome day the rest that you deserve! But now, quit this temple, lest you\ndraw down on me the anger of the goddess.'\n\nWith despair in her soul, Psyche wandered from one place to another, not\nknowing and not caring whither her feet might lead her. At length she\nwas tracked and seized by one of Aphrodite's attendants, who dragged her\nby the hair into the presence of the goddess herself. Here she was\nbeaten and scourged, both by whips and by cruel words, and, when every\nkind of suffering had been heaped on her, Aphrodite took a number of\nbags containing wheat, barley, millet, and many other seeds, and,\ntumbling them all into one heap, bade her separate and place them each\nin its own bag by the evening.\n\nPsyche stood staring where Aphrodite had left her, not even trying to\nbegin a task that she knew to be hopeless.\n\nShe would certainly be killed, thought she, but, after all, death would\nbe welcome; and she laid her weary body on the floor and sought sleep.\nAt that moment a tiny ant, which had been passing through the storehouse\non his way to the fields, and saw her terrible straits, went and fetched\nall his brothers, and bade them take pity on the damsel, and do the work\nthat had been given to her.\n\nBy sunset every grain was sorted and placed in its own bag, but Psyche\nwaited with trembling the return of Aphrodite, as she felt that nothing\nshe could do would content her.\n\nAnd so it happened, when Aphrodite entered, and thirsting for vengeance,\ncried with glee, 'Well, where are my seeds?' Psyche pointed silently to\nthe row of bags against the wall, each with its mouth open, so that at\nthe first glance it could be seen what kind of seed it contained. The\ngoddess grew white with rage, and screamed loudly, 'Wretched creature,\nit is not your hands that have done this! you will not escape my anger\nso easily'; and, tossing her a piece of bread, went away, locking the\ndoor behind her.\n\nNext morning the goddess bade one of her slaves bring Psyche before her.\n\n'In yonder grove,' she said, on the banks of a river, feed sheep whose\nwool is soft as silk and as bright as gold. Before night I shall expect\nyou to return with as much of this wool as will make me a robe. And I do\nnot think that you will find any one to perform your task this time!'\n\nSo Psyche went towards the river, which looked so clear and cool that\nshe stepped down to the brink, meaning to lay herself to rest in its\nwaters. But a reed sang to her, and its song said:\n\n[Illustration: APHRODITE FINDS PSYCHE'S TASK ACCOMPLISHED]\n\n'O Psyche, do my bidding and fear nothing! Hide yourself till evening,\nfor the sheep are driven mad by the heat of the sun, and rush wildly\nthrough the bushes and thickets. But when the air grows fresh they sink\nexhausted to sleep, and you can gather all the wool you want from the\nbranches.'\n\n[Illustration: JOYFULLY THE EAGLE BORE BACK THE URN]\n\nThen Psyche thanked the reed for its counsel and brought the wool safely\nback to the goddess; but she was received as before with scornful looks\nand words, and ordered to go to the top of a lofty mountain and fill a\ncrystal urn from a fountain of black water which spouted from between\nwalls of smooth rock. And Psyche went willingly, thinking that this time\nsurely she must die.\n\nBut an eagle which was hovering over this dark and awful place came to\nher aid, and taking the urn from her he bore it in his beak to the\nfountain, which was guarded by two horrible dragons. It needed all his\nstrength and skill to pass by them, and indeed it was only when he told\nthem that Aphrodite needed it to give fresh lustre to her beauty that\nthey ceased to snap at him with their long fangs.\n\nJoyfully the eagle bore back the urn to Psyche, who carried it back\ncarefully in her breast. But Aphrodite was still unsatisfied. Again and\nagain she found new errands for Psyche, and hoped that each one might\nlead her to her death, though every time birds or beasts had pity on\nher.\n\nIf Cupid had only known his mother's wicked schemes, he would have\ncontrived to stop them and to deliver Psyche. But the wound on his\nshoulder where the burning oil had fallen took long to heal, and for\nsome time he was in ignorance of all that Psyche was suffering. At last,\nhowever, the pain ceased, and his first thought was to visit Psyche,\nwho, nearly fainting with joy at the sound of his voice, poured forth\nall that had happened since that dreadful night which had destroyed her\nhappiness.\n\n'Your punishment has been sore,' said he, 'and I have no power to save\nyou from the task my mother has set you. But while you fulfil this I\nwill fly to Olympus, and beseech the gods to grant you forgiveness, and,\nmore, a place among the immortals.'\n\nAnd so the envy and malice of Aphrodite and the wicked sisters were\nbrought to nought, and Psyche left the earth, to sit enthroned on\nOlympus.\n\n[_Apuleius._]\n\n\n\n\n_SIR BEVIS THE STRONG_\n\n\nMany hundreds of years ago there lived in the South of England an earl\nof Southampton, whose name was Guy. He spent most of his life in\ndefending his country from all sorts of invaders who sailed from beyond\nthe seas, and it was not until he was getting old that he had time to\nthink of a wife. Then he made a very foolish choice, for he asked in\nmarriage the daughter of the king of Scotland, who had already plighted\nher troth to the young and handsome Sir Murdour.\n\nBut though Sir Murdour was brother to the emperor, the Scottish king\npreferred to wed the princess to the stout earl of Southampton, whom he\nhad known of old, and his word was law to all his court. So the bride\njourneyed with a great following to the south of England, where the\nmarriage took place, and the next year a baby was born that was called\nBevis.\n\nNow, though her husband was good and kind, and gave her the most\nbeautiful dresses and horse-trappings in the whole kingdom, the princess\nhated him with a deadly hatred, just because he was not Sir Murdour. And\nwhen her son Bevis was seven years old she determined to seek the help\nof her old lover, and entice the earl to his death.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo this end she made use of her charms and beauty to gain over to her\nside some of her husband's most trusted lords, and when this was done\nshe chose out a faithful messenger to ride north to Sir Murdour.\n\n'Bid him,' she said, 'to come without fail on the first of May to the\ngreat forest that lies by the sea. Thither will I take care that my lord\nshall fare, with but a small company, and--the rest Sir Murdour can\ngrasp. Only, I should like to see a bleeding head, in proof that all has\ngone as I wish.'\n\nSir Murdour did not delay when he heard this message, but called\ntogether a troop of armed knights, and set sail with them for the forest\non the water over against Southampton. They landed late one night, and\nSir Murdour bade his foster-brother go secretly to the palace, and let\nthe countess know that he was close at hand. After that he posted his\nmen in deep dells and behind trees, and awaited his enemy.\n\nThe sun was scarcely up before the countess roused her husband, who was\nsleeping heavily after a day's hunting.\n\n'Awake,' she cried, shaking his shoulder, 'I am feeling like unto death,\nand I have dreamed that this day I shall surely die if I eat not of the\nflesh of a wild boar of the forest.'\n\nAt these woeful tidings the earl sprang from his bed, and in a short\nwhile he was riding with a pack of hounds and a few attendants towards\nthe part of the forest where the wild boars were most plentiful. The\ndogs were soon racing down a track, having scented a boar, and the earl\nwas preparing to follow when Sir Murdour and his men leapt out from\ntheir hiding-places and suddenly surrounded him.\n\n'I am here at your lady's bidding,' said the knight; 'she has begged me\nto send her your head, and I mean to do it.'\n\n[Illustration: LITTLE BEVIS AVENGES HIS FATHER]\n\nThe earl's face grew pale at these dreadful words. He did not fear any\nman alive, but the thought of his wife's baseness took the strength from\nhis arm and the courage from his heart. Still, for the honour of his\nname and knighthood, it behoved him to fight his best, though his only\nweapon was a boar spear. The battle lasted long, but at length the\nearl's horse was killed under him, and he fell to the ground. In another\nmoment Sir Murdour struck his head from his shoulders, and, placing it\non a spear, he ordered his squire to bear it to the castle.\n\nBevis, who was standing on the battlements, saw this terrible sight, and\nseeking out his mother he vowed vengeance against the murderer. Though\nhe was only seven years old, his strength was so great that the countess\nfelt that her life would not be safe if once he discovered the truth, so\nshe ordered his uncle Saber to take the boy to some distant place and\nthere to slay him. Saber did not dare to disobey. He took Bevis with him\nto a small hut near the forest, and, killing a pig, sprinkled the\nchild's garments with the blood and sent them to his mother. Afterwards\nhe dressed Bevis in the clothes of a peasant, and, putting a stout staff\nin his hands, set him to watch a flock of sheep.\n\nThe boy did what he was told without a word, but the sheep wandered far\nthat day, and by-and-by he found himself in sight of his father's\ncastle. Then a sudden fury filled his soul, and, leaving the sheep to go\nwhither they would, he ran swiftly down the hill, and never stopped till\nhe reached the castle gate. Here the porter, to whom the countess had\ngiven much gold, tried to stop him, but Bevis only knocked him down with\nhis cudgel, and on into the hall he went, and there he beheld his mother\nand Sir Murdour feasting at the high table.\n\n'Traitors and murderers!' cried he, and lifting his staff, he dealt\nthree fierce blows at the head of Sir Murdour, which felled him to the\nground, where he lay unconscious. Then the boy turned and walked out of\nthe hall, none daring to stop him.\n\nHe told his uncle what had happened, but Saber was never ready of\ncounsel, and before he had time to think what was best the countess\nentered the hut attended by two knights, whom she ordered to seize\nBevis, and sell him as a slave to any captain in the port of\nSouthampton who might be sailing that night for the lands of the\nInfidel.\n\nThe captain of the ship was a kind man and took a liking to the boy\nwhose fate was so hard, and when a fair wind blew them into the harbour\nof Heathenesse he bade the child bear him company to the palace. The\nking, whose name was Ermyn, thought he had never seen any boy of his age\nso tall and beautiful, and asked him many things as to his past life.\nThese Bevis answered with so much truth and spirit that Ermyn was\npersuaded that he would grow into a man much above the common, and\ndeclared that he would make him heir to his throne and wed him in due\ncourse to his daughter Josyan, if he would only give up Christianity and\nbecome a convert to the faith of Heathenesse. But this Bevis swore he\nwould never do.\n\nThe good captain feared greatly that the king might be angered by\nBevis's refusal, but instead Ermyn seemed to think that the boy, who\nwould not break his vows lightly, was fain to turn out a true and loyal\nman. So he smiled, and told Bevis that he would make him his\nchamberlain, and when he was of age to be a knight, he should be his\nbanneret.\n\nEight years passed by, spent by Bevis in learning all the feats with the\nsword and spear for which the knights of Heathenesse had long been\nfamous. His life was smooth and pleasant, and it was only when he had\ncounted fifteen summers that he had his first adventure.\n\nIt was Christmas Day, and Bevis was riding with a large company of\nPaynim knights through the great plain that surrounded the city. The\ntalk ran upon the many lion chases they had held in that very place,\nwhen suddenly one of the knights who had journeyed both to Rome and\nJerusalem turned to Bevis, who happened to be next him, and asked if he\nknew what day it was.\n\n'No,' answered Bevis; 'why should I? Is it different from any other\nday?' and the knight laughed and told him he was but a poor Christian.\nThis angered Bevis, who said that, as he had lived among heathens since\nhe was seven years old, it was not likely he should have learnt anything\nabout his faith, but that in defence of it he was ready to tilt with the\nknights one after the other and hoped that in so good a cause he might\nprevail.\n\n'Listen to the crowing of this young cock' cried one of the party,\nhighly wroth at the answer of Bevis; and indeed so furious were they\nthat they set upon him at once and dealt him many wounds before the boy\nwas able to defend himself. Then he snatched a sword from the man\nnearest him, and laid about him so hardly that in a short time they were\nall stretched dead upon the ground, while their horses galloped back to\ntheir stalls. Bevis himself, suffering great pain, went quietly back to\nhis room in the palace and waited to see what would come next.\n\nWhen king Ermyn heard the news, and how so many of his best knights had\nbeen put to death by his page, he was beside himself with fury, and gave\norders that Bevis should be instantly beheaded. But Josyan, his\ndaughter, pleaded so hard for the young page that the king agreed to\nhear his story, and when he had heard it he not only forgave the youth,\nbut told Josyan, who was skilled in leechcraft, to heal his wounds. And\nin a little while Bevis was raised to higher favour than ever by slaying\na boar which had carried away and eaten several children on the\noutskirts of the city.\n\nBy this time the fame of the princess's beauty had spread far and wide,\nand the king of Damascus sent an embassy to the court of king Ermyn,\npraying that she should be given him to wife.\n\n'But,' added he, 'in case you do not well consider my suit, I would have\nyou know that I will gather together a great army, and lay waste your\nland with fire and sword. So think well before you refuse me.'\n\nKing Ermyn was little used to language of this sort, and for all answer\ncollected twenty thousand men, whom he commanded to be in readiness.\nNext, at the request of his daughter, he dubbed Bevis a knight, and the\nprincess herself clad him in a richly inlaid helmet, and buckled on him\nthe good sword Morglay. As a parting gift she bestowed on him a swift\nwhite horse called Arundel, and very proud was Bevis as he rode away at\nthe head of the army beside the commander.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt were too long to tell of all the deeds wrought by Sir Bevis during\nthe fight with the king of Damascus, whose standard-bearer, the giant\nRadyson, he slew at the very outset of the battle. In the end, and owing\nin a great measure to the valour of the young knight, the Damascenes\nowned themselves beaten, and their king remained a captive in the hands\nof Sir Bevis.\n\n'I will spare your life on one condition only,' said the victor, 'and\nthat is that you shall swear fealty on my sword to king Ermyn, and\nacknowledge yourself to be his vassal.'\n\nThe king's heart was sore when he heard what was demanded of him, for\nnever before had he been vanquished in war. Still, he saw that there was\nno help for it, and he took the oath that Bevis required of him, after\nwhich he was suffered to depart into his own country.\n\nKing Ermyn could not do enough honour to Sir Bevis when he came back to\nthe palace, and, as was the custom, he bade his daughter rid him of his\nheavy armour, to put on him gorgeous robes, and to wait on him when he\nsat down to table. Sir Bevis was half glad and half ashamed to receive\nthese services at the hands of the princess, but Josyan heard her\nfather's orders right willingly, and led him away to fulfil them at\nonce.\n\nThe first thing she did was to order her slaves to prepare a bath for\nhim, and to make it soft with all manner of sweet-smelling spices. Then\nshe summoned him to her chamber, where she had prepared food and wine,\nand, like a wise woman, spoke nothing till he had eaten and drunk as\nmuch as he would. When he had satisfied his hunger, he flung himself to\nrest on a pile of cushions, and Josyan seated herself near him. Taking\none of his hands in hers, she said softly:\n\n'Oh, Bevis, little do you know what I have suffered these many months\nfrom the love I bear you! Indeed, so grievous have been my pains that I\nmarvel that I am alive this day. But if you return not my love, of a\nsurety I am a dead woman.'\n\nNow Bevis had long loved the princess in secret; but his heart was\nproud, and, besides, he feared to seem that he had betrayed the king's\ntrust. So he answered:\n\n'Fair Josyan, I thank you for your gentle words, but it would ill become\nme to take advantage of them. There is no prince in all the world, be he\nwho he may, who would not crown you queen, and hold himself honoured.\nFor me, I am but a poor knight, and one from a strange land, to whom\nyour father has shown more favour than I deserve. It is not thus I\nshould repay his kindness.'\n\nThese words struck a chill through Josyan. All her life she had never\nknown what it was to be denied anything she asked for, and she fell to\nweeping.\n\n'I would sooner have you, poor as you are, than the greatest king\nalive,' sobbed she; but when Bevis sat still and kept silence her grief\nturned to wrath.\n\n'Am I, who might reign over any of the kingdoms of the earth, to be\nflouted by you, a mere churl? Out of my chamber this instant, and betake\nyourself to working in the fields, for they are fitter setting for one\nof your birth than a lady's bower!'\n\n'Damsel,' said Bevis, 'you wrong me. No churl am I, but the son of an\nearl, and a knight withal. And now farewell, for I shall depart into my\nown country.'\n\nFor a short time Josyan's anger held sway in her heart, and even the\ndeath of Bevis would hardly have moved her, but when she heard that\nBevis was actually preparing to leave the city her pride broke down,\nand she sent a messenger to implore his forgiveness. But she had to\nlearn that Bevis was no less proud than she, and he dismissed the\nmessenger with a ring that the king had given him, merely saying that he\nhad already bid good-bye to the princess Josyan.\n\nThen Josyan saw that if she would keep Bevis at her side she must humble\nherself to the dust, so she went herself to the chamber of Bevis, and\nimplored him to forget her hasty words, and not to forsake her. Nay, she\nwould even promise to give up her own faith and to become a Christian.\n\nAt this proof of her devotion, Sir Bevis's resolve gave way, and he told\nher that he had loved her always, but feared that her father would never\naccept him as a son-in-law. Josyan made light of this obstacle, and\ndeclared that her father would never refuse her anything she had set her\nheart upon; but Bevis was not so hopeful, and soon events proved that he\nwas right.\n\nTwo knights whom Bevis had rescued from captivity and had brought to the\npalace overheard the vows exchanged between him and Josyan, and her\noffer of being baptized. Hating and envying the good fortune of Bevis,\nthey sought out the king, and told him that his daughter was about to\ngive up the faith of Mahomet, and to fly from the country with a\nChristian knight.\n\nThese tidings were grievous to king Ermyn. He could not forgive his\ndaughter, and yet, after all the deeds he had done, the people of the\ncity would not suffer Bevis to be punished. What was he to do? The more\nhe thought of it the more bewildered he felt; and all the while the two\ntraitors stood patiently by, knowing well what was passing through the\nking's mind.\n\nAt length he turned, as they were sure he would, and asked their\ncounsel, which was quite ready.\n\n'Let your Majesty write a letter to King Bradmond, as from liege lord to\nvassal, and let Sir Bevis be the bearer of it, and bid the king put the\nknight to instant death.' So said the traitors, and, though the device\nwas neither new nor honourable, it would serve. Bevis was summoned to\nthe king's presence, and listened carefully to all he was told. Joyful\nwas he at being chosen for this mission, which he thought betokened\nspecial favour, though his spirits were somewhat damped by the assurance\nthat he must leave his sword Morglay and Arundel, his swift horse,\nbehind him.\n\n'It were an insult to the king to approach him on a war-horse, and\nbrandishing the sword that has slain so many of his men,' said Ermyn.\n'You shall ride the ambling palfrey on which I make my progress through\nthe city; and, as for weapons, you will have no need of them.' So\nArundel remained quietly in his stable, while Bevis unwillingly jogged\nalong at the slow pace of the palfrey. But in one thing he disobeyed\nking Ermyn, for under his tunic was hidden a short sword.\n\nOn the way he fell in with a pilgrim, whose offer to share his dinner\nBevis accepted gladly. They soon began to tell each other their\nadventures, and, to his surprise, Bevis found that the pilgrim was his\nown cousin, the son of his uncle Saber, and that he had come so far with\nno other purpose than to seek out the young knight and to inform him of\nall that had happened during the years that had passed since his\nfather's death.\n\nThe vassals of the old earl, said the pilgrim, had been so ground down\nby the wicked Sir Murdour and his wife, that they had risen up as one\nman, and, headed by Saber, had defended the Isle of Wight against the\nusurper. But it was greatly to be desired that the young earl should\nreturn home as fast as possible, and attack Murdour in his castle of\nSouthampton, and for this reason had he set forth to seek him.\n\nBevis's heart and his blood waxed hot with the listening, but he did not\nwish that the pilgrim should learn just then who he was, so he answered\nthat the young earl was his friend and brother, and that on his part he\nwould promise speedy help to the faithful vassals fighting in his cause.\nWith this they parted, and Bevis pursued his way to Damascus.\n\nOn entering the gates of the city he found himself in the midst of a\nlarge crowd, who were making ready a sacrifice to a wooden idol, which\nwas carried in a golden car. This roused the wrath of the young man,\nand, forcing his way through the multitude, he seized the idol and flung\nit into the mud, calling loudly on the people to go and help their god,\nsince he could not help them. In an instant a thousand arms were raised\nagainst the stranger who had dared to insult the majesty of their idol,\nand, though Bevis drew his short sword and defended himself bravely, he\ncould not have held out against such numbers had not the palace gates\nbeen close behind. Still fighting, Bevis entered the gates, and drawing\nthe letter from his tunic ordered the guards to take him at once into\nthe presence of the king.\n\nBradmond read the letter with joy, as he felt that his enemy was\ndelivered into his hands, and the tidings of the attack on the idol\nhardened his heart still more. Without further delay he bade the guards\ntake Bevis and carry him off to a deep dungeon under the palace where\nlived two huge dragons, who would be fain to eat him forthwith.\n\n'And I do this,' said Bradmond, 'not to avenge my own wrongs, but to\nperform my oath of duty unto my sovereign lord king Ermyn. For this is\nthe service he requires of me, in the letter that you yourself have\nbrought.'\n\n[Illustration: STRONG SIR BEVIS KEEPS THE TWO DRAGONS AT BAY]\n\nRopes were tied under Bevis's arms, and he was lowered down, down, down,\ntill he could see nothing but four fiery eyes which glared furiously up\nat him. Soon after his hands knocked against something hard and rough,\nwhich moved under his touch. At the same moment his feet touched the\nbottom, and he found himself standing in a large cave with a feeble ray\nof light coming from the far end. By this he dimly perceived two\nhorrible dragons, but for a moment they were still, and did not move to\nattack him.\n\nBevis made use of the short time allowed him to feel about if perchance\nhe could find some weapon with which to defend himself instead of the\nshort sword which had been taken from him, and he came upon a stout\nstaff, thrown into one corner, and by the aid of this he held those two\nmonsters at bay for a whole night and day. By this time the dragons, who\nhad been weakened by a slothful life and the flesh of many prisoners,\nwere too weak to resist any longer, and fell an easy prey to the strong\narm of Bevis.\n\nOf course it was not long before the men who had charge of the dungeon\ndiscovered that the dragons were dead, but they were so filled with\nadmiration of Bevis's courage that they kept his counsel, and let down\ninto his prison daily a good portion of wheat cake, so that he managed\nto keep himself alive. Bradmond the king very soon forgot all about him,\nso that the soldiers did as they pleased.\n\nThus some years passed away.\n\nAt the end of that time one of the gaolers died, and the other was sent\nto a distant city. The two men who took their places knew nothing of\nBevis, save that he was a captive in the dungeon, and that as long as he\nwas alive it was part of their duty to feed him every day. 'Let us\nmurder him,' said one man to another; 'it is small use to feed a man in\na dungeon who is forgotten by himself and all the world'; so one of them\nfastened a ladder of ropes to the side and climbed down it, in the hope\nof finding an easy victim lying on the ground. Instead there was a man\nas strong as ten other men, who leapt swiftly aside to avoid the blow of\nhis sword, and struck him dead to the ground with a blow of his fist.\nThe other gaoler, hearing no noise from below, crept down the ladder to\nsee what had taken place; but as soon as he was on the floor of the\ndungeon Bevis gave a mighty spring which snapped the chain that had\nbound him to the rock, and thrust him through with the sword he had\ntaken from his fellow. Then, when, as far as he could reckon, the night\nwas nearly gone, he climbed up the ladder, and stood once more a free\nman.\n\nAt the first gleam of dawn, Sir Bevis stole out to the stables, where\nthe king's horses were being groomed. Peeping through a hole, he\ndiscovered a room hung round with suits of armour, and, getting in\nthrough the roof, he took down a coat of mail, a helmet, and a shield,\nwhile he chose out a good sword from a pile standing in a corner. Then\nentering the stable, he cut off the heads of several of the men, while\nthe rest fled out of reach of the strange being with the long hair and\nstrong arm. When they were all gone Bevis brought out the best horse in\nthe stable, and rode out across the drawbridge into the world again.\n\nOf course, directly he was missed, king Ermyn sent his best knights in\npursuit of him, but in one way or another Sir Bevis got the better of\nthem all, and made his way to Jerusalem, where, for the first time since\nhe was seven years old, he entered a Christian church. But so anxious\nwas he to hear some tidings of Josyan, that he remained only a short\ntime in the city, and soon rode on again along the road to her father's\ncourt.\n\nOn the way he met with a young knight who had once been his squire, and\nwho told him a sad tale. Josyan, he said, had been asked in marriage by\nthe most powerful and fierce of all the kings of Heathenesse, but she\nsteadily refused to wed any man who was not a Christian like herself.\nThis so enraged her father that he gave leave to her suitor to do with\nher as he would; so king Inor, for so was he named, carried her off to\nhis own kingdom, and shut her up in a tower till she should come to a\nbetter mind, and be ready to return to her old faith.\n\n'In her tower she is still,' continued the knight; 'but if you would\nhave speech with her it is first needful to persuade the king to go on\nsome distant mission. And first you must put on a disguise, for at any\nmoment those may come by who knew you well at the royal palace.'\n\nThis advice Bevis followed; he hid himself with his friend behind a\nclump of bushes till a pilgrim passed on the way to Jerusalem. The young\nknight then left his hiding-place, and prayed the pilgrim for the sake\nof charity and a dole of money to be given in alms that he would\nexchange clothes with Sir Bevis. To this the pilgrim readily agreed, and\nsoon Bevis was arrayed in a long mantle, carrying a staff in his hand.\n\n'Now go and stand about the door of the palace, and when the king comes\nfrom hunting he will see you, and will ask you where you come from, and\nwhat news is stirring in the world. And you must say to him that you\nhave lately journeyed from Syria, from the kingdom of his brother, and\nthat the land has been overrun by strange armies, and that the country\nis in a great strait. When he hears that he will of a surety hasten to\nhis aid, and then you will be able to escape with Josyan without danger\nof losing your head.'\n\nNow Inor the king had placed Josyan under the charge of Boniface, the\nchamberlain, who had been long in the service of her father, and in\norder the better to help her had pretended to approve of the evil way in\nwhich she was treated. Directly he heard of the plot he began to play\nhis part towards its fulfilment, and in the evening of the day on which\nthe king had departed he managed to give the steward, who had been left\nto rule the city, such a powerful sleeping draught that he did not wake\nfor twenty-four hours. Meanwhile Sir Bevis chose out the best suit of\narmour in the king's armoury and the fastest horse in his stable; and\nwhen night fell Josyan stole softly down from her tower, and, mounting\nArundel, whom she had brought with her from her old home, rode out of\nthe gates by the side of Bevis. Boniface followed close after them. He\ndid not dare to stay behind, as he knew that his head was forfeit.\n\nBut as things happened he might as well have remained where he was, for\nthe very next day, when Bevis was hunting, two lions came up to the cave\nwhere Josyan and her chamberlain lay concealed. Without an instant's\npause they devoured Boniface and his horse, which was tethered outside,\nthough Josyan's beauty so overawed them that they bent their heads\nhumbly in her presence.\n\nThe next adventure that befell Sir Bevis was a battle with a giant\nthirty feet high, who had been sent by the steward to catch the two\nrunaways. During the fight he was sore wounded, and in the end owned\nBevis to be his master, and begged to be allowed to take service with\nhim. Sir Bevis agreed, though somewhat doubtfully, but soon found reason\nto rejoice in his new page, for by his help he was able to turn some\nSaracens out of a ship which bore them all with a fair wind to the city\nof Cologne.\n\nHere he found his uncle, the bishop; who was brother to his father and\nto Sir Saber, and, leaving Josyan in safety under his care, he set sail\nwith a hundred knights for Southampton. Before landing he sent one of\nhis most trusty squires for tidings as to how fared Sir Murdour, and\nreceived for answer that the quarrel still raged betwixt him and Sir\nSaber. Then Bevis went on shore with all his knights, and bade one of\nthem tell Sir Murdour that they had sailed from France in quest of\nservice, and that if he so willed they would fight under his banner,\nbut, if not, they would offer themselves to his foe.\n\nSir Murdour was overjoyed at the sight of the strangers, and asked the\nname of their leader.\n\n'Sir Jarrard,' said Bevis, who did not wish to make himself known, and\ninquired further what were the causes of the war with Sir Saber, and how\nlong it had lasted. To this Sir Murdour made reply that Sir Saber had\nbeen seeking for many years past to wrest from him the heritage which\nwas his by purchase from the spendthrift heir Bevis, who had afterwards\nquitted the country, but that with the help of the strangers an end\nwould speedily be put to the quarrel.\n\nWhile Bevis stood listening to Sir Murdour, his fingers unconsciously\ncrept to the handle of his sword, but he forced back his wrath and\nanswered that, had they brought their horses with them, the dispute\nmight have been settled that very night. Still, much might be done if\nSir Murdour would give them a ship in which to sail to the Isle of\nWight, and would provide them with horses.\n\nSir Murdour did not need to be asked twice; he gave to Sir Bevis his\nfinest horses and his best armour, and before many hours Bevis was\nstanding on the Isle of Wight by the side of his uncle Saber.\n\n'Take yonder fishing-boat,' said he to one of his knights, 'and return\nto Southampton and enter the castle. Then tell Sir Murdour that the man\nto whom he has given his arms and his horses is no knight of France, but\nSir Bevis earl of Southampton, who has come to take vengeance for the\ndeath of his father.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe battle which decided the strife was fought upon the island, and\nnever for a moment did Bevis lose sight of his enemy. In vain did\nMurdour ride from one part of the field to the other; Bevis was always\nthere, though it was long before he was close enough to thrust at him.\nAt last he managed to hurl him to the ground, but Murdour's followers\npressed hard on him, and Bevis could not, by his own self, take him\ncaptive.\n\n'To me! To me!' he cried at last, and Ascapard strode up, cleaving the\nheads of all that stood in his way.\n\n'What shall be done with him?' asked he, picking up the fallen knight\nand holding him tightly.\n\n'Put him in the cauldron that is boiling outside the camp,' said Bevis.\n'For that is the death for traitors.'\n\nSo Sir Bevis got his own again, and he sent to Cologne for Josyan, and\nwas wedded to her by his uncle the bishop in his good town of\nSouthampton.\n\n[From the _Early English Metrical Romances_.]\n\n\n\n\n_OGIER THE DANE_\n\n\nLong, long ago, a baby lay asleep in a cot in a palace. It was a royal\nbaby, therefore it was never left alone for a moment, but always had two\nor three ladies watching it, by day and by night, so that no serpent\nshould crawl into its cradle and bite it, nor any evil beast run off\nwith it, as sometimes happened in other countries.\n\nBut one evening, after a very hot day, all the ladies in waiting felt\nstrangely drowsy, and, though they tried their best to keep awake, one\nby one they gradually dropped off to sleep in the high carved chairs on\nwhich they sat. Then a gentle rustle might have been heard outside on\nthe staircase, and when the door opened a brilliant light streamed in,\nthough the ladies slept too soundly to be awakened by it. Wrapped round\nby the light were six fairies, more beautiful than any fairies that ever\nwere seen, who glided noiselessly to the cradle of the baby.\n\n'How fair he is!' whispered one; 'the true son of a king.'\n\n'And how strong he is!' answered another; 'look at his arms and legs,'\nand the whole six bent forward and looked at him.\n\n'The world shall ring with his fame,' said the first, whose name was\nGloriande, 'and I will give him the best gift I have. He shall never\nfear death, and no word of shame shall ever touch him.'\n\nThen the second fairy leaned forward and lifted the baby out of his\ncradle. She was tall, and on her head was a ruby crown, while a plate of\ngold covered her breast.\n\n'Through all your life,' she murmured, 'wherever war and strife may be,\nyou shall be found in the midst of it, even as your forefathers.'\n\n'Yes,' said a third; 'but my gift is better than hers, for you shall\nnever be worsted in any fight, and every one shall add to your honour.'\n\n'And though you are the first of knights,' exclaimed the fourth, 'you\nshall win fame for your courtesy and gentlehood, no less than for your\nvalour.'\n\n'The hearts of all women shall turn to you, and they shall love you,'\nsaid the fifth, who was clad in a robe of transparent green; 'but beware\nhow you give them back their love, for this love of mortals needs\nproving'; and with that she slipped away from the cradle.\n\nThe sixth fairy looked silently at the child for a few moments, though\nher thoughts seemed to be with something far away.\n\nAt length she spoke, and these were her words:\n\n'When you are weary of travel and of strife and have won all the glory\nand honour that may fall to men, then you shall come to me in my palace\nof Avallon, and rest in the joys of fairyland with Morgane le Fay.'\n\nAfter that the light began to fade, and the six fairies vanished none\ncould tell how or whither.\n\nBy-and-by the baby's attendants woke up, and never knew that during\ntheir sleep the child's fate had been fixed as surely as if he had been\nbitten by a serpent or carried off by a wolf. Everything _seemed_ the\nsame as it had done before, and so they took it for granted that it\n_was_.\n\nTime passed on, and Ogier, for that was the name they gave him, was ten\nyears old. He was tall and strong and could send his arrows farther than\nmost boys many years older. He could handle a spear too, and his thrusts\nwent straight at the mark; while he could sing a song, or touch the lute\nas delicately as a maiden. His father was proud of him, and it went sore\nwith him when Charlemagne the emperor, who had had a bitter quarrel\nwith the king of Denmark, demanded that Ogier should be sent as a\nhostage to his court of Paris.\n\n[Illustration: HOW THE FAIRIES CAME TO SEE OGIER THE DANE]\n\nFor four years the boy lived happily in Paris, daily making new friends,\nand learning to be a skilled swordsman; but at the end of that time the\nDanish king sank some of Charlemagne's ships, and the emperor vowed that\nOgier should pay for his father's deed. His life was spared, but the\nyouth was banished to St. Omer, a little town on the coast. Here he\nspent some years, which would have been dull and very wearisome but for\nthe kindness of the governor, who not only allowed him to fish and hunt\non receiving his word that he would not try to escape, but gave him his\ndaughter, the fair Belissande, as his companion, and even consented to a\nmarriage between them. For, kind though he was, he did not forget that\nthe captive youth was after all heir to the Danish throne.\n\nOgier would have been quite content to stay where he was, when suddenly\nthe emperor summoned him to come to Paris and take part in a war which\nhad broken out between him and the Saracens, who had landed in Italy.\nUnwilling though he was, of course Ogier was forced to obey, and he\nspeedily won such fame that in a little while Charlemagne declared that\nfrom henceforth he should have in battle the place of honour on the\nright hand of the emperor himself. This favour so excited the jealousy\nof Charlot, the emperor's son, that he laid many snares for Ogier's\nlife, but, owing to the gift of the fairy Gloriande, the young man\ncontrived to escape them all.\n\nOn his return to France with the army, after the war was over and the\nSaracens had been beaten, he found two pieces of news awaiting him. One\nwas that his father was dead, and that he was king of Denmark, and the\nother was that during his absence a son had been born to him.\n\nTaking leave of the emperor, he chose the swiftest horse he could find\nin the stables and rode straight to St. Omer. The boy was by this time\nthree years old, and promised to be tall and strong like his father.\nAlready he could mount a pony and use a tiny bow and arrows that had\nbeen made for him, and even could tell the names of some of the battles\nhis father had won.\n\nBut Ogier could not tarry long in the castle of St. Omer. Taking his\nwife and son with him, he set out at once for Denmark, and spent several\nyears in the kingdom making laws and teaching his people many things\nthat he had learnt in his travels.\n\nAfter ten years, however, he became weary of this peaceful life, and,\nafter Belissande died, he felt he could bear it no longer. So, leaving\nthe crown to his uncle, he returned to France with his son and fought\nonce more by the side of Charlemagne. This was the life he loved, and it\nseemed as if it might have gone on for ever had it not been for the\nprince Charlot, who, unhappily, only grew more quarrelsome and foolish\nthe older he got.\n\nCharlot was one day playing chess with the son of Ogier, and, as he was\nhasty and impatient, the game went against him. Like many others, he had\nnever learned how to take a beating like a man, and, raising his hand,\nhe struck the youth a blow on the temple which killed him. Charlemagne,\ngrieved though he really was, refused to punish Charlot, and after\nsaying bitter words Ogier left Paris, and took service with the king of\nLombardy, but was soon captured, while asleep, by Archbishop Turpin.\n\nBy this time Charlemagne had felt the loss of Ogier so greatly, and had\nbesides suffered so much from further ill-doings on the part of his son,\nthat he lent a ready ear to Ogier's offer of reconciliation, provided he\nwere allowed to avenge himself on the murderer. But just as Ogier was\nabout to strike off Charlot's head, and rid the world of a man who never\ndid any good in it, he was stopped by a mysterious voice which bade him\nto spare the son of Charlemagne. So Charlot was left to work more\nmischief throughout the land.\n\nA second time a crown fell to Ogier in right of his wife, the princess\nClaria of England, who had been delivered by Ogier out of the hands of\nthe Saracens. But the princess died not many months after, and the\nfetters of the throne were no more to Ogier's taste in England than in\nDenmark. So he assembled all his barons, and bade them choose themselves\na king from among them. This done, he set sail across the sea for the\nlife of adventure that he loved.\n\nFor some time Ogier fought in Palestine, where he gained great fame, for\nno army and no city could stand before him. But his heart always turned\nto France, and directly peace was made he said farewell to his\ncompanions and took ship for Marseilles. At first the breeze was fair,\nbut when they had made half the voyage a tempest arose and the vessel\nwas driven on a rock, while all the crew except Ogier himself were\ndrowned. This happened early in the morning, but as soon as darkness\nfell and Ogier was fearing that he might die of hunger, as no living\nthing could be seen on the island, he suddenly beheld facing him a\ncastle of adamant. He rubbed his eyes and gazed at it in amazement,\nthinking it was a vision, for he knew not that this castle was\nenchanted, and, though unseen by day, shone by night from light of its\nown. However, he did not hesitate at the strangeness of his adventure,\nbut taking his sword in his teeth he swam ashore, and mounted the flight\nof steps that led to the open door.\n\nRich and beautiful things lay scattered everywhere, but not a sign was\nthere of any one to enjoy them. Room after room was empty, and Ogier was\nfast losing hope and wondering whether he was to die of starvation in\nthe midst of all this splendour. He had searched every chamber of the\ncastle except one which lay before him at the end of a long gallery. He\nwould go into that too, but if it should prove as barren as the rest\nthen his case was indeed perilous.\n\nWith a beating heart he drew back the bolts and lifted the latch of the\ngreat carved door. Before him a long table was spread with fruits and\nfood of the rarest sort, while in a large chair at the further end a\nhorse was seated enjoying a huge pasty. At the sight of Ogier he rose\npolitely and bowed, after which he presented him with a golden bowl full\nof water and returned to his chair.\n\nDuring his travels Ogier had beheld many strange things, but never\nbefore had a horse been his host, and he was so startled that, hungry\nthough he was, he hardly touched the food which the horse heaped on his\nplate, expecting every moment that a magician might appear or the whole\ncastle crumble away.\n\nQuiet though Ogier was, the horse, who had been taught manners in the\ncourt of the sultan of Babylon himself, took no notice of his guest's\nbehaviour but finished his own supper, which was a very hearty one. When\nit was done he rose again, bowed a second time to Ogier, who had risen\nalso, and, signing with his fore hoof towards a curtain on one side of\nthe hall, passed through, followed by his guest. In the centre of a\nmagnificent chamber stood a soft bed, at which Ogier gazed longingly.\nThe horse saw the direction of his eyes, and with another bow he\nwithdrew.\n\nIn the morning Ogier awoke early and passed through the door into a\nmeadow bright with flowers. He looked round him, and saw a group of\nladies sitting under a tree plucking fruit from its branches, and\nfilling golden cups from a clear stream that ran at their feet. Not\nhaving eaten since his scanty supper of the night before, he approached\nthe ladies, one of whom arose and spoke to him, saying:\n\n'Welcome, Ogier of Denmark! I have waited for you long. A hundred years\nhave passed since I stood by your cradle--a hundred years of war and of\nfighting. But you have tired of them at last and have come back to me!\nAnd now you shall rest in the palace of Avallon. I am Morgane le Fay.'\n\n[Illustration: OGIER THE DANE MEETS MORGANE LE FAY AT LAST]\n\nShe held out her hand, and Ogier placed his within it, and thus they\nentered the castle. Then she went to her closet and drew a casket from\nit, and from the casket she took a ring, which she slipped on Ogier's\nfinger. Afterwards she placed on his head a wreath of golden laurels\nintertwined with bays, and his white hair became once more like\nsunshine, and the wrinkles faded from his brow. And with the wrinkles\nfaded also the recollection of the battles he had fought, and of\nCharlemagne himself, and even of Belissande, whom he had loved so well.\nSoft sounds of singing floated through the palace, and fairies trailing\nflowers glided in and out in the dance. While Ogier stood entranced and\ndumb, there entered King Arthur, to whom spoke Morgane le Fay:\n\n'Draw near, Arthur, my lord and brother, come and salute the flower of\nchivalry, the boast of the court of France, he in whom courtesy,\nloyalty, and all virtue are united.'\n\nAnd Arthur drew near, and they embraced each other.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo hundred years passed as a single day, till one morning when Ogier\nwas lying on a bank listening to the birds which sang like no birds\nwhich mortal ears have ever heard, he took for an instant the crown from\noff his head. In a moment the memories of his old life flashed across\nhim, and, starting up, he sought Morgane le Fay, and bade her give him\nhis sword, for he was going to fight for fair France again. In vain the\nfairy besought him not to forsake her, but he would hear nothing, and\nshe was fain to do as he wished. So by her magic she conjured up a\nlittle boat which bore Ogier to Marseilles, whence he hastened to the\nwar, which was being carried on in Normandy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGreat was the surprise of the warriors and ladies of the court at the\nsight of the new-comer, whose face was as young and fresh as their own,\nbut whose arms and whose speech were of a time long gone by. At first\nsome were inclined to try him with jests, but they speedily found that,\nstrange though his manners might seem, it were wiser to accept them.\nIndeed, it was not long before Ogier's presence had caused itself to be\nso felt throughout the camp that he was given command of an army that\nwas about to march against the enemy who were invading France and\nutterly routed them. In gratitude the king begged him to counsel him in\nall things, and in a few months some of Ogier's strength and wisdom had\npassed into the people.\n\nNow night and day Ogier wore the ring which Morgane le Fay had placed on\nhis finger, and as long as it was there no youth about the court was\nfairer and more splendid than he. The gift with which he had been\nendowed in his cradle had lost none of its power, and as he passed\nthrough the crowd, towering full a head over other men, the hearts of\nthe ladies went out towards him. _He_ could not help it, and _they_\ncould not help it. It had been so ordained by the fairy. Even age could\nnot preserve them; nay, it seemed to render them an easier prey.\n\nAmongst the noble ladies whose pulses beat faster at the sight of\nOgier's golden hair was the Countess of Senlis. Old was she, and\nwithered of face, but she had never ceased to think that she was young,\nand she mistook the kindliness and courtesy of Ogier's manner for the\nlove that man bears to woman.\n\nOne morning, in crossing the garden to attend upon her mistress the\nqueen, the countess came upon Ogier lying asleep under the trees. She\nstopped and looked upon him tenderly; then her eyes fell upon the ring\non his finger, whose stone, of a strange green hue, was graven with\ndevices.\n\n'If I could see them close, perchance I might guess who he is and whence\nhe came,' said she to herself, and, stooping, she drew lightly the ring\nfrom his hand, not knowing that the queen had crept up and stood behind\nher. But what an awful change came over him all at once! His limbs grew\nshrivelled, his hair white, his eyes so shrunken that they seemed hardly\nmore than points; but when the queen turned with horror to ask her lady\nwhat it meant, the change in her was hardly less wondrous, for, though\nthe old countess was ignorant of it, fifty years had been swept from\nher, and she was straight and winsome as of yore.\n\nThey were still standing, dumb with surprise, when Ogier awoke and\nglanced about him with feeble, uncertain gaze. Catching sight of the\nring, which the countess was still holding, he stretched his shaking\nhand towards it. The action was more than the queen could bear.\n\n'Give it back to him,' she said; and, unwilling though she was to part\nwith such a treasure, the countess was forced to obey.\n\nTremblingly Ogier restored the ring to its place, and in an instant his\nyouth and beauty returned to him.\n\nSoon after this the king of France died, and when the time of mourning\nwas over the queen made known to Ogier that she wished to take him for\nher second husband. Gentle was she and fair, and easy it was for Ogier\nto love her, and his heart beat high at the thought of sitting on the\nthrone where Charlemagne had once sat. The people rejoiced greatly when\nthey heard of the marriage, for with Ogier for their king they were\nsafe, they thought, from invaders.\n\nThe wedding day had come, and scarce a man or woman in Paris had closed\ntheir eyes the night before. Magnificent indeed would the procession be\nthat was to end in the new cathedral; gorgeous would be the trappings of\nthe horses, dazzling the dresses of the ladies that would ride, some in\nlitters and some on horses, through the streets that bordered the river.\nEarly was the queen astir, to be tired by her maidens, and if Ogier's\nslumbers lasted longer--well, it was not the first time that he had been\ncrowned a king.\n\nAt length he was awakened by the sound of a voice calling his name:\n\n'Ogier, Ogier!' and at the sound the present was forgotten, and the past\nrushed back. 'Ogier, Ogier!' whispered the voice again, and, looking, he\nsaw standing by his bed not the queen, but Morgane le Fay.\n\n'Rise quickly,' she said, 'and put on your wedding garments. Clothe\nyourself in the mantle Charlemagne wore, and the crown that was placed\nupon his brow. Set on your feet his shoes of gold, and let me see you\nonce as France would have seen you.'\n\nHe did her bidding, and she gazed at him awhile, then slowly drawing\nnigh she lifted the crown from his hair, and in its stead she put on him\nthe wreath of laurel which brought peace and forgetfulness.\n\n'Now come with me,' she said, holding out her hand, and together they\nleft the palace unseen, and entered a barge that was waiting in the\nriver, and in the sunrise they sailed away to the castle of Avallon.\n\n[Adapted from Dunlop's _History of Prose Fiction_, and Morris's _Ogier\nthe Dane_.]\n\n\n\n\n_HOW THE ASS BECAME A MAN AGAIN_\n\n\nOnce upon a time there lived a young man who would do nothing from\nmorning till night but amuse himself. His parents were dead and had left\nhim plenty of money, but this was fast vanishing, and his friends shook\ntheir heads sadly, for when the money was gone they did not see where\nmore was to come from. It was not that Apuleius (for that was the name\nof the youth) was stupid. He might have been a good soldier, or a\nscholar, or a worker in gold, if so it had pleased him, but from a child\nhe had refused to do anything useful, and roamed about the city all day\nlong in search of adventures. The only kind of learning to which he paid\nany heed was magic, and when he was in the house he would spend hours\nporing over great books of spells.\n\nFond though he was of sorcery, he was too lazy to leave the town and its\npleasures--the chariot-racing, the theatre, and the wrestling, and to\ntravel in search of the wizards who were renowned for their skill in the\nart. However, the time came when, very unwillingly, he was forced to\ntake a journey into Thessaly, to see to the proper working of some\nsilver mines in which he had a share, and Thessaly, as everybody knows,\nis the home of all magic. So when Apuleius arrived at the town of\nHypata, where dwelt the man Milo, overseer of his mines, he was prepared\nto believe that all he saw was enchanted.\n\nNow, if Thessaly is the country of magic, it is also the country of\nrobbers, and Apuleius soon noticed that everybody he met was in fear of\nthem. Indeed, they made this fear the excuse for all sorts of mean and\nfoolish ways. For instance, Milo, who loved money and could not bear to\nspend a farthing, refused to have any seats in his house that could be\nremoved, and in consequence there was nothing to sit upon except two\nmarble chairs fixed to the wall. As there was only room in these for one\nperson, the wife of Milo had to retire to her own chamber when the young\nman entered.\n\n'It was no use,' explained Milo, 'in laying out money on moveable seats,\nwith robbers about. They would be sure to hear of it and to break into\nthe house.'\n\nUnlike his guest, Milo was always occupied in adding to his wealth in\none form or another. Sometimes he sent down a train of mules to the sea,\nand bought merchandise which the ships had carried from Babylon or\nEgypt, to sell it again at a high price. Then he dealt in sheep and\ncattle, and when he thought he might do so with safety made false\nreturns of the silver that was dug up from the mines, and kept the\ndifference for himself. But most often he lent large sums at high\ninterest to the young men of the neighbourhood, and so cunning was he\nthat, whoever else might be ruined, Milo managed to make large profits.\n\nApuleius knew very well that his steward was in his way as great a\nrobber as any in Thessaly, but, as usual, he found it too much trouble\nto look into the matter. So he laughed and jested with the miser, and\nnext morning went out to the public baths and then took a stroll through\nthe city. It was full of statues of the famous men to whom Hypata had\ngiven birth; but as Apuleius had made up his mind that nothing in\nThessaly _could_ be what it seemed, he supposed that they were living\npeople who had fallen under enchantment, and that the oxen whom he met\ndriven through the streets had once been men and women.\n\nOne evening he was returning as usual from a walk when he saw from afar\nthree figures before Milo's house, who he at once guessed were trying to\nforce an entrance. 'Here is an adventure at last,' thought he, and,\nkeeping in the shadow, he stole softly up behind them, and drawing his\nshort sword he stabbed each one to the heart. Then, without waiting to\nsee what more would befall, he left them where they were and entered the\nhouse by a door at the back.\n\nHe said nothing of what had happened to Milo his host, but the next day,\nbefore he had left his bed, a summons was brought him by one of the\nslaves to appear before the court at noon on a charge of murder. As has\nbeen seen, Apuleius was a brave man and did not fear to face three times\nhis number, but his heart quailed at the thought of a public trial.\nStill, he was wise enough to know that there was no help for it, and at\nthe hour appointed he was in his place.\n\nThe first witnesses against him were two women with black veils covering\nthem from head to foot. At the sound of the herald's trumpet, one of the\ntwo stepped forward and accused him of compassing the death of her\nhusband. When she had ended her plaint the herald blew another blast,\nand another veiled woman came forward and charged him with her son's\nmurder. Then the herald inquired if there was not yet a third victim,\nbut was answered that his wound was slight, and that he was able to roam\nthrough the city.\n\nAfter the witnesses had been called, the judge pronounced sentence.\nApuleius the murderer was condemned to death, but he must first of all\nbe tortured, so that he might reveal the names of the men who had\nabetted him. By order of the court, horrible instruments were brought\nforward which chilled the blood of Apuleius in his veins. But to his\nsurprise, when he looked round to see if none would be his friend, he\nnoticed that every one, from the judge to the herald, was shaking with\nlaughter. His amazement was increased when with a trembling voice one of\nthe women demanded that the bodies should be produced, so that the judge\nmight be induced to feel more pity and to order more tortures. The\njudge assented to this, and two bodies were carried into court shrouded\nin wrappings, and the order was given that Apuleius himself should\nremove the wrappings.\n\nThe face of the young man grew white as he heard the words of the judge,\nfor even a hardened criminal cares but little to touch the corpse of a\nman whom he has murdered. But he dared not disobey, and walked slowly to\nthe place where the dead bodies lay. He shrank for a moment as he took\nthe cloth in his hand, but his guards were behind him, and calling up\nall his courage he withdrew it. A shout of laughter pealed out behind\nhim, and to his amazement he saw that his victims of the previous night\nhad been three huge leather bottles and not men at all!\n\nAs soon as Apuleius found out the trick that had been played on him he\nwas no less amused than the rest, but in the midst of his mirth a sudden\nthought struck him.\n\n'How was it you managed to make them alive?' asked he, 'for alive they\nwere, and battering themselves against the door of the house.'\n\n'Oh, that is simple enough when one has a sorceress for a mistress,'\nanswered a damsel, who was standing by. 'She burned the hairs of some\ngoats and wove spells over them, so that the animals to whom the hairs\nand skins had once belonged became endowed with life and tried to enter\ntheir former dwelling.'\n\n'They may well say that Thessaly is the home of wonders,' cried the\nyoung man. 'But do you think that your mistress would let me see her at\nwork? I would pay her well--and you also,' he added.\n\n'It might be managed perhaps, without her knowledge,' answered Fotis,\nfor such was the girl's name; 'but you must hold yourself in readiness\nafter nightfall, for I cannot tell what evening she may choose to cast\noff her own shape.'\n\nApuleius promised readily that he would not stir out after sunset, and\nthe damsel went her way.\n\nThat very evening, Hesperus had scarcely risen from his bed when Fotis\nknocked at the door of the house.\n\n[Illustration: APULEIUS CHANGES INTO AN ASS]\n\n'Come hither, and quickly,' she said; and without stopping to question\nher Apuleius hastened by her side to the dwelling of the witch Pamphile.\nEntering softly, they crept along a dark passage, where they could peep\nthrough a crack in the wall and see Pamphile at work. She was in the act\nof rubbing her body with essences from a long row of bottles which\nstood in a cupboard in the wall, chanting to herself spells as she did\nso. Slowly, feathers began to sprout from her head to her feet. Her arms\nvanished, her nails became claws, her eyes grew round and her nose\nhooked, and a little brown owl flew out of the window.\n\n'Well, are you satisfied?' asked Fotis; but Apuleius shook his head.\n\n'Not yet,' he answered. 'I want to know how she transforms herself into\na woman again.'\n\n'That is quite easy, you may be sure,' replied Fotis. 'My mistress never\nruns any risks. A cup of water from a spring, with some laurel leaves\nand anise floating in it, is all that she needs. I have seen her do it a\nthousand times.'\n\n'Turn me into a nightingale, then, and I will give you five hundred\nsesterces,' cried Apuleius eagerly; and Fotis, tempted by the thought of\nso much money, agreed to do what he wished.\n\nBut either Fotis was not so skilful as she thought herself, or in her\nhurry she neglected to observe that the bird bottles were all on one\nshelf, and the beast bottles on another, for when she had rubbed the\nointment over the young man's chest something fearful happened. Instead\nof his arms disappearing, they stretched downwards; his back became\nbent, his face long and narrow, while a browny-grey fur covered his\nbody. Apuleius had been changed, not into a nightingale, but into an\nass!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA loud scream broke from Fotis when she saw what she had done, and\nApuleius, glancing at a polished mirror from Corinth which hung on the\nwalls, beheld with horror the fate that had overtaken him.\n\n'Quick, quick! fetch the water, and I will seek for the laurels and\nanise,' he cried. 'I do not want to be an ass at all; my arms and back\nare aching already, and if I am not swiftly restored to my own shape I\nshall not be able to overthrow the champion in the wrestling match\nto-morrow.'\n\nSo Fotis ran out to draw the water from the spring, while Apuleius\nopened some boxes with his teeth, and soon found the anise and laurels.\nBut alas! Fotis had deceived herself. The charm which was meant for a\nbird would not work with a beast, and, what was worse, when Apuleius\ntried to speak to her and beg her to try something else, he found he\ncould only bray!\n\nIn despair the girl took down the book of spells, and began to turn over\nthe pages; while the ass, who was still a man in all but his outward\nform, glanced eagerly down them also. At length he gave a loud bray of\nsatisfaction, and rubbed his nose on a part of the long scroll.\n\n'Of course, I remember now,' cried Fotis with delight. 'What a comfort\nthat nothing more is needed to restore you to your proper shape than a\nhandful of rose leaves!\n\nThe mind of Apuleius was now quite easy, but his spirits fell again when\nFotis reminded him that he could no longer expect to be received by his\nfriends, but must lie in the stable of Milo, with his own horse, and be\ntended, if he was tended at all, by his own servant.\n\n'However, it will not be for long,' she added consolingly. 'In the\ncorner of the stable is a little shrine to the goddess of horses, and\nevery day fresh roses are placed before it. Before the sun sets\nto-morrow you will be yourself again.'\n\nSlowly and shyly Apuleius slunk along lonely paths till he came to the\nstable of Milo. The door was open, but, as he entered, his horse, who\nwas fastened with a sliding cord, kicked wildly at him, and caught him\nright on the shoulder. But before the horse could deal another blow\nApuleius had sprung hastily on one side, and had hidden himself in a\ndark corner, where he slept soundly.\n\nThe moon was shining brightly when he awoke, and looking round he saw,\nas Fotis had told him, the shrine of Hippone, with a branch of\nsweet-smelling pink roses lying before it. It was rather high up, he\nthought, but, when he reared himself on his hind legs, he would surely\nbe tall enough to reach it. So up he got, and trod softly over the\nstraw, till he drew near the shrine, when with a violent effort he threw\nup his forelegs into the air. Yes! it was all right, his nose was quite\nnear the roses; but just as he opened his mouth his balance gave way,\nand his front feet came heavily on the floor.\n\nThe noise brought the man, who was sleeping in another part of the\nstable.\n\n'Oh, I see what you are at, you ugly beast,' cried he; 'would you eat\nroses that I put there for the goddess? I don't know who may be your\nmaster, or how you got here, but I will take care that you do no more\nmischief.' So saying, he struck the ass several times with his fists,\nand then, putting a rope round his neck, tied him up in another part of\nthe stable.\n\nNow it happened that an hour or two later some of the most desperate\nrobbers in all Thessaly broke into the house of Milo, and, unheard by\nanyone, took all the bags of money that the miser had concealed under\nsome loose stones in his cellar. It was clear that they could not carry\naway such heavy plunder without risk of the crime being discovered, but\nthey managed to get it quietly as far as the stable, where they gave the\nhorse some apples to put it in a good temper, while they thrust a turnip\ninto the mouth of Apuleius, who did not like it at all. Then they led\nout both the animals, and placed the sacks of money on their backs,\nafter which they all set out for the robbers' cave in the side of the\nmountain. As this, however, was some distance off, it took them many\nhours to reach it, and on the way they passed through a large deserted\ngarden, where rose bushes of all sorts grew like weeds. The pulse of\nApuleius bounded at the sight, and he had already stretched out his nose\ntowards them, when he suddenly remembered that if he should turn into a\nman in his present company he would probably be murdered by the robbers.\nWith a great effort, he left the roses alone, and tramped steadily on\nhis way.\n\nIt were long indeed to tell the adventures of Apuleius and the number of\nmasters whom he served. After some time he was captured by a soldier,\nand by him sold to two brothers, one a cook and the other a maker of\npastry, who were attached to the service of a rich man who lived in the\ncountry. This man did not allow any of his slaves to dwell in his house,\nexcept those who attended on him personally, and these two brothers\nlived in a tent on the other side of the garden, and the ass was given\nto them to send to and fro with savoury dishes in his panniers.\n\nThe cook and his brother were both careful men, and always had a great\nstore of pastry and sweet things on their shelves, so that none might be\nlacking if their lord should command them. When they had done their work\nthey placed water and food for their donkey in a little shed which\nopened on to the tent, then, fastening the door so that no one could\nenter, they went out to enjoy the evening air.\n\nOn their return, it struck them that the tent looked unusually bare, and\nat length they perceived that this was because every morsel of pastry\nand sweets on the shelves had disappeared, and nothing was left of them,\nnot so much as a crumb. There was no room for a thief to hide, so the\ntwo brothers supposed that, impossible though it seemed, he must not\nonly have got _in_ but _out_ by the door, and, as their master might\nsend for a tray of cakes at any moment, there was no help for it but to\nmake a fresh supply. And so they did, and it took them more than half\nthe night to do it.\n\nThe next evening the same thing happened again; and the next, and the\nnext, and the next.\n\nThen, by accident, the cook went into the shed where the ass lay, and\ndiscovered a heap of corn and hay that reached nearly to the roof.\n\n'Ah, you rascal!' he exclaimed, bursting out laughing as he spoke. 'So\nit is you who have cost us our sleep! Well, well, I dare say I should\nhave done the same myself, for cakes and sweets are certainly nicer than\ncorn and hay.' And the donkey brayed in answer, and winked an eye at\nhim, and, more amused than before, the man went away to tell his\nbrother.\n\nOf course it was not long before the story reached the ears of their\nmaster, who instantly sent to buy the donkey, and bade one of his\nservants, who had a taste for such things, teach him fresh tricks. This\nthe man was ready enough to do, for the fame of this wonderful creature\nsoon spread far and wide, and the citizens of the town thronged the\ndoors of his stable. And while the servant reaped much gold by making\nthe ass display his accomplishments, the master gained many friends\namong the people, and was soon made chief ruler.\n\nFor five years Apuleius stayed in the house of Thyasus, and ate as many\nsweet cakes as he chose; and if he wanted more than were given him he\nwandered down to the tent of his old masters, and swept the shelves bare\nas of yore. At the end of the five years Thyasus proclaimed that a great\nfeast would be held in his garden, after which plays would be acted, and\nin one of them his donkey should appear.\n\nNow, though Apuleius loved eating and drinking, he was not at all fond\nof doing tricks in public, and as the day drew near he grew more and\nmore resolved that he would take no part in the entertainment. So one\nwarm moonlight night he stole out of his stable, and galloped as fast as\nhe could for ten miles, when he reached the sea. He was hot and tired\nwith his long run, and the sea looked cool and pleasant.\n\n'It is years since I have had a bath,' thought he, 'or wetted anything\nbut my feet. I will take one now; it will make me feel like a man\nagain'; and into the water he went, and splashed about with joy, which\nwould much have surprised anyone who had seen him, for asses do not in\ngeneral care about washing.\n\nWhen he came back to dry land once more, he shook himself all over, and\nheld his head first on one side and then on the other, so that the water\nmight run out of his long ears. After that he felt quite comfortable,\nand lay down to sleep under a tree.\n\nHe was awakened some hours later by the sound of voices singing a hymn,\nand, raising his head, he saw a vast crowd of people trooping down to\nthe shore to hold the festival of their goddess, and in their midst\nwalked the high priest crowned with a wreath of roses.\n\nAt this sight hope was born afresh in the heart of Apuleius. It was long\nindeed since he had beheld any roses, for Thyasus fancied they made him\nill, and would not suffer anyone to grow them in the city. So he drew\nnear to the priest as he passed by, and gazed at him so wistfully that,\nmoved by some sudden impulse, the pontiff lifted the wreath from his\nhead, and held it out to him, while the people drew on one side, feeling\nthat something was happening which they did not understand.\n\nScarcely had Apuleius swallowed one of the roses, when the ass's skin\nfell from him, his back straightened itself, and his face once more\nbecame fair and rosy. Then he turned and joined in the hymn, and there\nwas not a man among them all with a sweeter voice or more thankful\nspirit than that of Apuleius.\n\n[Apuleius, _The Golden Ass_.]\n\n\n\n\n_GUY OF WARWICK_\n\n\nEveryone knows about the famous knight Sir Guy, the slayer of the great\nDun Cow which had laid waste the whole county of Warwick. But besides\nslaying the cow, he did many other noble deeds of which you may like to\nhear, so we had better begin at the beginning and learn who Sir Guy\nreally was.\n\nThe father of Guy, Segard the Wise, was one of the most trusty\ncouncillors of the powerful earl of Warwick and Oxford, who was feared\nas well as loved by all, as a man who would suffer no wrong through the\nlands which he governed.\n\nNow the earl had long noted the beauty and strength of Segard's young\nson, and had enrolled him amongst his pages and taught him all manner of\nknightly exercises. He even was versed in the art of chess-playing, and\nthus whiled away many a wet and gloomy day for his master, and for his\ndaughter the fair Felice, learned in astronomy, geometry, and music, and\nin all else that professors from the schools of Toulouse and Spain could\nteach a maiden.\n\nIt happened one Pentecost that the earl of Warwick ordered a great\nfeast, followed by a tourney, to be held in the open space near the\ncastle, and tents to be set up for dancing and players on the lute and\nharp. At these tourneys it was the custom of every knight to choose out\nhis lady and to wear her token or colours on his helmet, as Sir Lancelot\ndid the red sleeve of Elaine, and oftentimes, when Pentecost and the\nsports were over, marriages would be blessed by the priest.\n\nAt this feast of Pentecost in particular, Guy stood behind the chair of\nhis master the earl, as was his duty, when he was bidden by the\nchamberlain of the castle to hasten to the chamber of the Lady Felice,\nand to attend upon her and her maidens, as it was not thought seemly for\nthem to be present at the great feast.\n\nAlthough, as we have said, the page had more than once been called upon\nto amuse the young damsel with a bout of chess, she had ever been\nstrictly guarded by her nurse and never suffered to exchange a word with\nthe youth whose place was so much below hers. On this evening, however,\nwith none to hinder her, she chattered and laughed and teased her\nladies, till Guy's heart was stolen from him and he quite forgot the\nduties he was sent to fulfil, and when he left her presence he sought\nhis room, staggering like one blind.\n\nYoung though he was, Guy knew--none better--how wide was the gulf that\nlay between him and the daughter of his liege lord. If the earl, in\nspite of all his favour, was but to know of the passion that had so\nsuddenly been born in him, instant death would be the portion of the\nover-bold youth. But, well though he knew this, Guy cared little, and\nvowed to himself that, come what might, as soon as the feast was over he\nwould open his heart to Felice, and abide by her answer.\n\nIt was not easy to get a chance of speaking to her, so surrounded was\nshe by all the princes and noble knights who had taken part in the\ntourney; but, as everything comes to him who waits, he one day found her\nsitting alone in the garden, and at once poured forth all his love and\nhopes.\n\n'Are you mad to think that _I_ should marry _you_?' was all she said,\nand Guy turned away so full of unhappiness that he grew sick with\nmisery. The news of his illness much distressed his master, who bade all\nhis most learned leeches go and heal his best-beloved page, but, as he\nanswered nothing to all they asked him, they returned and told the earl\nthat the young man had not many days to live.\n\nBut, as some of our neighbours say, 'What shall be, shall be'; and that\nvery night Felice dreamed that an angel appeared to her and chided her\nfor her pride, and bade her return a soft answer if Guy again told her\nof his love. She arose from her bed full of doubts and fears, and\nhurried to a rose bower in her own garden, where, dismissing her ladies,\nshe tried to set her mind in order and find out what she really felt.\n\nFelice was not very successful, because when she began to look into her\nheart there was one little door which always kept bursting open, though\nas often as it did so her pride shut it and bolted it again. She became\nso tired of telling herself that it was impossible that the daughter of\na powerful noble could ever wed the simple son of a knight, that she was\nabout to call to her maidens to cheer her with their songs and stories,\nwhen a hand pushed aside the roses and Guy himself stood before her.\n\n'Will my love ever be in vain?' he asked, gasping painfully as he spoke\nand steadying himself by the walls of the arbour. 'It is for the last\ntime that I ask it; but if you deny me, my life is done, and I die, I\ndie!' And indeed it seemed as if he were already dead, for he sank in a\nswoon at Felice's feet.\n\nHer screams brought one of her maidens running to her. 'Grammercy, my\nlady, and is your heart of stone,' cried the damsel, 'that it can see\nthe fairest knight in the world lying here, and not break into pieces at\nhis misery? Would that it were _I_ whom he loved! I would never say him\nnay.'\n\n'Would it _were_ you, and then I should no more be plagued of him,'\nanswered Felice; but her voice was softer than her words, and she even\nhelped her maiden to bring the young man out of his swoon. 'He is\nrestored now,' she said to her damsel, who curtseyed and withdrew from\nthe bower; then, turning to Guy, she added, half smiling:\n\n'It seems that in my father's court no man knows the proverb, \"Faint\nheart never won fair lady.\" Yet it is old, and a good one. _My_ hand\nwill only be the prize of a knight who has proved himself better than\nother men. If _you_ can be that knight--well, you will have your chance\nwith the rest.'\n\nThe soul of the youth leaped into his eyes as he listened; for he knew\nthat this was much for the proud Felice to say. But he only bowed low,\nand with new life in his blood he left the castle. In a few days he was\nas strong as ever he had been, and straightway sought the earl, whom he\nimplored to bestow on him the honour of knighthood.\n\n'Right gladly will I do so, my page,' answered Rohand, and gave orders\nthat he would hold a solemn ceremony, when Guy and twenty other youths\nshould be dubbed knights.\n\nLike many young men, Sir Guy thought that his first step on the road was\nalso to be his last, and instantly sought the presence of Felice, whom\nhe expected to find in the same softened mood as he had left her. But\nthe lady only laughed his eagerness to scorn.\n\n'Think you that the name of knight is so rare that its ownership places\nyou high above all men?' asked she. 'In what, I pray you tell me, does\nit put you above the rest who were dubbed by my father with you to-day?\nNo troth of mine shall you have until your name is known from Warwick to\nCathay.'\n\nAnd Sir Guy confessed his folly and presumption, and went heavily unto\nthe house of Segard.\n\n'O my father,' he began before he had let the tapestry fall behind him,\n'I would fain cross the seas and seek adventures.'\n\n'Truly this is somewhat sudden, my fair young knight,' answered Sir\nSegard, with a mocking gleam in his eyes, for Guy's father had not been\nas blind as fathers are wont to be.\n\n'Other knights do so,' replied Guy, drawing figures on the floor with\nthe point of his sword. 'And I would not that I were behind them.'\n\n'You shall go, my son,' said Segard, 'and I will give you as companions\nthe well-tried knights Sir Thorold and Sir Leroy, and H\u00e9raud, whom I\nhave proved in many wars. Besides these, you shall have men-at-arms with\nyou, and such money as you may need.'\n\nBefore many days had passed, Sir Guy and his friends had sailed across\nthe high seas, and had made their way to the noble city of Rouen. Amidst\nall that was strange and new to him, there was yet much that was\nfamiliar to his eyes, for there were certain signs which betokened a\ntournament, and on questioning the host of the inn he learned all that\nhe desired. Next morning a tourney was to be held by order of the\nemperor and the prize should be a white horse, a milk-white falcon, and\ntwo white greyhounds, and, if he wished it, the hand of the princess\nWhiterose, the emperor's daughter.\n\nThough he had not been made a knight a month ago, Sir Guy knew full well\nthe customs of chivalry, and presented a palfrey, scarcely less\nbeautiful than the one promised as a prize, to the teller of these happy\ntidings. Then he put on his armour and rode forth to the place of the\ntourney.\n\nIn the field over against Rouen was gathered the flower of Western\nchivalry. The emperor had sent his son, and in his train came many\nvaliant knights, among them Otho duke of Pavia, hereafter to be Sir\nGuy's most bitter enemy. The fights were long and sore, but one by one\nthe keenest swordsmen rolled in the dust, and the prize was at length\nadjudged to the youngest knight there present.\n\nFull courteously he told all who might wish to hear that he might not\nwed Whiterose, the princess, for his faith was already plighted to\nanother across the sea. And to Felice and to her father he sent the\nfalcon and horse and greyhounds as tokens of his valour. After that he\nand his friends journeyed to many lands, fighting tournaments when there\nwere any tournaments to fight, till the whole of Christendom rang with\nthe name of Sir Guy.\n\n'Surely I have proved my worth,' he said, when a whole year had gone by.\n'Let us go home'; and home they went.\n\nJoyful was the welcome bestowed on him by every one he met--joyful, that\nis, from all but Felice.\n\n'Yes, you have done well,' she said, when he knelt before her, offering\nsome of the prizes he had won. 'It is truly spoken among men that there\nare not twelve knights living as valorous as you. But that is not good\nenough for me. It matters not that you are \"one of the best\"; my husband\nmust be \"the best of all.\"'\n\nIn vain Sir Guy pleaded that with her for his wife his strength would be\ndoubled, and his renown also.\n\n'If you cannot conquer all men for my sake _now_, you will never do it\nafter,' she answered; and Sir Guy, seeing his words were useless, went\nout to do her bidding.\n\nThe wrath of his father and mother was great when their son came to tell\nthem he was going to seek a fresh quest, but, though his heart was sore\nrent with their tears, he only embraced them tenderly, and departed\nquickly, lest he should make some promise he might not keep.\n\nFor long he found no knight whose skill and strength were equal to his\nown, and he was beginning to hope that the day was drawing nigh that\nshould see him stand without a peer, when, in a tourney near the city of\nBenevento, his foe thrust his lance deep into his shoulder, and for many\ndays Sir Guy lay almost senseless on his bed.\n\nNow Otho duke of Pavia had neither forgotten nor forgiven his overthrow\nby the young knight at Rouen, more than a year agone, and he resolved to\nhave his revenge while his enemy was still weak from loss of blood. So\nhe hid some men behind some bushes, which Sir Guy would needs pass while\nriding along the road to the north, 'and _then_,' thought he, 'I will\ncast him into prison, there to await my pleasure.'\n\nBut though his plans were well laid, the fight went against him, and in\nthe end Sir Guy, nearly fainting with weariness and loss of blood, was\nagain the victor, and Otho's best knight, Sir Guichard of Lombardy, owed\nhis life to the swiftness of his horse. His victory, however, was to Sir\nGuy as sad as many defeats, for his constant companions lay dead before\nhim.\n\n'Ah, Felice, this is your doing,' said he.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLong were it to tell of the deeds done by the noble knight Sir Guy; of\nthe tourneys that he won, of the cities that he conquered--even at the\ngame of chess he managed to be victorious! Of course many men were\nsorely jealous of him and his renown, and wove plots for his ruin, but\nsomehow or other he contrived to escape them all.\n\nBy this time Sir Guy had grown to love wandering and fighting so well\nthat he had well-nigh forgotten who had sent him from his native land,\nand why he was not dwelling in his father's castle. Indeed, so wholly\nhad the image of Felice faded from his memory, that when Ernis emperor\nof Constantinople, under whose banner he was serving, offered him the\nhand of his only daughter and half of his dominions, Sir Guy at once\naccepted his gifts.\n\nThe sight of the wedding-ring brought him back to his allegiance. He no\nlonger loved Felice it is true, and he _did_ love a younger and gentler\nmaiden. But he must abide by the oath he had sworn, though it were to\nhis own undoing.\n\nHis grief at the loss of the princess Lorette sent Sir Guy to his bed\nfor many days, but as soon as the fever left him he felt that he could\nstay at court no longer, and began to make plans to seek other\nadventures in company with his friend H\u00e9raud and a lion which he had\nsaved from the claws of a dragon.\n\nSince that day this lion had never quitted his side, except at his\nmaster's bidding, and he always slept on the floor by his master's bed.\nThe emperor and all his courtiers were fond of the great beast, who\nmoved among them as freely as a kitten, but Sir Morgadour, the chief\nsteward of the emperor of the West, who was visiting the court, had ever\nbeen Sir Guy's mortal enemy, and one evening, thinking himself unseen,\ngave the lion a mortal wound as he was sleeping quietly in the garden.\nHe had just strength enough to drag himself to Sir Guy's feet, where he\ndied, and a damsel who had marked the cruel deed proclaimed loudly that\nit was done by Sir Morgadour. In an instant Sir Guy's dagger was buried\nin his breast; but when he grew calmer he remembered that his presence\nat court might bring injury upon Ernis, as the emperor of the West would\ncertainly seize the occasion to avenge the death of his steward. So the\nnext day he left the city, and slowly turned his face towards England.\n\nIt was some months before he arrived there, so many adventures did he\nmeet with on the way. But directly he landed he hastened to York to\nthrow himself at the feet of Athelstan the king.\n\n'Ah, welcome indeed, fair son,' cried he; 'the fame of your prowess has\nreached us these many years past, and we have just received the news\nthat a fearful and horrible dragon, with wings on his feet and claws on\nhis ears, is laying waste our county of Northumberland. He is as black\nas any coal, and as rough as any foal, and every man who has gone out to\nmeet him has been done to death ere he has struck a blow. Go, therefore,\nwith all speed and deliver us from this monster, for of dragons you\nhave slain many, and perchance this one is no more evil than the rest.'\n\nThe adventure was one after Sir Guy's own heart, and that very day he\nrode northwards; but even _his_ well-proved courage failed somewhat at\nthe sight of the dragon, ten times uglier and more loathsome than any he\nhad ever beheld. The creature roared hideously as he drew near, and\nstood up at his full length, till he seemed almost to stretch as far as\nWarwick. 'Verily,' thought Sir Guy to himself, 'the fight of old with\nthe great Dun Cow was as the slaying of a puppy in comparison with\nthis!'\n\nThe dragon was covered thickly with scales all over his body, his\nstomach as well as his back. They were polished and shiny and hard as\niron, and so closely planted that no sword could get in between them.\n\n'No use to strike there,' muttered Sir Guy, 'a thrust down his throat is\nmy only chance.'\n\nBut if Sir Guy knew this, the dragon knew it much better, and, though\nthe knight managed to jump aside and avoid the swoops of his long neck\nand the sudden darting of his sharp claws, he had not even tried to\nstrike a blow himself for fear lest his sword should break in two\nagainst that shining horny surface. This was not the kind of warfare to\nwhich the dragon was accustomed, and he began to grow angry, as anyone\nmight have seen by the lashings of his tail and the jets of smoke and\nflame that poured out of his nostrils. Sir Guy felt that his chance\nwould soon come, and waited patiently, keeping his eye for ever fixed on\nthe dragon's mouth.\n\nAt length the monster gave a sudden spring forward, and if Sir Guy had\nnot been watching he could scarcely have leaped out of the way. The\nfailure to reach his prey enraged the dragon more than ever, and,\nopening his mouth, he gave a roar which the king heard on his throne at\nYork. He opened his mouth; but he never shut it again, for Guy's sword\nwas buried in it. The death struggles were short; and then Sir Guy cut\noff the head and bore it to the king.\n\nAfter this, his first thought was for his parents, who, he found, had\ndied many years agone, and having said a prayer over their graves, and\nput his affairs in order, he hurried off to Warwick to see Felice, and\ntell her that he had fulfilled the commands she had given him long years\nago, when he was but a boy. He also told her of the ladies of high\ndegree whose hands he had won in fair fight--won--and rejected. 'All of\nthem I forsook for thee, Felice,' he said.\n\nHe had kept his word; but he had left his heart in Constantinople.\nPerhaps Felice did not know this, or perhaps she did not set much store\nby hearts, and cared more for the renown that Sir Guy had won throughout\nChristendom. Anyhow, she received him gladly and graciously, and so did\nher father, and the marriage was celebrated with great pomp, and for a\nspace Sir Guy remained at home, and after a time a son was born to him.\n\nBut at the day of his son's birth Sir Guy was far away. In the quiet and\nidleness of the castle he began to think, and his conscience pricked him\nsore, that all the years of his life he had done ill to many a man\n\n    And slain many a man with his hand,\n    Burnt and destroyed many a land.\n    And all was for woman's love,\n    And not for God's sake above.\n\n'The end should be different from the beginning,' he said, and forthwith\nhe put on the dress of a pilgrim, and took ship for the Holy Land,\ncarrying with him a gold ring, given him by Felice.\n\nOnce more he came back, an old man now, summoned by Athelstan, to\ndeliver the city of Winchester out of the hands of the Danes, who were\nbesieging it. Once more he returned to Warwick, and, unseen, watched\nFelice training her son in all the duties of knighthood, and once more\nhe spoke with her, when, dying in his hermitage, he sent her the ring by\nhis page, and prayed her to come and give him burial.\n\n[_Early English Metrical Romances._]\n\n\n\n\n_HOW BRADAMANTE CONQUERED THE WIZARD_\n\n\nMany of you will remember reading of the death of Roland, fighting\nagainst the Infidels in the Pass of Roncesvalles. Well, there is another\nbook called 'Roland the Wrathful,' or in Italian (in which it was\nwritten), 'Orlando Furioso,' telling of the adventures of the great\nPaladin when he was a young man, and those of his friends. It is of one\nof these stories about a lady named Bradamante that you are going to\nhear now.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrom childhood, Bradamante had loved all feats of arms, and her chiefest\njoy was to mount the most fiery horses in her father's stable. She grew\nup very tall and strong, as well as fair to see, and soon put on man's\narmour, and began to take her part in tournaments, and it was rare\nindeed that she failed to carry off the prize. In truth, it was not long\nbefore her skill was said to be equal to that of Roland's cousin, the\nrenowned Rinaldo.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf course so wise and beautiful a maiden had no lack of wooers, but\nBradamante listened to none, save only to the brave Roger, who had\nquitted the Moorish court to seek adventures in the lands of Charlemagne\nthe emperor. But she kept silence as to her love, and was content to\nwait till such time as Roger should think fit to claim her as his bride.\n\nSuddenly the tidings came to her that Roger had vanished from among men,\nno one knew whither. As was her wont, Bradamante heard, and said\nnothing, but the next morning she sharpened her sword, and looked to\nthe fastenings of her helmet, and rode off to seek him if perchance some\nill had befallen him.\n\nIn this quest she met with some adventures of her own, but of these we\nhave no time to tell. Bradamante, we may be sure, did not linger over\nthem, but pushed on till she crossed a mountain, and reached a valley\nwatered by a stream and shaded by large trees.\n\nOn the bank lay a young man with his head buried in his hands and\nseemingly in a state of deepest misery. He had flung his horse's bridle\nover the branch of a beech, and on the same bough he had hung his shield\nand sword. His looks and posture were so forlorn that Bradamante was\nmoved to pity, and he himself was nothing loth to confess his woes,\npretending the while to take her for a man, though he knew well she was\na maiden. He was journeying, such was his tale, to the court of\nCharlemagne with a company of spearmen to aid the emperor in the war he\nwas waging with the Moorish king of Spain. In the company was riding a\ndamsel whom the knight had but lately freed from the power of a dragon.\nThe beauty of this damsel had fired his heart, and as soon as the\nInfidel was crushed he hoped to wed her. But as they rode along by the\nside of a rapid river a winged horse guided by a man in black was seen\nhovering in the air above the troop. Swifter than lightning he swooped\ndown upon the maiden; the rider bent low and snatched her off her\npalfrey, and was out of sight in the heavens almost before he knew that\nshe was gone.\n\n'Since that day,' continued he, 'I have sought her through forests and\nover mountains, wherever I heard that a wizard's den was to be found.\nBut each time it was a false hope that lured me on, and now my horse is\nspent and not another step can he go, though at length I know that\nhidden among yonder rocks is my captive maiden.'\n\n'If it is there she lies, I will free her,' cried Bradamante; but the\nknight shook his head more grievously than before.\n\n'I have visited that dark and dreadful place,' he said, 'which indeed I\nthink seems more like the valley of death than aught on this fair and\nlovely earth. Amidst black and pathless precipices stands a rock, and on\nits top is a castle whose walls are of steel. It was built, so I have\nsince learned, by a magician, and none can capture it.'\n\n'But did you see no man who would take pity on you, and tell you what to\ndo?' asked Bradamante.\n\n'As I lingered, unable to tear myself away from that loathly prison,\nthere appeared a dwarf guiding two knights whose faces I had often seen\nupon the battlefield and at court. One was Gradasso king of Sericane,\nthe other and more valiant was the young Roger.'\n\n'And what did they there?' asked Bradamante, casting down her eyes.\n\n'They had come to fight the wizard who dwells in the castle, so said the\ndwarf,' replied the knight, 'and I told them my sad tale, and they\nanswered in knightly fashion, that as long as their lives should last\nthey would fight for the freedom of my lady. Little need have I to tell\nhow my bosom was rent as I stood aside waiting for the combat to begin.\n\n'Each good knight was eager that the first blow might fall to him, but\nit was Gradasso who seized the horn and blew a blast which rang through\nthe castle.\n\n'In a moment there shot into the sky the winged horse bearing his\nmaster, clad as before in black armour. He hovered for a little space so\nhigh that even the eagle could scarcely have followed him, then darted\nstraight downwards, and Gradasso felt a spear-thrust in his side. The\nknight struck sharply back, but his sword cleft the empty air, for the\nhorse was already far out of reach. Roger ran to staunch the blood and\nbind up the wound, never thinking of what might befall himself. But, in\ntruth, how could mortal men fight with a wizard who had studied all the\nmagic of the East, and had a winged horse to help him? His movements\nwere so swift that they knew not where to smite, and both Gradasso and\nRoger were covered with wounds and bruises, while their enemy had never\nonce been touched.\n\n'Their strength as well as their courage began to fail in the stress of\nthis strange warfare. The blows they dealt grew ever wilder and more\nfeeble, when from off his shield which hung upon his arm the wizard drew\na silken covering, and held the shield towards them as a mirror. As I\nlooked and wondered, behold the knights fell upon their faces, and I\nalso, and when next I opened my eyes I was alone upon the mountain.'\n\n'And Roger?' said Bradamante.\n\n'Roger and Gradasso had doubtless been carried by the wizard to the dark\ncells of the prison, where my fair lady lies,' answered the knight, and\nhe again dropped his head upon his hands.\n\nNow the knight was count Pinabello, the false son of a false race, and\nwoe betide the man or maid who trusted him. But this Bradamante knew\nnot, and thinking that the end of her quest was come cried joyfully:\n\n'Oh, take me to the castle, sir knight, with all the speed you may, and\nI shall be beholden to you for ever!\n\n'If you so desire it I will lead you there,' answered the knight; 'but\nremember that I have warned you that the danger is great! When you have\nclimbed those walls of steel, you will find yourself a prisoner like the\nrest.'\n\n'I care nothing for that,' said Bradamante.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo they set forth, but it was not by the road to the castle that\nPinabello led the maiden. Wrapped in his gloom begotten of treachery and\nhate, he wandered from the path into a wood, where the trees grew so\nthickly that the sky was scarcely visible. Then a dark thought entered\nhis mind. 'She shall trouble me no more,' he murmured as he went; and\naloud, 'The night is at hand, and ere it comes it were well that we\nfound a shelter. Rest, I pray you, here a short while, and I will climb\nthat hill and see if, as I expect, there is a tower not far off where we\ncan lie. To-morrow we will proceed on our way.'\n\n'Let me go with you,' answered Bradamante, 'lest you should never find\n_me_ again, or _I_ the wizard's castle,' and, so saying, she guided her\nhorse after his.\n\nThus they rode for some way, when Pinabello, who was in front, espied\namong the rocks a deep cavern with sides so steep and smooth that no\nmortal could have climbed them. He jumped off his horse and peered to\nthe bottom, but no bottom could he see. Then his heart leaped at the\nthought that now, once and for all, he would be rid of Bradamante.\n\n'Ah, good knight, you did well to follow me,' turning to greet her, as\nher horse came panting up the steep hill.\n\n'A damsel lies imprisoned in that dark place, and it is foretold that\nonly a knight with a white mantle and a white plume in his helm can\ndeliver her. Now I think that you must be that knight, and if you have\nthe courage to go down into that cavern as I went, you will get speech\nof her, as I did.'\n\n'I will go right willingly,' answered Bradamante, and looked about her\nfor some means of descending into the cavern. Near the mouth was a stout\noak, and Bradamante cut off a branch with her sword and plunged it down\nthe mouth of the cave. She gave Pinabello one end to hold fast, and\nlowered herself carefully into the darkness.\n\n'Can you jump?' asked the count suddenly, with a laugh, and, giving the\nbough a push, it fell with Bradamante into the pit.\n\nBut the traitor triumphed without a cause. In the swift passage down the\ncave the branch struck the bottom first, and, though it broke in pieces,\nBradamante was saved from being dashed against the floor, where she lay\nfor a while bruised and shaken.\n\nWhen she became used to the darkness, she stood up and looked around\nher. 'There may be some way out, after all,' thought she, noting that\nthe cave was less gloomy than she had fancied, and felt round the walls\nwith her hands. On one side there seemed to be a passage, and going\ncautiously down it she found that it ended in a sort of church, with a\nlamp hanging over the altar.\n\nAt this moment there opened a little gate, and through it came a lady,\nbare-footed, with streaming hair.\n\n'O Bradamante,' she said, 'long have I awaited you, for Merlin, who lies\nhere, prophesied before he entered this living tomb that ages hence you\nwould find your way hither. He bade me come from a far-distant land, and\nbe with you at the hour when his spirit, though dead, should tell of the\nglories of the race that will spring from you and Roger.'\n\n'I am not worthy of such honour,' answered Bradamante, casting down her\neyes, though her heart beat with joy at the thought that though she and\nRoger might be parted now, yet in the end they would be united. 'Let my\nlord speak, and I will hearken to him.'\n\nAt that a voice rose from the sepulchre where Merlin had lain buried for\nmany hundreds of years.\n\n'Since it is decreed that you shall be the wife of Roger, take courage,\nand follow the path that leads you to him. Let nothing turn you aside,\nand suffer no adventure to ensnare you till you have overthrown the\nwizard who holds him captive.'\n\nThe voice ceased, and Melissa, the kind magician who went through the\nworld seeking to set wrongs right, showed from a book the glories that\nwould attend the children of Bradamante.\n\n'To-morrow at dawn,' she said when she had finished and put away the\nmagic scroll--'to-morrow at dawn I myself will lead you to the wizard's\ncastle. Till then it would be well for you to seek of the wisdom of\nMerlin guidance to overcome the dangers bestrewing your path.'\n\nNext morning Melissa and Bradamante rode out from the cavern by a secret\nway, and passed over rushing rivers, and climbed high precipices, and as\nthey went Melissa held discourse with Bradamante how best to set Roger\nfree.\n\n'No man, however brave, could withstand the wizard, who has his magic\nmirror as well as his flying horse to aid him. If you would reach Roger,\nyou must first get possession of the ring stolen from Angelica by\nAgramante, the African king, and given by him to Brunello, who is riding\nonly a few miles in front of us. In the presence of this ring all charms\nand sorceries lose their power; but, take heed, for to outwit Brunello\nis no easy task.'\n\n'It is good fortune indeed that Brunello should be so near us,' answered\nBradamante joyfully; 'but how shall I know him from other men?'\n\n'He is of low stature, and covered with black hair,' replied Melissa;\n'his nose lies flat upon his face, and his skin is yellow, as the skin\nof those who come from the far lands beyond Scythia. You must fall to\ntalking with him upon magic and enchantments, but beware lest he guess\nwho you are or what your business, and lead him on till he offer himself\nyour guide to the wizard's castle. As you go, strike him dead, before he\nhas time to spy into your heart, and, above all, before he can slip the\nring into his mouth. Once he does that, you lose Roger for ever.'\n\n[Illustration: BRADAMANTE DEFEATS THE WIZARD WITH THE RING]\n\nHaving thus said, Melissa bade Bradamante farewell, and they parted with\ntears and promises of speedy meeting. Forthwith Bradamante entered an\ninn hard by, where Brunello was already seated, and if she at once\nmarked him amongst other men he no less knew her, for many a time he had\nseen her at jousts and tourneys.\n\nThus, both feigning, they fell into talk, and held discourse upon the\ncastle and the knights who lay imprisoned therein. 'Many an adventure as\nperilous have I dared,' at length said Bradamante, 'and never have I\nfailed to trample under foot my foe. So, if our worthy host will but\ngive me a guide, I myself will challenge this wizard to deadly combat.'\n\nBut Brunello would suffer no man to be her guide save himself, and\ntogether they climbed the mountain till they stood at the foot of the\ncastle. 'Look at those walls of steel that crown the precipice,' began\nBrunello; but before he could say more a strong girdle was passed round\nhis arms, which were fastened tightly to his side; and in spite of his\ncries and struggles Bradamante drew the ring off his finger and placed\nit on her own, though kill him she would not.\n\nThen she seized the horn which hung from a cord, and, blowing a loud\nblast, waited calmly for the magician to answer.\n\nOut he came on his flying steed, bearing on his left arm his\nsilken-covered shield, while he uttered spells that had laid low many a\nknight and lady. Bradamante heard them all, and was no whit the worse\nfor the blackest of them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFurious at his defeat, the wizard snatched the cover from the shield,\nand Bradamante, knowing full well what was wont to follow, sank heavily\non the ground. At this the wizard covered his shield once more, and\nguided his steed swiftly to where the maiden lay. After that, unclasping\na chain from his body, he bent down to find her. It was then that she\nlifted her ringed hand, and there stood before her an old man with white\nhair and a face scarred with sorrow.\n\n'Kill me, I pray you, gentle lady,' cried he; 'yet know before I die\nthat my love to Roger has been the cause of these heavy woes to so many\ngallant knights and fair damsels. I am that Atlantes who watched over\nhim in childhood, and as he grew to manhood he was ever the first in all\ndeeds of chivalry. So reckless was he, that many a time it needed all my\nmagic to bring him back to life when seemingly he lay dead. At length,\nto keep him from harm, I built this castle, and filled it with all that\nwas beautiful, and, as you know, with knights and ladies to be his\ncompanions. When everything was ready I captured Roger himself.\n\n'Now, take my horse and shield, and throw open wide the castle doors--do\nwhat you will, but leave me only Roger.'\n\nThe heart of Bradamante was not wont to be deaf to the sorrows of\nothers, but this time it seemed turned to stone.\n\n'Your horse and shield I have won for myself,' she said; 'and have you\nlived so long in the world without learning that it is idle to war\nagainst fate? It is fate which has given you into my hands, and it is\nuseless to strive against it. Therefore, lead the way to the gate, and I\nwill follow.'\n\nThey climbed in silence the long flight of steps leading to the castle;\nthen Atlantes stooped and raised a stone on which was graven strange and\nmagic signs. Beneath the stone was a row of pots filled with undying\nflames, and on these the wizard let the stone fall. In a moment there\nwas a sound as if all the rocks on the earth were rent, the castle\nvanished into the air, and with it Atlantes.\n\nInstead, a troop of knights and ladies stood before Bradamante, who saw\nand heard none save only Roger.\n\n[From _Orlando Furioso_.]\n\n\n\n\n_THE RING OF BRADAMANTE_\n\n\nWhen Bradamante had freed Roger and his companions from the enchanted\ncastle, she thought that henceforth they would never more be parted. But\nshe forgot that she had to deal with a wizard, and that wizards are not\neasily outwitted.\n\nOn a little plain beneath the mountain the winged horse was grazing, and\nwhen the knights and ladies came gaily down the path Bradamante left the\nrest and went up to take it by the bridle. Atlantes, however, had laid\nother plans, and had thrown a spell over the horse, so that directly\nBradamante was close to it the creature moved away to a little distance.\nAt this the knights, thinking to help her, gave chase, but the horse led\nthem up and down the mountain, over rocks and through streams, till one\nby one they dropped behind, and in front there remained only Roger.\n\nAs it had been taught by Atlantes, the horse stood still, while Roger,\nwith a cry of delight, seized the bridle and jumped upon its back. With\na bound it sprang into the air, and, though Roger tried to guide it\ndownwards to the earth, it was all in vain, for so the enchanter had\nwilled it. Below stood Bradamante gazing up; her joy turned quickly to\ndespair, and when the traces of Roger had vanished she rode sadly away,\ntaking with her the horse Roger had left behind.\n\nMeanwhile Roger was flying through the air swifter than an arrow or the\nlightning. Since he could not make the horse swerve an hair's breadth to\nthe right or left, he ceased his useless efforts, and let himself be\ncarried this way or that. Suddenly he felt that, instead of going\nforward they were gradually dropping down, down, down; and soon the\nhorse stopped on a lovely island.\n\nWhere the island might be Roger did not know, nor could he tell how long\nhe had been on his journey thither. In truth, he was content to feel\nhimself on solid ground once more, and to smell sweet flowers and eat\ndelicious fruits, for how could he guess that this also was devised by\nAtlantes--that these sights and sounds might lull his senses, and keep\nhim safe from war? Atlantes was a great wizard and wise beyond most, but\nhe had never learned that it was a better thing to die in battle than to\nlive only for pleasure.\n\nOn reaching the ground Roger was careful to hold fast the bridle, having\nno mind that the horse should fly up into the air and leave him helpless\non the island. Then, looking round, he saw a strong myrtle, and he tied\nthe reins tightly to it, so that he himself could roam about as he\nwould.\n\nAt length he grew tired of wandering and returned to the place where he\nhad left his horse, which he found champing and struggling to shake\nitself free. As he drew near a voice cried in melancholy tones:\n\n'If, as I think, you are a knight, and bound by the rules of chivalry,\nrelease me, I pray you, from this monster, who only adds to the pains\nwhich I myself endure.'\n\nStartled at the sound, Roger looked around, but nought could he see save\nthe myrtle to which the horse was fastened.\n\n'I crave your pardon,' answered he, 'for having unwittingly done you\nwrong; but tell me who you are, and what has caused your present\nplight?'\n\n[Illustration: Roger borne away from Bradamante]\n\n'I am Astolfo, peer of France,' replied the tree, 'and I was enchanted\nby the fairy Alcina, who thus rids herself of her friends and her\nservants when they have ceased to please her. Even this island is not\nhers by right, but was stolen from her sister Logistilla, who is as wise\nand kind as Alcina is wicked. But so beautiful is Alcina, that none can\nwithstand her if once she looks on them, therefore fly while you may and\nask counsel of Logistilla if there is aught that you would know.'\n\n'Oh, tell me, good tree, how I can escape without crossing the path of\nthe cruel Alcina?' cried Roger.\n\n'There _is_ a way,' answered the tree, 'but it is rough to the feet, and\nbeset by fierce and ill-tongued men, placed there by the fairy. He who\nwould quit Alcina's isle needs open eyes and deaf ears.'\n\n'I will have both,' said Roger.\n\nBut, alas! he boasted overmuch, as young men are wont to do. He was\nindeed in no wise affrighted at the strange shapes that met him and\nsought to bar his progress. Some had heads of apes and feet of goats;\nsome rode eagles or bestrode cranes; while the captain of all was\nmounted on a tortoise. They swarmed on him like a crowd of flies, and\nRoger was so sore bested that he gave no thought to his magic shield,\nwhich perchance might have saved him.\n\nFor into the _m\u00eal\u00e9e_ came two maidens of such wondrous beauty that Roger\ndropped his lance and stood without defence to gaze his fill. Two\nsnow-white unicorns bore them from the city gates, and, at their coming,\nthe noisy rabble vanished as if they had never been. Then the ladies\nstretched out their hands, and prayed the knight to follow them into the\ncity.\n\n'We have need of your brave heart and mighty arm,' they said, 'to\nvanquish a giantess who guards a bridge which none can pass'; and well\nthey knew that, if Roger was to be ensnared by them, it must be by slow\ndegrees, for not all at once would he drop into the idle life of the\ndwellers on the island.\n\nSo, nothing loth, Roger gladly did their behest, and went forth to meet\nthe giantess.\n\nThe fight did not last long, and soon the monstrous creature lay\nstretched on the ground at Roger's feet; but her life was spared at the\nrequest of the damsels, and at their bidding he followed them over the\nbridge and up a hill. On the top was a large meadow full of flowers, in\nwhich maidens were playing at ball or singing sweet songs on the lute,\nwhile others were dancing.\n\nIn their midst was a damsel so fair that the rest, even the guides of\nRoger, looked swarthy beside her, and she came forth from among them,\nand held out her hand for him to kiss.\n\nVain it were to seek to tell Alcina's charms, but even as his eyes fell\non her Roger felt that everything said by Astolfo in her despite was\nfalse. Even Bradamante was forgotten, as if she had never lived at all;\nyet for this Roger was hardly to blame, for how should he stand against\nAlcina's magic!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was here that Melissa, clad in the form of Atlantes, found him after\nmany months had gone by, during which Bradamante had sought him vainly.\nAt last fate brought Melissa again across her path, and from her the\nforsaken damsel learnt who it was that kept him from her.\n\n'Be comforted,' said Melissa, when she beheld Bradamante's tears. 'You\nyourself have the ring which can free him from those evil spells, and\nbring him back to your side. So lend it me, I pray, and by to-morrow's\ndawn I will be with him.'\n\nRoger was lying on a bed of soft moss, when Atlantes, for so he took her\nto be, stood before him.\n\nHe lifted his head lazily, and smiled, but the face of his old master\nwas grave as he said sternly:\n\n[Illustration: THE TWO DAMSELS RESCUE ROGER FROM THE RABBLE]\n\n'And is it _you_, Roger, whom I find thus, your hair curled and scented,\nyour neck circled with jewelled chains? Was it for this you passed your\nboyhood in waging war against fierce beasts, fearing neither hunger nor\nthirst as you tracked them to their lair? But, as I loved you once, I\nwill give you a chance to shake off this shameful life, and to become\nonce more worthy of Bradamante. Take this ring, and when next Alcina\ncomes this way mark well the change that is wrought in the queen of this\nfair land.'\n\nWith shame and repentance burning at his heart, Roger slowly drew the\nring upon his finger; and by its virtue he beheld not Atlantes but\nMelissa.\n\n'Yes, it is I,' she said, 'and it is Bradamante who sent me hither, to\nsave you by means of the ring which she took from the hand of Brunello.\nIt will break the strongest spells that wizard ever wove, and open wide\nthe eyes that have been longest blinded.'\n\nWith that she vanished, and Roger rose and followed the path which led\nto the palace.\n\nOn the marble steps he saw, as he went, a troop of ladies standing.\nTheir clothes were rich and made of shining stuffs, and well became\ntheir golden hair or curly raven locks; but who was she in their midst\nwhose form was unknown to him? Her back was bowed with age, and scarce a\nhair remained upon her head, while all her skin was shrivelled and\nyellow. Roger gazed in horror, expecting, as he looked, the lean body to\ncrumble into dust before him. Yet something, what he knew not, seemed\nnot wholly strange in that pale and shrunken figure--something that, in\nspite of all, spoke to him of Alcina. A thrill of horror ran through\nhim, but he remembered in time the counsel of Melissa, and, trembling\nthough he was, he greeted her with fair words.\n\nDreading lest he should again fall under the fairy's enchantments, Roger\nnever parted from the ring, and kept guard over himself, lest perchance\nAlcina should guess what was passing within him. To gain possession of\nhis armour, long laid aside, he feigned a wish to prove if his life of\nidleness had unfitted him to bear the weight of it, or if his chest had\ngrown too broad for the clasps of his breast-plate to meet. Then,\nlaughing still, he strolled carelessly to the stables, calling back as\nhe went that perhaps his horse might have become as fat and lazy as\nhimself. But when he reached the stables he passed by the winged steed\nwhich had borne him to the island, for he bethought himself once more of\nMelissa's words: 'Beware of the hippogryph,' she had said, 'you will\nnever wed Bradamante if you mount that.' So he left the great creature\nflapping its wings with longing to soar once more into the sky, and led\nout a strong black horse. Vaulting on his back, he touched him with his\nspurs, and dashed through the guards at the gate before Alcina knew that\nher captive had won his freedom.\n\nWhen the fairy found that the knight did not return, she sent a\nmessenger for tidings of him, and so great was her wrath when she\nlearned that he had passed the gate, and was far on the road to her\nsister, the good Logistilla, that she ordered all the guards to be put\nto death. Then she commanded her ships to be got ready, and put to sea\nherself, thinking by that means she might bring him back. But all was\nvain, and at last she was forced to believe that Roger had shaken off\nher yoke for ever.\n\n[From _Orlando Furioso_.]\n\n\n\n\n_THE FULFILLING OF THE PROPHECY_\n\n\nFor a long while Bradamante waited quietly in Marseilles, thinking that\nevery day Roger would come to her, but as time passed and he gave no\nsign she grew heart-sick and impatient. Some evil must surely have\nbefallen him, she whispered to herself, yet where to seek him she did\nnot know.\n\nAt length one morning, when hope had almost left her, the enchantress\nMelissa stood by her side and smiled at her.\n\n'Have no fear for Roger,' said Melissa; 'he is safe, and counts the\nhours to your meeting. But once more he has been taken captive by\nAtlantes, who ensnared him by putting on your form and face, and\nentering his palace, whither Roger followed eagerly. Never look so cast\ndown, Bradamante, but listen to my counsel and abide by it, and all will\nbe well.'\n\nThen Bradamante sprang up, grasping tightly her sword and shield.\n\n'Whatever you tell me to do, I will do it,' cried she; and Melissa went\non:\n\n'This time Atlantes will change his shape for that of Roger, that you\nalso may fall a victim to his wiles. Beware lest you be deceived, or\ninstead of saving Roger you will find yourself also a prisoner in the\ncastle. Harden your heart, and slay him as he stands before you, and\nRoger shall be free for evermore.'\n\nSo spoke Melissa not once, but many times, before they drew near the\ncastle, where she bade farewell to Bradamante, dreading that the wizard\nshould see her and take fright. The maiden rode on till she reached an\nopen space, where two fierce giants were pressing Roger sore and\nwell-nigh overcoming him. In a moment all the words of Melissa were\nforgotten, or rather she deemed that jealousy or revenge had prompted\nher words. And, as these thoughts ran swiftly through her, a cry for\nhelp sounded in her ears. Slay Roger? Melissa must have indeed been mad\nwhen she gave her this counsel, and, spurring her horse, she galloped\nafter the wounded knight, who, pursued by his foes, was riding at full\nspeed to the castle.\n\nWhen they were all four inside the courtyard, the gate swung to and\nBradamante was a prisoner.\n\nNow it was written in the magic book carried by Astolfo, the knight who\nhad been changed by Alcina into a myrtle tree and restored by Melissa,\nthat if a stone on the threshold were raised, the whole palace would\nvanish into smoke as the other castle had done before. Though he knew it\nnot, Melissa stood by his side as he rode through the wood, many weeks\nafter Bradamante had entered the castle, and whispered to him that the\ntime had come to prove the truth of the prophecy. First blowing a blast\nwith the horn which affrighted all that dwelt within the walls, with a\nmighty heave he raised the magic stone. In an instant the earth rocked,\nand he was thrown flat upon the ground, while with a roar the castle\ncrumbled into dust. The knights and ladies imprisoned therein ran forth\nin fear, and it was not until the ill-fated place was left far behind\nthat they stopped to look about them.\n\nIt was then that Roger and Bradamante beheld each other once more, and\nin the joy of meeting forgot the pains they had endured since they had\nparted. But one promise Bradamante asked of Roger before she would be\nhis wife. 'I cannot wed an infidel,' said she. 'You must become a\nChristian first.'\n\n'Right willingly,' answered Roger, and it was agreed between them that\nthey should set out at once for a fair abbey, so that the rite might be\ndelayed no longer.\n\nThus they talked; but not yet were they to be united. On their way a\ndistressed damsel met them on the road imploring help, which both knight\nand lady readily granted. But, alas! in seeking to give the aid prayed\nof them they strayed unwittingly down various roads, and it was long\nbefore fortune again brought them together. For hardly had Roger brought\nto an end his adventure than he learned that his liege lord, Agramante\nking of Africa, was hard pressed by Charlemagne the emperor, and needed\nhis vassal to fight by his side. So Roger turned his face to the west,\nfirst bidding his squire ride back to Bradamante and tell her that, once\nthe war was finished, nothing further should delay his baptism.\n\nThe war went ill with Agramante, and many a time Roger was sore wounded\nand like to die. Far away, in the house of her father among the\nmountains, tales came now and then to Bradamante of Roger's doings in\nthe fight. Bitterly her soul chafed at not being by his side to help and\ntend him; but, if she could not fight against him, far less could she\nfight in the ranks of the infidels. Thus, weary at heart, she waited and\nsat still, or wandered about the forests, hoping to meet someone who\ncould bring her tidings of Roger.\n\nFor long no one came through the thick dark woods, and Bradamante was\nalmost sick with despair, when a Gascon knight rode by.\n\n'Are you from the war, brave sir?' asked she, springing up from the bank\nwhere she had cast herself, and going eagerly to meet him. 'Are you from\nthe war, and have you news from one Roger?'\n\n'Alas! madam,' he answered, 'but a month since he was sore wounded in\nfight with one Mandricado, and has since lain in his bed, tended by the\nlady Marfisa, who wears a breast-plate as easily as she does a woman's\ngown. Had it not been for her skill, Roger would long have been buried,\nand when he is able to bear arms again doubtless he will offer his hand\nto the damsel in marriage. At least, so say all in camp. But the sun is\nlow and time presses. I must begone.'\n\nHe went on his way, and when he was out of sight Bradamante turned and\nloosed her horse from the tree to which she had tied him and rode back\nto the castle. Without a word she mounted the stairs to the tower where\nshe dwelt, and, throwing herself on her bed, gave vent to the torrents\nof jealousy which possessed her soul. Then, rising up, she bade her\nmaidens weave her with all speed a sad-coloured mantle, and when it was\nready she took the lance of gold belonging to Astolfo, which had (though\nshe knew it not) the gift of unhorsing every warrior whom it touched,\nand, going to the courtyard, led out and saddled her horse.\n\nAlone, without even a squire to help her, Bradamante began her journey\nto Arles, where the army of Agramante lay encamped. On the road thither\nshe met with many an adventure, but by the aid of the golden lance\nalways bore down her foe. After one of these fights she fell in with the\nLady Flordelice, who was herself riding to Arles in the hope of gaining\nnews of her husband, now a prisoner in the hands of the Moors. By her\nBradamante sent a message challenging Roger to come forth to meet her in\nsingle combat.\n\n'And if he asks my name say it is unknown to you,' she added, 'but that\nthe stranger knight had bidden you take this horse, and prayed that he\nmight bestride it in battle.'\n\nFlordelice was careful to fulfil the trust laid upon her, and no sooner\nwas she within the gates of Arles than she sought out Roger and\ndelivered him the message and the horse. The young man, perplexed at the\ndefiance of the nameless knight, sought counsel of his father, who bade\nhim accept the challenge and prepare for battle without delay. While he\nwas making ready other knights were not slow to seize the chance of\ngiving the haughty Christian a lesson, and went out to fight in the\nplain beyond the walls. But a single touch of the magic lance was enough\nto unhorse them all, and one by one Bradamante sent them to their lord.\n\n'Tell him I await a better man than you,' said she.\n\n'And what is his name?' asked Ferrau of Spain when he rode before her,\nhaving craved permission to try his strength against the stranger.\n\n'Roger,' answered she, and, as her vizor was raised, Ferrau could not\nbut see the red that flushed her face, though he feigned to notice\nnothing.\n\n'He shall come to you,' replied Ferrau, 'but first you must cross swords\nwith me,' and, spurring his horse, he rode to share the fate of the\nrest.\n\nRight glad was Roger to hear that the peerless knight Ferrau had been\nborne down like those who had gone before him, and that it was he and no\nother whom the victor wished to fight. But the courtiers of King\nAgramante now thronged around Ferrau, asking if perchance he had seen\nthe face of his foe, and knew it for having beheld it elsewhere.\n\n'Yes, I saw it,' said Ferrau, 'and it bore something of the semblance of\nRinaldo. But since we know that it cannot be, and that the young Ricardo\nhas neither the strength nor the skill to unhorse so many well-proved\nknights, it can be none other than their sister Bradamante. Truly she is\nmightier even than Rinaldo or her cousin Roland the Wrathful.'\n\nAt that Roger started, and his cheeks reddened even as those of\nBradamante had done. He stood silent and awkward under the eyes of the\nwhole court, for he feared to meet Bradamante and to read in her face\nthat during the long months of his absence her love had given place to\nanger.\n\nWhile Roger waited, uncertain whether to accept or refuse the challenge\nof Bradamante, Marfisa buckled on her coat of mail, and rode out in his\nstead to meet the foe. Bradamante felt in her heart who the knight was\nwith the plume of blue and shining golden corselet, and hate burned in\nher soul as fiercely as in the breast of the other.\n\nThrice the magic lance stretched Marfisa on the ground, and thrice she\nrose and sought to avenge herself by a sword-thrust. At this point a\nbody of knights, with Roger in their midst, arrived upon the field,\nwhile a band of pagan warriors approached from the opposite side. Blows\nwere soon struck, and Bradamante, caring nothing for her own life,\ngalloped wildly about seeking to catch sight of Roger.\n\nThe silver eagle on a blue shield was hard to find, but Bradamante found\nit at last, and crying, 'Traitor, defend yourself!' dashed wildly at\nhim. Yet, in spite of herself, the arm which had been strong before was\nstrangely weak now, and Roger could, with one thrust, have borne her off\nher horse, but instead his lance remained in air; she might slay him if\nso she chose; she had the right, but every hair of her head was safe\nfrom him.\n\nSo the day that began so badly ended happily for them all. Roger renewed\nhis vow and became a Christian, but once more declared that by all the\nlaws of honour and chivalry he could not desert Agramante in his dire\nstraits. Fate again divided him from Bradamante, and sent him to join\nthe army of Agramante, which had been worsted in many battles. The king\nhad broken a truce with Charlemagne, and was trying to collect men and\nships in Africa, and Roger felt that he was bound in honour to go to his\naid. He put off in a small barque, but a violent tempest drove them up\nand down all night, and cast Roger at dawn upon a barren shore. But, so\nexhausted was he by his fight with the waves, that even yet he must have\ndied from hunger and cold had not a hermit who dwelt in a cave close by\ncome to his help. Here Roger rested till his strength came back to him,\nand before he bade farewell to the hermit he had been baptized a\nChristian.\n\nNo sooner was Roger healed from the hurts given him by the winds and\nwaves, than he watched eagerly for a passing boat that might take him\nback to France. He waited and watched for long, but at length a ship put\ninto the island, having on board both Rinaldo and Roland. Right welcome\ndid they make Roger, whom both knew to be the flower of infidel\nchivalry, and when they heard that, Agramante being slain in battle,\nRoger was free to swear fealty to the emperor, and had besides been\nbaptized a Christian, Rinaldo at once promised him the hand of his\nsister Bradamante.\n\nAnd now it may well be thought that the time had come for the prophecy\nof Melissa to be fulfilled, and for Roger and Bradamante to receive the\nmarriage blessing. But their happiness was to be delayed still further,\nfor the old duke Aymon declared that he had chosen a husband for his\ndaughter in the son of Constantine, emperor of the East, and not all the\ntears and prayers of Bradamante and Rinaldo would move him one whit. By\nthe help of her brother, Bradamante contrived once more to see Roger,\nwho bade her take heart, as he would himself go to Constantinople and\nfight the upstart prince and dethrone his father, then he would seize\nthe crown for himself, and Bradamante should be empress after all. At\nthese words Bradamante plucked up her courage and they embraced and\nparted.\n\nAfter Roger had set forth the days hung heavily at duke Aymon's court,\ntill one night, as Bradamante was lying awake, wondering if the vision\nof Melissa would ever come to pass, she saw suddenly a way out of her\ndistresses. So the next morning she rose early, and fastening on her\narmour, left her father's castle for Charlemagne's camp. Craving speedy\naudience of the emperor, she besought him as a boon that he would order\nproclamation to be made that no man should be given her for husband till\nhe had first overcome her in battle. To this Charlemagne consented,\nalthough duke Aymon, who had followed his daughter, prayed the emperor\nto refuse her this grace, and the old man, waxing very wroth at his\ndefeat, shut up the damsel in a strong tower between Perpignan and\nCarcassonne.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhile these things were taking place at home, Roger had reached the\nshores of Constantinople, and learned that the emperor of the East was\nengaged in a fight with the Bulgars, and that his army was encamped in a\nfield near Belgrade. Thither Roger rode with all the speed he might, and\nfinding that the king of the Bulgars had just been slain by the hand of\nLeo, son of Constantine, he offered to be the leader of the army, and\nsoon put the Greeks to flight. Indeed, such were his mighty deeds, that\nLeo himself, rival (though he knew it not) of Roger, could not fail to\nwonder at them. When the battle was over, the Bulgarian army begged him\nto be their king, so sure were they that victory would follow his\nbanner; but he declined, for the secret reason that he purposed to\nfollow the prince, and slay him in single combat.\n\nBut instead of killing each other these two brave knights ended in\nbecoming friends and brothers, for Leo delivered Roger from prison,\nwhere he had unjustly been thrown by the sister of Constantine, and they\nboth journeyed together to France, to enter the lists for the hand of\nBradamante.\n\nAlthough they travelled with all the speed they might, they only arrived\nat the appointed place outside Paris on the day of the combat, when\nBradamante was arming herself for the struggle. The prince knew well by\nthis time that it was hopeless for him to think of winning for himself\nthe love that had so long been given to another, and he prayed Roger to\ndo him the grace to wear his arms and to bear his name in the tourney.\nIt cost Roger somewhat to lay aside the arms and the name that had stood\nhim for many a year in such good stead, but he owed the prince too much\nto say him nay, although to bid farewell to Bradamante when he had won\nthe prize in fair fight would be bitter indeed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWith a double-headed eagle on Leo's crimson shield, and Leo's velvet\nsurcoat over his coat of mail, Roger did obeisance to the emperor and\nthen walked into the lists. He had chosen to give battle on foot, since\nBradamante was riding his horse Frontino.\n\nAll day long the combat lasted, and, as Bradamante had been unable to\nbear down her foe, she was proclaimed vanquished. But of what value was\nthe victory to him, seeing that he had gained the reward for another?\nSo, hastily stripping off the armour belonging to the Greek prince, he\nleft the tent unseen, and, catching sight of Frontino grazing quietly\namong some trees, sprang quickly on his back and plunged into the\nforest.\n\n'Let death come soon,' he said to himself, 'since life is worthless.'\n\nMeanwhile the court in Paris rang with the name of Leo the prince, and\nduke Aymon informed his daughter that the marriage feast need no longer\nbe postponed. But to this Bradamante turned a deaf ear.\n\n'I will wed none but Roger,' she cried, and though her parents taunted\nher with her broken vow, and threatened her with the wrath of the\nemperor, she would give no other answer.\n\n'I can always die,' she thought to herself.\n\nThe court was all confusion and perplexity; the emperor loved\nBradamante, but he did not wish to offend either her powerful father or\nthe still more powerful Constantine. The test had been proposed by\nBradamante herself, and how could he give permission that she should\nbreak her plighted word?\n\nIt was Melissa who once more set this tangle straight. She appeared to\nLeo, who was standing idly at his tent door, and told him that Roger was\ndying in the depths of the forest. The prince, who had grieved sorely\nfor the loss of his friend, heard eagerly her tale, and consented gladly\nto go with her to seek him.\n\nThe Roger whom they found at last was very different from the Roger who\nhad entered the lists but three days agone. His face was pale, his hair\nwas damp, his clothes hung loosely on his body. Leo's heart smote him as\nhe gazed, and, sinking on his knees beside Roger, he pulled his hands\ngently down from his face.\n\nIt was not long before he had drawn out from the young knight the secret\nwhich Roger had hidden so carefully when he had thought that honour and\ngratitude demanded it. Leo listened in amaze and took shame to himself\nthat he had never guessed it sooner.\n\n'Oh, Roger,' he cried, when at length the tale was ended, 'sooner would\nI give up a thousand Bradamantes and all I possess in the world than\nlose a friend so noble and generous as you. So rise quickly and let us\nhasten back to where Bradamante awaits us.'\n\nAnd so the prophecy was fulfilled in the end, and everyone was made\nhappy. Yes, even duke Aymon and his wife Beatrice; for before the\nwedding rejoicings were begun an embassy arrived from the Bulgarian\npeople, begging leave from the emperor Charlemagne to offer their crown\nto his vassal Roger. And nobody grudged Roger and Bradamante their\nhappiness, for they had waited so long for it, and worked so hard for\nit.\n\n[From _Orlando Furioso_.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE KNIGHT OF THE SUN\n\n\nOnce upon a time two little boys were born, and the elder had on his\nbreast the image of a sun, which shone so brightly that the ladies who\nwere waiting on his mother, the princess Briane, were forced to shut\ntheir dazzled eyes. On the breast of the younger one lay a pink rose,\nand it was hard to believe that the flower had not been newly flung\nthere, so fresh was its colour and so vivid its green.\n\nSo the elder baby was called in after years 'the Knight of the Sun';\nwhile his little brother was known as Rosiclair.\n\nNow it happened that their mother, the princess Briane, had been\nsecretly married to Trebatius, emperor of Constantinople, who had\ncourted her under the name of prince Theodoart. Soon after their\nmarriage her husband, while riding through the forest, had been\nastonished at the sight of a magnificent chariot which dashed furiously\nalong the road, and, as it passed, he felt sure that his wife, the\nprincess Briane, was seated inside. Without losing a moment, he turned\nhis horse instantly round, and followed the chariot, but, spur his steed\nas he might, it was impossible to overtake it. However, he rode on as\nfast as the thick creepers and fallen trees would let him in the\ndirection in which the chariot had disappeared, and at last he left the\nforest behind him and entered a beautiful meadow.\n\nHere the emperor paused in surprise, for in front of him stood the\ngreatest and finest castle he had ever seen, which would have held\nthirty thousand men with ease. At each corner was a large tower, while a\nwide moat of clear water would have kept a large army at bay. Happily\nfor the emperor's curiosity, the drawbridge was at the moment let down,\nso he knocked at the door, which straightway opened to him, and boldly\nentered the castle.\n\nHe looked around the magnificent hall to see some traces of his wife,\nbut, instead, a powerful odour stole gradually over his senses. At the\nsame instant a golden curtain was drawn aside, and a lady whose beauty\ndazzled his eyes glided up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.\n\n'You belong to me now,' she said, as she led him away; and twenty years\nwent by before the emperor again left the castle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeanwhile the little boys were carried away in the night by one of the\nmother's ladies, whose name was Clandestrie, and taken to her sister's\nhouse, where they lived freely and happily for some years till they were\nold enough to be brought to the convent where the princess Briane still\nremained, and taught the duties of pages. Rosiclair was always good and\nquiet, but his brother gave his teachers a great deal of trouble, though\nthat did not prevent their loving him dearly. He was so tall and strong\nand high-spirited, that it was difficult to remember he was only a child\nafter all, and the moment he was left alone he was always seeking some\nadventure.\n\nOne day, while Rosiclair was learning from his mother to play on the\nlute, the Knight of the Sun--for so they called him--had gone with his\nnurse to the banks of the broad river, and was amusing himself with\nscrambling in and out of a boat that lay moored to the side. There were\nno mirrors in the convent, and the boy jumped hastily back with dismay\nwhen he saw some one dressed like himself looking at him from out of the\nwater.\n\nHe grew red with rage and struck out with his fist, and the arm in the\nwater struck out too. Then the prince sprang forward, but, as he did so,\nhe began to perceive that it was nothing but his own image that was\nlooking at him and imitating his movements. 'How could I be such a\nbaby!' he said to himself, and turned to leave the boat, when, to his\ndismay, he found that the rope had got loose and he was gently floating\ndown the stream.\n\nAt this sight his courage began to fail him; he called loudly to his\nnurse, who had been talking to some friends and had not noticed the\nchild's danger. At his cries she rushed into the river a little lower\ndown, hoping to catch the boat as it danced by, but the current swept\nher off her feet, and she would certainly have been drowned had not a\nwood-cutter, who had watched her from above, held out a long stick which\nshe was able to reach.\n\nVery soon the little boat was a mere speck in the distance, and, now\nthat there was nothing to be done, the boy took heart again and thought\nof all he would have to tell Rosiclair when he came back--for come back\nhe would some day, he was sure of that.\n\nBy-and-by the grass and the trees, and even the big mountains, vanished,\nand all around him was the blue sea, with not even a sail to look at.\nHow long he remained in that boat he never knew, but one day, just\nbefore sunrise, when the air is clearest and you can see farthest, he\nwas roused from his sleep by a shout. At first he took it for part of\nhis dream and did not move; then the shout came again, and he jumped up\nand waved his hand, for sailing towards him was a large vessel. At the\nprow stood a man in a beautiful purple tunic edged with gold. This was\nFlorian prince of Persia.\n\nOh, how glad the little boy was to be amongst friends again, and how\nhungrily he ate the food they put before him! When he was quite rested,\nthey brought him a child about the same age, whom they had picked up\nfrom a wreck a few days before; and then the ship's head was turned\ntowards Babylon.\n\nIt took them a long while to get there, but at last they entered the\ngreat river which flowed past the gates of the city, and the sultan,\nhearing of their approach, came down from his palace to greet them. He\nhad lived as a youth at the court of prince Florian's father, and was\ndelighted to meet his old friend once more. As for the boys, he took a\nfancy to them at once, and kept them in his palace till many years had\ngone by and they were almost men.\n\nWhen the Knight of the Sun was about sixteen he was taller than any one\nin all Babylon, for he took after his father, the emperor Trebatius, who\nwas fully eight feet high. The youth was also very strong, and was\nafraid of nothing and nobody, and in many ways was different from his\ncompanions, especially in liking to ride and hunt alone instead of with\na troop of merry young men. His friends were all fond of him, but rather\nafraid of him, as people often are of those who are quicker than\nthemselves.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne morning the sultan arranged a great hunting expedition, which was to\ntake place in some huge forests a few miles from Babylon. The sun was\nhot, and the sultan was old, so he soon gave up the chase, and returned\nto join the princess and her maidens, who were lying under the shady\ntrees, with a stream rippling by to make them think they were cool.\n\nSuddenly, without any warning, a band of giants sprang upon them from\nbehind a rock, and, seizing the sultan and the ladies, bound them\nrapidly with silken cords. Their shrieks brought a few knights who were\nwithin earshot to their aid, but these were soon overpowered by the\nstrength of the giants, except one, who managed to make his escape, and\nplunged deep into the forest.\n\nHe was flying along, half mad with terror, when a voice cried out:\n\n'Sir knight, look well to it, or you will lose your spurs in your\nunseemly haste.'\n\n'Fair youth,' replied the knight, 'do not, I pray you, waste the moments\nin idle talk; for the sultan and the princess have but now been attacked\nby an army of giants, and are being borne captive to some unknown land.'\nBut before his tale was ended the youth was riding fast down the path\nalong which the knight had come.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe was just in time: the tallest and strongest giant had laid hold of\nthe sultan, bound and helpless as he was, and was carrying him off to a\nhuge coal-black horse that was picketed to a tree close by. A blow on\nhis helmet forced him to drop his burden, and he turned rapidly on his\nassailant.\n\n'Bah! a boy!' he cried disdainfully; but the 'boy' struck him another\nswinging stroke, which almost cleft his shield. Then the giant drew out\nhis great double-edged battle-axe, but the champion sprang aside, and\nthe axe crashed harmlessly on a rock, while a well-aimed throw from the\njavelin pierced the joints of the giant's harness, and he fell heavily\nto the ground.\n\n'It is an earthquake,' whispered the people of Babylon, as the houses\nshook and the swords rattled.\n\nAfter this the giant's followers, who, big though they were, had no mind\nto face such a fighter, fled into the forest, and were seen no more.\n\nThe first thing to be done was of course to cut the cords which had been\ncarefully wound round the arms and legs of the prisoners, who, seizing\nthe champion's hands, shed tears and kisses over them. As to the sultan,\nhe was well-nigh speechless from gratitude, but when he was able to\nspeak he begged the youth to ask for some boon that he could grant,\neven if it were the half of his kingdom.\n\n'That I will tell you to-morrow,' said he.\n\nBy this time the evening had come, and the chariots and the horses were\nmade ready, and the company returned to the palace in Babylon, though\nneither the princess nor her ladies felt very safe till they were within\nthe gates of the city.\n\nEarly next day the sultan sent the grand vizier to bid the youth await\nhim in the great hall, that he might declare in presence of all the\ncourt what guerdon should be given him for saving his master's life.\n\nAnd a right noble company was gathered together, for the victor was well\nloved of all, and every man expected that he would ask the hand of the\nprincess.\n\nAll stood up and bowed low as the sultan swept down between them clothed\nin his royal robes, and wearing his golden crown on his head; for he\nwished the goodly assemblage to know how priceless a service the young\nman had done him. Nay, he too thought, like his people, that there was\nonly one boon that the youth could fitly crave.\n\nWhen he was seated on his throne, he signed to the chevalier to draw\nnear.\n\n'And what is the reward that I shall give you?' he asked with a smile as\nthe young man knelt before him.\n\n'O mighty sultan, grant me this, that with the sword which slew your\nenemy you will make me a knight'; then he paused and grew red, as a\ncloud came over the sultan's brow.\n\n'By all the rules of chivalry----' But the sultan's words were drowned\nby a tumult in the hall, and pushing her way between the crowds came a\nrichly clad maiden, closely pursued by a huge black king.\n\n'Save me!' she cried, looking wildly on the company of knights that\nstood round. 'I am the daughter of as mighty a monarch as you, and was\ncarried off from my father's island by this black man whom you see\nbefore you. One grace he has given me, that for the space of a year I\nmay wander where I will, seeking a knight to be my champion. But,\ndespite their mighty names, not one has ever managed to pierce his\narmour.'\n\nAnd again she looked on the knights, but not a man stirred from his\nplace.\n\nThen the chevalier rose to his feet and spoke out boldly.\n\n'Make _me_ a knight, O sultan, and _I_ will fight this man who is feared\nby all the world! Oh, I know what you would say, that I am yet too young\nto bear the weight which has sometimes proved too heavy for many a\ngoodly knight. But, if my years are few, my deeds have proved that I am\nno whit behind the doughtiest knight of your court. So grant me my boon\nor this day I will leave you for ever.'\n\n'Be it so,' answered the sultan at last, 'though I would rather have\ngiven you the half of my kingdom or the hand of my daughter. But watch\nthis night beside your arms in the temple, and to-morrow you shall be\nadmitted into the order of chivalry.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow the sultan had a brother named Lyrgander, who was wise in every kind\nof enchantment, and, though he was at this time in a far country, he\nlearned by means of his arts what strange things were happening at the\ncourt of Babylon. Without losing a moment he went to the room where his\ntreasures were kept, and opened a large chest, from which he took two\nsuits of armour. One, which was all white, he meant for the chevalier,\nand the other was for his friend Claberinde. Then he poured a few drops\nof a yellow liquid into a glass and drank it, wishing, as he did so,\nthat he was in Babylon. Before the glass fell from his hand he found\nhimself there. Very early after the youth had ended his watch, Lyrgander\ncame to him and girded on him the suit of white armour. Led by\nLyrgander, and followed by all the knights and nobles of the court, the\nchevalier entered the presence-chamber, where the sultan was sitting on\nhis throne awaiting him. Once again the youth knelt, and the sultan,\ndrawing the magic sword from its sheath, struck him three times lightly\non the head with it. Afterwards, the sultan put back the sword in the\nscabbard and buckled it on the side of the kneeling youth.\n\nThen, stooping down, he lowered the vizor, and said slowly and solemnly:\n\n'I dub you knight, and arm you knight. May the high gods have you in\ntheir care!'\n\n'Amen!' said the chevalier, and he rose from his knees and went out to\nthe place where the lists had been prepared. And the court sat round to\nwatch the fight, while in the midst of them all, her eyes fixed on her\nchampion, was the captive princess, who was resolved to kill herself\nwith her own hands rather than fall into the power of the black king.\n\nThe Knight of the Sun had chosen the best horse in the sultan's stables,\nand was waiting in his place till the signal should be given.\n\nAt the other end, the black king bestrode a huge black horse, and the\nmoment he caught sight of his foe poured out a stream of abuse, which\nonly ceased when the sound of the trumpets drowned his voice.\n\n'I have never been conquered by mortal man,' said he, 'and shall yon\nwretched beardless boy, who should now be sitting with his mother's\nmaidens, the child who but an hour ago was dubbed a knight by special\ngrace of the sultan, have strength to do what the hardiest knights have\nfailed in doing? By the eyes of my fathers! he will make fine food for\nthe vultures before the sun sets.'\n\nAnd the young knight heard, and the blood flew to his cheeks under his\nvizor, and his fingers closed more tightly on his sword.\n\nWith the first blast of the trumpets he spurred his horse, and his\nonslaught was so fierce that the giant reeled in his saddle.\n\n'They have tricked me,' he said to himself, as he righted himself again.\n'That blow was never given by the boy I saw; they have put someone else\nin his place. The battle will be harder than I thought, but the end is\nsure'; and he reined his horse back for a second rush.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe hours passed by, and the sun grew high in the heavens, but the\nflashing of swords never ceased, and the watchers of the fight could\nhardly breathe. Once the chevalier was thrown right on to his horse's\nneck, and was forced to cling to it lest he should fall to the ground.\nOnce again--and here a murmur of terror could be heard in the crowd--a\nblow on his head rendered him sick and dizzy, and the charger carried\nhim three times round the lists while he sat grasping the bridle,\nunconscious where he was and what he was doing. But after all, the swift\nrush through the air brought back his senses, and, by the time the black\nking was expecting that one more thrust would gain him the day, the\nknight spurred his horse quickly to one side, and, taking his adversary\nunawares, swept him dead from his saddle.\n\nThen at last the silence was broken, and a roar of triumph and relief\nburst from the crowd.\n\nSlowly the young man turned and rode along the lists, pausing before the\nlady Radimere as she sat by the sultan.\n\n'You are free, princess,' he said, as he lifted his vizor; and with\nthose words he disappeared in the crowd, before anyone had time to stop\nhim.\n\nIt was whispered, perhaps truly, that the princess Radimere would fain\nhave made him her husband, and have given him lordship over her island;\nbut all we know for certain is that she returned there alone, and soon\nafter married the son of a neighbouring king.\n\n[_L'Histoire Admirable du Chevalier du Soleil._ Traduite de l'Espagnol\npar Louis Douet.]\n\n\n\n\nHOW THE KNIGHT OF THE SUN RESCUED HIS FATHER\n\n\nWhen once the youth had been made a knight by the sultan of Babylon, and\nhad slain the black king, he set off by himself in quest of other\nadventures, desiring greatly to see the world. For the next few years\nthe young man wandered from court to court, fighting giants and\ndelivering enchanted damsels, till at last his feet led him to a kingdom\nwhere Rosiclair his brother happened to be.\n\nNow Rosiclair was scarcely a whit behind the Knight of the Sun in manly\ndeeds, and not long before had done such good service to the king of\nEngland that Olive, the king's daughter, had, at her father's bidding,\nclasped a collar of gold around his neck, and held out to him a crown\nstudded with jewels. Rosiclair bent gladly to receive the collar, and\nthen taking the crown from the hands of the princess he placed it on her\nhead.\n\n'Lady, I am evermore your knight,' said he.\n\nThis tale and many others had come to the ears of the Knight of the Sun,\nand he longed to see his brother again, and to break a lance with him in\ngood fellowship, but some time had yet to pass before they met, and then\nit fell out in this wise. After the combat in the lists in London, where\nRosiclair had cut off the arms of the giant Candramarte, the giant's\ndaughter had brought him by her wiles to the island in which lay her\nfather's castle.\n\n[Illustration: THE GIANT'S DAUGHTER REPROACHES THE TWO BROTHERS]\n\nNo sooner had he stepped on shore than the damsel pushed off, crying as\nshe did so to her brothers and their knights to avenge the giant's\nwounds. In a moment all the little island was alive with men, whirling\nlances or swords or axes above their heads, and all pressing forward to\nthe spot where Rosiclair awaited them. Luckily he had time to place\nhimself with the sea at his back, so that he could not be attacked from\nbehind, and, covering himself with his shield, stood ready.\n\nNever was there such a dreadful fight, and Rosiclair seemed to have a\nhundred arms, and to be able to strike fifty ways at once. He hardly\nknew himself what he did, so great was the stress of battle, but hour by\nhour the ground slowly reddened round him, and there looked to his\ndimming eyes to be fewer men in front. But by this time his strength was\nfast failing him, and he felt he could not hold out much longer. A\nmighty blow from an axe made him reel, and well-nigh fall; another such,\nand he would be rolling on the sand among the dead men lying at his\nfeet. Suddenly the upraised axe flew from the hand of the giant in\nfront, and with a cry that echoed through the island he fell backwards\non the shore.\n\nRosiclair was still too hard beset to turn and see from whom help had\ncome, but he took fresh courage and his sword no longer hit so wildly as\nbefore. The other sword was even stronger and surer than his own, and\nsoon the few men who were left alive ran off and took refuge within the\ngates of the castle.\n\nThen the two knights looked at each other.\n\n'Who are you, and whence do you come?' asked Rosiclair. 'I owe you my\nlife this day.'\n\n'I am called the Knight of the Sun,' replied the other; 'this shining\nstar upon my breast has given me my name. And I come from wandering over\nthe seas in a little boat that just holds me and my horse. I descried\nyou from afar, and hastened to your help. Of a truth, it is the noblest\nfight that ever I saw.'\n\nNow, when Rosiclair had seen the emblem of the sun on the new knight's\nbreast he wondered if this might indeed be his brother. But being warned\nby his mother not to hold converse with strangers concerning private\nmatters, he began to tell of the fight with Candramarte in the lists of\nLondon, when a cry from the sea caused them both to turn. On the prow of\na boat stood the giant's daughter, pointing with her forefinger at the\nbodies which lay upon the shore.\n\n'O cruel and bloody wolves,' she called, 'the ocean will give me the\npity which I have been denied both by heaven and earth. And the god of\nstorms will avenge me.' With that she jumped into the sea, but, instead\nof sinking, was held up by the waves. This the Knight of the Sun beheld,\nand, forgetting the evil she had done, jumped into his boat, and pushed\noff to her aid before Rosiclair had time to get in after him. However,\nthe Knight of the Sun was never able either to reach the damsel or to\nreturn to his brother, for a furious wind sprang up, which drove him\nbefore it, in some direction that he did not know.\n\nIn his hurry to reach the side of Rosiclair, the Knight of the Sun had\nforgotten to place his oars in the bottom of the boat, but just left\nthem loose in their holes, so that they had floated away; now he had no\nmeans of directing his course, but was forced to go wherever the waves\ntook him. For many days he drifted past the shores of strange countries\nand saw from afar the gleam of white cities, but though he fain would\nhave landed, he could not, but was bound to remain where his adventure\ncarried him. At length, to the joy of his heart, the boat stopped of its\nown accord on the beach of a beautiful island, and the young man once\nmore felt soft grass under his feet, and heard the sound of trickling\nstreams. Close by was a forest, and from between the bushes peeped the\nheads of little goats and tiny deer, all gazing with wonder at the\nstranger. From the look of the place it was plain that seldom indeed did\nman come to disturb their lives, and the Knight of the Sun felt he must\ngo further inland if he wished to meet with any adventures. So, breaking\nthrough the creepers which hung from tree to tree, he struggled on\nbravely, and at last the trees grew less thickly, and he came out upon a\nwide open space in front of a big castle.\n\nThis castle was quite different from any he had seen, either in Babylon\nor in the other countries he had visited. It seemed to be made of\nnothing but towers, and every tower had a steep pointed roof, so high\nthat you would have thought it reached up to heaven itself. In the tower\nnearest him was a door of shining steel, and on top of a row of steps\nabove it was a column, from which hung a horn of ivory edged with gold.\nUnder the horn some words were cut deep into the column, and mounting\nthe steps the knight read:\n\n'This is the castle of the peerless Lindarasse, whose door will never\nopen save to him who blows the horn. Yet let him beware who seeks to\nblow it, for if the door _should_ open he will find it is guarded by\nfierce and cruel porters, and his life will pay for his rash curiosity.'\n\nThe Knight of the Sun laughed out at the thought that any such threats\ncould stop his going wherever he pleased, and, seizing the horn, blew so\npowerful a blast that the sound rang through the whole island. In an\ninstant the gates of steel burst open, and between them stood a giant\nwith an iron club in one hand, and in the other a chain which was\nfastened round the neck of a serpent. Now in all the world there was no\nserpent more horrible than this, for it did not wriggle along the ground\nas serpents generally do, but advanced erect, its head higher than a man\nseated on a horse, while it trailed besides a tail ten feet behind it.\nAt the sight of the young man it lashed its tail so violently that the\nearth trembled as if with an earthquake, while its forky tongue darted\nin and out with a deafening hissing noise.\n\nThe few knights who had dared to blow the horn had been so frightened\nat this terrible creature that they had stood as if frozen, and thus the\ngiant killed them with his club without any trouble. He, of course,\nexpected this knight to behave like the rest, but to his surprise the\nyoung man remained quietly where he was. Then the giant dropped the\nchain and the snake began to mount the steps, opening its mouth wide\nenough to swallow a man and showing its long and yellow fangs. The\nKnight of the Sun swung his sword in the air and let it fall on the\nserpent's neck with a force that seemed as if it must have severed its\nhead from its body; but to his amazement the weapon bounded back as if\nit had been made of wood, though the snake was for the moment half\nstunned and was unable to throw itself on its prey. However, in another\nmoment it had reared itself high and was preparing to fling itself\nforward, when the knight leaped behind the column and from its shelter\nstruck again at the serpent's head. This time the horrible creature sank\nto the ground, though the sword glanced off harmlessly without\npenetrating its skin; but it became more angry than before, and glided\nrapidly towards the column, hoping to seize his enemy in his gaping\njaws. The giant meanwhile stood planted, club in hand, at the bottom of\nthe steps, ready to receive the young man when the serpent should have\ndone with him.\n\nIt was not long before this happened. The Knight of the Sun was so\nintent watching the movements of the head of his horrible foe, that he\nforgot everything else till a violent blow from the serpent's tail cast\nhim to the ground and sent him rolling down the steps to the place where\nthe giant stood. Before he could raise himself, the iron staff had split\nhis helmet in pieces, and, as it seemed, his skull with it. Luckily for\nhim, the giant felt sure he must be dead, and thus the knight was\nenabled to lie still for some minutes till his senses and his strength\ncame back to him, and, springing to his feet, he snatched his sword from\nits sheath and sent half of the giant's body flying one way and half\nthe other. But before he was able to rejoice at having slain one foe the\nserpent was upon him for a second time. The knight had proved that the\nsword was useless against it, so seizing the club of the dead giant he\nstruck such a blow that its head fell in pieces.\n\n[Illustration: THE KNIGHT OF THE SUN FIGHTS THE SERPENT]\n\nThen he took the ivory horn, and entered the door of the first tower. As\nsoon as the Knight of the Sun reached the second tower, he found it was\nshut by a door of steel, just as the first had been. He sounded a blast\non his horn, and the door flew open with a grating and horrible noise,\nwhich might have filled the heart of the bravest with terror, and\nanother giant stepped forth, no less horrible to look upon than his\nbrother, with a club in one hand and a huge chained lion in the other.\nThe great beast was larger than any bull that ever was seen, and each of\nits nails was as long as the foot of a man. Directly its chain was\nloosed, the lion reared itself up and sprang upon the knight, who\nawaited it as calmly as if it had been only a sheep. But after the fight\nwith the serpent the attack of the lion seemed quite easy to parry, and,\nwithout pausing till they came together, the young man turned nimbly\naside and felled him to the earth with the iron staff. After that he\nturned to meet the giant.\n\nThis time the battle was soon over, for the giant, like many very big\npeople, was heavy and clumsy, and the Knight of the Sun stepped past his\ndead body to the third gate, which flew open at the blast of his horn.\nBehind it stood a fresh giant taller than the last, and all covered with\nthick wiry hair, that looked as if it would resist the keenest\nsword-blade which had ever been forged in Damascus. The young knight\nfelt much more afraid of him than of the two tigers which he held on a\nchain, and which showed their teeth and snarled wickedly. But before\nlong the knight had stretched them both on the ground, and summoned all\nhis strength for the struggle with the giant.\n\nThis was much harder than any he had fought yet. The wiry hair turned\nthe edge of his sword, and he felt he might almost as well try to cut\nthrough a fence of iron. Besides, in spite of his great height, this\ngiant was much quicker of eye and of hand than the last, and several\ntimes the young champion was brought to his knees, though he rose again\nbefore his enemy could deal him a second blow. At length the Knight of\nthe Sun noticed a place on the giant's neck where the hair seemed less\nthick than on the rest of his body, and, dropping his sword, he seized\nhis dagger and drove it home.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThus, step by step, fighting giants and beasts every inch of the way,\nthe Knight of the Sun at last reached the hall of the castle, where the\nemperor Trebatius sat by the side of the fair Lindarasse. The spells she\nhad woven round him were so strong, that for years he had not only never\nbeen outside the castle walls, but had ceased to wish to see the world\nagain. But, powerful though Lindarasse might be, the Knight of the Sun\ndid not fear to meet her, as before he had left Babylon the wise\nLyrgander had given him a ring, which preserved him from all\nenchantments.\n\nAt the entrance of the young man the fair Lindarasse looked up; she knew\nwho he was and why he had come.\n\n'What is the matter, Wonder of the World?' asked the emperor Trebatius,\nraising his head from her lap, where it had been resting.\n\n'I am a dead woman, my good lord,' answered she, 'unless you will slay\nme that knight who has forced his way into my castle.'\n\nThese words filled the emperor with fury, and the spirit awoke within\nhim from its long sleep.\n\n'I will teach him manners,' he said grimly, and stalked proudly to the\ngallery where his arms had hung for many a day.\n\nMeanwhile the fair Lindarasse, who, in spite of her haughty bearing,\nbore a sinking heart, tried both by threats and soft words to persuade\nthe Knight of the Sun to leave the castle.\n\n'Not till the emperor goes with me!' he answered steadily. 'You took him\nfrom his wife, and if you will not give him back to her I will take\nhim.'\n\nAnd Lindarasse ground her teeth, and held her peace for a few moments.\nThen she broke into tears and sobs, thinking to move him by these means;\nbut this method fared no better than the other.\n\nThus were they standing when the emperor entered the hall, armed\n_cap-\u00e0-pie_.\n\nNow the knight knew that Trebatius's skill in fight had grown rusty from\nwant of use, and that as long as he remained inside the castle the\nspells which the fair Lindarasse had woven round him would weaken his\narm and confuse his head. So the youth refrained from striking, and with\nhis shield and sword defended himself the while from the blows which the\nemperor dealt in all directions--for his hand no longer followed his\neye. And all the while the Knight of the Sun stepped gently backwards,\ndrawing Trebatius with him till, after twenty years, the emperor stood\noutside the walls, and the enchantment fell from him like a cloak. Then\nwith a rush the remembrance of his wife, the princess Briane, came back\nto him, and in that very moment, though he knew it not, the fair\nLindarasse fell dead in the place where he had left her. For, evil as\nshe was, she had loved him truly, and felt that he had gone from her for\never.\n\nSo Trebatius was set free by his son, and became a man once more. And\nthe two journeyed back towards Hungary, to the monastery where the\nprincess Briane still lived. But on the road an adventure claimed the\nKnight of the Sun, so that the emperor alone stood before his wife,\nwhose heart was almost broken with joy at the sight of him.\n\nAs for their two sons, the Knight of the Sun and his brother Rosiclair,\nwho was also known as the Knight of Love, no such deeds had been wrought\nas were done by them since the days of Lancelot and the Round Table.\n\n[_L'Histoire Admirable du Chevalier du Soleil._ Traduite de l'Espagnol\npar Louis Douet.]\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\n\nThe use of parentheses and brackets around the sources for the stories\nwas inconsistent. The original usage has been maintained.\n\nThe following changes were made:\n\n  Page  Error\n  Frontispiece  HALGERDA changed to HALLGERDA\n   50  his own deathblow changed to his own death-blow\n  119  unwillingly, but changed to unwillingly, 'but\n  159  and tell the changed to 'and tell the\n  179  answered Sancho Panzo changed to answered Sancho Panza\n  191  men, but we changed to men, 'but we\n  191  off his back changed to off her back\n  204  to one side. changed to to one side.'\n  215  be so worth changed to be so wroth\n  257  marvels; but changed to marvels; 'but\n  271  head of Sir Murdour. changed to head of Sir Murdour,\n  289  of news awating changed to of news awaiting\n  335  and mighty arm, changed to and mighty arm,'\n  346  safe from him changed to safe from him.\n  356  half of his kingdom.' changed to half of his kingdom.\n  364  avenge me. changed to avenge me.'\n\nThe following words had inconsistent spelling:\n\n  knight-errants / knights-errant\n  WERWOLF / WER-WOLF","title":"The Red Romance Book","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":102582}