{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_26646/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_26646","id":"gutenberg_26646","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26646","summary":null,"tags":["Arthur, King -- Juvenile literature","Category: Adventure","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Romances"],"text":"Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh,\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n        [Illustration: LANCELOT BEARS OFF GUENEVERE (p. 153)]\n\n\n                                 THE\n\n                           BOOK OF ROMANCE\n\n\n\n\n                              EDITED BY\n\n                             ANDREW LANG\n\n\n             _WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. FORD_\n\n\n\n\n                       LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.\n\n                      39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON\n\n                         NEW YORK AND BOMBAY\n\n                                 1902\n\n\n\n\n                            Copyright 1902\n\n                                  BY\n\n                        LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n_PREFACE_\n\n\nIt is to be supposed that children do not read Prefaces; these are\nBluebeard's rooms, which they are not curious to unlock. A few words\nmay therefore be said about the Romances contained in this book. In\nthe editor's opinion, romances are only fairy tales grown up. The\nwhole mass of the plot and incident of romance was invented by nobody\nknows who, nobody knows when, nobody knows where. Almost every people\nhas the Cinderella story, with all sorts of variations: a boy hero in\nplace of a girl heroine, a beast in place of a fairy godmother, and so\non. The Zunis, an agricultural tribe of New Mexico, have a version in\nwhich the moral turns out to be against poor Cinderella, who comes to\nan ill end. The Red Indians have the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice,\ntold in a very touching shape, but without the music. On the other\nhand, the negroes in the States have the Orpheus tale, adapted to\nplantation life, in a form which is certainly borrowed from Europeans.\nThis version was sent to me some years ago, by Mr. Barnet Phillips,\nBrooklyn, New York, and I give it here for its curiosity. If the\nproper names, Jim Orpus and Dicey, had not been given, we might not\nfeel absolutely certain that the story was borrowed. It is a good\nexample of adaptation from the heroic age of Greece to the servile age\nof Africans.\n\n\nDICEY AND ORPUS\n\n\nDat war eber so long ago, 'cause me granmammy tell me so. It h'aint no\nwhite-folks yarn--no Sah. Gall she war call Dicey, an' she war borned\non de plantation. Whar Jim Orpus kum from, granmammy she disremember.\nHe war a boss-fiddler, he war, an' jus' that powerful, dat when de\nmules in de cotton field listen to um, dey no budge in de furrer.\nOrpus he neber want no mess of fish, ketched wid a angle. He just take\nhim fiddle an' fool along de branch, an' play a tune, an' up dey\ncomes, an' he cotch 'em in he hans. He war mighty sot on Dicey, an'\ndey war married all proper an' reg'lar. Hit war so long ago, dat de\nrailroad war a bran-new spick an' span ting in dose days. Dicey once\nshe lounge 'round de track, 'cause she tink she hear Orpus a fiddlin'\nin de fur-fur-away. Onyways de hengine smash her. Den Jim Orpus he\ntook on turrible, an' when she war buried, he sot him down on de\ngrave, an' he fiddle an' he fiddle till most yo' heart was bruk.\n\nAn' he play so long dat de groun' crummle (crumble) an' sink, an' nex'\nday, when de peoples look for Jim Orpus, dey no find um; oney big-hole\nin de lot, an' nobody never see Jim Orpus no mo'. An' dey do say, dat\nef yo' go inter a darky's burial-groun', providin' no white man been\nplanted thar, an' yo' clap yo' ear to de groun', yo' can hear Jim's\nfiddle way down deep belo', a folloin' Dicey fru' de lan' of de Golden\nSlippah.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Mr. Phillips, writing in 1896, says that the tale was\ntold him by a plantation hand, thirty years ago, 'long before the\nUncle Remus period.']\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe original touch, the sound of Orpus's fiddle heard only in the\ngraveyards of the negroes (like the fairy music under the fairy hill\nat Ballachulish), is very remarkable. Now the Red Indian story has no\nharper, and no visit by the hero to the land of the dead. His grief\nbrings his wife back to him, and he loses her again by breaking a\ntaboo, as Orpheus did by looking back, a thing always forbidden. Thus\nwe do not know whether or not the Red Indian version is borrowed from\nthe European myth, probably enough it is not. But in no case--not\neven when the same plot and incidents occur among Egyptians and the\nCentral Australian tribes, or among the frosty Samoyeds and Eskimo,\nthe Samoans, the Andamanese, the Zulus, and the Japanese, as well as\namong Celts and ancient Greeks--can we be absolutely certain that the\nstory has not been diffused and borrowed, in the backward of time.\nThus the date and place of origin of these eternal stories, the\ngroundwork of ballads and popular tales, can never be ascertained. The\noldest known version may be found in the literature of Egypt or\nChaldaea, but it is an obvious fallacy to argue that the place of\norigin must be the place where the tale was first written down in\nhieroglyph or cuneiform characters.\n\nThere the stories are: they are as common among the remotest savages\nas among the peasants of Hungary, France, or Assynt. They bear all the\nbirth-marks of an early society, with the usual customs and\nsuperstitions of man in such a stage of existence. Their oldest and\nleast corrupted forms exist among savages, and people who do not read\nand write. But when reading and writing and a class of professional\nminstrels and tellers of tales arose, these men invented no new plots,\nbut borrowed the plots and incidents of the world-old popular stories.\nThey adapted these to their own condition of society, just as the\nplantation negroes adapted Orpheus and Eurydice. They elevated the\nnameless heroes and heroines into Kings, Queens, and Knights,\nOdysseus, Arthur, Charlemagne, Diarmid, and the rest. They took an\nancient popular tale, known all over the earth, and attributed the\nadventures of the characters to historical persons, like Charlemagne\nand his family, or to Saints, for the legends of early Celtic Saints\nare full of fairy-tale materials. Characters half historic, half\nfabulous, like Arthur, were endowed with fairy gifts, and inherited\nthe feats of nameless imaginary heroes.\n\nThe results of this uncritical literary handling of elements really\npopular were the national romances of Arthur, of Charlemagne, of\nSigurd, or of Etzel. The pagan legends were Christianised, like that\nof Beowulf; they were expanded into measureless length, whole cycles\nwere invented about the heroic families; poets altered the materials\neach in his own way and to serve his own purpose, and often to glorify\nhis own country. If the Saracens told their story of Roland at\nRoncevalles, it would be very different from that of the old Frankish\n_chansons de geste_. Thus the romances are a mixture of popular tales,\nof literary invention, and of history as transmitted in legend. To the\ncharm of fairy tale they add the fascination of the age of chivalry,\nyet I am not sure but that children will prefer the fairy tale pure\nand simple, nor am I sure that their taste would be wrong, if they\ndid.\n\nIn the versions here offered, the story of Arthur is taken mainly from\nMalory's compilation, from sources chiefly French, but the opening of\nthe Graal story is adapted from Mr. Sebastian Evans's 'High History of\nthe Holy Graal,' a masterpiece of the translator's art. For permission\nto adapt this chapter I have to thank the kindness of Mr. Evans.\n\nThe story of Roland is from the French Epic, probably of the eleventh\ncentury, but resting on earlier materials, legend and ballad. William\nShort Nose is also from the _chanson de geste_ of that hero.\n\nThe story of Diarmid, ancient Irish and also current among the\nDalriadic invaders of Argyle, is taken from the translations in the\nTransactions of the Ossianic Society.\n\nThe story of Robin Hood is from the old English ballads of the\ncourteous outlaw, whose feast, in Scotland, fell in the early days of\nMay. His alleged date varies between the ages of Richard I. and Edward\nII., but all the labours of the learned have thrown no light on this\npopular hero.\n\nA child can see how _English_ Robin is, how human, and possible and\ngood-humoured are his character and feats, while Arthur is half\nCeltic, half French and chivalrous, and while the deeds of the French\nRoland, and of the Celtic Diarmid, are exaggerated beyond the\npossible. There is nothing of the fairylike in Robin, and he has no\nthirst for the Ideal. Had we given the adventures of Sir William\nWallace, from Blind Harry, it would have appeared that the Lowland\nScots could exaggerate like other people.\n\nThe story of Wayland the Smith is very ancient. An ivory in the\nBritish Museum, apparently of the eighth century, represents Wayland\nmaking the cups out of the skulls. As told here the legend is adapted\nfrom the amplified version by Oehlenschlaeger. Scott's use of the story\nin 'Kenilworth' will be remembered.\n\nAll the romances are written by Mrs. Lang, except the story of Grettir\nthe Strong, done by Mr. H. S. C. Everard from the saga translated by\nMr. William Morris.\n\nA. LANG.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n_CONTENTS_\n\n\n                                                     PAGE\n\n_The Drawing of the Sword_                             3\n\n_The Questing Beast_                                   9\n\n_The Sword Excalibur_                                 14\n\n_The Story of Sir Balin_                              16\n\n_How the Round Table began_                           25\n\n_The Passing of Merlin_                               31\n\n_How Morgan Le Fay tried to kill King Arthur_         33\n\n_What Beaumains asked of the King_                    38\n\n_The Quest of the Holy Graal_                         64\n\n_The Fight for the Queen_                            102\n\n_The Fair Maid of Astolat_                           113\n\n_Lancelot and Guenevere_                             132\n\n_The End of it All_                                  160\n\n_The Battle of Roncevalles_                          177\n\n_The Pursuit of Diarmid_                             215\n\n_Some Adventures of William Short Nose_              253\n\n_Wayland the Smith_                                  293\n\n_The Story of Robin Hood_                            323\n\n_The Story of Grettir the Strong_                    359\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n_ILLUSTRATIONS_\n\n\n_COLOURED PLATES_\n\n_Lancelot bears off Guenevere_ (p. 153)               _Frontispiece_\n\n_Arthur meets the Lady of the Lake_              _to face p_.    14\n\n_Lancelot at the Chapel_                               \"         77\n\n_Guenevere and Sir Bors_                               \"        106\n\n_Lancelot brings Guenevere to Arthur_                  \"        132\n\n_Alix kisses Rainouart_                                \"        275\n\n_Slagfid pursues the Wraith over the Mountains_        \"        301\n\n_The Chariot of Freya_                                 \"        318\n\n\n_FULL-PAGE PLATES_\n\n_How Arthur drew the Sword_                      _to face p_.     4\n\n_Arthur and the Questing Beast_                        \"         10\n\n_The Death of Balin and Balan_                         \"         20\n\n_Merlin and Vivien_                                    \"         31\n\n_Morgan Le Fay casts away the Scabbard_                \"         34\n\n_Gareth and Linet_                                     \"         41\n\n_Linet and the Black Knight_                           \"         46\n\n_The Lady of Lyonesse sees Sir Gareth_                 \"         54\n\n_Sir Galahad opens the Tomb_                           \"         72\n\n_Sir Percivale slays the Serpent_                      \"         80\n\n_Lancelot and the Dwarf_                               \"         96\n\n_Arthur and Guenevere kiss before all the People_      \"        108\n\n_Elaine ties her Sleeve round Sir Lancelot's\n     Helmet_                                           \"        116\n\n_The Black Barget_                                     \"        127\n\n_The Archers threaten Lancelot_                        \"        138\n\n_Sir Mordred_                                    _to face p_.   164\n\n_Excalibur returns to the Mere_                        \"        168\n\n_Charlemagne_                                          \"        178\n\n_Marsile threatens Ganelon with a Javelin_             \"        184\n\n_Roland winds his horn in the Valley of\n     Roncevalles_........                              \"        202\n\n_Grania questions the Druid_                           \"        216\n\n_Diarmid seizes the Giant's Club_                      \"        230\n\n_Diarmid and Grania in the Quicken Tree_               \"        236\n\n_The Death of Diarmid_                                 \"        242\n\n_Vivian's last Confession_                             \"        256\n\n_The Lady Alix stays the wrath of William\n     Short Nose_                                       \"        270\n\n_The Lady Gibourc with Rainouart in the\n     Kitchen_                                          \"        278\n\n_Rainouart stops the Cowards_                          \"        282\n\n_The Three Women by the Stream_                        \"        294\n\n_Wayland mocked by the Queen and Banvilda_             \"        310\n\n_The Merman warns Banvilda in vain_                    \"        314\n\n_'There is pith in your arm,' said Robin Hood_         \"        346\n\n_Robin Hood shoots his last Arrow_                     \"        354\n\n_Grettir feels Karr's grip_                            \"        362\n\n_Grettir overthrows Thorir Redbeard_                   \"        372\n\n\nIN TEXT\n\n\n                                                                PAGE\n\n_The Damsel warns Sir Balin_                                     19\n\n_How Sir Bors was saved from killing his Brother_                88\n\n_Sir Mador accuses Guenevere_                                   104\n\n_Guenevere sends her Page to Lancelot for help_                 136\n\n_Lancelot comes out of Guenevere's room_                        148\n\n_The Dream of Charlemagne_                                      193\n\n_The Captives: William Short Nose rides to the rescue_          263\n\n_The Witch Thurid cuts a charm on the log_                      381\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTALES OF THE ROUND TABLE\n\n_THE DRAWING OF THE SWORD_\n\n\nLong, long ago, after Uther Pendragon died, there was no King in\nBritain, and every Knight hoped to seize the crown for himself. The\ncountry was like to fare ill when laws were broken on every side, and\nthe corn which was to give the poor bread was trodden underfoot, and\nthere was none to bring the evildoer to justice. Then, when things\nwere at their worst, came forth Merlin the magician, and fast he rode\nto the place where the Archbishop of Canterbury had his dwelling. And\nthey took counsel together, and agreed that all the lords and\ngentlemen of Britain should ride to London and meet on Christmas Day,\nnow at hand, in the Great Church. So this was done. And on Christmas\nmorning, as they left the church, they saw in the churchyard a large\nstone, and on it a bar of steel, and in the steel a naked sword was\nheld, and about it was written in letters of gold, 'Whoso pulleth out\nthis sword is by right of birth King of England.' They marvelled at\nthese words, and called for the Archbishop, and brought him into the\nplace where the stone stood. Then those Knights who fain would be King\ncould not hold themselves back, and they tugged at the sword with all\ntheir might; but it never stirred. The Archbishop watched them in\nsilence, but when they were faint from pulling he spoke: 'The man is\nnot here who shall lift out that sword, nor do I know where to find\nhim. But this is my counsel--that two Knights be chosen, good and true\nmen, to keep guard over the sword.'\n\nThus it was done. But the lords and gentlemen-at-arms cried out that\nevery man had a right to try to win the sword, and they decided that\non New Year's Day a tournament should be held, and any Knight who\nwould, might enter the lists.\n\nSo on New Year's Day, the Knights, as their custom was, went to hear\nservice in the Great Church, and after it was over they met in the\nfield to make ready for the tourney. Among them was a brave Knight\ncalled Sir Ector, who brought with him Sir Kay, his son, and Arthur,\nKay's foster-brother. Now Kay had unbuckled his sword the evening\nbefore, and in his haste to be at the tourney had forgotten to put it\non again, and he begged Arthur to ride back and fetch it for him. But\nwhen Arthur reached the house the door was locked, for the women had\ngone out to see the tourney, and though Arthur tried his best to get\nin he could not. Then he rode away in great anger, and said to\nhimself, 'Kay shall not be without a sword this day. I will take that\nsword in the churchyard, and give it to him'; and he galloped fast\ntill he reached the gate of the churchyard. Here he jumped down and\ntied his horse tightly to a tree, then, running up to the stone, he\nseized the handle of the sword, and drew it easily out; afterwards he\nmounted his horse again, and delivered the sword to Sir Kay. The\nmoment Sir Kay saw the sword he knew it was not his own, but the sword\nof the stone, and he sought out his father Sir Ector, and said to him,\n'Sir, this is the sword of the stone, therefore I am the rightful\nKing.' Sir Ector made no answer, but signed to Kay and Arthur to\nfollow him, and they all three went back to the church. Leaving their\nhorses outside, they entered the choir, and here Sir Ector took a holy\nbook and bade Sir Kay swear how he came by that sword. 'My brother\nArthur gave it to me,' replied Sir Kay. 'How did you come by it?'\nasked Sir Ector, turning to Arthur. 'Sir,' said Arthur, 'when I rode\nhome for my brother's sword I found no one to deliver it to me, and as\nI resolved he should not be swordless I thought of the sword in\nthis stone, and I pulled it out.' 'Were any Knights present when you\ndid this?' asked Sir Ector. 'No, none,' said Arthur. 'Then it is you,'\nsaid Sir Ector, 'who are the rightful King of this land.' 'But why am\nI the King?' inquired Arthur. 'Because,' answered Sir Ector, 'this is\nan enchanted sword, and no man could draw it but he who was born a\nKing. Therefore put the sword back into the stone, and let me see you\ntake it out.' 'That is soon done,' said Arthur replacing the sword,\nand Sir Ector himself tried to draw it, but he could not. 'Now it is\nyour turn,' he said to Sir Kay, but Sir Kay fared no better than his\nfather, though he tugged with all his might and main. 'Now you,\nArthur,' and Arthur pulled it out as easily as if it had been lying in\nits sheath, and as he did so Sir Ector and Sir Kay sank on their knees\nbefore him. 'Why do you, my father and brother, kneel to me?' asked\nArthur in surprise. 'Nay, nay, my lord,' answered Sir Ector, 'I was\nnever your father, though till to-day I did not know who your father\nreally was. You are the son of Uther Pendragon, and you were brought\nto me when you were born by Merlin himself, who promised that when the\ntime came I should know from whom you sprang. And now it has been\nrevealed to me.' But when Arthur heard that Sir Ector was not his\nfather, he wept bitterly. 'If I am King,' he said at last, 'ask what\nyou will, and I shall not fail you. For to you, and to my lady and\nmother, I owe more than to anyone in the world, for she loved me and\ntreated me as her son.' 'Sir,' replied Sir Ector, I only ask that you\nwill make your foster-brother, Sir Kay, Seneschal[2] of all your\nlands.' 'That I will readily,' answered Arthur, 'and while he and I\nlive no other shall fill that office.'\n\n[Footnote 2: 'Seneschal' means steward.]\n\n[Illustration: HOW ARTHUR DREW THE SWORD]\n\nSir Ector then bade them seek out the Archbishop with him, and they\ntold him all that had happened concerning the sword, which Arthur had\nleft standing in the stone. And on the Twelfth Day the Knights and\nBarons came again, but none could draw it out but Arthur. When they\nsaw this, many of the Barons became angry and cried out that they\nwould never own a boy for King whose blood was no better than their\nown. So it was agreed to wait till Candlemas, when more Knights might\nbe there, and meanwhile the same two men who had been chosen before\nwatched the sword night and day; but at Candlemas it was the same\nthing, and at Easter. And when Pentecost came, the common people who\nwere present, and saw Arthur pull out the sword, cried with one voice\nthat he was their King, and they would kill any man who said\ndifferently. Then rich and poor fell on their knees before him, and\nArthur took the sword and offered it upon the altar where the\nArchbishop stood, and the best man that was there made him Knight.\nAfter that the crown was put on his head, and he swore to his lords\nand commons that he would be a true King, and would do them justice\nall the days of his life.\n\n\n\n\n_THE QUESTING BEAST_\n\n\nBut Arthur had many battles to fight and many Kings to conquer before\nhe was acknowledged lord of them all, and often he would have failed\nhad he not listened to the wisdom of Merlin, and been helped by his\nsword Excalibur, which in obedience to Merlin's orders he never drew\ntill things were going ill with him. Later it shall be told how the\nKing got the sword Excalibur, which shone so bright in his enemies'\neyes that they fell back, dazzled by the brightness. Many Knights came\nto his standard, and among them Sir Ban, King of Gaul beyond the sea,\nwho was ever his faithful friend. And it was in one of these wars,\nwhen King Arthur and King Ban and King Bors went to the rescue of the\nKing of Cameliard, that Arthur saw Guenevere, the King's daughter,\nwhom he afterwards wedded. By and by King Ban and King Bors returned\nto their own country across the sea, and the King went to Carlion, a\ntown on the river Usk, where a strange dream came to him.\n\nHe thought that the land was over-run with gryphons and serpents which\nburnt and slew his people, and he made war on the monsters, and was\nsorely wounded, though at last he killed them all. When he awoke the\nremembrance of his dream was heavy upon him, and to shake it off he\nsummoned his Knights to hunt with him, and they rode fast till they\nreached a forest. Soon they spied a hart before them, which the King\nclaimed as his game, and he spurred his horse and rode after him. But\nthe hart ran fast and the King could not get near it, and the chase\nlasted so long that the King himself grew heavy and his horse fell\ndead under him. Then he sat under a tree and rested, till he heard the\nbaying of hounds, and fancied he counted as many as thirty of them. He\nraised his head to look, and, coming towards him, saw a beast so\nstrange that its like was not to be found throughout his kingdom. It\nwent straight to the well and drank, making as it did so the noise of\nmany hounds baying, and when it had drunk its fill the beast went its\nway.\n\nWhile the King was wondering what sort of a beast this could be, a\nKnight rode by, who, seeing a man lying under a tree, stopped and said\nto him: 'Knight full of thought and sleepy, tell me if a strange beast\nhas passed this way?'\n\n'Yes, truly,' answered Arthur, 'and by now it must be two miles\ndistant. What do you want with it?'\n\n'Oh sir, I have followed that beast from far,' replied he, 'and have\nridden my horse to death. If only I could find another I would still\ngo after it.' As he spoke a squire came up leading a fresh horse for\nthe King, and when the Knight saw it he prayed that it might be given\nto him, 'for,' said he, 'I have followed this quest this twelvemonth,\nand either I shall slay him or he will slay me.'\n\n'Sir Knight,' answered the King, 'you have done your part; leave now\nyour quest, and let me follow the beast for the same time that you\nhave done.' 'Ah, fool!' replied the Knight, whose name was Pellinore,\n'it would be all in vain, for none may slay that beast but I or my\nnext of kin'; and without more words he sprang into the saddle. 'You\nmay take my horse by force,' said the King, 'but I should like to\nprove first which of us two is the better horseman.'\n\n[Illustration: ARTHUR AND THE QUESTING BEAST]\n\n'Well,' answered the Knight, 'when you want me, come to this spring.\nHere you will always find me,' and, spurring his horse, he galloped\naway. The King watched him till he was out of sight, then turned to\nhis squire and bade him bring another horse as quickly as he could.\nWhile he was waiting for it the wizard Merlin came along in the\nlikeness of a boy, and asked the King why he was so thoughtful.\n\n'I may well be thoughtful,' replied the King, 'for I have seen the\nmost wonderful sight in all the world.'\n\n'That I know well,' said Merlin, 'for I know all your thoughts. But it\nis folly to let your mind dwell on it, for thinking will mend nothing.\nI know, too, that Uther Pendragon was your father, and your mother was\nthe Lady Igraine.'\n\n'How can a boy like you know that?' cried Arthur, growing angry; but\nMerlin only answered, 'I know it better than any man living,' and\npassed, returning soon after in the likeness of an old man of\nfourscore, and sitting down by the well to rest.\n\n'What makes you so sad?' asked he.\n\n'I may well be sad,' replied Arthur, 'there is plenty to make me so.\nAnd besides, there was a boy here who told me things that he had no\nbusiness to know, and among them the names of my father and mother.'\n\n'He told you the truth,' said the old man, 'and if you would have\nlistened he could have told you still more; how that your sister shall\nhave a child who shall destroy you and all your Knights.'\n\n'Who are you?' asked Arthur, wondering.\n\n'I am Merlin, and it was I who came to you in the likeness of a boy. I\nknow all things; how that you shall die a noble death, being slain in\nbattle, while my end will be shameful, for I shall be put alive into\nthe earth.'\n\nThere was no time to say more, for the man brought up the King's\nhorse, and he mounted, and rode fast till he came to Carlion.\n\n\n\n\n_THE SWORD EXCALIBUR_\n\n\nKing Arthur had fought a hard battle with the tallest Knight in all\nthe land, and though he struck hard and well, he would have been slain\nhad not Merlin enchanted the Knight and cast him into a deep sleep,\nand brought the King to a hermit who had studied the art of healing,\nand cured all his wounds in three days. Then Arthur and Merlin waited\nno longer, but gave the hermit thanks and departed.\n\nAs they rode together Arthur said, 'I have no sword,' but Merlin bade\nhim be patient and he would soon give him one. In a little while they\ncame to a large lake, and in the midst of the lake Arthur beheld an\narm rising out of the water, holding up a sword. 'Look!' said Merlin,\n'that is the sword I spoke of.' And the King looked again, and a\nmaiden stood upon the water. 'That is the Lady of the Lake,' said\nMerlin, 'and she is coming to you, and if you ask her courteously she\nwill give you the sword.' So when the maiden drew near Arthur saluted\nher and said, 'Maiden, I pray you tell me whose sword is that which an\narm is holding out of the water? I wish it were mine, for I have lost\nmy sword.'\n\n'That sword is mine, King Arthur,' answered she, 'and I will give it\nto you, if you in return will give me a gift when I ask you.'\n\n[Illustration: ARTHUR MEETS THE LADY OF THE LAKE AND GETS THE SWORD\nEXCALIBUR]\n\n'By my faith,' said the King, 'I will give you whatever gift you ask.'\n'Well,' said the maiden, 'get into the barge yonder, and row yourself\nto the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you.' For this was the\nsword Excalibur. 'As for _my_ gift, I will ask it in my own time.'\nThen King Arthur and Merlin dismounted from their horses and tied them\nup safely, and went into the barge, and when they came to the place\nwhere the arm was holding the sword Arthur took it by the handle, and\nthe arm disappeared. And they brought the sword back to land. As they\nrode the King looked lovingly on his sword, which Merlin saw, and,\nsmiling, said, 'Which do you like best, the sword or the scabbard?' 'I\nlike the sword,' answered Arthur. 'You are not wise to say that,'\nreplied Merlin, 'for the scabbard is worth ten of the sword, and as\nlong as it is buckled on you you will lose no blood, however sorely\nyou may be wounded.' So they rode into the town of Carlion, and\nArthur's Knights gave them a glad welcome, and said it was a joy to\nserve under a King who risked his life as much as any common man.\n\n\n\n\n_THE STORY OF SIR BALIN_\n\n\nIn those days many Kings reigned in the Islands of the Sea, and they\nconstantly waged war upon each other, and on their liege lord, and\nnews came to Arthur that Ryons, King of North Wales, had collected a\nlarge host and had ravaged his lands and slain some of his people.\nWhen he heard this, Arthur rose in anger, and commanded that all\nlords, Knights, and gentlemen of arms should meet him at Camelot,\nwhere he would call a council, and hold a tourney.\n\nFrom every part the Knights flocked to Camelot, and the town was full\nto overflowing of armed men and their horses. And when they were all\nassembled, there rode in a damsel, who said she had come with a\nmessage from the great Lady Lile of Avelion, and begged that they\nwould bring her before King Arthur. When she was led into his presence\nshe let her mantle of fur slip off her shoulders, and they saw that by\nher side a richly wrought sword was buckled. The King was silent with\nwonder at the strange sight, but at last he said, 'Damsel, why do you\nwear this sword? for swords are not the ornaments of women.' 'Oh, my\nlord,' answered she, 'I would I could find some Knight to rid me of\nthis sword, which weighs me down and causes me much sorrow. But the\nman who will deliver me of it must be one who is mighty of his hands,\nand pure in his deeds, without villainy, or treason. If I find a\nKnight such as this, he will draw this sword out of its sheath, and\nhe only. For I have been at the Court of King Ryons, and he and his\nKnights tried with all their strength to draw the sword and they could\nnot.'\n\n'Let me see if I can draw it,' said Arthur, 'not because I think\nmyself the best Knight, for well I know how far I am outdone by\nothers, but to set them an example that they may follow me.' With that\nthe King took the sword by the sheath and by the girdle, and pulled at\nit with all his force, but the sword stuck fast. 'Sir,' said the\ndamsel, 'you need not pull half so hard, for he that shall pull it out\nshall do it with little strength.' 'It is not for me,' answered\nArthur, 'and now, my Barons, let each man try his fortune.' So most of\nthe Knights of the Round Table there present pulled, one after\nanother, at the sword, but none could stir it from its sheath. 'Alas!\nalas!' cried the damsel in great grief, 'I thought to find in this\nCourt Knights that were blameless and true of heart, and now I know\nnot where to look for them.' 'By my faith,' said Arthur, 'there are no\nbetter Knights in the world than these of mine, but I am sore\ndispleased that they cannot help me in this matter.'\n\nNow at that time there was a poor Knight at Arthur's Court who had\nbeen kept prisoner for a year and a half because he had slain the\nKing's cousin. He was of high birth and his name was Balin, and after\nhe had suffered eighteen months the punishment of his misdeed the\nBarons prayed the King to set him free, which Arthur did willingly.\nWhen Balin, standing apart beheld the Knights one by one try the\nsword, and fail to draw it, his heart beat fast, yet he shrank from\ntaking his turn, for he was meanly dressed, and could not compare with\nthe other Barons. But after the damsel had bid farewell to Arthur and\nhis Court, and was setting out on her journey homewards, he called to\nher and said, 'Damsel, I pray you to suffer me to try your sword, as\nwell as these lords, for though I am so poorly clothed, my heart is as\nhigh as theirs.' The damsel stopped and looked at him, and answered,\n'Sir, it is not needful to put you to such trouble, for where so many\nhave failed it is hardly likely that you will succeed.' 'Ah! fair\ndamsel,' said Balin, 'it is not fine clothes that make good deeds.'\n'You speak truly,' replied the damsel, 'therefore do what you can.'\nThen Balin took the sword by the girdle and sheath, and pulled it out\neasily, and when he looked at the sword he was greatly pleased with\nit. The King and the Knights were dumb with surprise that it was Balin\nwho had triumphed over them, and many of them envied him and felt\nanger towards him. 'In truth,' said the damsel, 'this is the best\nKnight that I ever found, but, Sir, I pray you give me the sword\nagain.'\n\n'No,' answered Balin, 'I will keep it till it is taken from me by\nforce.' 'It is for your sake, not mine, that I ask for it,' said the\ndamsel, 'for with that sword you shall slay the man you love best, and\nit shall bring about your own ruin.' 'I will take what befalls me,'\nreplied Balin, 'but the sword I will not give up, by the faith of my\nbody.' So the damsel departed in great sorrow. The next day Sir Balin\nleft the Court, and, armed with his sword, set forth in search of\nadventures, which he found in many places where he had not thought to\nmeet with them. In all the fights that he fought, Sir Balin was the\nvictor, and Arthur, and Merlin his friend, knew that there was no\nKnight living of greater deeds, or more worthy of worship. And he was\nknown to all as Sir Balin le Savage, the Knight of the two swords.\n\nOne day he was riding forth when at the turning of a road he saw a\ncross, and on it was written in letters of gold, 'Let no Knight ride\ntowards this castle.' Sir Balin was still reading the writing when\nthere came towards him an old man with white hair, who said, 'Sir\nBalin le Savage, this is not the way for you, so turn again and choose\nsome other path.' And so he vanished, and a horn blew loudly, as a\nhorn is blown at the death of a beast. 'That blast,' said Balin, 'is\nfor me, but I am still alive,' and he rode to the castle, where a\ngreat company of knights and ladies met him and welcomed him, and made\nhim a feast. Then the lady of the castle said to him, 'Knight with the\ntwo swords, you must now fight a Knight that guards an island, for it\nis our law that no man may leave us without he first fight a tourney.'\n\n[Illustration: The Damsel Warns Sir Balin.]\n\n'That is a bad custom,' said Balin, 'but if I must I am ready; for\nthough my horse is weary my heart is strong.'\n\n'Sir,' said a Knight to him, 'your shield does not look whole to me; I\nwill lend you another'; so Balin listened to him and took the shield\nthat was offered, and left his own with his own coat of arms behind\nhim. He rode down to the shore, and led his horse into a boat, which\ntook them across. When he reached the other side, a damsel came to him\ncrying, 'O Knight Balin, why have you left your own shield behind you?\nAlas! you have put yourself in great danger, for by your shield you\nshould have been known. I grieve over your doom, for there is no man\nliving that can rival you for courage and bold deeds.'\n\n'I repent,' answered Balin, 'ever having come into this country, but\nfor very shame I must go on. Whatever befalls me, either for life or\ndeath, I am ready to take it.' Then he examined his armour, and saw\nthat it was whole, and mounted his horse.\n\nAs he went along the path he beheld a Knight come out of a castle in\nfront, clothed in red, riding a horse with red trappings. When this\nred Knight looked on the two swords, he thought for a moment it was\nBalin, but the shield did not bear Balin's device. So they rode at\neach other with their spears, and smote each other's shields so hard\nthat both horses and men fell to the ground with the shock, and the\nKnights lay unconscious on the ground for some minutes. But soon they\nrose up again and began the fight afresh, and they fought till the\nplace was red with their blood, and they had each seven great wounds.\n'What Knight are you?' asked Balin le Savage, pausing for breath, 'for\nnever before have I found any Knight to match me.' 'My name,' said he,\n'is Balan, brother to the good Knight Balin.'\n\n[Illustration: The Death of Balin and Balan]\n\n'Alas!' cried Balin, 'that I should ever live to see this day,' and he\nfell back fainting to the ground. At this sight Balan crept on his\nfeet and hands, and pulled off Balin's helmet, so that he might see\nhis face. The fresh air revived Balin, and he awoke and said: 'O\nBalan, my brother, you have slain me, and I you, and the whole world\nshall speak ill of us both.'\n\n'Alas,' sighed Balan, 'if I had only known you! I saw your two swords,\nbut from your shield I thought you had been another knight.'\n\n'Woe is me!' said Balin, 'all this was wrought by an unhappy knight in\nthe castle, who caused me to change my shield for his. If I lived, I\nwould destroy that castle that he should not deceive other men.'\n\n'You would have done well,' answered Balan, 'for they have kept me\nprisoner ever since I slew a Knight that guarded this island, and they\nwould have kept you captive too.' Then came the lady of the castle and\nher companions, and listened as they made their moan. And Balan prayed\nthat she would grant them the grace to lie together, there where they\ndied, and their wish was given them, and she and those that were with\nher wept for pity.\n\nSo they died; and the lady made a tomb for them, and put Balan's name\nalone on it, for Balin's name she knew not. But Merlin knew, and next\nmorning he came and wrote it in letters of gold, and he ungirded\nBalin's sword, and unscrewed the pommel, and put another pommel on it,\nand bade a Knight that stood by handle it, but the Knight could not.\nAt that Merlin laughed. 'Why do you laugh?' asked the Knight.\n'Because,' said Merlin, 'no man shall handle this sword but the best\nKnight in the world, and that is either Sir Lancelot or his son Sir\nGalahad. With this sword Sir Lancelot shall slay the man he loves\nbest, and Sir Gawaine is his name.' And this was later done, in a\nfight across the seas.\n\nAll this Merlin wrote on the pommel of the sword. Next he made a\nbridge of steel to the island, six inches broad, and no man could pass\nover it that was guilty of any evil deeds. The scabbard of the sword\nhe left on this side of the island, so that Galahad should find it.\nThe sword itself he put in a magic stone, which floated down the\nstream to Camelot, that is now called Winchester. And the same day\nGalahad came to the river, having in his hand the scabbard, and he saw\nthe sword and pulled it out of the stone, as is told in another\nplace.\n\n\n\n\n_HOW THE ROUND TABLE BEGAN_\n\n\nIt was told in the story of the Questing Beast that King Arthur\nmarried the daughter of Leodegrance, King of Cameliard, but there was\nnot space there to say how it came about. And as the tales of the\nRound Table are full of this lady, Queen Guenevere, it is well that\nanybody who reads this book should learn how she became Queen.\n\nAfter King Arthur had fought and conquered many enemies, he said one\nday to Merlin, whose counsel he took all the days of his life, 'My\nBarons will let me have no rest, but bid me take a wife, and I have\nanswered them that I shall take none, except you advise me.'\n\n'It is well,' replied Merlin, 'that you should take a wife, but is\nthere any woman that you love better than another?' 'Yes,' said\nArthur, 'I love Guenevere, daughter of Leodegrance, King of Cameliard,\nin whose house is the Round Table that my father gave him. This maiden\nis the fairest that I have ever seen, or ever shall see.' 'Sir,'\nanswered Merlin, 'what you say as to her beauty is true, but, if your\nheart was not set on her, I could find you another as fair, and of\nmore goodness, than she. But if a man's heart is once set it is idle\nto try to turn him.' Then Merlin asked the King to give him a company\nof knights and esquires, that he might go to the Court of King\nLeodegrance and tell him that King Arthur desired to wed his daughter,\nwhich Arthur did gladly. Therefore Merlin rode forth and made all the\nhaste he could till he came to the Castle of Cameliard, and told King\nLeodegrance who had sent him and why.\n\n'That is the best news I have ever had,' replied Leodegrance, 'for\nlittle did I think that so great and noble a King should seek to marry\nmy daughter. As for lands to endow her with, I would give whatever he\nchose; but he has lands enough of his own, so I will give him instead\nsomething that will please him much more, the Round Table which Uther\nPendragon gave me, where a hundred and fifty Knights can sit at one\ntime. I myself can call to my side a hundred good Knights, but I lack\nfifty, for the wars have slain many, and some are absent.' And without\nmore words King Leodegrance gave his consent that his daughter should\nwed King Arthur. And Merlin returned with his Knights and esquires,\njourneying partly by water and partly by land, till they drew near to\nLondon.\n\nWhen King Arthur heard of the coming of Merlin and of the Knights with\nthe Round Table he was filled with joy, and said to those that stood\nabout him, 'This news that Merlin has brought me is welcome indeed,\nfor I have long loved this fair lady, and the Round Table is dearer to\nme than great riches.' Then he ordered that Sir Lancelot should ride\nto fetch the Queen, and that preparations for the marriage and her\ncoronation should be made, which was done. 'Now, Merlin,' said the\nKing, 'go and look about my kingdom and bring fifty of the bravest and\nmost famous Knights that can be found throughout the land.' But no\nmore than eight and twenty Knights could Merlin find. With these\nArthur had to be content, and the Bishop of Canterbury was fetched,\nand he blessed the seats that were placed by the Round Table, and the\nKnights sat in them. 'Fair Sirs,' said Merlin, when the Bishop had\nended his blessing, 'arise all of you, and pay your homage to the\nKing.' So the Knights arose to do his bidding, and in every seat was\nthe name of the Knight who had sat on it, written in letters of gold,\nbut two seats were empty. After that young Gawaine came to the King,\nand prayed him to make him a Knight on the day that he should wed\nGuenevere. 'That I will gladly,' replied the King, 'for you are my\nsister's son.'\n\nAs the King was speaking, a poor man entered the Court, bringing with\nhim a youth about eighteen years old, riding on a lean mare, though it\nwas not the custom for gentlemen to ride on mares. 'Where is King\nArthur?' asked the man. 'Yonder,' answered the Knights. 'Have you\nbusiness with him?' 'Yes,' said the man, and he went and bowed low\nbefore the King: 'I have heard, O King Arthur, flower of Knights and\nKings, that at the time of your marriage you would give any man the\ngift he should ask for.'\n\n'That is truth,' answered the King, 'as long as I do no wrong to other\nmen or to my kingdom.'\n\n'I thank you for your gracious words,' said the poor man; 'the boon I\nwould ask is that you would make my son a Knight.' 'It is a great boon\nto ask,' answered the King. 'What is your name?'\n\n'Sir, my name is Aries the cowherd.'\n\n'Is it you or your son that has thought of this honour?'\n\n'It is my son who desires it, and not I,' replied the man. 'I have\nthirteen sons who tend cattle, and work in the fields if I bid them;\nbut this boy will do nothing but shoot and cast darts, or go to watch\nbattles and look on Knights, and all day long he beseeches me to bring\nhim to you, that he may be knighted also.'\n\n'What is your name?' said Arthur, turning to the young man.\n\n'Sir, my name is Tor.'\n\n'Where is your sword that I may knight you?' said the King.\n\n'It is here, my lord.'\n\n'Take it out of its sheath,' said the King, 'and require me to make\nyou a Knight.' Then Tor jumped off his mare and pulled out his sword,\nand knelt before the King, praying that he might be made a Knight and\na Knight of the Round Table.\n\n'As for a Knight, that I will make you,' said Arthur, smiting him in\nthe neck with the sword, 'and if you are worthy of it you shall be a\nKnight of the Round Table.' And the next day he made Gawaine Knight\nalso.\n\n[Illustration: MERLIN AND VIVIEN]\n\n\n\n\n_THE PASSING OF MERLIN._\n\n\nSir Tor proved before long by his gallant deeds that he was worthy to\nsit in one of the two empty seats of the Round Table. Many of the\nother Knights went out also in search of adventures, and one of them,\nSir Pellinore, brought a damsel of the lake to Arthur's Court, and\nwhen Merlin saw her he fell in love with her, so that he desired to be\nalways in her company. The damsel laughed in secret at Merlin, but\nmade use of him to tell her all she would know, and the wizard had no\nstrength to say her nay, though he knew what would come of it. For he\ntold King Arthur that before long he should be put into the earth\nalive, for all his cunning. He likewise told the King many things that\nshould befall him, and warned him always to keep the scabbard as well\nas the sword Excalibur, and foretold that both sword and scabbard\nshould be stolen from him by a woman whom he most trusted. 'You will\nmiss my counsel sorely,' added Merlin, 'and would give all your lands\nto have me back again.' 'But since you know what will happen,' said\nthe King, 'you may surely guard against it.' 'No,' answered Merlin,\n'that will not be.' So he departed from the King, and the maiden\nfollowed him whom some call Nimue and others Vivien, and wherever she\nwent Merlin went also.\n\nThey journeyed together to many places, both at home and across the\nseas, and the damsel was wearied of him, and sought by every means to\nbe rid of him, but he would not be shaken off. At last these two\nwandered back to Cornwall, and one day Merlin showed Vivien a rock\nunder which he said great marvels were hidden. Then Vivien put forth\nall her powers, and told Merlin how she longed to see the wonders\nbeneath the stone, and, in spite of all his wisdom, Merlin listened to\nher and crept under the rock to bring forth the strange things that\nlay there. And when he was under the stone she used the magic he had\ntaught her, and the rock rolled over him, and buried him alive, as he\nhad told King Arthur. But the damsel departed with joy, and thought no\nmore of him: now that she knew all the magic he could teach her.\n\n\n\n\n_HOW MORGAN LE FAY TRIED TO KILL_\n\n_KING ARTHUR_\n\n\nKing Arthur had a sister called Morgan le Fay, who was skilled in\nmagic of all sorts, and hated her brother because he had slain in\nbattle a Knight whom she loved. But to gain her own ends, and to\nrevenge herself upon the King, she kept a smiling face, and let none\nguess the passion in her heart.\n\nOne day Morgan le Fay went to Queen Guenevere, and asked her leave to\ngo into the country. The Queen wished her to wait till Arthur\nreturned, but Morgan le Fay said she had had bad news and could not\nwait. Then the Queen let her depart without delay.\n\nEarly next morning at break of day Morgan le Fay mounted her horse and\nrode all day and all night, and at noon next day reached the Abbey of\nnuns where King Arthur had gone to rest, for he had fought a hard\nbattle, and for three nights had slept but little. 'Do not wake him,'\nsaid Morgan le Fay, who had come there knowing she would find him, 'I\nwill rouse him myself when I think he has had enough sleep,' for she\nthought to steal his sword Excalibur from him. The nuns dared not\ndisobey her, so Morgan le Fay went straight into the room where King\nArthur was lying fast asleep in his bed, and in his right hand was\ngrasped his sword Excalibur. When she beheld that sight, her heart\nfell, for she dared not touch the sword, knowing well that if Arthur\nwaked and saw her she was a dead woman. So she took the scabbard, and\nwent away on horseback.\n\nWhen the King awoke and missed his scabbard, he was angry, and asked\nwho had been there; and the nuns told him that it was his sister\nMorgan le Fay, who had gone away with a scabbard under her mantle.\n'Alas!' said Arthur, 'you have watched me badly!'\n\n'Sir,' said they, 'we dared not disobey your sister.'\n\n'Saddle the best horse that can be found,' commanded the King, 'and\nbid Sir Ontzlake take another and come with me.' And they buckled on\ntheir armour and rode after Morgan le Fay.\n\nThey had not gone far before they met a cowherd, and they stopped to\nask if he had seen any lady riding that way. 'Yes,' said the cowherd,\n'a lady passed by here, with forty horses behind her, and went into\nthe forest yonder.' Then they galloped hard till Arthur caught sight\nof Morgan le Fay, who looked back, and, seeing that it was Arthur who\ngave chase, pushed on faster than before. And when she saw she could\nnot escape him, she rode into a lake that lay in the plain on the edge\nof the forest, and, crying out, 'Whatever may befall me, my brother\nshall not have the scabbard,' she threw the scabbard far into the\nwater, and it sank, for it was heavy with gold and jewels. After that\nshe fled into a valley full of great stones, and turned herself and\nher men and her horses into blocks of marble. Scarcely had she done\nthis when the King rode up, but seeing her nowhere thought some evil\nmust have befallen her in vengeance for her misdeeds. He then sought\nhigh and low for the scabbard, but could not find it, so he returned\nunto the Abbey. When Arthur was gone, Morgan le Fay turned herself and\nher horses and her men back into their former shapes and said, 'Now,\nSirs, we may go where we will.' And she departed into the country of\nGore, and made her towns and castles stronger than before, for she\nfeared King Arthur greatly. Meanwhile King Arthur had rested himself\nat the Abbey, and afterwards he rode to Camelot, and was welcomed by\nhis Queen and all his Knights. And when he told his adventures and\nhow Morgan le Fay sought his death they longed to burn her for her\ntreason.\n\n[Illustration: MORGAN LE FAY CASTS AWAY THE SCABBARD]\n\nThe next morning there arrived a damsel at the Court with a message\nfrom Morgan le Fay, saying that she had sent the King her brother a\nrich mantle for a gift, covered with precious stones, and begged him\nto receive it and to forgive her in whatever she might have offended\nhim. The King answered little, but the mantle pleased him, and he was\nabout to throw it over his shoulders when the lady of the lake stepped\nforward, and begged that she might speak to him in private. 'What is\nit?' asked the King. 'Say on here, and fear nothing.' 'Sir,' said the\nlady, 'do not put on this mantle, or suffer your Knights to put it on,\ntill the bringer of it has worn it in your presence.' 'Your words are\nwise,' answered the King, 'I will do as you counsel me. Damsel, I\ndesire you to put on this mantle that you have brought me, so that I\nmay see it.' 'Sir,' said she, 'it does not become me to wear a King's\ngarment.' 'By my head,' cried Arthur, 'you shall wear it before I put\nit on my back, or on the back of any of my Knights,' and he signed to\nthem to put it on her, and she fell down dead, burnt to ashes by the\nenchanted mantle. Then the King was filled with anger, more than he\nwas before, that his sister should have dealt so wickedly by him.\n\n\n\n\n_WHAT BEAUMAINS ASKED OF THE KING_\n\n\nAs Pentecost drew near King Arthur commanded that all the Knights of\nthe Round Table should keep the feast at a city called Kin-Kenadon,\nhard by the sands of Wales, where there was a great castle. Now it was\nthe King's custom that he would eat no food on the day of Pentecost,\nwhich we call Whit Sunday, until he had heard or seen some great\nmarvel. So on that morning Sir Gawaine was looking from the window a\nlittle before noon when he espied three men on horseback, and with\nthem a dwarf on foot, who held their horses when they alighted. Then\nSir Gawaine went to the King and said, 'Sir, go to your food, for\nstrange adventures are at hand.' And Arthur called the other Kings\nthat were in the castle, and all the Knights of the Round Table that\nwere a hundred and fifty, and they sat down to dine. When they were\nseated there entered the hall two men well and richly dressed, and\nupon their shoulders leaned the handsomest young man that ever was\nseen of any of them, higher than the other two by a cubit. He was wide\nin the chest and large handed, but his great height seemed to be a\nburden and a shame to him, therefore it was he leaned on the shoulders\nof his friends. As soon as Arthur beheld him he made a sign, and\nwithout more words all three went up to the high dais, where the King\nsat. Then the tall young man stood up straight, and said: 'King\nArthur, God bless you and all your fair fellowship, and in especial\nthe fellowship of the Table Round. I have come hither to pray you to\ngive me three gifts, which you can grant me honourably, for they will\ndo no hurt to you or to anyone.' 'Ask,' answered Arthur, 'and you\nshall have your asking.'\n\n'Sir, this is my petition for this feast, for the other two I will ask\nafter. Give me meat and drink for this one twelvemonth.' 'Well,' said\nthe king, 'you shall have meat and drink enough, for that I give to\nevery man, whether friend or foe. But tell me your name!'\n\n'I cannot tell you that,' answered he. 'That is strange,' replied the\nKing, 'but you are the goodliest young man I ever saw,' and, turning\nto Sir Kay, the steward, charged him to give the young man to eat and\ndrink of the best, and to treat him in all ways as if he were a lord's\nson. 'There is little need to do that,' answered Sir Kay, 'for if he\nhad come of gentlemen and not of peasants he would have asked of you a\nhorse and armour. But as the birth of a man is so are his requests.\nAnd seeing he has no name I will give him one, and it shall be\nBeaumains, or Fair-hands, and he shall sit in the kitchen and eat\nbroth, and at the end of a year he shall be as fat as any pig that\nfeeds on acorns.' So the young man was left in charge of Sir Kay, that\nscorned and mocked him.\n\nSir Lancelot and Sir Gawaine were wroth when they heard what Sir Kay\nsaid, and bade him leave off his mocking, for they believed the youth\nwould turn out to be a man of great deeds; but Sir Kay paid no heed to\nthem, and took him down to the great hall, and set him among the boys\nand lads, where he ate sadly. After he had finished eating both Sir\nLancelot and Sir Gawaine bade him come to their room, and would have\nhad him eat and drink there, but he refused, saying he was bound to\nobey Sir Kay, into whose charge the King had given him. So he was put\ninto the kitchen by Sir Kay, and slept nightly with the kitchen boys.\nThis he bore for a whole year, and was always mild and gentle, and\ngave hard words to no one. Only, whenever the Knights played at\ntourney he would steal out and watch them. And Sir Lancelot gave him\ngold to spend, and clothes to wear, and so did Gawaine. Also, if there\nwere any games held whereat he might be, none could throw a bar nor\ncast a stone as far as he by two good yards.\n\nThus the year passed by till the feast of Whitsuntide came again, and\nthis time the king held it at Carlion. But King Arthur would eat no\nmeat at Whitsuntide till some adventures were told him, and glad was\nhe when a squire came and said to him, 'Sir you may go to your food,\nfor here is a damsel with some strange tales.' At this the damsel was\nled into the hall, and bowed low before the King, and begged he would\ngive her help. 'For whom?' asked the King, 'and what is the\nadventure?' 'Sir,' answered she, 'my sister is a noble lady of great\nfame, who is besieged by a tyrant, and may not get out of her castle.\nAnd it is because your Knights are said to be the noblest in all the\nworld that I came to you for aid.' 'What is your sister's name, and\nwhere does she dwell? And who is the man that besieges her, and where\ndoes he come from?' 'Sir King,' answered she, 'as for my sister's\nname, I cannot tell it you now, but she is a lady of great beauty and\ngoodness, and of many lands. As for the tyrant who besieges her, he is\ncalled the Red Knight of the Red Lawns.' 'I know nothing of him,' said\nthe King. 'But I know him,' cried Sir Gawaine, 'and he is one of the\nmost dangerous Knights in the world. Men say he has the strength of\nseven, and once when we had crossed swords I hardly escaped from him\nwith my life.' 'Fair damsel,' then said the King, 'there are many\nKnights here who would go gladly to the rescue of your lady, but none\nof them shall do so with my consent unless you will tell us her name,\nand the place of her castle.' 'Then I must speak further,' said the\ndamsel. But before she had made answer to the King up came Beaumains,\nand spoke to Arthur, saying, 'Sir King, I thank you that for this\nwhole year I have lived in your kitchen, and had meat and drink, and\nnow I will ask you for the two gifts that you promised me on this\nday.' 'Ask them,' answered the King. 'Sir, this shall be my two gifts.\nFirst grant me the adventure of this damsel, for it is mine by right.'\n'You shall have it,' said the King. 'Then, Sir, you shall bid Sir\nLancelot du Lake to make me Knight, for I will receive Knighthood at\nthe hands of no other.' 'All this shall be done,' said the King. 'Fie\non you,' cried the damsel, 'will you give me none but a kitchen boy to\nrescue my lady?' and she went away in a rage, and mounted her horse.\n\nNo sooner had she left the hall than a page came to Beaumains and told\nhim that a horse and fair armour had been brought for him, also there\nhad arrived a dwarf carrying all things that a Knight needed. And when\nhe was armed there were few men that were handsomer than he, and the\nCourt wondered greatly whence these splendid trappings had come. Then\nBeaumains came into the hall, and took farewell of the King, and Sir\nGawaine and Sir Lancelot, and prayed Sir Lancelot that he would follow\nafter him. So he departed, and rode after the damsel. Many looked upon\nhim and marvelled at the strength of his horse, and its golden\ntrappings, and envied Beaumains his shining coat of mail; but they\nnoted that he had neither shield nor spear. 'I will ride after him,'\nlaughed Sir Kay, 'and see if my kitchen boy will own me for his\nbetter.' 'Leave him and stay at home,' said Sir Gawaine and Sir\nLancelot, but Sir Kay would not listen and sprang upon his horse. Just\nas Beaumains came up with the damsel, Sir Kay reached Beaumains, and\nsaid, 'Beaumains, do you not know me?'\n\nBeaumains turned and looked at him, and answered, 'Yes, I know you for\nan ill-mannered Knight, therefore beware of me.' At this Sir Kay put\nhis spear in rest and charged him, and Beaumains drew his sword and\ncharged Sir Kay, and dashed aside the spear, and thrust him through\nthe side, till Sir Kay fell down as if he had been dead, and Beaumains\ntook his shield and spear for himself. Then he sprang on his own\nhorse, bidding first his dwarf take Sir Kay's horse, and rode away.\nAll this was seen by Sir Lancelot, who had followed him, and also by\nthe damsel. In a little while Beaumains stopped, and asked Sir\nLancelot if he would tilt with him, and they came together with such a\nshock that both the horses and their riders fell to the earth and were\nbruised sorely. Sir Lancelot was the first to rise, and he helped\nBeaumains from his horse, and Beaumains threw his shield from him, and\noffered to fight on foot. And they rushed together like wild boars,\nturning and thrusting and parrying for the space of an hour, and Sir\nLancelot marvelled at the young man's strength, and thought he was\nmore like a giant than a Knight, and dreading lest he himself should\nbe put to shame, he said: 'Beaumains, do not fight so hard, we have no\nquarrel that forbids us to leave off.' 'That is true,' answered\nBeaumains, laying down his arms, 'but it does me good, my lord, to\nfeel your might.' 'Well,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I promise you I had much\nado to save myself from you unshamed, therefore have no fear of any\nother Knight.' 'Do you think I could really stand against a proved\nKnight?' asked Beaumains. 'Yes,' said Lancelot, 'if you fight as you\nhave fought to-day I will be your warrant against anyone.' 'Then I\npray you,' cried Beaumains, 'give me the order of knighthood.' 'You\nmust first tell me your name,' replied Lancelot, 'and who are your\nkindred.' 'You will not betray me if I do?' asked Beaumains. 'No, that\nI will never do, till it is openly known,' said Lancelot. 'Then, Sir,\nmy name is Gareth, and Sir Gawaine is my brother.' 'Ah, Sir,' cried\nLancelot, 'I am gladder of you than ever I was, for I was sure you\ncame of good blood, and that you did not come to the Court for meat\nand drink only.' And he bade him kneel, and gave him the order of\nknighthood.\n\n[Illustration: Faugh sir! You smell of ye Kitchen Gareth & Linet]\n\nAfter that Sir Gareth wished to go his own ways, and departed. When he\nwas gone, Sir Lancelot went back to Sir Kay and ordered some men that\nwere by to bear him home on a shield, and in time his wounds were\nhealed; but he was scorned of all men, and especially of Sir Gawaine\nand Sir Lancelot, who told him it was no good deed to treat any young\nman so, and no one could tell what his birth might be, or what had\nbrought him to the Court.\n\nThen Beaumains rode after the damsel, who stopped when she saw him\ncoming. 'What are you doing here?' said she. 'Your clothes smell of\nthe grease and tallow of the kitchen! Do you think to change my heart\ntowards you because of yonder Knight whom you slew? No, truly! I know\nwell who you are, you turner of spits! Go back to King Arthur's\nkitchen, which is your proper place.' 'Damsel,' replied Beaumains,\n'you may say to me what you will, but I shall not quit you whatever\nyou may do, for I have vowed to King Arthur to relieve the lady in the\ncastle, and I shall set her free or die fighting for her.' 'Fie on\nyou, Scullion,' answered she. 'You will meet with one who will make\nyou such a welcome that you would give all the broth you ever cooked\nnever to have seen his face.' 'I shall do my best to fight him,' said\nBeaumains, and held his peace.\n\nSoon they entered the wood, and there came a man flying towards them,\ngalloping with all his might. 'Oh, help! help! lord,' cried he, 'for\nmy master lies in a thicket, bound by six thieves, and I greatly fear\nthey will slay him.' 'Show me the way,' said Sir Beaumains, and they\nrode together till they reached the place where the Knight lay bound.\nThen Sir Beaumains charged the six thieves, and struck one dead, and\nanother, and another still, and the other three fled, not liking the\nbattle. Sir Beaumains pursued them till they turned at bay, and fought\nhard for their lives; but in the end Sir Beaumains slew them, and\nreturned to the Knight and unbound him. The Knight thanked Beaumains\nheartily for his deliverance, and prayed him to come to his castle,\nwhere he would reward him. 'Sir,' said Beaumains, 'I was this day made\nKnight by noble Sir Lancelot, and that is reward enough for anything I\nmay do. Besides, I must follow this damsel.' But when he came near her\nshe reviled him as before, and bade him ride far from her. 'Do you\nthink I set store by what you have done? You will soon see a sight\nthat will make you tell a very different tale.' At this the Knight\nwhom Beaumains had rescued rode up to the damsel, and begged that she\nwould rest in his castle that night, as the sun was now setting. The\ndamsel agreed, and the Knight ordered a great supper, and gave Sir\nBeaumains a seat above the seat of the damsel, who rose up in anger.\n'Fie! fie! Sir Knight,' cried she, 'you are uncourteous to set a mere\nkitchen page before me; he is not fit to be in the company of\nhigh-born people.' Her words struck shame into the Knight, and he took\nBeaumains and set him at a side table, and seated himself before him.\n\nIn the early morning Sir Beaumains and the damsel bade farewell to the\nKnight, and rode through the forest till they came to a great river,\nwhere stood two Knights on the further side, guarding the passage.\n'Well, what do you say now?' asked the damsel. 'Will you fight them or\nturn back?' 'I would not turn if there were six more of them,'\nanswered Sir Beaumains, and he rushed into the water and so did one of\nthe Knights. They came together in the middle of the stream, and their\nspears broke in two with the force of the charge, and they drew their\nswords, hitting hard at each other. At length Sir Beaumains dealt the\nother Knight such a blow that he fell from his horse, and was drowned\nin the river. Then Beaumains put his horse at the bank, where the\nsecond Knight was waiting for him, and they fought long together, till\nSir Beaumains clave his helmet in two. So he left him dead, and\nrode after the damsel. 'Alas!' she cried, 'that even a kitchen page\nshould have power to destroy two such Knights! You think you have done\nmighty things, but you are wrong! As to the first Knight, his horse\nstumbled, and he was drowned before you ever touched him. And the\nother you took from behind, and struck him when he was defenceless.'\n'Damsel!' answered Beaumains, 'you may say what you will, I care not\nwhat it is, so I may deliver this lady.' 'Fie, foul kitchen knave, you\nshall see Knights that will make you lower your crest.' 'I pray you be\nmore civil in your language,' answered Beaumains, 'for it matters not\nto me what Knights they be, I will do battle with them.' 'I am trying\nto turn you back for your own good,' answered she, 'for if you follow\nme you are certainly a dead man, as well I know all you have won\nbefore has been by luck.' 'Say what you will, damsel,' said he, 'but\nwhere you go I will follow you,' and they rode together till eventide,\nand all the way she chid him and gave him no rest.\n\n[Illustration: LINET AND THE BLACK KNIGHT]\n\nAt length they reached an open space where there was a black lawn, and\non the lawn a black hawthorn, whereon hung a black banner on one side,\nand a black shield and spear, big and long, on the other. Close by\nstood a black horse covered with silk, fastened to a black stone. A\nKnight, covered with black armour, sat on the horse, and when she saw\nhim the damsel bade him ride away, as his horse was not saddled. But\nthe Knight drew near and said to her, 'Damsel, have you brought this\nKnight from King Arthur's Court to be your champion?' 'No, truly,'\nanswered she, 'this is but a kitchen boy, fed by King Arthur for\ncharity.' 'Then why is he clad in armour?' asked the Knight; 'it is a\nshame that he should even bear you company.' 'I cannot be rid of him,'\nsaid she, 'he rides with me against my will. I would that you were\nable to deliver me from him! Either slay him or frighten him off, for\nby ill fortune he has this day slain the two Knights of the passage.'\n'I wonder much,' said the Black Knight, 'that any man who is well born\nshould consent to fight with him.' 'They do not know him,' replied the\ndamsel, 'and they think he must be a famous Knight because he rides\nwith me.' 'That may be,' said the Black Knight, 'but he is well made,\nand looks likely to be a strong man; still I promise you I will just\nthrow him to the ground, and take away his horse and armour, for it\nwould be a shame to me to do more.' When Sir Beaumains heard him talk\nthus he looked up and said, 'Sir Knight, you are lightly disposing of\nmy horse and armour, but I would have you know that I will pass this\nlawn, against your will or not, and you will only get my horse and\narmour if you win them in fair fight. Therefore let me see what you\ncan do.' 'Say you so?' answered the Knight, 'now give up the lady at\nonce, for it ill becomes a kitchen page to ride with a lady of high\ndegree.' 'It is a lie,' said Beaumains, 'I am a gentleman born, and my\nbirth is better than yours, as I will prove upon your body.'\n\nWith that they drew back their horses so as to charge each other\nhotly, and for the space of an hour and a half they fought fiercely\nand well, but in the end a blow from Beaumains threw the Knight from\nhis horse, and he swooned and died. Then Beaumains jumped down, and\nseeing that the Knight's horse and armour were better than his own, he\ntook them for himself, and rode after the damsel. While they were thus\nriding together, and the damsel was chiding him as ever she did, they\nsaw a Knight coming towards them dressed all in green. 'Is that my\nbrother the Black Knight who is with you?' asked he of the damsel.\n'No, indeed,' she replied, 'this unhappy kitchen knave has slain your\nbrother, to my great sorrow.' 'Alas!' sighed the Green Knight, 'that\nmy brother should die so meanly at the hand of a kitchen knave.\nTraitor!' he added, turning to Beaumains, 'thou shalt die for slaying\nmy brother, for he was a noble Knight, and his name was Sir Percard.'\n'I defy you,' said Beaumains, 'for I slew him as a good Knight\nshould.'\n\nThen the Green Knight seized a horn which hung from a horn tree, and\nblew three notes upon it, and two damsels came and armed him, and\nfastened on him a green shield and a green spear. So the fight began\nand raged long, first on horseback and then on foot, till both were\nsore wounded. At last the damsel came and stood beside them, and said,\n'My lord the Green Knight, why for very shame do you stand so long\nfighting a kitchen knave? You ought never to have been made a Knight\nat all!' These scornful words stung the heart of the Green Knight, and\nhe dealt a mighty stroke which cleft asunder the shield of Beaumains.\nAnd when Beaumains saw this, he struck a blow upon the Knight's helmet\nwhich brought him to his knees, and Beaumains leapt on him, and\ndragged him to the ground. Then the Green Knight cried for mercy, and\noffered to yield himself prisoner unto Beaumains. 'It is all in vain,'\nanswered Beaumains, 'unless the damsel prays me for your life,' and\ntherewith he unlaced his helmet as though he would slay him. 'Fie upon\nthee, false kitchen page!' said the damsel, 'I will never pray to save\nhis life, for I am sure he is in no danger.' 'Suffer me not to die,'\nentreated the Knight, 'when a word may save me!' 'Fair Knight,' he\nwent on, turning to Beaumains, 'save my life, and I will forgive you\nthe death of my brother, and will do you service for ever, and will\nbring thirty of my Knights to serve you likewise.' 'It is a shame,'\ncried the damsel, 'that such a kitchen knave should have you and\nthirty Knights besides.' 'Sir Knight,' said Beaumains, 'I care nothing\nfor all this, but if I am to spare your life the damsel must ask for\nit,' and he stepped forward as if to slay him. 'Let be, foul knave,'\nthen said the damsel, 'do not slay him. If you do, you will repent\nit.' 'Damsel,' answered Beaumains, 'it is a pleasure to me to obey\nyou, and at your wish I will save his life. Sir Knight with the green\narms, I release you at the request of this damsel, and I will fulfil\nall she charges me.'\n\nThen the Green Knight kneeled down, and did him homage with his sword.\n'I am sorry,' said the damsel, 'for the wounds you have received, and\nfor your brother's death, for I had great need of you both, and have\nmuch dread of passing the forest.' 'Fear nothing,' answered the Green\nKnight, 'for this evening you shall lodge in my house, and to-morrow I\nwill show you the way through the forest.' And they went with the\nGreen Knight. But the damsel did not mend her ways with Beaumains, and\never more reviled him, till the Green Knight rebuked her, saying\nBeaumains was the noblest Knight that held a spear, and that in the\nend she would find he had sprung from some great King. And the Green\nKnight summoned the thirty Knights who did him service, and bade them\nhenceforth do service to Beaumains, and keep him from treachery, and\nwhen he had need of them they would be ready to obey his orders. So\nthey bade each other farewell, and Beaumains and the damsel rode forth\nanew. In like manner did Sir Beaumains overcome the Red Knight, who\nwas the third brother, and the Red Knight cried for mercy, and offered\nto bring sixty Knights to do him service, and Beaumains spared his\nlife at the request of the damsel, and likewise it so happened to Sir\nPersant of Inde.\n\nAnd this time the damsel prayed Beaumains to give up the fight,\nsaying, 'Sir, I wonder who you are and of what kindred you have come.\nBoldly you speak, and boldly you have done; therefore I pray you to\ndepart and save yourself while you may, for both you and your horse\nhave suffered great fatigues, and I fear we delay too long, for the\nbesieged castle is but seven miles from this place, and all the perils\nare past save this one only. I dread sorely lest you should get some\nhurt; yet this Sir Persant of Inde is nothing in might to the Knight\nwho has laid siege to my lady.' But Sir Beaumains would not listen to\nher words, and vowed that by two hours after noon he would have\noverthrown him, and that it would still be daylight when they reached\nthe castle. 'What sort of a man can you be?' answered the damsel,\nlooking at him in wonder, 'for never did a woman treat a Knight as ill\nand shamefully as I have done you, while you have always been gentle\nand courteous to me, and no one bears himself like that save he who is\nof noble blood.' 'Damsel,' replied Beaumains, 'your hard words only\ndrove me to strike the harder, and though I ate in King Arthur's\nkitchen, perhaps I might have had as much food as I wanted elsewhere.\nBut all I have done was to make proof of my friends, and whether I am\na gentleman or not, fair damsel, I have done you gentleman's service,\nand may perchance, do you greater service before we part from each\nother.' 'Alas, fair Beaumains, forgive me all that I have said and\ndone against you.' 'With all my heart,' he answered, 'and since you\nare pleased now to speak good words to me, know that I hear them\ngladly, and there is no Knight living but I feel strong enough to meet\nhim.'\n\nSo Beaumains conquered Sir Persant of Inde, who brought a hundred\nKnights to be sworn into his service, and the next morning the damsel\nled him to the castle, where the Red Knight of the Red Lawn held fast\nthe lady. 'Heaven defend you,' cried Sir Persant, when they told him\nwhere they were going; 'that is the most perilous Knight now living,\nfor he has the strength of seven men. He has done great wrong to that\nlady, who is one of the fairest in all the world, and it seems to me\nas if this damsel must be her sister. Is not her name Linet?' 'Yes,\nSir,' answered she, 'and my lady my sister's name is dame Lyonesse.'\n'The Red Knight has drawn out the siege for two years,' said Sir\nPersant, 'though he might have forced an entrance many a time, but he\nhoped that Sir Lancelot du Lake or Sir Tristram or Sir Gawaine should\ncome to do battle with him.' 'My Lord Sir Persant of Inde,' said the\ndamsel, 'I bid you knight this gentleman before he fight with the Red\nKnight.' 'That I will gladly,' replied Sir Persant, 'if it please him\nto take the order of knighthood from so simple a man as I am.' 'Sir,'\nanswered Beaumains, 'I thank you for your goodwill, but at the\nbeginning of this quest I was made a Knight by Sir Lancelot. My name\nis Sir Gareth of Orkney and Sir Gawaine is my brother, though neither\nhe nor King Arthur, whose sister is my mother, knows of it. I pray you\nto keep it close also.'\n\nNow word was brought unto the besieged lady by the dwarf that her\nsister was coming to her with a Knight sent by King Arthur. And when\nthe lady heard all that Beaumains had done, and how he had overthrown\nall who stood in his way, she bade her dwarf take baked venison, and\nfat capons, and two silver flagons of wine and a gold cup, and put\nthem into the hands of a hermit that dwelt in a hermitage close by.\nThe dwarf did so, and the lady then sent him to greet her sister and\nSir Beaumains, and to beg them to eat and drink in the hermit's cell,\nand rest themselves, which they did. When they drew near the besieged\ncastle Sir Beaumains saw full forty Knights, with spurs on their heels\nand swords in their hands, hanging from the tall trees that stood upon\nthe lawn. 'Fair Sir,' said the damsel, 'these Knights came hither to\nrescue my sister, dame Lyonesse; and if you cannot overthrow the\nKnight of the Red Lawn, you will hang there too.'\n\n'Truly,' answered Beaumains, 'it is a marvel that none of King\nArthur's Knights has dealt with the Knight of the Red Lawn ere this';\nand they rode up to the castle, which had round it high walls and deep\nditches, till they came to a great sycamore tree, where hung a\nhorn. And whoso desired to do battle with the Red Knight must blow\nthat horn loudly.\n\n[Illustration: The Lady of Lyonesse sees Sir Gareth]\n\n'Sir, I pray you,' said Linet, as Beaumains bent forward to seize it,\n'do not blow it till it is full noontide, for during three hours\nbefore that the Red Knight's strength so increases that it is as the\nstrength of seven men; but when noon is come, he has the might of one\nman only.'\n\n'Ah! for shame, damsel, to say such words. I will fight him as he is,\nor not at all,' and Beaumains blew such a blast that it rang through\nthe castle. And the Red Knight buckled on his armour, and came to\nwhere Beaumains stood. So the battle began, and a fierce one it was,\nand much ado had Beaumains to last out till noon, when the Red\nKnight's strength began to wane; they rested, and came on again, and\nin the end the Red Knight yielded to Sir Beaumains, and the lords and\nbarons in the castle did homage to the victor, and begged that the Red\nKnight's life might be spared on condition they all took service with\nBeaumains. This was granted to them, and Linet bound up his wounds and\nput ointment on them, and so she did likewise to Sir Beaumains. But\nthe Red Knight was sent to the Court of King Arthur, and told him all\nthat Sir Beaumains had done. And King Arthur and his Knights\nmarvelled.\n\nNow Sir Beaumains had looked up at the windows of Castle Perilous\nbefore the fight, and had seen the face of the Lady Lyonesse, and had\nthought it the fairest in all the world. After he had subdued the Red\nKnight, he hasted into the castle, and the Lady Lyonesse welcomed him,\nand he told her he had bought her love with the best blood in his\nbody. And she did not say him nay, but put him off for a time. Then\nthe King sent letters to her to bid her, and likewise Sir Gareth, come\nto his Court, and by the counsel of Sir Gareth she prayed the King to\nlet her call a tournament, and to proclaim that the Knight who bore\nhimself best should, if he was unwedded, take her and all her lands.\nBut if he had a wife already he should be given a white ger-falcon,\nand for his wife a crown of gold, set about with precious stones.\n\nSo the Lady Lyonesse did as Sir Gareth had counselled her, and\nanswered King Arthur that where Sir Gareth was she could not tell, but\nthat if the King would call a tourney he might be sure that Sir Gareth\nwould come to it. 'It is well thought of,' said Arthur, and the Lady\nLyonesse departed unto Castle Perilous, and summoned all her Knights\naround her, and told them what she had done, and how they were to make\nready to fight in the tournament. She began at once to set her castle\nin order, and to think what she should do with the great array of\nKnights that would ride hither from the furthest parts--from Scotland\nand Wales and Cornwall--and to lodge fitly the Kings, Dukes, Earls,\nand Barons that should come with Arthur. Queen Guenevere also she\nawaited, and the Queen of Orkney, Sir Gareth's mother. But Sir Gareth\nentreated the Lady Lyonesse and those Knights that were in the castle\nwith him not to let his name be known, and this they agreed to.\n\n'Sir Gareth,' said dame Lyonesse, 'I will lend you a ring, which I\nbeseech you for the love you bear me to give me back when the\ntournament is done, for without it I have but little beauty. This ring\nis like no other ring, it will turn green red, and blue white, and the\nbearer shall lose no blood, however sore he may be wounded.'\n\n'Truly, my own lady,' answered Sir Gareth, 'this ring will serve me\nwell, and by its help I shall not fear that any man shall know me.'\nAnd Sir Gringamore, brother to the Lady Lyonesse, gave him a bay\nhorse, and strong armour, and a sharp sword that had once belonged to\nhis father. On the morning of the fifteenth of August, when the Feast\nof the Assumption was kept, the King commanded his heralds to blow\nloudly their trumpets, so that every Knight might know that he must\nenter the lists. It was a noble sight to see them flocking clad in\nshining armour, each man with his device upon his shield. And the\nheralds marked who bare them best, and who were overthrown. All\nmarvelled as to who the Knight could be whose armour sometimes seemed\ngreen, and sometimes white, but no man knew it was Sir Gareth. And\nwhosoever Sir Gareth tilted with was straightway overthrown. 'Of a\ntruth,' cried King Arthur, 'that Knight with the many colours is a\ngood Knight,' and he called Sir Lancelot and bade him to challenge\nthat Knight to combat. But Sir Lancelot said that though the Knight\nhad come off victor in every fight, yet his limbs must be weary, for\nhe had fought as a man fights under the eyes of his lady, 'and for\nthis day,' said Sir Lancelot, 'he shall have the honour. Though it lay\nin my power to put it from him, I would not.'\n\nThen they paused for a while to rest, and afterwards the tournament\nbegan again more fiercely than before, and Sir Lancelot was set upon\nby two Knights at once. When Sir Gareth saw that, he rode in between\nthem, but no stroke would he deal Sir Lancelot, which Sir Lancelot\nnoted, and guessed that it was the good Knight Sir Gareth. Sir Gareth\nwent hither and thither, smiting anyone that came in his way, and by\nfortune he met with his brother Sir Gawaine, and knocked off his\nhelmet. Now it happened that while he was fighting a Knight dealt Sir\nGareth a fierce blow on his helm, and he rode off the field to mend\nit. Then his dwarf, who had been watching eagerly, cried out to Sir\nGareth to leave the ring with him, lest he should lose it while he was\ndrinking, which Sir Gareth did; and when he had drunk and mended his\nhelm he forgot the ring, at which the dwarf was glad, for he knew his\nname could no longer be hid. And when Sir Gareth returned to the\nfield, his armour shone yellow like gold, and King Arthur marvelled\nwhat Knight he was, for he saw by his hair that he was the same Knight\nwho had worn the many colours. 'Go,' he said to his heralds, 'ride\nnear him and see what manner of Knight he is, for none can tell me his\nname.' So a herald drew close to him, and saw that on his helm was\nwritten in golden letters 'This helm belongs to Sir Gareth of Orkney';\nand the herald cried out and made proclamation, and the Kings and\nKnights pressed to behold him. And when Sir Gareth saw he was\ndiscovered, he struck more fiercely than before, and smote down Sir\nSagramore, and his brother Sir Gawaine. 'O brother,' said Sir Gawaine,\n'I did not think you would have smitten me!' When Sir Gareth heard him\nsay that he rode out of the press, and cried to his dwarf, 'Boy, you\nhave played me foul, for you have kept my ring. Give it to me now,\nthat I may hide myself,' and he galloped swiftly into the forest, and\nno one knew where he had gone. 'What shall I do next?' asked he of the\ndwarf. 'Sir,' answered the dwarf, 'send the Lady Lyonesse back her\nring.' 'Your counsel is good,' said Gareth; 'take it to her, and\ncommend me to her grace, and say I will come when I may, and bid her\nto be faithful to me, as I am to her.' After that Sir Gareth rode\ndeeper into the forest.\n\nThough Sir Gareth had left the tournament he found that there were as\nmany fights awaiting him as if he had remained there. He overcame all\nhis foes, and sent them and their followers to do homage to King\nArthur, but he himself stayed behind. He was standing alone after they\nhad gone, when he beheld an armed Knight coming towards him. Sir\nGareth sprang on his horse, and without a word the two crashed\ntogether like thunder, and strove hard for two hours, till the ground\nwas wet with blood. At that time the damsel Linet came riding by, and\nsaw what was doing, and knew who were the fighters. And she cried 'Sir\nGawaine, Sir Gawaine, leave fighting with your brother Sir Gareth.'\nThen he threw down his shield and sword, and ran to Sir Gareth, and\nfirst took him in his arms and next kneeled down and asked mercy of\nhim. 'Why do you, who were but now so strong and mighty, so suddenly\nyield to me?' asked Sir Gareth, who had not perceived the damsel. 'O\nGareth, I am your brother, and have had much sorrow for your sake.'\nAt this Sir Gareth unlaced his helm and knelt before Sir Gawaine, and\nthey rose and embraced each other. 'Ah, my fair brother,' said Sir\nGawaine, 'I ought rightly to do you homage, even if you were not my\nbrother, for in this twelvemonth you have sent King Arthur more\nKnights than any six of the best men of the Round Table.' While he was\nspeaking there came the Lady Linet, and healed the wounds of Sir\nGareth and of Sir Gawaine. 'What are you going to do now?' asked she.\n'It is time that King Arthur had tidings of you both, and your horses\nare not fit to bear you.'\n\n'Ride, I pray you,' said Sir Gawaine, 'to my uncle King Arthur, who is\nbut two miles away, and tell him what adventure has befallen me.' So\nshe mounted her mule, and when she had told her tale to King Arthur,\nhe bade them saddle him a palfrey and invited all the Knights and\nladies of his Court to ride with him. When they reached the place they\nsaw Sir Gareth and Sir Gawaine sitting on the hill-side. The King\njumped off his horse, and would have greeted them, but he swooned away\nfor gladness, and they ran and comforted him, and also their mother.\n\nThe two Knights stayed in King Arthur's Court for eight days, and\nrested themselves and grew strong. Then said the King to Linet, 'I\nwonder that your sister, dame Lyonesse, does not come here to visit\nme, or more truly to visit my nephew, Sir Gareth, who has worked so\nhard to win her love.'\n\n'My lord,' answered Linet, 'you must, by your grace, hold her excused,\nfor she does not know that Sir Gareth is here.'\n\n'Go and fetch her, then,' said Arthur.\n\n'That I will do quickly,' replied Linet, and by the next morning she\nhad brought dame Lyonesse, and her brother Sir Gringamore, and forty\nKnights, but among the ladies dame Lyonesse was the fairest, save only\nQueen Guenevere. They were all welcomed of King Arthur, who turned to\nhis nephew Sir Gareth and asked him whether he would have that lady to\nhis wife.\n\n'My lord,' replied Sir Gareth, 'you know well that I love her above\nall the ladies in the world.'\n\n'And what say you, fair lady?' asked the King.\n\n'Most noble King,' said dame Lyonesse, 'I would sooner have Sir Gareth\nas my husband than any King or Prince that may be christened, and if I\nmay not have him I promise you I will have none. For he is my first\nlove, and shall be my last. And if you will suffer him to have his\nwill and choice, I dare say he will have me.'\n\n'That is truth,' said Sir Gareth.\n\n'What, nephew,' cried the King, 'sits the wind in that door? Then you\nshall have all the help that is in my power,' and so said Gareth's\nmother. And it was fixed that the marriage should be at Michaelmas, at\nKin-Kenadon by the sea-shore, and thus it was proclaimed in all places\nof the realm. Then Sir Gareth sent his summons to all the Knights and\nladies that he had won in battle that they should be present, and he\ngave a rich ring to the Lady Lyonesse, and she gave him one likewise.\nAnd before she departed she had from King Arthur a shining golden bee,\nas a token. After that Sir Gareth set her on her way towards her\ncastle, and returned unto the King. But he would ever be in Sir\nLancelot's company, for there was no Knight that Sir Gareth loved so\nwell as Sir Lancelot. The days drew fast to Michaelmas, and there came\nthe Lady Lyonesse with her sister Linet and her brother Sir Gringamore\nto Kin-Kenadon by the sea, and there were they lodged by order of King\nArthur. And upon Michaelmas Day the Bishop of Canterbury wedded Sir\nGareth and the Lady Lyonesse with great ceremonies, and King Arthur\ncommanded that Sir Gawaine should be joined to the damsel Linet, and\nSir Agrawaine to the niece of dame Lyonesse, whose name was Laurel.\nThen the Knights whom Sir Gareth had won in battle came with their\nfollowings and did homage to him, and the Green Knight besought him\nthat he might act as chamberlain at the feast, and the Red Knight that\nhe might be his steward. As soon as the feast was ended, they had all\nmanner of minstrelsy and games and a great tournament that lasted\nthree days, but at the prayer of dame Lyonesse the King would not\nsuffer that any man who was wedded should fight at that feast.\n\n\n\n\n_THE QUEST OF THE HOLY GRAAL_\n\n\nThis is a mysterious part of the adventures of King Arthur's Knights.\nWe must remember that parts of these stories are very old; they were\ninvented by the heathen Welsh, or by the ancient Britons, from whom\nthe Welsh are descended, and by the old pagan Irish, who spoke Gaelic,\na language not very unlike Welsh. Then these ancient stories were\ntranslated by French and other foreign writers, and Christian beliefs\nand chivalrous customs were added in the French romances, and,\nfinally, the French was translated into English about the time of\nEdward IV. by Sir Thomas Malory, who altered as he pleased. The Story\nof the Holy Graal, in this book, is mostly taken from Malory, but\npartly from 'The High History of the Holy Graal,' translated by Dr.\nSebastian Evans from an old French book.\n\nWhat _was_ the Holy Graal? In the stories it is the holy vessel used\nby our Lord, and brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea. But in the\nolder heathen Irish stories there is a mysterious vessel of a magical\nsort, full of miraculous food, and probably the French writers of the\nromances confused this with the sacred vessel brought from the Holy\nLand. On account of the sins of men this relic was made invisible, but\nnow and then it appeared, borne by angels or floating in a heavenly\nlight. The Knights, against King Arthur's wish, made a vow to find it,\nand gave up their duties of redressing wrongs and keeping order, to\npursue the beautiful vision. But most of them, for their sins, were\nunsuccessful, like Sir Lancelot, and the Round Table was scattered\nand the kingdom was weakened by the neglect of ordinary duties in the\nsearch for what could never be gained by mortal men. This appears to\nbe the moral of the story, if it has any moral. But the stories are\nconfused almost like a dream, though it is a beautiful dream.\n\n\nI\n\nHOW THE KING WENT ON PILGRIMAGE, AND HIS\n\nSQUIRE WAS SLAIN IN A DREAM\n\n\nNow the King was minded to go on a pilgrimage, and he agreed with the\nQueen that he would set forth to seek the holy chapel of St.\nAugustine, which is in the White Forest, and may only be found by\nadventure. Much he wished to undertake the quest alone, but this the\nQueen would not suffer, and to do her pleasure he consented that a\nyouth, tall and strong of limb, should ride with him as his squire.\nChaus was the youth's name, and he was son to Gwain li Aoutres. 'Lie\nwithin to-night,' commanded the King, 'and take heed that my horse be\nsaddled at break of day, and my arms ready.' 'At your pleasure, Sir,'\nanswered the youth, whose heart rejoiced because he was going alone\nwith the King.\n\nAs night came on, all the Knights quitted the hall, but Chaus the\nsquire stayed where he was, and would not take off his clothes or his\nshoes, lest sleep should fall on him and he might not be ready when\nthe King called him. So he sat himself down by the great fire, but in\nspite of his will sleep fell heavily on him, and he dreamed a strange\ndream.\n\nIn his dream it seemed that the King had ridden away to the quest, and\nhad left his squire behind him, which filled the young man with fear.\nAnd in his dream he set the saddle and bridle on his horse, and\nfastened his spurs, and girt on his sword, and galloped out of the\ncastle after the King. He rode on a long space, till he entered a\nthick forest, and there before him lay traces of the King's horse, and\nhe followed till the marks of the hoofs ceased suddenly at some open\nground and he thought that the King had alighted there. On the right\nstood a chapel, and about it was a graveyard, and in the graveyard\nmany coffins, and in his dream it seemed as if the King had entered\nthe chapel, so the young man entered also. But no man did he behold\nsave a Knight that lay dead upon a bier in the midst of the chapel,\ncovered with a pall of rich silk, and four tapers in golden\ncandlesticks were burning round him. The squire marvelled to see the\nbody lying there so lonely, with no one near it, and likewise that the\nKing was nowhere to be seen. Then he took out one of the tall tapers,\nand hid the candlestick under his cloak, and rode away until he should\nfind the King.\n\nOn his journey through the forest he was stopped by a man black and\nill-favoured, holding a large knife in his hand.\n\n'Ho! you that stand there, have you seen King Arthur?' asked the\nsquire.\n\n'No, but I have met you, and I am glad thereof, for you have under\nyour cloak one of the candlesticks of gold that was placed in honour\nof the Knight who lies dead in the chapel. Give it to me, and I will\ncarry it back; and if you do not this of your own will, I will make\nyou.'\n\n'By my faith!' cried the squire, 'I will never yield it to you!\nRather, will I carry it off and make a present of it to King Arthur.'\n\n'You will pay for it dearly,' answered the man, 'if you yield it not\nup forthwith.'\n\nTo this the squire did not make answer, but dashed forward, thinking\nto pass him by; but the man thrust at him with his knife, and it\nentered his body up to the hilt. And when the squire dreamed this, he\ncried, 'Help! help! for I am a dead man!'\n\nAs soon as the King and the Queen heard that cry they awoke from their\nsleep, and the Chamberlain said, 'Sir, you must be moving, for it is\nday'; and the King rose and dressed himself, and put on his shoes.\nThen the cry came again: 'Fetch me a priest, for I die!' and the King\nran at great speed into the hall, while the Queen and the Chamberlain\nfollowed him with torches and candles. 'What aileth you?' asked the\nKing of his squire, and the squire told him of all that he had\ndreamed. 'Ha,' said the King, 'is it, then, a dream?' 'Yes, Sir,'\nanswered the squire, 'but it is a right foul dream for me, for right\nfoully it hath come true,' and he lifted his left arm, and said, 'Sir,\nlook you here! Lo, here is the knife that was struck in my side up to\nthe haft.' After that, he drew forth the candlestick, and showed it to\nthe King. 'Sir, for this candlestick that I present to you was I\nwounded to the death!' The King took the candlestick in his hands and\nlooked at it, and none so rich had he seen before, and he bade the\nQueen look also. 'Sir,' said the squire again, 'draw not forth the\nknife out of my body till I be shriven of the priest.' So the King\ncommanded that a priest should be sent for, and when the squire had\nconfessed his sins, the King drew the knife out of the body and the\nsoul departed forthwith. Then the King grieved that the young man had\ncome to his death in such strange wise, and ordered him a fair burial,\nand desired that the golden candlestick should be sent to the Church\nof Saint Paul in London, which at that time was newly built.\n\nAfter this King Arthur would have none to go with him on his quest,\nand many strange adventures he achieved before he reached the chapel\nof St. Augustine, which was in the midst of the White Forest. There he\nalighted from his horse, and sought to enter, but though there was\nneither door nor bar he might not pass the threshold. But from without\nhe heard wondrous voices singing, and saw a light shining brighter\nthan any that he had seen before, and visions such as he scarcely\ndared to look upon. And he resolved greatly to amend his sins, and to\nbring peace and order into his kingdom. So he set forth, strengthened\nand comforted, and after divers more adventures returned to his\nCourt.\n\n\nII\n\nTHE COMING OF THE HOLY GRAAL\n\n\nIt was on the eve of Pentecost that all the Knights of the Table Round\nmet together at Camelot, and a great feast was made ready for them.\nAnd as they sat at supper they heard a loud noise, as of the crashing\nof thunder, and it seemed as if the roof would fall on them. Then, in\nthe midst of the thunder, there entered a sunbeam, brighter by seven\ntimes than the brightest day, and its brightness was not of this\nworld. The Knights held their peace, but every man looked at his\nneighbour, and his countenance shone fairer than ever it had done\nbefore. As they sat dumb, for their tongues felt as if they could\nspeak nothing, there floated in the hall the Holy Graal, and over it a\nveil of white samite, so that none might see it nor who bare it. But\nsweet odours filled the place, and every Knight had set before him the\nfood he loved best; and after that the Holy Vessel departed suddenly,\nthey wist not where. When it had gone their tongues were loosened, and\nthe King gave thanks for the wonders that they had been permitted to\nsee. After that he had finished, Sir Gawaine stood up and vowed to\ndepart the next morning in quest of the Holy Graal, and not to return\nuntil he had seen it. 'But if after a year and a day I may not speed\nin my quest,' said he, 'I shall come again, for I shall know that the\nsight of it is not for me.' And many of the Knights there sitting\nswore a like vow.\n\nBut King Arthur, when he heard this, was sore displeased. 'Alas!'\ncried he unto Sir Gawaine, 'you have undone me by your vow. For\nthrough you is broken up the fairest fellowship, and the truest of\nknighthood, that ever the world saw, and when they have once departed\nthey shall meet no more at the Table Round, for many shall die in the\nquest. It grieves me sore, for I have loved them as well as my own\nlife.' So he spoke, and paused, and tears came into his eyes. 'Ah,\nGawaine, Gawaine! you have set me in great sorrow.'\n\n'Comfort yourself,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for we shall win for ourselves\ngreat honour, and much more than if we had died in any other wise,\nsince die we must.' But the King would not be comforted, and the Queen\nand all the Court were troubled also for the love which they had to\nthese Knights. Then the Queen came to Sir Galahad, who was sitting\namong those Knights though younger he was than any of them, and asked\nhim whence he came, and of what country, and if he was son to Sir\nLancelot. And King Arthur did him great honour, and he rested him in\nhis own bed. And next morning the King and Queen went into the\nMinster, and the Knights followed them, dressed all in armour, save\nonly their shields and their helmets. When the service was finished\nthe King would know how many of the fellowship had sworn to undertake\nthe quest of the Graal, and they were counted, and found to number a\nhundred and fifty. They bade farewell, and mounted their horses, and\nrode through the streets of Camelot, and there was weeping of both\nrich and poor, and the King could not speak for weeping. And at\nsunrise they all parted company with each other, and every Knight took\nthe way he best liked.\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF SIR GALAHAD\n\n\nNow Sir Galahad had as yet no shield, and he rode four days without\nmeeting any adventure, till at last he came to a White Abbey, where he\ndismounted and asked if he might sleep there that night. The brethren\nreceived him with great reverence, and led him to a chamber, where he\ntook off his armour, and then saw that he was in the presence of two\nKnights. 'Sirs,' said Sir Galahad, 'what adventure brought you\nhither?' 'Sir,' replied they, 'we heard that within this Abbey is a\nshield that no man may hang round his neck without being dead within\nthree days, or some mischief befalling him. And if we fail in the\nadventure, you shall take it upon you.' 'Sirs,' replied Sir Galahad,\n'I agree well thereto, for as yet I have no shield.'\n\nSo on the morn they arose and heard Mass, and then a monk led them\nbehind an altar where hung a shield white as snow, with a red cross in\nthe middle of it. 'Sirs,' said the monk, 'this shield cannot be hung\nround no Knight's neck, unless he be the worthiest Knight in the\nworld, and therefore I counsel you to be well advised.'\n\n'Well,' answered one of the Knights, whose name was King Bagdemagus,\n'I know truly that I am not the best Knight in the world, but yet\nshall I try to bear it,' and he bare it out of the Abbey. Then he said\nto Sir Galahad, 'I pray you abide here still, till you know how I\nshall speed,' and he rode away, taking with him a squire to send\ntidings back to Sir Galahad.\n\nAfter King Bagdemagus had ridden two miles he entered a fair valley,\nand there met him a goodly Knight seated on a white horse and clad in\nwhite armour. And they came together with their spears, and Sir\nBagdemagus was borne from his horse, for the shield covered him not at\nall. Therewith the strange Knight alighted and took the white shield\nfrom him, and gave it to the squire, saying, 'Bear this shield to the\ngood Knight Sir Galahad that thou hast left in the Abbey, and greet\nhim well from me.'\n\n'Sir,' said the squire, 'what is your name?'\n\n'Take thou no heed of my name,' answered the Knight, 'for it is not\nfor thee to know, nor for any earthly man.'\n\n'Now, fair Sir,' said the squire, 'tell me for what cause this shield\nmay not be borne lest ill befalls him who bears it.'\n\n'Since you have asked me,' answered the Knight, 'know that no man\nshall bear this shield, save Sir Galahad only.'\n\nThen the squire turned to Bagdemagus, and asked him whether he were\nwounded or not. 'Yes, truly,' said he, 'and I shall hardly escape from\ndeath'; and scarcely could he climb on to his horse's back when the\nsquire brought it near him. But the squire led him to a monastery that\nlay in the valley, and there he was treated of his wounds, and after\nlong lying came back to life. After the squire had given the Knight\ninto the care of the monks, he rode back to the Abbey, bearing with\nhim the shield. 'Sir Galahad,' said he, alighting before him, 'the\nKnight that wounded Bagdemagus sends you greeting, and bids you bear\nthis shield, which shall bring you many adventures.'\n\n'Now blessed be God and fortune,' answered Sir Galahad, and called for\nhis arms, and mounted his horse, hanging the shield about his neck.\nThen, followed by the squire, he set out. They rode straight to the\nhermitage, where they saw the White Knight who had sent the shield to\nSir Galahad. The two Knights saluted each other courteously, and\nthen the White Knight told Sir Galahad the story of the shield, and\nhow it had been given into his charge. Afterwards they parted, and Sir\nGalahad and his squire returned unto the Abbey whence they came.\n\n[Illustration: SIR GALAHAD OPENS THE TOMB]\n\nThe monks made great joy at seeing Sir Galahad again, for they feared\nhe was gone for ever; and as soon as he was alighted from his horse\nthey brought him unto a tomb in the churchyard where there was night\nand day such a noise that any man who heard it should be driven nigh\nmad, or else lose his strength. 'Sir,' they said, 'we deem it a\nfiend.' Sir Galahad drew near, all armed save his helmet, and stood by\nthe tomb. 'Lift up the stone,' said a monk, and Galahad lifted it, and\na voice cried, 'Come thou not nigh me, Sir Galahad, for thou shalt\nmake me go again where I have been so long.' But Galahad took no heed\nof him, and lifted the stone yet higher, and there rushed from the\ntomb a foul smoke, and in the midst of it leaped out the foulest\nfigure that ever was seen in the likeness of a man. 'Galahad,' said\nthe figure, 'I see about thee so many angels that my power dare not\ntouch thee.' Then Galahad, stooping down, looked into the tomb, and he\nsaw a body all armed lying there, with a sword by his side. 'Fair\nbrother,' said Galahad, 'let us remove this body, for he is not worthy\nto be in this churchyard, being a false Christian man.'\n\nThis being done they all departed and returned unto the monastery,\nwhere they lay that night, and the next morning Sir Galahad knighted\nMelias his squire, as he had promised him aforetime. So Sir Galahad\nand Sir Melias departed thence, in quest of the Holy Graal, but they\nsoon went their different ways and fell upon different adventures. In\nhis first encounter Sir Melias was sore wounded, and Sir Galahad came\nto his help, and left him to an old monk who said that he would heal\nhim of his wounds in the space of seven weeks, and that he was thus\nwounded because he had not come clean to the quest of the Graal, as\nSir Galahad had done. Sir Galahad left him there, and rode on till he\ncame to the Castle of Maidens, which he alone might enter who was free\nfrom sin. There he chased away the Knights who had seized the castle\nseven years agone, and restored all to the Duke's daughter, who owned\nit of right. Besides this he set free the maidens who were kept in\nprison, and summoned all those Knights in the country round who had\nheld their lands of the Duke, bidding them do homage to his daughter.\nAnd in the morning one came to him and told him that as the seven\nKnights fled from the Castle of Maidens they fell upon the path of Sir\nGawaine, Sir Gareth, and Sir Lewaine, who were seeking Sir Galahad,\nand they gave battle; and the seven Knights were slain by the three\nKnights. 'It is well,' said Galahad, and he took his armour and his\nhorse and rode away.\n\nSo when Sir Galahad left the Castle of Maidens he rode till he came to\na waste forest, and there he met with Sir Lancelot and Sir Percivale;\nbut they knew him not, for he was now disguised. And they fought\ntogether, and the two Knights were smitten down out of the saddle.\n'God be with thee, thou best Knight in the world,' cried a nun who\ndwelt in a hermitage close by; and she said it in a loud voice, so\nthat Lancelot and Percivale might hear. But Sir Galahad feared that\nshe would make known who he was, so he spurred his horse and struck\ndeep into the forest before Sir Lancelot and Sir Percivale could mount\nagain. They knew not which path he had taken, so Sir Percivale turned\nback to ask advice of the nun, and Sir Lancelot pressed forward.\n\n[Illustration: LANCELOT AT THE CHAPEL]\n\n\nIV\n\nHOW SIR LANCELOT SAW A VISION, AND REPENTED\n\nOF HIS SINS\n\n\nHe halted when he came to a stone cross, which had by it a block of\nmarble, while nigh at hand stood an old chapel. He tied his horse to a\ntree, and hung his shield on a branch, and looked into the chapel, for\nthe door was waste and broken. And he saw there a fair altar covered\nwith a silken cloth, and a candlestick which had six branches, all of\nshining silver. A great light streamed from it, and at this sight Sir\nLancelot would fain have entered in, but he could not. So he turned\nback sorrowful and dismayed, and took the saddle and bridle off his\nhorse, and let him pasture where he would, while he himself unlaced\nhis helm, and ungirded his sword, and lay down to sleep upon his\nshield, at the foot of the cross.\n\nAs he lay there, half waking and half sleeping, he saw two white\npalfreys come by, drawing a litter, wherein lay a sick Knight. When\nthey reached the cross they paused, and Sir Lancelot heard the Knight\nsay, 'O sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave me, and when shall\nthe Holy Vessel come by me, through which I shall be blessed? For I\nhave endured long, though my ill deeds were few.' Thus he spoke, and\nSir Lancelot heard it, and of a sudden the great candlestick stood\nbefore the cross, though no man had brought it. And with it was a\ntable of silver and the Holy Vessel of the Graal, which Lancelot had\nseen aforetime. Then the Knight rose up, and on his hands and knees\nhe approached the Holy Vessel, and prayed, and was made whole of his\nsickness. After that the Graal went back into the chapel, and the\nlight and the candlestick also, and Sir Lancelot would fain have\nfollowed, but could not, so heavy was the weight of his sins upon him.\nAnd the sick Knight arose and kissed the cross, and saw Sir Lancelot\nlying at the foot with his eyes shut. 'I marvel greatly at this\nsleeping Knight,' he said to his squire, 'that he had no power to wake\nwhen the Holy Vessel was brought hither.' 'I dare right well say,'\nanswered the squire, 'that he dwelleth in some deadly sin, whereof he\nwas never confessed.' 'By my faith,' said the Knight, 'he is unhappy,\nwhoever he is, for he is of the fellowship of the Round Table, which\nhave undertaken the quest of the Graal.' 'Sir,' replied the squire,\n'you have all your arms here, save only your sword and your helm. Take\ntherefore those of this strange Knight, who has just put them off.'\nAnd the Knight did as his squire said, and took Sir Lancelot's horse\nalso, for it was better than his own.\n\nAfter they had gone Sir Lancelot waked up wholly, and thought of what\nhe had seen, wondering if he were in a dream or not. Suddenly a voice\nspoke to him, and it said, 'Sir Lancelot, more hard than is the stone,\nmore bitter than is the wood, more naked and barren than is the leaf\nof the fig tree, art thou; therefore go from hence and withdraw thee\nfrom this holy place.' When Sir Lancelot heard this, his heart was\npassing heavy, and he wept, cursing the day when he had been born. But\nhis helm and sword had gone from the spot where he had lain them at\nthe foot of the cross, and his horse was gone also. And he smote\nhimself and cried, 'My sin and my wickedness have done me this\ndishonour; for when I sought worldly adventures for worldly desires I\never achieved them and had the better in every place, and never was I\ndiscomfited in any quarrel, were it right or wrong. And now I take\nupon me the adventures of holy things, I see and understand that my\nold sin hinders me, so that I could not move nor speak when the Holy\nGraal passed by.' Thus he sorrowed till it was day, and he heard the\nbirds sing, and at that he felt comforted. And as his horse was gone\nalso, he departed on foot with a heavy heart.\n\n\nV\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF SIR PERCIVALE\n\n\nAll this while Sir Percivale had pursued adventures of his own, and\ncame nigh unto losing his life, but he was saved from his enemies by\nthe good Knight, Sir Galahad, whom he did not know, although he was\nseeking him, for Sir Galahad now bore a red shield, and not a white\none. And at last the foes fled deep into the forest, and Sir Galahad\nfollowed; but Sir Percivale had no horse and was forced to stay\nbehind. Then his eyes were opened, and he knew it was Sir Galahad who\nhad come to his help, and he sat down under a tree and grieved sore.\n\nWhile he was sitting there a Knight passed by riding a black horse,\nand when he was out of sight a yeoman came pricking after as fast as\nhe might, and, seeing Sir Percivale, asked if he had seen a Knight\nmounted on a black horse. 'Yes, Sir, forsooth,' answered Sir\nPercivale, 'why do you want to know?' 'Ah, Sir, that is my steed which\nhe has taken from me, and wherever my lord shall find me, he is sure\nto slay me.' 'Well,' said Sir Percivale, 'thou seest that I am on\nfoot, but had I a good horse I would soon come up with him.' 'Take my\nhackney,' said the yeoman, 'and do the best you can, and I shall\nfollow you on foot to watch how you speed.' So Sir Percivale rode as\nfast as he might, and at last he saw that Knight, and he hailed him.\nThe Knight turned and set his spear against Sir Percivale, and smote\nthe hackney in the breast, so that he fell dead to the earth, and Sir\nPercivale fell with him; then the Knight rode away. But Sir Percivale\nwas mad with wrath, and cried to the Knight to return and fight with\nhim on foot, and the Knight answered not and went on his way. When\nSir Percivale saw that he would not turn, he threw himself on the\nground, and cast away his helm and sword, and bemoaned himself for the\nmost unhappy of all Knights; and there he abode the whole day, and,\nbeing faint and weary, slept till it was midnight. And at midnight he\nwaked and saw before him a woman, who said to him right fiercely, 'Sir\nPercivale, what doest thou here?' 'Neither good nor great ill,'\nanswered he. 'If thou wilt promise to do my will when I call upon\nyou,' said she, 'I will lend you my own horse, and he shall bear thee\nwhither thou shalt choose.' This Sir Percivale promised gladly, and\nthe woman went and returned with a black horse, so large and\nwell-apparelled that Sir Percivale marvelled. But he mounted him\ngladly, and drove in his spurs, and within an hour and less the horse\nbare him four days' journey hence, and would have borne him into a\nrough water that roared, had not Sir Percivale pulled at his bridle.\nThe Knight stood doubting, for the water made a great noise, and he\nfeared lest his horse could not get through it. Still, wishing greatly\nto pass over, he made himself ready, and signed the sign of the cross\nupon his forehead.\n\n[Illustration: SIR PERCIVALE SLAYS THE SERPENT]\n\nAt that the fiend which had taken the shape of a horse shook off Sir\nPercivale and dashed into the water, crying and making great sorrow;\nand it seemed to him that the water burned. Then Sir Percivale knew\nthat it was not a horse but a fiend, which would have brought him to\nperdition, and he gave thanks and prayed all that night long. As soon\nas it was day he looked about him, and saw he was in a wild mountain,\ngirt round with the sea and filled with wild beasts. Then he rose and\nwent into a valley, and there he saw a young serpent bring a young\nlion by the neck, and after that there passed a great lion, crying and\nroaring after the serpent, and a fierce battle began between them. Sir\nPercivale thought to help the lion, as he was the more natural beast\nof the twain, and he drew his sword and set his shield before him, and\ngave the serpent a deadly buffet. When the lion saw that, he made him\nall the cheer that a beast might make a man, and fawned about him like\na spaniel, and stroked him with his paws. And about noon the lion took\nhis little whelp, and placed him on his back, and bare him home again,\nand Sir Percivale, being left alone, prayed till he was comforted. But\nat eventide the lion returned, and couched down at his feet, and all\nnight long he and the lion slept together.\n\n\nVI\n\nAN ADVENTURE OF SIR LANCELOT\n\n\nAs Lancelot went his way through the forest he met with many hermits\nwho dwelled therein, and had adventure with the Knight who stole his\nhorse and his helm, and got them back again. And he learned from one\nof the hermits that Sir Galahad was his son, and that it was he who at\nthe Feast of Pentecost had sat in the Siege Perilous, which it was\nordained by Merlin that none should sit in save the best Knight in the\nworld. All that night Sir Lancelot abode with the hermit and laid him\nto rest, a hair shirt always on his body, and it pricked him sorely,\nbut he bore it meekly and suffered the pain. When the day dawned he\nbade the hermit farewell. As he rode he came to a fair plain, in which\nwas a great castle set about with tents and pavilions of divers hues.\nHere were full five hundred Knights riding on horseback, and those\nnear the castle were mounted on black horses with black trappings, and\nthey that were without were on white horses and their trappings white.\nAnd the two sides fought together, and Sir Lancelot looked on.\n\nAt last it seemed to him that the black Knights nearest the castle\nfared the worst, so, as he ever took the part of the weaker, he rode\nto their help and smote many of the white Knights to the earth and did\nmarvellous deeds of arms. But always the white Knights held round Sir\nLancelot to tire him out. And as no man may endure for ever, in the\nend Sir Lancelot waxed so faint of fighting that his arms would not\nlift themselves to deal a stroke; then they took him, and led him away\ninto the forest and made him alight from his horse and rest, and when\nhe was taken the fellowship of the castle were overcome for want of\nhim. 'Never ere now was I at tournament or jousts but I had the best,'\nmoaned Sir Lancelot to himself, as soon as the Knights had left him\nand he was alone. 'But now am I shamed, and I am persuaded that I am\nmore sinful than ever I was.' Sorrowfully he rode on till he passed a\nchapel, where stood a nun, who called to him and asked him his name\nand what he was seeking.\n\nSo he told her who he was, and what had befallen him at the\ntournament, and the vision that had come to him in his sleep. 'Ah,\nLancelot,' said she, 'as long as you were a knight of earthly\nknighthood you were the most wonderful man in the world and the most\nadventurous. But now, since you are set among Knights of heavenly\nadventures, if you were worsted at that tournament it is no marvel.\nFor the tournament was meant for a sign, and the earthly Knights were\nthey who were clothed in black in token of the sins of which they were\nnot yet purged. And the white Knights were they who had chosen the way\nof holiness, and in them the quest has already begun. Thus you beheld\nboth the sinners and the good men, and when you saw the sinners\novercome you went to their help, as they were your fellows in boasting\nand pride of the world, and all that must be left in that quest. And\nthat caused your misadventure. Now that I have warned you of your\nvain-glory and your pride, beware of everlasting pain, for of all\nearthly Knights I have pity of you, for I know well that among earthly\nsinful Knights you are without peer.'\n\n\nVII\n\nAN ADVENTURE OF SIR GAWAINE\n\n\nSir Gawaine rode long without meeting any adventure, and from\nPentecost to Michaelmas found none that pleased him. But at Michaelmas\nhe met Sir Ector de Maris and rejoiced greatly.\n\nAs they sat talking there appeared before them a hand showing unto the\nelbow covered with red samite, and holding a great candle that burned\nright clear; and the hand passed into the chapel and vanished, they\nknew not where. Then they heard a voice which said, 'Knights full of\nevil faith and poor belief, these two things have failed you, and\ntherefore you may not come to the adventure of the Holy Graal.' And\nthis same told them a holy man to whom they confessed their sins,\n'for,' said he, 'you have failed in three things, charity, fasting,\nand truth, and have been great murderers. But sinful as Sir Lancelot\nwas, since he went into the quest he never slew man, nor shall, till\nhe come into Camelot again. For he has taken upon him to forsake sin.\nAnd were he not so unstable, he should be the next to achieve it,\nafter Galahad his son. Yet shall he die an holy man, and in earthly\nsinful men he has no fellow.'\n\n'Sir,' said Gawaine, 'by your words it seems that our sins will not\nlet us labour in that quest?' 'Truly,' answered the hermit, 'there be\nan hundred such as you to whom it will bring naught but shame.' So\nGawaine departed and followed Sir Ector, who had ridden on before.\n\n\nVIII\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF SIR BORS\n\n\nWhen Sir Bors left Camelot on his quest he met a holy man riding on an\nass, and Sir Bors saluted him. Then the good man knew him to be one of\nthe Knights who were in quest of the Holy Graal. 'What are you?' said\nhe, and Sir Bors answered, 'I am a Knight that fain would be\ncounselled in the quest of the Graal, for he shall have much earthly\nworship that brings it to an end.' 'That is true,' said the good man,\n'for he will be the best Knight in the world, but know well that there\nshall none attain it but by holiness and by confession of sin.' So\nthey rode together till they came to the hermitage, and the good man\nled Sir Bors into the chapel, where he made confession of his sins,\nand they ate bread and drank water together. 'Now,' said the hermit,\n'I pray you that you eat none other till you sit at the table where\nthe Holy Graal shall be.' 'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'I agree thereto,\nbut how know you that I shall sit there?' 'That know I,' said the holy\nman, 'but there will be but few of your fellows with you. Also instead\nof a shirt you shall wear this garment until you have achieved your\nquest,' and Sir Bors took off his clothes, and put on instead a\nscarlet coat. Then the good man questioned him, and marvelled to find\nhim pure in life, and he armed him and bade him go. After this Sir\nBors rode through many lands, and had many adventures, and was often\nsore tempted, but remembered the words of the holy man and kept his\nlife clean of wrong. And once he had by mischance almost slain his own\nbrother, but a voice cried, 'Flee, Bors, and touch him not,' and he\nhearkened and stayed his hand. And there fell between them a fiery\ncloud, which burned up both their shields, and they two fell to the\nearth in a great swoon; but when they awakened out of it Bors saw that\nhis brother had no harm. With that the voice spoke to him saying,\n'Bors, go hence and bear your brother fellowship no longer; but take\nyour way to the sea, where Sir Percivale abides till you come.' Then\nSir Bors prayed his brother to forgive him all he had unknowingly\ndone, and rode straight to the sea. On the shore he found a vessel\ncovered with white samite, and as soon as he stepped in the vessel it\nset sail so fast it might have been flying, and Sir Bors lay down and\nslept till it was day. When he waked he saw a Knight lying in the\nmidst of the ship, all armed save for his helm, and he knew him for\nSir Percivale, and welcomed him with great joy; and they told each\nother of their adventures and of their temptations, and had great\nhappiness in each other's company. 'We lack nothing but Galahad, the\ngood Knight,' Sir Percivale said.\n\n[Illustration: HOW SIR BORS WAS SAVED FROM KILLING HIS BROTHER]\n\n\nIX\n\nADVENTURE OF SIR GALAHAD\n\n\nSir Galahad rested one evening at a hermitage. And while he was\nresting, there came a gentlewoman and asked leave of the hermit to\nspeak with Sir Galahad, and would not be denied, though she was told\nhe was weary and asleep. Then the hermit waked Sir Galahad and bade\nhim rise, as a gentlewoman had great need of him, so Sir Galahad rose\nand asked her what she wished. 'Galahad,' said she, 'I will that you\narm yourself, and mount your horse and follow me, and I will show you\nthe highest adventure that ever any Knight saw.' And Sir Galahad bade\nher go, and he would follow wherever she led. In three days they\nreached the sea, where they found the ship where Sir Bors and Sir\nPercivale were lying. And the lady bade him leave his horse behind and\nsaid she would leave hers also, but their saddles and bridles they\nwould take on board the ship. This they did, and were received with\ngreat joy by the two Knights; then the sails were spread, and the ship\nwas driven before the wind at a marvellous pace till they reached the\nland of Logris, the entrance to which lies between two great rocks\nwith a whirlpool in the middle.\n\nTheir own ship might not get safely through; but they left it and went\ninto another ship that lay there, which had neither man nor woman in\nit. At the end of the ship was written these words: 'Thou man which\nshalt enter this ship beware thou be in steadfast belief; if thou\nfail, I shall not help thee.' Then the gentlewoman turned and said,\n'Percivale, do you know who I am?' 'No, truly,' answered he. 'I am\nyour sister, and therefore you are the man in the world that I most\nlove. If you are without faith, or have any hidden sin, beware how you\nenter, else you will perish.' 'Fair sister,' answered he, 'I shall\nenter therein, for if I am an untrue Knight then shall I perish.' So\nthey entered the ship, and it was rich and well adorned, that they all\nmarvelled.\n\nIn the midst of it was a fair bed, and Sir Galahad went thereto and\nfound on it a crown of silk, and a sword drawn out of its sheath half\na foot and more. The sword was of divers fashions, and the pommel of\nstone, wrought about with colours, and every colour with its own\nvirtue, and the handle was of the ribs of two beasts. The one was the\nbone of a serpent, and no hand that handles it shall ever become weary\nor hurt; and the other is a bone of a fish that swims in Euphrates,\nand whoso handles it shall not think on joy or sorrow that he has had,\nbut only on that which he beholds before him. And no man shall grip\nthis sword but one that is better than other men. So first Sir\nPercivale stepped forward and set his hand to the sword, but he might\nnot grasp it. Next Sir Bors tried to seize it, but he also failed.\nWhen Sir Galahad beheld the sword, he saw that there was written on\nit, in letters of blood, that he who tried to draw it should never\nfail of shame in his body or be wounded to the death. 'By my faith,'\nsaid Galahad, 'I would draw this sword out of its sheath, but the\noffending is so great I shall not lay my hand thereto.' 'Sir,'\nanswered the gentlewoman, 'know that no man can draw this sword save\nyou alone'; and she told him many tales of the Knights who had set\ntheir hands to it, and of the evil things that had befallen them. And\nthey all begged Sir Galahad to grip the sword, as it was ordained that\nhe should. 'I will grip it,' said Galahad, 'to give you courage, but\nit belongs no more to me than it does to you.' Then he gripped it\ntight with his fingers, and the gentlewoman girt him about the middle\nwith the sword, and after that they left that ship and went into\nanother, which brought them to land, where they fell upon many\nstrange adventures. And when they had wrought many great deeds, they\ndeparted from each other. But first Sir Percivale's sister died, being\nbled to death, so that another lady might live, and she prayed them to\nlay her body in a boat and leave the boat to go as the winds and waves\ncarried it. And so it was done, and Sir Percivale wrote a letter\ntelling how she had helped them in all their adventures; and he put it\nin her right hand, and laid her in a barge, and covered it with black\nsilk. And the wind arose and drove it from their sight.\n\n\nX\n\nSIR LANCELOT MEETS SIR GALAHAD, AND THEY PART\n\nFOR EVER\n\n\nNow we must tell what happened to Sir Lancelot.\n\nWhen he was come to a water called Mortoise he fell asleep, awaiting\nfor the adventure that should be sent to him, and in his sleep a voice\nspoke to him, and bade him rise and take his armour, and enter the\nfirst ship he should find. So he started up and took his arms and made\nhim ready, and on the strand he found a ship that was without sail or\noar. As soon as he was within the ship, he felt himself wrapped round\nwith a sweetness such as he had never known before, as if all that he\ncould desire was fulfilled. And with this joy and peace about him he\nfell asleep. When he woke he found near him a fair bed, with a dead\nlady lying on it, whom he knew to be Sir Percivale's sister, and in\nher hand was the tale of her adventures, which Sir Lancelot took and\nread. For a month or more they dwelt in that ship together, and one\nday, when it had drifted near the shore, he heard a sound as of a\nhorse; and when the steps came nearer he saw that a Knight was riding\nhim. At the sight of the ship the Knight alighted and took the saddle\nand bridle, and entered the ship. 'You are welcome,' said Lancelot,\nand the Knight saluted him and said, 'What is your name? for my heart\ngoeth out to you.'\n\n'Truly,' answered he, 'my name is Sir Lancelot du Lake.'\n\n'Sir,' said the new Knight, 'you are welcome, for you were the\nbeginner of me in the world.'\n\n'Ah,' cried Sir Lancelot, 'is it you, then, Galahad?'\n\n'Yes, in sooth,' said he, and kneeled down and asked Lancelot's\nblessing, and then took off his helm and kissed him. And there was\ngreat joy between them, and they told each other all that had befallen\nthem since they left King Arthur's Court. Then Galahad saw the\ngentlewoman dead on the bed, and he knew her, and said he held her in\ngreat worship, and that she was the best maid in the world, and how it\nwas great pity that she had come to her death. But when Lancelot heard\nthat Galahad had won the marvellous sword he prayed that he might see\nit, and kissed the pommel and the hilt, and the scabbard. 'In truth,'\nhe said, 'never did I know of adventures so wonderful and strange.' So\ndwelled Lancelot and Galahad in that ship for half a year, and served\nGod daily and nightly with all their power. And after six months had\ngone it befell that on a Monday they drifted to the edge of the\nforest, where they saw a Knight with white armour bestriding one horse\nand holding another all white, by the bridle. And he came to the ship,\nand saluted the two Knights and said, 'Galahad, you have been long\nenough with your father, therefore leave that ship and start upon this\nhorse, and go on the quest of the Holy Graal.' So Galahad went to his\nfather and kissed him, saying, 'Fair sweet father, I know not if I\nshall see you more till I have beheld the Holy Graal.' Then they heard\na voice which said, 'The one shall never see the other till the day of\ndoom.' 'Now, Galahad,' said Lancelot, 'since we are to bid farewell\nfor ever now, I pray to the great Father to preserve me and you both.'\n'Sir,' answered Galahad, 'no prayer availeth so much as yours.'\n\nThe next day Sir Lancelot made his way back to Camelot, where he found\nKing Arthur and Guenevere; but many of the Knights of the Round Table\nwere slain and destroyed, more than the half. All the Court was\npassing glad to see Sir Lancelot, and the King asked many tidings of\nhis son Sir Galahad.\n\n\nXI\n\nHOW SIR GALAHAD FOUND THE GRAAL AND DIED OF\n\nTHAT FINDING\n\n\nSir Galahad rode on till he met Sir Percivale and afterwards Sir Bors,\nwhom they greeted most gladly, and they bare each other company. First\nthey came to the Castle of Carbonek, where dwelled King Pelles, who\nwelcomed them with joy, for he knew by their coming that they had\nfulfilled the quest of the Graal. They then departed on other\nadventures, and with the blood out of the Holy Lance Galahad anointed\nthe maimed King and healed him. That same night at midnight a voice\nbade them arise and quit the castle, which they did, followed by three\nKnights of Gaul. Then Galahad prayed every one of them that if they\nreached King Arthur's Court they should salute Sir Lancelot his\nfather, and those Knights of the Round Table that were present, and\nwith that he left them, and Sir Bors and Sir Percivale with him. For\nthree days they rode till they came to a shore, and found a ship\nawaiting them. And in the midst of it was the table of silver, and the\nHoly Graal which was covered with red samite. Then were their hearts\nright glad, and they made great reverence thereto, and Galahad prayed\nthat at what time he asked, he might depart out of this world. So long\nhe prayed that at length a voice said to him, 'Galahad, thou shalt\nhave thy desire, and when thou askest the death of the body thou shalt\nhave it, and shalt find the life of the soul.' Percivale likewise\nheard the voice, and besought Galahad to tell him why he asked such\nthings. And Galahad answered, 'The other day when we saw a part of the\nadventures of the Holy Graal, I was in such a joy of heart that\nnever did man feel before, and I knew well that when my body is dead\nmy soul shall be in joy of which the other was but a shadow.'\n\n[Illustration: LANCELOT & THE DWARF.]\n\nSome time were the three Knights in that ship, till at length they saw\nbefore them the city of Sarras. Then they took from the ship the table\nof silver, and Sir Percivale and Sir Bors went first, and Sir Galahad\nfollowed after to the gate of the city, where sat an old man that was\ncrooked. At the sight of the old man Sir Galahad called to him to help\nthem carry the table, for it was heavy. 'Truly,' answered the old man,\n'it is ten years since I have gone without crutches.' 'Care not for\nthat,' said Galahad, 'but rise up and show your good will.' So he\narose and found himself as whole as ever he was, and he ran to the\ntable and held up the side next Galahad. And there was much noise in\nthe city that a cripple was healed by three Knights newly entered in.\nThis reached the ears of the King, who sent for the Knights and\nquestioned them. And they told him the truth, and of the Holy Graal;\nbut the King listened nothing to all they said, but put them into a\ndeep hole in the prison. Even here they were not without comfort, for\na vision of the Holy Graal sustained them. And at the end of a year\nthe King lay sick and felt he should die, and he called the three\nKnights and asked forgiveness of the evil he had done to them, which\nthey gave gladly. Then he died, and the whole city was afraid and knew\nnot what to do, till while they were in counsel a voice came to them\nand bade them choose the youngest of the three strange Knights for\ntheir King. And they did so. After Galahad was proclaimed King, he\nordered that a coffer of gold and precious stones should be made to\nencompass the table of silver, and every day he and the two Knights\nwould kneel before it and make their prayers.\n\nNow at the year's end, and on the selfsame day that Galahad had been\ncrowned King, he arose up early and came with the two Knights to the\nPalace; and he saw a man in the likeness of a Bishop, encircled by a\ngreat crowd of angels, kneeling before the Holy Vessel. And he called\nto Galahad and said to him, 'Come forth, thou servant of Christ, and\nthou shalt see what thou hast much desired to see.' Then Galahad began\nto tremble right hard, when the flesh first beheld the things of the\nspirit, and he held up his hands to heaven and said, 'Lord, I thank\nthee, for now I see that which hath been my desire for many a day.\nNow, blessed Lord, I would no longer live, if it might please Thee.'\nThen Galahad went to Percivale and kissed him, and commended him to\nGod; and he went to Sir Bors and kissed him, and commended him to God,\nand said, 'Fair lord, salute me to my lord Sir Lancelot, my father,\nand bid him remember this unstable world.' Therewith he kneeled down\nbefore the table and made his prayers, and while he was praying his\nsoul suddenly left the body and was carried by angels up into heaven,\nwhich the two Knights right well beheld. Also they saw come from\nheaven a hand, but no body behind it, and it came unto the Vessel, and\ntook it and the spear, and bare them back to heaven. And since then no\nman has dared to say that he has seen the Holy Graal.\n\nWhen Percivale and Bors saw Galahad lying dead they made as much\nsorrow as ever two men did, and the people of the country and of the\ncity were right heavy. And they buried him as befitted their King. As\nsoon as Galahad was buried, Sir Percivale sought a hermitage outside\nthe city, and put on the dress of a hermit, and Sir Bors was always\nwith him, but kept the dress that he wore at Court. When a year and\ntwo months had passed Sir Percivale died also, and was buried by the\nside of Galahad; and Sir Bors left that land, and after long riding\ncame to Camelot. Then was there great joy made of him in the Court,\nfor they had held him as dead; and the King ordered great clerks to\nattend him, and to write down all his adventures and those of Sir\nPercivale and Sir Galahad. Next, Sir Lancelot told the adventures of\nthe Graal which he had seen, and this likewise was written and placed\nwith the other in almonries at Salisbury. And by and by Sir Bors said\nto Sir Lancelot, 'Galahad your son saluteth you by me, and after you\nKing Arthur and all the Court, and so did Sir Percivale; for I buried\nthem with mine own hands in the City of Sarras. Also, Sir Lancelot,\nGalahad prayeth you to remember of this uncertain world, as you\npromised when you were together!' 'That is true,' said Sir Lancelot,\n'and I trust his prayer may avail me.' But the prayer but little\navailed Sir Lancelot, for he fell to his old sins again. And now the\nKnights were few that survived the search for the Graal, and the evil\ndays of Arthur began.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIGHT FOR THE QUEEN\n\n\nSo the quest of the Holy Graal had been fulfilled, and the few Knights\nthat had been left alive returned to the Round Table, and there was\ngreat joy in the Court. To do them honour the Queen made them a\ndinner; and there were four and twenty Knights present, and among them\nSir Patrise of Ireland, and Sir Gawaine and his brethren, the King's\nnephews, which were Sir Agrawaine, Sir Gaheris, Sir Gareth, and Sir\nMordred. Now it was the custom of Sir Gawaine daily at dinner and\nsupper to eat all manner of fruit, and especially pears and apples,\nand this the Queen knew, and set fruit of all sorts before him. And\nthere was present at the dinner one Sir Pinel le Savage, who hated Sir\nGawaine because he and his brethren had slain Sir Lamorak du Galis,\ncousin to Sir Pinel; so he put poison into some of the apples, hoping\nthat Sir Gawaine would eat one and die. But by ill fortune it befell\nthat the good Knight Sir Patrise took a poisoned apple, and in a few\nmoments he lay dead and stark in his seat. At this sight all the\nKnights leapt to their feet, but said nothing, for they bethought them\nthat Queen Guenevere had made them the dinner, and feared that she had\npoisoned the fruit.\n\n'My lady, the Queen,' said Sir Gawaine, who was the first to speak,\n'this fruit was brought for me, for all know how well I love it;\ntherefore, Madam, the shame of this ill deed is yours.' The Queen\nstood still, pale and trembling, but kept silence, and next spoke Sir\nMador de la Porte.\n\n'This shall not be ended so,' said he, 'for I have lost a noble Knight\nof my blood, and I will be avenged of the person who has wrought this\nevil.' And he turned to the Queen and said 'Madam, it is you who have\nbrought about the death of my cousin Sir Patrise!' The Knights round\nlistened in silence, for they too thought Sir Mador spake truth. And\nthe Queen still said nothing, but fell to weeping bitterly, till King\nArthur heard and came to look into the matter. And when they told him\nof their trouble his heart was heavy within him.\n\n'Fair lords,' said the King at last, 'I grieve for this ill deed; but\nI cannot meddle therein, or do battle for my wife, for I have to judge\njustly. Sure I am that this deed is none of hers, therefore many a\ngood Knight will stand her champion that she be not burned to death in\na wrong quarrel. And, Sir Mador, hold not your head so high, but fix\nthe day of battle, when you shall find a Knight to answer you, or else\nit were great shame to all my Court.'\n\n'My gracious lord,' said Sir Mador, 'you must hold me excused. But\nthough you are a King you are also a Knight, and must obey the laws of\nKnighthood. Therefore I beseech your forgiveness if I declare that\nnone of the four and twenty Knights here present will fight that\nbattle. What say you, my lords?' Then the Knights answered that they\ncould not hold the Queen guiltless, for as the dinner was made by her\neither she or her servants must have done this thing.\n\n'Alas!' said the Queen, 'no evil was in my heart when I prepared this\nfeast, for never have I done such foul deeds.'\n\n'My lord the King,' cried Sir Mador, 'I require of you, as you are a\njust King, to fix a day that I may get ready for the fight!'\n\n'Well,' answered the King, 'on the fifteenth day from this come on\nhorseback to the meadow that is by Westminster. And if it happens that\nthere be a Knight to fight with you, strike as hard as you will, God\nwill speed the right. But if no Knight is there, then must my Queen be\nburned, and a fire shall be made in the meadow.'\n\n[Illustration: SIR MADOR ACCUSES GUENEVERE]\n\n'I am answered,' said Sir Mador, and he and the rest of the Knights\ndeparted.\n\nWhen the King and Queen were left alone he asked her what had brought\nall this about. 'God help me, that I know not,' said the Queen, 'nor\nhow it was done.'\n\n'Where is Sir Lancelot?' said King Arthur, looking round. 'If he were\nhere he would not grudge to do battle for you.'\n\n'Sir,' replied the Queen, 'I know not where he is, but his brother and\nhis kinsmen think he is not in this realm.'\n\n'I grieve for that,' said the King, 'for he would soon stop this\nstrife. But I counsel you, ask Sir Bors, and he will not refuse you.\nFor well I see that none of the four and twenty Knights who were with\nyou at dinner will be your champion, and none will say well of you,\nbut men will speak evil of you at the Court.'\n\n'Alas!' sighed the Queen, 'I do indeed miss Sir Lancelot, for he would\nsoon ease my heart.'\n\n'What ails you?' asked the King, 'that you cannot keep Sir Lancelot at\nyour side, for well you know that he who Sir Lancelot fights for has\nthe best Knight in the world for his champion. Now go your way, and\ncommand Sir Bors to do battle with you for Sir Lancelot's sake.' So\nthe Queen departed from the King, and sent for Sir Bors into her\nchamber, and when he came she besought his help.\n\n'Madam,' said he, 'what can I do? for I may not meddle in this matter\nlest the Knights who were at the dinner have me in suspicion, for I\nwas there also. It is now, Madam, that you miss Sir Lancelot, whom you\nhave driven away, as he would have done battle for you were you right\nor wrong, and I wonder how for shame's sake you can ask me, knowing\nhow I love and honour him.'\n\n'Alas,' said the Queen, 'I throw myself on your grace,' and she went\ndown on her knees and besought Sir Bors to have mercy on her, 'else I\nshall have a shameful death, and one I have never deserved.' At that\nKing Arthur came in, and found her kneeling before Sir Bors. 'Madam!\nyou do me great dishonour,' said Sir Bors, raising her up.\n\n'Ah, gentle Knight,' cried the King, 'have mercy on my Queen, for I am\nsure that they speak falsely. And I require by the love of Sir\nLancelot that you do battle for her instead of him.'\n\n'My lord,' answered Sir Bors, 'you require of me the hardest thing\nthat ever anyone asked of me, for well you know that if I fight for\nthe Queen I shall anger all my companions of the Round Table; but I\nwill not say nay, my lord, for Sir Lancelot's sake and for your sake!\nOn that day I will be the Queen's champion, unless a better Knight is\nfound to do battle for her.'\n\n'Will you promise me this?' asked the King.\n\n'Yes,' answered Sir Bors, 'I will not fail you nor her, unless there\nshould come a better Knight than I, then he shall have the battle.'\nThen the King and Queen rejoiced greatly, and thanked Sir Bors with\nall their hearts.\n\nSo Sir Bors departed and rode unto Sir Lancelot, who was with the\nhermit Sir Brasias, and told him of this adventure. 'Ah,' said Sir\nLancelot, 'this has befallen as I would have it, and therefore I pray\nyou make ready to do battle, but delay the fight as long as you can\nthat I may appear. For I am sure that Sir Mador is a hot Knight, and\nthe longer he waits the more impatient he will be for the combat.'\n\n'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'let me deal with him. Doubt not you shall\nhave all your will.' And he rode away, and came again to the Court.\n\nIt was soon noised about that Sir Bors would be the Queen's champion,\nand many Knights were displeased with him; but there were a few who\nheld the Queen to be innocent. Sir Bors spoke unto them all and said,\n'It were shameful, my fair lords, if we suffered the most noble Queen\nin the world to be disgraced openly, not only for her sake, but for\nthe King's.' But they answered him: 'As for our lord King Arthur, we\nlove him and honour him as much as you; but as for Queen Guenevere,\nwe love her not, for she is the destroyer of good Knights.'\n\n[Illustration: GUENEVERE & SIR BORS]\n\n'Fair lords,' said Sir Bors, 'you shall not speak such words, for\nnever yet have I heard that she was the destroyer of good Knights. But\nat all times, as far as I ever knew, she maintained them and gave them\nmany gifts. And therefore it were a shame to us all if we suffered our\nnoble King's wife to be put to death, and I will not suffer it. So\nmuch I will say, that the Queen is not guilty of Sir Patrise's death;\nfor she owed him no ill will, and bade him and us to the dinner for no\nevil purpose, which will be proved hereafter. And in any case there\nwas foul dealing among us.'\n\n'We may believe your words,' said some of the Knights, but others held\nthat he spoke falsely.\n\nThe days passed quickly by until the evening before the battle, when\nthe Queen sent for Sir Bors and asked him if he was ready to keep his\npromise.\n\n'Truly, Madam,' answered he, 'I shall not fail you, unless a better\nKnight than I am come to do battle for you. Then, Madam, I am\ndischarged of my promise.'\n\n'Shall I tell this to my lord Arthur?' said the Queen.\n\n'If it pleases you, Madam,' answered Sir Bors. So the Queen went to\nthe King, and told him what Sir Bors had said, and the King bade her\nto be comforted, as Sir Bors was one of the best Knights of the Round\nTable.\n\nThe next morning the King and Queen, and all manner of Knights, rode\ninto the meadow of Westminster, where the battle was to be; and the\nQueen was put into the Guard of the High Constable, and a stout iron\nstake was planted, and a great fire made about it, at which the Queen\nshould be burned if Sir Mador de la Porte won the fight. For it was\nthe custom in those days that neither fear nor favour, love nor\nkinship, should hinder right judgment. Then came Sir Mador de la\nPorte, and made oath before the King that the Queen had done to death\nhis cousin Sir Patrise, and he would prove it on her Knight's body,\nlet who would say the contrary. Sir Bors likewise made answer that\nQueen Guenevere had done no wrong, and that he would make good with\nhis two hands. 'Then get you ready,' said Sir Mador. 'Sir Mador,'\nanswered Sir Bors, 'I know you for a good Knight, but I trust to be\nable to withstand your malice; and I have promised King Arthur and my\nLady the Queen that I will do battle for her to the uttermost, unless\nthere come forth a better Knight than I am.'\n\n'Is that all?' asked Sir Mador; 'but you must either fight now or own\nthat you are beaten.'\n\n'Take your horse,' said Sir Bors, 'for I shall not tarry long,' and\nSir Mador forthwith rode into the field with his shield on his\nshoulder, and his spear in his hand, and he went up and down crying\nunto King Arthur, 'Bid your champion come forth if he dare.' At that\nSir Bors was ashamed, and took his horse, and rode to the end of the\nlists. But from a wood hard by appeared a Knight riding fast on a\nwhite horse, bearing a shield full of strange devices. When he reached\nSir Bors he drew rein and said, 'Fair Knight, be not displeased, but\nthis battle must be to a better Knight than you. For I have come a\ngreat journey to fight this fight, as I promised when I spoke with you\nlast, and I thank you heartily for your goodwill.' So Sir Bors went to\nKing Arthur and told him that a Knight had come who wished to do\nbattle for the Queen. 'What Knight is he?' asked the King.\n\n'That I know not,' said Sir Bors; 'but he made a covenant with me to\nbe here this day, and now I am discharged,' said Sir Bors.\n\nThen the King called to that Knight and asked him if he would fight\nfor the Queen. 'For that purpose I came hither,' replied he, 'and\ntherefore, Sir King, delay me no longer, for as soon as I have ended\nthis battle I must go hence, as I have many matters elsewhere. And\nI would have you know that it is a dishonour to all the Knights of the\nRound Table to let so noble a lady and so courteous a Queen as Queen\nGuenevere be shamed amongst you.'\n\n[Illustration: ARTHUR AND GUENEVERE KISS BEFORE ALL THE PEOPLE]\n\nThe Knights who were standing round looked at each other at these\nwords, and wondered much what man this was who took the battle upon\nhim, for none knew him save Sir Bors.\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Mador de la Porte unto the King, 'let me know the name\nof him with whom I have to do.' But the King answered nothing, and\nmade a sign for the fight to begin. They rode to the end of the lists,\nand couched their spears and rushed together with all their force, and\nSir Mador's spear broke in pieces. But the other Knight's spear held\nfirm, and he pressed on Sir Mador's horse till it fell backward with a\ngreat fall. Sir Mador sprang from his horse, and, placing his shield\nbefore him, drew his sword, and bade his foe dismount from his horse\nalso, and do battle with him on foot, which the unknown Knight did.\nFor an hour they fought thus, as Sir Mador was a strong man, and had\nproved himself the victor in many combats. At last the Knight smote\nSir Mador grovelling to his knees, and the Knight stepped forward to\nhave struck him flat upon the ground. Therewith Sir Mador suddenly\nrose, and smote the Knight upon the thigh, so that the blood ran out\nfiercely. But when the Knight felt himself wounded, and saw his blood,\nhe let Sir Mador rise to his feet, and then he gave him such a buffet\non the helm that this time Sir Mador fell his length on the earth, and\nthe Knight sprang to him, to unloose his helm. At this Sir Mador\nprayed for his life, acknowledging that he was overcome, and confessed\nthat the Queen's innocence had been proved. 'I will only grant you\nyour life,' said the Knight, 'if you will proclaim publicly that you\nhave foully slandered the Queen, and that you make no mention, on the\ntomb of Sir Patrise, that ever Queen Guenevere consented to his\nmurder.' 'All that will I do,' said Sir Mador, and some Knights took\nhim up, and carried him away to heal his wounds. And the other Knight\nwent straight to the foot of the steps where sat King Arthur, and\nthere the Queen had just come, and the King and the Queen kissed each\nother before all the people. When King Arthur saw the Knight standing\nthere he stooped down to him and thanked him, and so likewise did the\nQueen; and they prayed him to put off his helmet, and commanded wine\nto be brought, and when he unlaced his helmet to drink they knew him\nto be Sir Lancelot du Lake. Then Arthur took the Queen's hand and led\nher to Sir Lancelot and said, 'Sir, I give you the most heartfelt\nthanks of the great deed you have done this day for me and my Queen.'\n\n'My lord,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'you know well that I ought of right\never to fight your battles, and those of my lady the Queen. For it was\nyou who gave me the high honour of Knighthood, and that same day my\nlady the Queen did me a great service, else I should have been put to\nshame before all men. Because in my hastiness I lost my sword, and my\nlady the Queen found it and gave it to me when I had sore need of it.\nAnd therefore, my lord Arthur, I promised her that day that I would be\nher Knight in right or in wrong.'\n\n'I owe you great thanks,' said the King, 'and some time I hope to\nrepay you.' The Queen, beholding Sir Lancelot, wept tears of joy for\nher deliverance, and felt bowed to the ground with sorrow at the\nthought of what he had done for her, when she had sent him away with\nunkind words. Then all the Knights of the Round Table and his kinsmen\ndrew near to him and welcomed him, and there was great mirth in the\nCourt.\n\n\n\n\n_THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT_\n\n\nSoon after this it befell that the damsel of the lake, called by some\nNimue and by others Vivien, wedded Sir Pelleas, and came to the Court\nof King Arthur. And when she heard the talk of the death of Sir\nPatrise and how the Queen had been accused of it, she found out by\nmeans of her magic that the tale was false, and told it openly that\nthe Queen was innocent and that it was Sir Pinel who had poisoned the\napple. Then he fled into his own country, where none might lay hands\non him. So Sir Patrise was buried in the Church of Westminster, and on\nhis tomb was written, 'Here lieth Sir Patrise of Ireland, slain by Sir\nPinel le Savage, that empoisoned apples to have slain Sir Gawaine, and\nby misfortune Sir Patrise ate one of those apples and then suddenly he\nburst.' Also there was put upon the tomb that Queen Guenevere was\naccused of the death of Sir Patrise by Sir Mador de la Porte, and how\nSir Lancelot fought with him and overcame him in battle. All this was\nwritten on the tomb.\n\nAnd daily Sir Mador prayed to have the Queen's grace once more, and by\nmeans of Sir Lancelot he was forgiven. It was now the middle of the\nsummer, and King Arthur proclaimed that in fifteen days a great\ntourney should be held at Camelot, which is now called Winchester, and\nmany Knights and Kings made ready to do themselves honour. But the\nQueen said she would stay behind, for she was sick, and did not care\nfor the noise and bustle of a tourney. 'It grieves me you should say\nthat,' said the King, for you will not have seen so noble a company\ngathered together this seven years past, save at the Whitsuntide when\nGalahad departed from the Court.'\n\n'Truly,' answered the Queen, 'the sight will be grand. Nevertheless\nyou must hold me excused, for I cannot be there.'\n\nSir Lancelot likewise declared that his wounds were not healed and\nthat he could not bear himself in a tourney as he was wont to do. At\nthis the King was wroth, that he might not have either his Queen or\nhis best Knight with him, and he departed towards Winchester and by\nthe way lodged in a town now called Guildford, but then Astolat. And\nwhen the King had set forth, the Queen sent for Sir Lancelot, and told\nhim he was to blame for having excused himself from going with the\nKing, who set such store by his company; and Sir Lancelot said he\nwould be ruled by her, and would ride forth next morning on his way to\nWinchester; 'but I should have you know,' said he, 'that at the\ntourney I shall be against the King and his Knights.'\n\n'You must do as you please,' replied the Queen, 'but if you will be\nruled by my counsel, you will fight on his side.'\n\n'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I pray you not to be displeased with me.\nI will take the adventure as it comes,' and early next morning he rode\naway till at eventide he reached Astolat. He went through the town\ntill he stopped before the house of an old Baron, Sir Bernard of\nAstolat, and as he dismounted from his horse, the King spied him from\nthe gardens of the castle. 'It is well,' he said smiling to the\nKnights that were beside him, 'I see one man who will play his part in\nthe jousts, and I will undertake that he will do marvels.'\n\n'Who is that?' asked they all. 'You must wait to know that,' replied\nthe King, and went into the castle. Meantime Sir Lancelot had entered\nhis lodging, and the old Baron bade him welcome, but he knew not it\nwas Sir Lancelot. 'Fair Sir,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I pray you lend me,\nif you can, a shield with a device which no man knows, for mine they\nknow well.'\n\n'Sir,' answered Sir Bernard, 'you shall have your wish, for you seem\none of the goodliest Knights in the world. And, Sir, I have two sons,\nboth but lately knighted, Sir Tirre who was wounded on the day of his\nKnighthood, and his shield you shall have. My youngest son, Sir\nLavaine, shall ride with you, if you will have his company, to the\njousts. For my heart is much drawn to you, and tell me, I beseech you,\nwhat name I shall call you by.'\n\n'You must hold me excused as to that, just now,' said Sir Lancelot,\n'but if I speedwell at the jousts, I will come again and tell you. But\nlet me have Sir Lavaine with me, and lend me, as you have offered, his\nbrother's shield.' 'This shall be done,' replied Sir Bernard.\n\nBesides these two sons, Sir Bernard had a daughter whom everyone\ncalled The Fair Maid of Astolat, though her real name was Elaine le\nBlanc. And when she looked on Sir Lancelot, her love went forth to him\nand she could never take it back, and in the end it killed her. As\nsoon as her father told her that Sir Lancelot was going to the tourney\nshe besought him to wear her token in the jousts, but he was not\nwilling. 'Fair damsel,' he said, 'if I did that, I should have done\nmore for your love than ever I did for lady or damsel.' But then he\nremembered that he was to go disguised to the tourney, and because he\nhad before never worn any manner of token of any damsel, he bethought\nhim that, if he should take one of hers, none would know him. So he\nsaid to her, 'Fair damsel, I will wear your token on my helmet, if you\nwill show me what it is.'\n\n'Sir,' she answered, 'it is a red sleeve, embroidered in great\npearls,' and she brought it to him. 'Never have I done so much for any\ndamsel,' said he, and gave his own shield into her keeping, till he\ncame again. Sir Arthur had waited three days in Astolat for some\nKnights who were long on the road, and when they had arrived they all\nset forth, and were followed by Sir Lancelot and Sir Lavaine, both\nwith white shields, and Sir Lancelot bore besides the red sleeve that\nwas a token. Now Camelot was filled with a great number of Kings and\nLords and Knights, but Sir Lavaine found means to lodge both himself\nand Sir Lancelot secretly with a rich burgess, and no man knew who\nthey were or whence they came. And there they stayed till the day of\nthe tourney. At earliest dawn the trumpets blew, and King Arthur took\nhis seat upon a high scaffold, so that he might see who had done best;\nbut he would not suffer Sir Gawaine to go from his side, for Sir\nGawaine never won the prize when Sir Lancelot was in the field, and as\nKing Arthur knew, Sir Lancelot oftentimes disguised himself.\n\nThen the Knights formed into two parties and Sir Lancelot made him\nready, and fastened the red sleeve upon his helmet, and he and Sir\nLavaine rode into a little wood that lay behind the Knights who should\nfight against those of the Round Table. 'Sir,' said Sir Lancelot,\n'yonder is a company of good Knights and they hold together as boars\nthat are vexed with dogs.'\n\n'That is truth,' said Sir Lavaine.\n\n'Now,' said Sir Lancelot, 'if you will help me a little, you shall see\nKing Arthur's side, which is winning, driven back as fast as they\ncame.'\n\n'Spare not, Sir,' answered Sir Lavaine, 'for I shall do what I may.'\nSo they rode into the thickest of the press, and smote so hard both\nwith spear and sword that the Knights of the Round Table fell back. 'O\nmercy!' cried Sir Gawaine, 'what Knight is that yonder who does such\nmarvellous deeds?'\n\n'I know well who it is,' said King Arthur, 'but I will not tell you\nyet.'\n\n'Sir,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'I should say it was Sir Lancelot by the\nblows he deals and the manner that he rides, but it cannot be he, for\nthis man has a red sleeve upon his helmet, and Sir Lancelot has\nnever borne the token of any lady.'\n\n[Illustration: ELAINE TIES HER SLEEVE ROUND SIR LANCELOT'S HELMET]\n\n'Let him be,' said Sir Arthur, 'you will find out his name, and see\nhim do greater deeds yet, before he departs.' And the Knights that\nwere fighting against the King's party took heart again, for before\nthey feared they would be beaten. But when Sir Bors saw this, he\ncalled unto him the Knights that were of kin to Sir Lancelot, and they\nbanded together to make a great charge, and threw Sir Lancelot's horse\nto the ground, and by misfortune the spear of Sir Bors broke, and its\nhead was left in Sir Lancelot's side. When Sir Lavaine saw that, he\nunhorsed the King of Scots, and brought his horse to Sir Lancelot, and\nhelped him mount thereon and gave him a spear, with which Sir Lancelot\nsmote Sir Bors to the earth and Sir Ector de Maris, the foster-father\nof King Arthur, and buffeted sorely the Knights that were with them.\nAfterward he hurled himself into the thick _melee_ of them all, and\ndid the most wonderful deeds that ever were heard of. And Sir Lavaine\nlikewise did well that day, for he smote down full two Knights of the\nRound Table. 'Mercy,' again cried Sir Gawaine to Arthur, 'I marvel\nwhat Knight that is with the red sleeve.'\n\n'That you shall know soon,' said King Arthur, and commanded that the\ntrumpets should be blown, and declared that the prize belonged to the\nKnight with the white shield, who bare the red sleeve, for he had\nunhorsed more than thirty Knights. And the Kings and Lords who were of\nhis party came round him and thanked him for the help he had given\nthem, by which means the honours of the day had been theirs.\n\n'Fair Lords,' said Sir Lancelot, 'if I have deserved thanks, I have\npaid for them sorely, for I shall hardly escape with my life,\ntherefore I pray you let me depart, for my hurt is grievous.' Then he\ngroaned piteously, and galloped from them to a wood's side, followed\nby Sir Lavaine. 'Oh help me, Sir Lavaine,' said he, 'to get this\nspear's head out of my side, for it is killing me.' But Sir Lavaine\nfeared to touch it, lest Sir Lancelot should bleed to death. 'I charge\nyou,' said Sir Lancelot, 'if you love me draw out the head,' so Sir\nLavaine drew it out. And Sir Lancelot gave a great shriek, and a\nmarvellous grisly groan, and his blood flowed out so fast, that he\nfell into a swoon. 'Oh what shall I do?' cried Sir Lavaine, and he\nloosed Sir Lancelot's helm and coat of mail, and turned him so that\nthe wind might blow on him, but for full half an hour he lay as if he\nhad been dead. And at last Sir Lancelot opened his eyes, and said, 'O\nLavaine, help me on my horse, for two miles from this place there\nlives a hermit who once was a Knight of the Round Table, and he can\nheal my wounds.' Then Sir Lavaine, with much ado, helped him on his\nhorse, and brought him bleeding to the hermit. The hermit looked at\nhim as he rode up, leaning piteously on his saddle-bow, and he thought\nthat he should know him, but could not tell who he was for the\npaleness of his face, till he saw by a wound on his cheek that it was\nSir Lancelot.\n\n'You cannot hide your name from me,' said the hermit, 'for you are the\nnoblest Knight in the world, and well I know you to be Sir Lancelot.'\n\n'Since you know me, Sir,' said he, 'help me for God's sake, and for\ndeath or life put me out of this pain.'\n\n'Fear nothing,' answered the hermit, 'your pain will soon be gone,'\nand he called his servants to take the armour off the Knight, and laid\nhim in bed. After that he dressed the wound, and gave him good wine to\ndrink, and Sir Lancelot slept and awoke free of his pain. So we will\nleave him to be healed of his wound, under the care of the hermit, and\ngo back to King Arthur.\n\nNow it was the custom in those days that after a tourney was finished,\na great feast should be held at which both parties were assembled, so\nKing Arthur sent to ask the King of Northgalis, where was the Knight\nwith the red sleeve, who had fought on his side. 'Bring him before\nme,' he said, 'that he may have the prize he has won, which is his\nright.' Then answered the King with the hundred Knights, 'we fear the\nKnight must have been sore hurt, and that neither you nor we are ever\nlike to see him again, which is grievous to think of.'\n\n'Alas!' said King Arthur, 'is he then so badly wounded? What is his\nname?'\n\n'Truly,' said they all, 'we know not his name, nor whence he came, nor\nwhither he went.'\n\n'As for me,' answered King Arthur, 'these tidings are the worst that I\nhave heard these seven years, for I would give all the lands I hold\nthat no harm had befallen this Knight.'\n\n'Do you know him?' asked they all.\n\n'Whether I know him or not,' said King Arthur, 'I shall not tell you,\nbut may Heaven send me good news of him.' 'Amen,' answered they.\n\n'By my head,' said Sir Gawaine, 'if this good Knight is really wounded\nunto death, it is a great evil for all this land, for he is one of the\nnoblest that ever I saw for handling a sword or spear. And if he may\nbe found, I shall find him, for I am sure he is not far from this\ntown,' so he took his Squire with him, and they rode all round\nCamelot, six or seven miles on every side, but nothing could they hear\nof him. And he returned heavily to the Court of King Arthur.\n\nTwo days after the King and all his company set out for London, and by\nthe way, it happened to Sir Gawaine to lodge with Sir Bernard at\nAstolat. And when he was in his chamber, Sir Bernard and his daughter\nElaine came unto Sir Gawaine, to ask him tidings of the Court, and who\ndid best in the tourney at Winchester.\n\n'Truly,' said Sir Gawaine, 'there were two Knights that bare white\nshields, but one of them had a red sleeve upon his helm, and he was\none of the best Knights that ever I saw joust in the field, for I dare\nsay he smote down forty Knights of the Table Round.'\n\n'Now blessed be God,' said the Maid of Astolat, 'that that Knight sped\nso well, for he is the man in the world that I loved first, and he\nwill also be the last that ever I shall love.'\n\n'Fair Maid,' asked Sir Gawaine, 'is that Knight your love?'\n\n'Certainly he is my love,' said she.\n\n'Then you know his name?' asked Sir Gawaine.\n\n'Nay, truly,' answered the damsel, 'I know neither his name, nor\nwhence he cometh, but I love him for all that.'\n\n'How did you meet him first?' asked Sir Gawaine. At that she told him\nthe whole story, and how her brother went with Sir Lancelot to do him\nservice, and lent him the white shield of her brother Sir Tirre and\nleft his own shield with her. 'Why did he do that?' asked Sir Gawaine.\n\n'For this cause,' said the damsel, 'his shield was too well known\namong many noble Knights.'\n\n'Ah, fair damsel,' said Sir Gawaine, 'I beg of you to let me have a\nsight of that shield.'\n\n'Sir,' answered she, 'it is in my chamber covered with a case, and if\nyou will come with me, you shall see it.'\n\n'Not so,' said Sir Bernard, and sent his Squire for it. And when Sir\nGawaine took off the case and beheld the shield, and saw the arms, he\nknew it to be Sir Lancelot's. 'Ah mercy,' cried he, 'my heart is\nheavier than ever it was before!'\n\n'Why?' asked Elaine.\n\n'I have great cause,' answered Sir Gawaine. 'Is that Knight who owns\nthis shield your love?'\n\n'Yes, truly,' said she; 'I would I were his love.'\n\n'You are right, fair damsel,' replied Gawaine, 'for if you love him,\nyou love the most honourable Knight in the world. I have known him for\nfour-and-twenty years, and never did I or any other Knight see him\nwear a token of either lady or damsel at a tournament. Therefore,\ndamsel, he has paid you great honour. But I fear that I may never\nbehold him again upon earth, and that is grievous to think of.'\n\n'Alas!' she said, 'how may this be? Is he slain?'\n\n'I did not say that,' replied Sir Gawaine, 'but he is sorely wounded,\nand is more likely to be dead than alive. And, maiden, by this shield\nI know that he is Sir Lancelot.'\n\n'How can this be?' said the Maid of Astolat, 'and what was his hurt?'\n\n'Truly,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'it was the man that loved him best who\nhurt him so, and I am sure that if that man knew that it was Sir\nLancelot whom he had wounded, he would think it was the darkest deed\nthat ever he did.'\n\n'Now, dear father,' said Elaine, 'give me leave to ride and to seek\nhim, for I shall go out of my mind unless I find him and my brother.'\n\n'Do as you will,' answered her father, 'for I am grieved to hear of\nthe hurt of that noble Knight.' So the damsel made ready.\n\nOn the morn Sir Gawaine came to King Arthur and told him how he had\nfound the shield in the keeping of the Maid of Astolat. 'All that I\nknew beforehand,' said the King, 'and that was why I would not suffer\nyou to fight at the tourney, for I had espied him when he entered his\nlodging the night before. But this is the first time that ever I heard\nof his bearing the token of some lady, and much I marvel at it.'\n\n'By my head,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'the Fair Maiden of Astolat loves\nhim wondrous well. What it all means, or what will be the end, I\ncannot say, but she has ridden after him to seek him.' So the King and\nhis company came to London, and everyone in the Court knew that it was\nSir Lancelot who had jousted the best.\n\nAnd when the tidings came to Sir Bors, his heart grew heavy, and also\nthe hearts of his kinsmen. But when the Queen heard that Sir Lancelot\nbore the red sleeve of the Fair Maid of Astolat, she was nearly mad\nwith wrath and summoned Sir Bors before her in haste.\n\n'Ah, Sir Bors,' she cried when he was come, 'have the tidings reached\nyou that Sir Lancelot has been a false Knight to me?'\n\n'Madam,' answered Sir Bors, 'I pray you say not so, for I cannot hear\nsuch language of him.'\n\n'Why, is he not false and a traitor when, after swearing that for\nright or wrong he would be my Knight and mine only, he bore the red\nsleeve upon his helm at the great jousts at Camelot?'\n\n'Madam,' said Sir Bors, 'I grieve bitterly as to that sleeve-bearing,\nbut I think he did it that none of his kin should know him. For no man\nbefore that had seen him bear the token of any lady, be she what she\nmay.'\n\n'Fie on him!' said the Queen, 'I myself heard Sir Gawaine tell my lord\nArthur of the great love that is between the Fair Maiden of Astolat\nand him.'\n\n'Madam,' answered Sir Bors, 'I cannot hinder Sir Gawaine from saying\nwhat he pleases, but as for Sir Lancelot, I am sure that he loves no\none lady or maiden better than another. And therefore I will hasten to\nseek him wherever he be.'\n\nMeanwhile fair Elaine came to Winchester to find Sir Lancelot, who lay\nin peril of his life in the hermit's dwelling. And when she was riding\nhither and thither, not knowing where she should turn, she fell on her\nbrother Sir Lavaine, who was exercising his horse. 'How doth my lord\nSir Lancelot?' asked she.\n\n'Who told you, sister, that my lord's name was Sir Lancelot?' answered\nSir Lavaine.\n\n'Sir Gawaine, who came to my father's house to rest after the tourney,\nknew him by his shield,' said she, and they rode on till they reached\nthe hermitage, and Sir Lavaine brought her to Sir Lancelot. And when\nshe saw him so pale, and in such a plight, she fell to the earth in a\nswoon, but by-and-bye she opened her eyes and said, 'My lord Sir\nLancelot, what has brought you to this?' and swooned again. When she\ncame to herself and stood up, Sir Lancelot prayed her to be of good\ncheer, for if she had come to comfort him she was right welcome, and\nthat his wound would soon heal. 'But I marvel,' said he, 'how you know\nmy name.' Then the maiden told him how Sir Gawaine had been at Astolat\nand had seen his shield.\n\n'Alas!' sighed Sir Lancelot, 'it grieves me that my name is known, for\ntrouble will come of it.' For he knew full well that Sir Gawaine would\ntell Queen Guenevere, and that she would be wroth. And Elaine stayed\nand tended him, and Sir Lancelot begged Sir Lavaine to ride to\nWinchester and ask if Sir Bors was there, and said that he should know\nhim by token of a wound which Sir Bors had on his forehead. 'For well\nI am sure,' said Sir Lancelot, 'that Sir Bors will seek me, as he is\nthe same good Knight that hurt me.'\n\nTherefore as Sir Lancelot commanded, Sir Lavaine rode to Winchester\nand inquired if Sir Bors had been seen there, so that when he entered\nthe town Sir Lavaine readily found him. Sir Bors was overjoyed to hear\ngood tidings of Sir Lancelot, and they rode back together to the\nhermitage. At the sight of Sir Lancelot lying in his bed, pale and\nthin, Sir Bors' heart gave way, and he wept long without speaking.\n'Oh, my lord Sir Lancelot,' he said at last, 'God send you hasty\nrecovery; great is my shame for having wounded you thus, you who are\nthe noblest Knight in the world. I wonder that my arm would lift\nitself against you, and I ask your mercy.'\n\n'Fair cousin,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'such words please me not at\nall, for it is the fault of my pride which would overcome you all,\nthat I lie here to-day. We will not speak of it any more, for what is\ndone cannot be undone, but let us find a cure so that I may soon be\nwhole.' Then Sir Bors leaned upon his bed, and told him how the Queen\nwas filled with anger against him, because he wore the red sleeve at\nthe jousts.\n\n'I am sorrowful at what you tell me,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'for all I\ndid was to hinder my being known.'\n\n'That I said to excuse you,' answered Sir Bors, 'though it was all in\nvain. But is this damsel that is so busy about you the Fair Maid of\nAstolat?'\n\n'She it is, and she will not go from me!'\n\n'Why should she go from you?' asked Sir Bors. 'She is a passing fair\ndamsel, and of gentle breeding, and I would that you could love her,\nfor it is easy to see by her bearing that she loves you entirely.'\n\n'It grieves me to hear that,' said Sir Lancelot.\n\nAfter this they talked of other things, till in a few days Sir\nLancelot's wounds were whole again. When Sir Lancelot felt his\nstrength return, Sir Bors made him ready, and departed for the Court\nof King Arthur, and told them how he had left Sir Lancelot. And there\nwas on All Hallows a great tournament, and Sir Bors won the prize for\nthe unhorsing of twenty Knights, and Sir Gareth did great deeds also,\nbut vanished suddenly from the field, and no man knew where he had\ngone. After the tourney was over, Sir Bors rode to the hermitage to\nsee Sir Lancelot, whom he found walking on his feet, and on the next\nmorning they bade farewell to the hermit, taking with them Elaine le\nBlanc. They went first to Astolat, where they were well lodged in the\nhouse of Sir Bernard, but when the morrow came, and Sir Lancelot would\nhave departed from them, Elaine called to her father and to her\nbrothers Sir Tirre and Sir Lavaine, and thus she said:\n\n'My lord Sir Lancelot, fair Knight, leave me not, I pray you, but have\nmercy upon me, and suffer me not to die of love of thee.'\n\n'What do you wish me to do?' asked Sir Lancelot.\n\n'I would have you for my husband,' answered she.\n\n'Fair damsel, I thank you,' said Sir Lancelot, 'but truly I shall\nnever have a wife. But in token and thanks of all your good will\ntowards me, gladly will I give a thousand pounds yearly when you set\nyour heart upon some other Knight.'\n\n'Of such gifts I will have none,' answered Elaine, 'and I would have\nyou know, Sir Lancelot, that if you refuse to wed me, my good days are\ndone.'\n\n'Fair damsel,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I cannot do the thing that you\nask.'\n\nAt these words she fell down in a swoon, and her maids bore her to her\nchamber, where she made bitter sorrow. Sir Lancelot thought it would\nbe well for him to depart before she came to her senses again, and he\nasked Sir Lavaine what he would do.\n\n'What should I do?' asked Sir Lavaine, 'but follow you if you will\nhave me.' Then Sir Bernard came and said to Sir Lancelot, 'I see well\nthat my daughter Elaine will die for your sake.'\n\n'I cannot marry her,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'and it grieves me\nsorely, for she is a good maiden, fair and gentle.'\n\n'Father,' said Sir Lavaine, 'she is as pure and good as Sir Lancelot\nhas said, and she is like me, for since first I saw him I can never\nleave him.' And after that they bade the old man farewell and came\nunto Winchester, where the King and all the Knights of the Round Table\nmade great joy of him, save only Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred. But\nthe Queen was angry and would not speak to him, though he tried by all\nmeans to make her. Now when the Fair Maid of Astolat knew he was gone,\nshe would neither eat nor sleep, but cried after Sir Lancelot all the\nday long. And when she had spent ten days in this manner, she grew so\nweak that they thought her soul must quit this world, and the priest\ncame to her, and bade her dwell no more on earthly things. She would\nnot listen to him, but cried ever after Sir Lancelot, and how she had\nloved none other, no, nor ever would, and that her love would be her\ndeath. Then she called her father Sir Bernard, and her brother Sir\nTirre, and begged her brother to write her a letter as she should tell\nhim, and her father that he would have her watched till she was dead.\n'And while my body is warm,' said she, 'let this letter be put in my\nright hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold,\nand let me be dressed in my richest clothes and be lain on a fair bed,\nand driven in a chariot to the Thames. There let me be put on a barge,\nand a dumb man with me, to steer the barge, which shall be covered\nover with black samite. Thus, father, I beseech you, let it be done.'\nAnd her father promised her faithfully that so it should be done to\nher when she was dead. Next day she died, and her body was lain on the\nbed, and placed in a chariot, and driven to the Thames, where the man\nawaited her with the barge. When she was put on board, he steered the\nbarge to Westminster and rowed a great while to and fro, before any\nespied it. At last King Arthur and Queen Guenevere withdrew into a\nwindow to speak together, and espied the black barge and wondered\ngreatly what it meant. The King summoned Sir Kay, and bade him take\nSir Brandiles and Sir Agrawaine, and find out who was lying there, and\nthey ran down to the river side, and came and told the King. 'That\nfair corpse will I see,' returned the King, and he took the Queen's\nhand and led her thither. Then he ordered the barge to be made fast,\nand he entered it, and the Queen likewise, and certain Knights with\nthem. And there he saw a fair woman on a rich bed, and her clothing\nwas of cloth of gold, and she lay smiling. While they looked, all\nbeing silent, the Queen spied a letter in her right hand, and pointed\nit out to the King, who took it saying, 'Now I am sure this letter\nwill tell us what she was, and why she came hither.' So leaving the\nbarge in charge of a trusty man, they went into the King's chamber,\nfollowed by many Knights, for the King would have the letter read\nopenly. He then broke the seal himself, and bade a clerk read it, and\nthis was what it said:\n\n'Most noble Knight Sir Lancelot, I was your lover, whom men called the\nFair Maid of Astolat: therefore unto all ladies I make my moan; yet\npray for my soul, and bury me. This is my last request. Pray for my\nsoul, Sir Lancelot, as thou art peerless.'\n\n[Illustration: THE BLACK BARGET]\n\nThis was all the letter, and the King and Queen and all the Knights\nwept when they heard it.\n\n'Let Sir Lancelot be sent for,' presently said the King, and when Sir\nLancelot came the letter was read to him also.\n\n'My lord Arthur,' said he, after he had heard it all, 'I am right\ngrieved at the death of this damsel. God knows I was not, of my own\nwill, guilty of her death, and that I will call on her brother, Sir\nLavaine, to witness. She was both fair and good, and much was I\nbeholden to her, but she loved me out of measure.'\n\n'You might have been a little gentle with her,' answered the Queen,\n'and have found some way to save her life.'\n\n'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'she would have nothing but my love, and\nthat I could not give her, though I offered her a thousand pounds\nyearly if she should set her heart on any other Knight. For, Madam, I\nlove not to be forced to love; love must arise of itself, and not by\ncommand.'\n\n'That is truth,' replied the King, 'love is free in himself, and never\nwill be bounden; for where he is bounden he looseth himself. But, Sir\nLancelot, be it your care to see that the damsel is buried as is\nfitting.'\n\n\n\n\n_LANCELOT AND GUENEVERE_\n\n\nNow we come to the sorrowful tale of Lancelot and Guenevere, and of\nthe death of King Arthur. Already it has been told that King Arthur\nhad wedded Guenevere, the daughter of Leodegrance, King of Cornwall, a\ndamsel who seemed made of all the flowers, so fair was she, and\nslender, and brilliant to look upon. And the Knights in her father's\nCourt bowed down before her, and smote their hardest in the jousts\nwhere Guenevere was present, but none dared ask her in marriage till\nArthur came. Like the rest he saw and loved her, but, unlike them, he\nwas a King, and might lift his eyes even unto Guenevere. The maiden\nherself scarcely saw or spoke to him, but did her father's bidding in\nall things, and when he desired her to make everything ready to go\nclothed as beseemed a Princess to King Arthur's Court, her heart beat\nwith joy at the sight of rich stuffs and shining jewels. Then one day\nthere rode up to the Castle a band of horsemen sent by the King to\nbring her to his Court, and at the head of them Sir Lancelot du Lake,\nfriend of King Arthur, and winner of all the jousts and tournaments\nwhere Knights meet to gain honour. Day by day they rode together apart\nand he told her tales of gallant deeds done for love of beautiful\nladies, and they passed under trees gay with the first green of\nspring, and over hyacinths covering the earth with sheets of blue,\ntill at sunset they drew rein before the silken pavilion, with the\nbanner of Uther Pendragon floating on the top. And Guenevere's heart\nwent out to Lancelot before she knew. One evening she noted, far\nacross the plain, towers and buildings shining in the sun, and an\narray of horsemen ride forth to meet her. One stopped before her\ndazzled eyes, and leaping from his horse bowed low. Arthur had come to\nwelcome her, and do her honour, and to lead her home. But looking up\nat him, she thought him cold, and, timid and alone, her thoughts\nturned again to Lancelot. After that the days and years slipped by,\nand these two were ever nearest the King, and in every time of danger\nthe King cried for Lancelot, and trusted his honour and the Queen's to\nhim. Sir Lancelot spoke truly when he told Elaine that he had never\nworn the badge of lady or maiden, but for all that every one looked on\nSir Lancelot as the Queen's Knight, who could do no worship to any\nother woman. The King likewise held Sir Lancelot bound to fight the\nQueen's battles, and if he was absent on adventures of his own,\nmessengers hastened to bring him back, as in the fight with Sir Mador.\nSo things went on for many years, and the King never guessed that the\nQueen loved Lancelot best.\n\n[Illustration: LANCELOT BRINGS GUENEVERE TO ARTHUR]\n\nIt befell one spring, in the month of May, that Queen Guenevere\nbethought herself that she would like to go a-maying in the woods and\nfields that lay round the City of Westminster on both sides of the\nriver. To this intent she called her own especial Knights, and bade\nthem be ready the next morning clothed all in green, whether of silk\nor cloth, 'and,' said she, 'I shall bring with me ten ladies, and\nevery Knight shall have a lady behind him, and be followed by a Squire\nand two yeomen, and I will that you shall all be well horsed.' Thus it\nwas done, and the ten Knights, arrayed in fresh green, the emblem of\nthe spring, rode with the Queen and her ladies in the early dawn, and\nsmelt the sweet of the year, and gathered flowers which they stuck in\ntheir girdles and doublets. The Queen was as happy and light of heart\nas the youngest maiden, but she had promised to be with the King at\nthe hour of ten, and gave the signal for departure unwillingly. The\nKnights were mounting their horses, when suddenly out of a wood on the\nother side rode Sir Meliagraunce, who for many years had loved the\nQueen, and had sought an occasion to carry her off, but found none so\nfair as this. Out of the forest he rode, with two score men in armour,\nand a hundred archers behind him, and bade the Queen and her followers\nstay where they were, or they would fare badly. 'Traitor,' cried the\nQueen, 'what evil deed would you do? You are a King's son and a Knight\nof the Round Table, yet you seek to shame the man who gave you\nknighthood. But I tell you that you may bring dishonour on yourself,\nbut you will bring none on me, for rather would I cut my throat in\ntwain.'\n\n'As for your threats, Madam, I pay them no heed,' returned Sir\nMeliagraunce; 'I have loved you many a year, and never could I get you\nat such an advantage as I do now, and therefore I will take you as I\nfind you.' Then all the Knights spoke together saying, 'Sir\nMeliagraunce, bethink yourself that in attacking men who are unarmed\nyou put not only our lives in peril but your own honour. Rather than\nallow the Queen to be shamed we will each one fight to the death, and\nif we did aught else we should dishonour our knighthood for ever.'\n\n'Fight as well as you can,' answered Sir Meliagraunce, 'and keep the\nQueen if you may.' So the Knights of the Round Table drew their\nswords, and the men of Sir Meliagraunce ran at them with spears; but\nthe Knights stood fast, and clove the spears in two before they\ntouched them. Then both sides fought with swords, and Sir Kay and five\nother Knights were felled to the ground with wounds all over their\nbodies. The other four fought long, and slew forty of the men and\narchers of Sir Meliagraunce; but in the end they too were overcome.\nWhen the Queen saw that she cried out for pity and sorrow, 'Sir\nMeliagraunce, spare my noble Knights and I will go with you quietly\non this condition, that their lives be saved, and that wherever you\nmay carry me they shall follow. For I give you warning that I would\nrather slay myself than go with you without my Knights, whose duty it\nis to guard me.'\n\n'Madam,' replied Sir Meliagraunce, 'for your sake they shall be led\nwith you into my own castle, if you will consent to ride with me.' So\nthe Queen prayed the four Knights to fight no more, and she and they\nwould not part, and to this, though their hearts were heavy, they\nagreed.\n\nThe fight being ended the wounded Knights were placed on horseback,\nsome sitting, some lying across the saddle, according as they were\nhurt, and Sir Meliagraunce forbade anyone to leave the castle (which\nhad been a gift to him from King Arthur), for sore he dreaded the\nvengeance of Sir Lancelot if this thing should reach his ears. But the\nQueen knew well what was passing in his mind, and she called a little\npage who served her in her chamber and desired him to take her ring\nand hasten with all speed to Sir Lancelot, 'and pray him, if he loves\nme, to rescue me. Spare not your horse, neither for water nor for\nland.' And the boy bided his time, then mounted his horse, and rode\naway as fast as he might. Sir Meliagraunce spied him as he flew, and\nknew whither he went, and who had sent him; and he commanded his best\narchers to ride after him and shoot him ere he reached Sir Lancelot.\nBut the boy escaped their arrows, and vanished from their sight. Then\nSir Meliagraunce said to the Queen, 'You seek to betray me, Madam; but\nSir Lancelot shall not so lightly come at you.' And he bade his men\nfollow him to the castle in haste, and left an ambush of thirty\narchers in the road, charging them that if a Knight mounted on a white\nhorse came along that way they were to slay the horse but to leave the\nman alone, as he was hard to overcome. After Sir Meliagraunce had\ngiven these orders his company galloped fast to the castle; but the\nQueen would listen to nothing that he said, demanding always that her\nKnights and ladies should be lodged with her, and Sir Meliagraunce was\nforced to let her have her will.\n\n[Illustration: GUENEVERE SENDS HER PAGE TO LANCELOT FOR HELP]\n\nThe castle of Sir Meliagraunce was distant seven miles from\nWestminster, so it did not take long for the boy to find Sir Lancelot,\nand to give him the Queen's ring and her message. 'I am shamed for\never,' said Sir Lancelot, 'unless I can rescue that noble lady,' and\nwhile he put on his armour, he called to the boy to tell him the whole\nadventure. When he was armed and mounted, he begged the page to warn\nSir Lavaine where he had gone, and for what cause. 'And pray him, as\nhe loves me, that he follow me to the castle of Sir Meliagraunce, for\nif I am a living man, he will find me there.'\n\nSir Lancelot put his horse into the water at Westminster, and he swam\nstraight over to Lambeth, and soon after he landed he found traces of\nthe fight. He rode along the track till he came to the wood, where the\narchers were lying waiting for him, and when they saw him, they bade\nhim on peril of his life to go no further along that path.\n\n'Why should I, who am a Knight of the Round Table, turn out of any\npath that pleases me?' asked Sir Lancelot.\n\n'Either you will leave this path or your horse will be slain,'\nanswered the archers.\n\n'You may slay my horse if you will,' said Sir Lancelot, 'but when my\nhorse is slain I shall fight you on foot, and so would I do, if there\nwere five hundred more of you.' With that they smote the horse with\ntheir arrows, but Sir Lancelot jumped off, and ran into the wood, and\nthey could not catch him. He went on some way, but the ground was\nrough, and his armour was heavy, and sore he dreaded the treason of\nSir Meliagraunce. His heart was near to fail him, when there passed by\na cart with two carters that came to fetch wood. 'Tell me, carter,'\nasked Sir Lancelot, 'what will you take to suffer me to go in your\ncart till we are within two miles of the castle of Sir Meliagraunce?'\n\n'I cannot take you at all,' answered the carter, 'for I am come to\nfetch wood for my lord Sir Meliagraunce.'\n\n'It is with him that I would speak.'\n\n'You shall not go with me,' said the carter, but hardly had he uttered\nthe words when Sir Lancelot leapt up into the cart, and gave him such\na buffet that he fell dead on the ground. At this sight the other\ncarter cried that he would take the Knight where he would if he would\nonly spare his life. 'Then I charge you,' said Sir Lancelot, 'that you\nbring me to the castle gate.' So the carter drove at a great gallop,\nand Sir Lancelot's horse, who had espied his master, followed the\ncart, though more than fifty arrows were standing in his body. In an\nhour and a half they reached the castle gate, and were seen of\nGuenevere and her ladies, who were standing in a window. 'Look,\nMadam,' cried one of her ladies, 'in that cart yonder is a goodly\narmed Knight. I suppose he is going to his hanging.'\n\n'Where?' asked the Queen, and as she spoke she espied that it was Sir\nLancelot, and that his horse was following riderless. 'Well is he that\nhas a trusty friend,' said she, 'for a noble Knight is hard pressed\nwhen he rides in a cart,' and she rebuked the lady who had declared he\nwas going to his hanging. 'It was foul talking, to liken the noblest\nKnight in the world to one going to a shameful death.' By this Sir\nLancelot had come to the gate of the castle, and he got down and\ncalled till the castle rang with his voice. 'Where is that false\ntraitor Sir Meliagraunce, Knight of the Round Table? Come forth, you\nand your company, for I, Sir Lancelot du Lake, am here to do battle\nwith you.' Then he burst the gate open wide, and smote the porter who\ntried to hold it against him. When Sir Meliagraunce heard Sir\nLancelot's voice, he ran into Queen Guenevere's chamber, and fell on\nhis knees before her: 'Mercy, Madam, mercy! I throw myself upon your\ngrace.'\n\n'What ails you now?' said she; 'of a truth I might well expect some\ngood Knight to avenge me, though my lord Arthur knew not of your\nwork.'\n\n[Illustration: THE ARCHERS THREATEN LANCELOT]\n\n'Madam, I will make such amends as you yourself may desire,' pleaded\nSir Meliagraunce, 'and I trust wholly to your grace.'\n\n'What would you have me do?' asked the Queen.\n\n'Rule in this castle as if it were your own, and give Sir Lancelot\ncheer till to-morrow, and then you shall all return to Westminster.'\n\n'You say well,' answered the Queen. 'Peace is ever better than war,\nand I take no pleasure in fighting.' So she went down with her ladies\nto Sir Lancelot, who still stood full of rage in the inner court,\ncalling as before, 'Traitor Knight, come forth!'\n\n'Sir Lancelot,' asked the Queen, 'what is the cause of all this\nwrath?'\n\n'Madam,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'does such a question come from you?\nMethinks your wrath should be greater than mine, for all the hurt and\nthe dishonour have fallen upon you. My own hurt is but little, but the\nshame is worse than any hurt.'\n\n'You say truly,' replied the Queen, 'but you must come in with me\npeaceably, as all is put into my hand, and the Knight repents bitterly\nof his adventure.'\n\n'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'since you have made agreement with him,\nit is not my part to say nay, although Sir Meliagraunce has borne\nhimself both shamefully and cowardly towards me. But had I known you\nwould have pardoned him so soon, I should not have made such haste to\ncome to you.'\n\n'Why do you say that?' asked the Queen; 'do you repent yourself of\nyour good deeds? I only made peace with him to have done with all this\nnoise of slanderous talk, and for the sake of my Knights.'\n\n'Madam,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'you understand full well that I was\nnever glad of slander nor noise, but there is neither King, Queen nor\nKnight alive, save yourself, Madam, and my lord Arthur, that should\nhinder me from giving Sir Meliagraunce a cold heart before I departed\nhence.'\n\n'That I know well,' said the Queen, 'but what would you have more?\nEverything shall be ordered as you will.'\n\n'Madam,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'as long as you are pleased, that is\nall I care for,' so the Queen led Sir Lancelot into her chamber, and\ncommanded him to take off his armour, and then took him to where her\nten Knights were lying sore wounded. And their souls leapt with joy\nwhen they saw him, and he told them how falsely Sir Meliagraunce had\ndealt with him, and had set archers to slay his horse, so that he was\nfain to place himself in a cart. Thus they complained each to the\nother, and would have avenged themselves on Sir Meliagraunce but for\nthe peace made by the Queen. And in the evening came Sir Lavaine,\nriding in great haste, and Sir Lancelot was glad that he was come.\n\nNow Sir Lancelot was right when he feared to trust Sir Meliagraunce,\nfor that Knight only sought to work ill both to him and to the Queen,\nfor all his fair words. And first he began to speak evil of the Queen\nto Sir Lancelot, who dared him to prove his foul words, and it was\nsettled between them that a combat should take place in eight days in\nthe field, near Westminster. 'And now,' said Sir Meliagraunce, 'since\nit is decided that we must fight together, I beseech you, as you are a\nnoble Knight, do me no treason nor villainy in the meantime.'\n\n'Any Knight will bear me witness,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'that never\nhave I broken faith with any man, nor borne fellowship with those that\nhave done so.' 'Then let us go to dinner,' said Sir Meliagraunce, 'and\nafterwards you may all ride to Westminster. Meanwhile would it please\nyou to see the inside of this castle?' 'That I will gladly,' said Sir\nLancelot, and they went from chamber to chamber, till they reached the\nfloor of the castle, and as he went Sir Lancelot trod on a trap, and\nthe board rolled, and he fell down in a cave which was filled with\nstraw, and Sir Meliagraunce departed and no man knew where Sir\nLancelot might be. The Queen bethought herself that he was wont to\ndisappear suddenly, and as Sir Meliagraunce had first removed Sir\nLavaine's horse from the place where it had been tethered, the Knights\nagreed with her. So time passed till dinner had been eaten, and then\nSir Lavaine demanded litters for the wounded Knights, that they might\nbe carried to Westminster with as little hurt as might be. And the\nQueen and her ladies followed. When they arrived, the Knights told of\ntheir adventure, and how Sir Meliagraunce had accused the Queen of\ntreason, and how he and Sir Lancelot were to fight for her good name\nin eight days.\n\n'Sir Meliagraunce has taken a great deal upon him,' said the King,\n'but where is Sir Lancelot?'\n\n'Sir,' answered they all, 'we know not, but we think he has ridden to\nsome adventure.' 'Well, leave him alone,' said the King. 'He will be\nhere when the day comes, unless some treason has befallen him.'\n\nAll this while Sir Lancelot was lying in great pain within the cave,\nand he would have died for lack of food had not one of the ladies in\nthe castle found out the place where he was held captive, and brought\nhim meat and drink, and hoped that he might be brought to love her.\nBut he would not. 'Sir Lancelot,' said she, 'you are not wise, for\nwithout my help you will never get out of this prison, and if you do\nnot appear on the day of battle, your lady, Queen Guenevere, will be\nburnt in default.' 'If I am not there,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'the\nKing and the Queen and all men of worship will know that I am either\ndead or in prison. And sure I am that there is some good Knight who\nloves me or is of my kin, that will take my quarrel in hand, therefore\nyou cannot frighten me by such words as these. If there was not\nanother woman in the world, I could give you no different answer.'\n'Then you will be shamed openly,' replied the lady, and left the\ndungeon. But on the day that the battle was to be fought she came\nagain, and said, 'Sir Lancelot, if you will only kiss me once, I will\ndeliver you, and give you the best horse in Sir Meliagraunce's\nstable.' 'Yes, I will kiss you,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'since I may\ndo that honourably; but if I thought it were any shame to kiss you, I\nwould not do it, whatever the cost.' So he kissed her, and she brought\nhim his armour, and led him to a stable where twelve noble horses\nstood, and bade him choose the best. He chose a white courser, and\nbade the keepers put on the best saddle they had, and with his spear\nin his hand and his sword by his side, he rode away, thanking the lady\nfor all she had done for him, which some day he would try to repay.\n\nAs the hours passed on and Sir Lancelot did not come, Sir Meliagraunce\ncalled ever on King Arthur to burn the Queen, or else bring forth Sir\nLancelot, for he deemed full well that he had Sir Lancelot safe in his\ndungeon. The King and Queen were sore distressed that Sir Lancelot was\nmissing, and knew not where to look for him, and what to do. Then\nstepped forth Sir Lavaine and said, 'My lord Arthur, you know well\nthat some ill-fortune has happened to Sir Lancelot, and if he is not\ndead, he is either sick or in prison. Therefore I beseech you, let me\ndo battle instead of my lord and master for my lady the Queen.'\n\n'I thank you heartily, gentle Knight,' answered Arthur, 'for I am sure\nthat Sir Meliagraunce accuses the Queen falsely, and there is not one\nof the ten Knights who would not fight for her were it not for his\nwounds. So do your best, for it is plain that some evil has been\nwrought on Sir Lancelot.' Sir Lavaine was filled with joy when the\nKing gave him leave to do battle with Sir Meliagraunce, and rode\nswiftly to his place at the end of the lists. And just as the heralds\nwere about to cry 'Lesses les aler!' Sir Lancelot dashed into the\nmiddle on his white horse. 'Hold and abide!' commanded the King, and\nSir Lancelot rode up before him, and told before them all how Sir\nMeliagraunce had treated him. When the King and Queen and all the\nLords heard Sir Lancelot's tale, their hearts stirred within them with\nanger, and the Queen took her seat by the King, in great trust of her\nchampion. Sir Lancelot and Sir Meliagraunce prepared themselves for\nbattle, and took their spears, and came together as thunder, and Sir\nLancelot bore Sir Meliagraunce right over his horse. Then Sir Lancelot\njumped down, and they fought on foot, till in the end Sir Meliagraunce\nwas smitten to the ground by a blow on his head from his enemy. 'Most\nnoble Knight, save my life,' cried he, 'for I yield myself unto you,\nand put myself into the King's hands and yours.' Sir Lancelot did not\nknow what to answer, for he longed above anything in the world to have\nrevenge upon him; so he looked at the Queen to see whether she would\ngive him any sign of what she would have done. The Queen wagged her\nhead in answer, and Sir Lancelot knew by that token that she would\nhave him dead, and he understood, and bade Sir Meliagraunce get up,\nand continue the fight. 'Nay,' said Sir Meliagraunce, 'I will never\nrise till you accept my surrender.' 'Listen,' answered Sir Lancelot.\n'I will leave my head and left side bare, and my left arm shall be\nbound behind me, and in this guise I will fight with you.' At this Sir\nMeliagraunce started to his feet, and cried, 'My lord Arthur, take\nheed to this offer, for I will take it, therefore let him be bound and\nunarmed as he has said.' So the Knights disarmed Sir Lancelot, first\nhis head and then his side, and his left hand was bound behind his\nback, in such a manner that he could not use his shield, and full many\na Knight and lady marvelled that Sir Lancelot would risk himself so.\nAnd Sir Meliagraunce lifted his sword on high and would have smitten\nSir Lancelot on his bare head, had he not leapt lightly to one side,\nand, before Sir Meliagraunce could right himself, Sir Lancelot had\nstruck him so hard upon his helmet that his skull split in two, and\nthere was nothing left to do but to carry his dead body from the\nfield. And because the Knights of the Round Table begged to have him\nhonourably buried, the King agreed thereto, and on his tomb mention\nwas made of how he came by his death, and who slew him. After this Sir\nLancelot was more cherished by the King and Queen than ever he was\nbefore.\n\nAmong the many Knights at Arthur's Court who owned kings for their\nfathers were Sir Mordred and Sir Agrawaine, who had for brothers, Sir\nGawaine, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth. And their mother was Queen of\nOrkney, sister to King Arthur. Now Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred had\nevil natures, and loved both to invent slanders and to repeat them.\nAnd at this time they were full of envy of the noble deeds Sir\nLancelot had done, and how men called him the bravest Knight of the\nTable Round, and said that he was the friend of the King, and the\nsworn defender of the Queen. So they cast about how they might ruin\nhim, and found the way by putting jealous thoughts into the mind of\nArthur.\n\nAs was told in the tale of the marriage of Arthur, Queen Guenevere's\nheart had gone out to Lancelot, on the journey to the Court, and ever\nshe loved to have him with her. This was known well to Sir Mordred,\nwho watched eagerly for a chance to work her ill.\n\nIt came one day when Arthur proclaimed a hunt, and Sir Mordred guessed\nthat Sir Lancelot, who did not love hunting, would stay behind, and\nwould spend the time holding talk with the Queen. Therefore he went to\nthe King and began to speak evil of the Queen and Sir Lancelot. At\nfirst King Arthur would listen to nothing, but slowly his jealousy\nburned within him, and he let the ill words that accused the Queen of\nloving Sir Lancelot the best, sink into his mind, and told Sir Mordred\nand Sir Agrawaine that they might do their worst, and he would not\nmeddle with them. But they let so many of their fellowship into the\nsecret of their foul plot, that at last it came to the ears of Sir\nBors, who begged Sir Lancelot not to go near the Queen that day, or\nharm would come of it. But Sir Lancelot answered that the Queen had\nsent for him, and that she was his liege lady, and never would he hold\nback when she summoned him to her presence. Therefore Sir Bors went\nheavily away. By ill fortune, Sir Lancelot only wore his sword under\nhis great mantle, and scarcely had he passed inside the door when Sir\nAgrawaine and Sir Mordred, and twelve other Knights of the Table\nRound, all armed and ready for battle, cried loudly upon Sir Lancelot,\nthat all the Court might hear.\n\n'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'is there any armour within your chamber\nthat I might cover my body withal, for if I was armed as they are I\nwould soon crush them?'\n\n'Alas!' replied the Queen, 'I have neither sword nor spear nor armour,\nand how can you resist them? You will be slain and I shall be burnt.\nIf you could only escape their hands, I know you would deliver me from\ndanger.'\n\n'It is grievous,' said Sir Lancelot, 'that I who was never conquered\nin all my life should be slain for lack of armour.'\n\n'Traitor Knight,' cried Sir Mordred again, 'come out and fight us, for\nyou are so sore beset that you cannot escape us.'\n\n'Oh, mercy,' cried Sir Lancelot, 'I may not suffer longer this shame\nand noise! For better were death at once than to endure this pain.'\nThen he took the Queen in his arms and kissed her, and said, 'Most\nnoble Christian Queen, I beseech you, as you have ever been my special\ngood lady, and I at all times your true poor Knight, and as I never\nfailed you in right or in wrong, since the first day that King Arthur\nmade me Knight, that you will pray for my soul, if I be here slain.\nFor I am well assured that Sir Bors, my nephew, and Sir Lavaine and\nmany more, will rescue you from the fire, and therefore, mine own\nlady, comfort yourself whatever happens to me, and go with Sir Bors,\nmy nephew, and you shall live like a Queen on my lands.'\n\n[Illustration: LANCELOT COMES OUT OF GUENEVERE'S ROOM]\n\n'Nay, Lancelot,' said the Queen, 'I will never live after your days,\nbut if you are slain I will take my death as meekly as ever did any\nChristian Queen.'\n\n'Well, Madam,' answered Lancelot, 'since it is so I shall sell my life\nas dear as I may, and a thousandfold I am more heavy for you than for\nmyself.'\n\nTherewith Sir Lancelot wrapped his mantle thickly round his arm, and\nstood beside the door, which the Knights without were trying to break\nin by aid of a stout wooden form.\n\n'Fair Lords,' said Sir Lancelot, 'leave this noise, and I will open\nthe door, and you may do with me what you will.'\n\n'Open it then,' answered they, 'for well you know you cannot escape\nus, and we will save your life and bring you before King Arthur.' So\nSir Lancelot opened the door and held it with his left hand, so that\nbut one man could come in at once. Then came forward a strong Knight,\nSir Colgrevance of Gore, who struck fiercely at Lancelot with his\nsword. But Sir Lancelot stepped on one side, that the blow fell\nharmless, and with his arm he gave Sir Colgrevance a buffet on the\nhead so that he fell dead. And Sir Lancelot drew him into the chamber,\nand barred the door.\n\nHastily he unbuckled the dead Knight's armour, and the Queen and her\nladies put it on him, Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred ever calling to\nhim the while, 'Traitor Knight, come out of that chamber!' But Sir\nLancelot cried to them all to go away and he would appear next morning\nbefore the King, and they should accuse him of what they would, and he\nwould answer them, and prove his words in battle. 'Fie on you,\ntraitor,' said Sir Agrawaine, 'we have you in our power, to save or to\nslay, for King Arthur will listen to our words, and will believe what\nwe tell him.'\n\n'As you like,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'look to yourself,' and he flung\nopen the chamber door, and strode in amongst them and killed Sir\nAgrawaine with his first blow, and in a few minutes the bodies of the\nother twelve Knights lay on the ground beside his, for no man ever\nwithstood that buffet of Sir Lancelot's. He wounded Sir Mordred also,\nso that he fled away with all his might. When the clamour of the\nbattle was still, Sir Lancelot turned back to the Queen and said,\n'Alas, Madam, they will make King Arthur my foe, and yours also, but\nif you will come with me to my castle, I will save you from all\ndangers.'\n\n'I will not go with you now,' answered the Queen, 'but if you see\nto-morrow that they will burn me to death, then you may deliver me as\nyou shall think best.'\n\n'While I live I will deliver you,' said Sir Lancelot, and he left her\nand went back to his lodging. When Sir Bors, who was awaiting him, saw\nSir Lancelot, he was gladder than he ever had been in his whole life\nbefore. 'Mercy!' cried Sir Lancelot, 'why you are all armed!'\n\n'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'after you had left us I and your friends\nand your kinsmen were so troubled that we felt some great strife was\nat hand, and that perchance some trap had been laid for you. So we put\non armour that we might help you whatever need you were in.' 'Fair\nnephew,' said Lancelot, 'but now I have been more hardly beset than\never I was in my life, and yet I escaped,' and he told them all that\nhad happened. 'I pray you, my fellows, that you will be of good\ncourage and stand by me in my need, for war is come to us all.'\n\n'Sir,' answered Sir Bors, 'all is welcome that God sends us, and we\nhave had much good with you and much fame, so now we will take the bad\nas we have taken the good.' And so said they all.\n\n'I thank you for your comfort in my great distress,' replied Sir\nLancelot, 'and you, fair nephew, haste to the Knights which be in this\nplace, and find who is with me and who is against me, for I would know\nmy friends from my foes.'\n\n'Sir,' said Sir Bors, 'before seven of the clock in the morning you\nshall know.'\n\nBy seven o'clock, as Sir Bors had promised, many noble Knights stood\nbefore Sir Lancelot, and were sworn to his cause. 'My lords,' said he,\n'you know well that since I came into this country I have given\nfaithful service unto my lord King Arthur and unto my lady Queen\nGuenevere. Last evening my lady, the Queen, sent for me to speak to\nher, and certain Knights that were lying in wait for me cried\n\"Treason,\" and much ado I had to escape their blows. But I slew twelve\nof them, and Sir Agrawaine, who is Sir Gawaine's brother; and for this\ncause I am sure of mortal war, as these Knights were ordered by King\nArthur to betray me, and therefore the Queen will be judged to the\nfire, and I may not suffer that she should be burnt for my sake.'\n\nAnd Sir Bors answered Sir Lancelot that it was truly his part to\nrescue the Queen, as he had done so often before, and that if she was\nburned the shame would be his. Then they all took counsel together how\nthe thing might best be done, and Sir Bors deemed it wise to carry her\noff to the Castle of Joyous Gard, and counselled that she should be\nkept there, a prisoner, till the King's anger was past and he would be\nwilling to welcome her back again. To this the other Knights agreed,\nand by the advice of Sir Lancelot they hid themselves in a wood close\nby the town till they saw what King Arthur would do. Meanwhile Sir\nMordred, who had managed to escape the sword of Sir Lancelot, rode,\nwounded and bleeding, unto King Arthur, and told the King all that had\npassed, and how, of the fourteen Knights, he only was left alive. The\nKing grieved sore at his tale, which Sir Mordred had made to sound as\nill as was possible; for, in spite of all, Arthur loved Sir Lancelot.\n'It is a bitter blow,' he said, 'that Sir Lancelot must be against me,\nand the fellowship of the Table Round is broken for ever, as many a\nnoble Knight will go with him. And as I am the judge, the Queen will\nhave to die, as she is the cause of the death of these thirteen\nKnights.'\n\n'My lord Arthur,' said Sir Gawaine, 'be not over-hasty; listen not to\nthe foul tongue of Sir Mordred, who laid this trap for Sir Lancelot,\nthat we all know to be the Queen's own Knight, who has done battle for\nher when none else would. As for Sir Lancelot, he will prove the right\non the body of any Knight living that shall accuse him of\nwrong--either him, or my lady Guenevere.'\n\n'That I believe well,' said King Arthur, 'for he trusts so much in his\nown might that he fears no man; and never more shall he fight for the\nQueen, for she must suffer death by the law. Put on, therefore, your\nbest armour, and go with your brothers, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth,\nand bring the Queen to the fire, there to have her judgment and suffer\nher death.'\n\n'Nay, my lord, that I will never do,' cried Sir Gawaine; 'my heart\nwill never serve me to see her die, and I will never stand by and see\nso noble a lady brought to a shameful end.'\n\n'Then,' said the King, 'let your brothers Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth\nbe there.'\n\n'My lord,' replied Sir Gawaine, 'I know well how loth they will be,\nbut they are young and unable to say you nay.'\n\nAt this Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth spoke to King Arthur: 'Sir, if you\ncommand us we will obey, but it will be sore against our will. And if\nwe go we shall be dressed as men of peace, and wear no armour.'\n\n'Make yourselves ready, then,' answered the King, 'for I would delay\nno longer in giving judgment.'\n\n'Alas!' cried Sir Gawaine, 'that I should have lived to see this day';\nand he turned and wept bitterly, and went into his chamber.\n\nSo the Queen was led outside the gates, and her rich dress was taken\noff, while her lords and ladies wrung their hands in grief, and few\nmen wore armour, for in that day it was held that the presence of\nmail-clad Knights made death more shameful. Now among those present\nwas one sent by Sir Lancelot, and when he saw the Queen's dress\nunclasped, and the priest step forth to listen to her confession, he\nrode to warn Sir Lancelot that the hour had come. And suddenly there\nwas heard a sound as of rushing horses, and Sir Lancelot dashed up to\nthe fire, and all the Knights that stood around were slain, for few\nmen wore armour. Sir Lancelot looked not where he struck, and Sir\nGaheris and Sir Gareth were found in the thickest of the throng. At\nlast he reached the Queen, and, throwing a mantle over her, he caught\nher on to his saddle and rode away with her. Right thankful was the\nQueen at being snatched from the fire, and her heart was grateful to\nSir Lancelot, who took her to his Castle of Joyous Gard, and many\nnoble Knights and Kings had fellowship with them.\n\nAfter King Arthur had given judgment for the Queen to die he went back\ninto his Palace of Westminster, where men came and told him how Sir\nLancelot had delivered her, and of the death of his Knights, and in\nespecial of Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, and he swooned away from\nsorrow. 'Alas!' he cried, when he recovered from his swoon, 'alas!\nthat a crown was ever on my head, for in these two days I have lost\nforty Knights and the fellowship of Sir Lancelot and his kinsmen, and\nnever more will they be of my company. But I charge you that none tell\nSir Gawaine of the death of his brothers, for I am sure that when he\nhears of Sir Gareth he will go out of his mind. Oh, why did Sir\nLancelot slay them? for Sir Gareth loved Sir Lancelot more than any\nother man.'\n\n'That is true,' answered some of the Knights, 'but Sir Lancelot saw\nnot whom he smote, and therefore were they slain.'\n\n'The death of those two,' said Arthur, 'will cause the greatest mortal\nwar that ever was. I am sure that when Sir Gawaine knows Sir Gareth is\nslain he will never suffer me to rest till I have destroyed Sir\nLancelot and all his kin, or till they have destroyed me. My heart\nwas never so heavy as it is now, and far more grievous to me is the\nloss of my good Knights than of my Queen; for Queens I might have in\nplenty, but no man had ever such a company of Knights, and it hurts me\nsore that Sir Lancelot and I should be at war. It is the ill will\nborne by Sir Agrawaine and Sir Mordred to Sir Lancelot that has caused\nall this sorrow.' Then one came to Sir Gawaine and told him that Sir\nLancelot had borne off the Queen, and that twenty-four Knights had\nbeen slain in the combat. 'I knew well he would deliver her,' said Sir\nGawaine, 'and in that, he has but acted as a Knight should and as I\nwould have done myself. But where are my brethren? I marvel they have\nnot been to seek me.'\n\n'Truly,' said the man, 'Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth are slain.'\n\n'Heaven forbid any such thing,' returned Sir Gawaine. 'I would not for\nall the world that that had happened, especially to my brother Sir\nGareth.'\n\n'He is slain,' said the man, 'and it is grievous news.'\n\n'Who slew him?' asked Sir Gawaine.\n\n'Sir Lancelot slew them both,' answered the man.\n\n'He cannot have slain Sir Gareth,' replied Sir Gawaine, 'for my\nbrother Gareth loved him better than me and all his brethren, and King\nArthur too. And had Sir Lancelot desired my brother to go with him, he\nwould have turned his back on us all. Therefore I can never believe\nthat Sir Lancelot slew my brother.'\n\n'Sir, it is in everyone's mouth,' said the man. At this Sir Gawaine\nfell back in a swoon and lay long as if he were dead. Then he ran to\nthe King, crying, 'O King Arthur, mine uncle, my good brother Sir\nGareth is slain, and Sir Gaheris also,' and the King wept with him. At\nlength Sir Gawaine said, 'Sir, I will go and see my brother Sir\nGareth.'\n\n'You cannot do that,' returned the King, 'for I have caused him to be\nburied with Sir Gaheris, as I knew well that the sight would cause you\novermuch sorrow.'\n\n'How came he, Sir Lancelot, to slay Sir Gareth?' asked Sir Gawaine;\n'mine own good lord, I pray you tell me, for neither Sir Gareth nor\nSir Gaheris bore arms against him.'\n\n'It is said,' answered the King, 'that Sir Lancelot slew them in the\nthickest of the press and knew them not. Therefore let us think upon a\nplan to avenge their deaths.'\n\n'My King, my lord and mine uncle,' said Sir Gawaine, 'I swear to you\nby my knighthood that from this day I will never rest until Sir\nLancelot or I be slain. And I will go to the world's end till I find\nhim.'\n\n'You need not seek him so far,' answered the King, 'for I am told that\nSir Lancelot will await me and you in the Castle of Joyous Gard, and\nmany people are flocking to him. But call your friends together, and I\nwill call mine,' and the King ordered letters to be sent throughout\nall England summoning his Knights and vassals to the siege of Joyous\nGard. The Castle of Joyous Gard was strong, and after fifteen weeks\nhad passed no breach had been made in its walls. And one day, at the\ntime of harvest, Sir Lancelot came forth on a truce, and the King and\nSir Gawaine challenged him to do battle.\n\n'Nay,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'with yourself I will never strive, and\nI grieve sorely that I have slain your Knights. But I was forced to\nit, for the saving of my life and that of my lady the Queen. And\nexcept yourself, my lord, and Sir Gawaine, there is no man that shall\ncall me traitor but he shall pay for it with his body. As to Queen\nGuenevere, oft times, my lord, you have consented in the heat of your\npassion that she should be burnt and destroyed, and it fell to me to\ndo battle for her, and her enemies confessed their untruth, and\nacknowledged her innocent. And at such times, my lord Arthur, you\nloved me and thanked me when I saved your Queen from the fire, and\npromised ever to be my good lord, for I have fought for her many times\nin other quarrels than my own. Therefore, my gracious lord, take your\nQueen back into your grace again.'\n\nTo these words of Sir Lancelot's, King Arthur answered nothing, but in\nhis heart he would fain have made peace with Sir Lancelot, but Sir\nGawaine would not let him. He reproached Sir Lancelot bitterly for the\ndeaths of his brothers and kinsmen, and called Sir Lancelot a craven\nand other ill names that he would not fight with King Arthur. So at\nthe last Sir Lancelot's patience and courtesy failed him, and he told\nthem that the next morning he would give them battle.\n\nThe heart of Sir Gawaine leaped with joy when he heard these words of\nSir Lancelot, and he summoned all his friends and his kinsfolk, and\nbade them watch well Sir Lancelot, and to slay him if a chance\noffered. But he knew not that Sir Lancelot had bidden the Knights of\nhis following in no wise to touch King Arthur or Sir Gawaine. And when\nthe dawn broke a great host marched out of the Castle of Joyous Gard,\nwith Sir Lancelot at the head, and Sir Bors and Sir Lionel commanding\non either side. All that day they fought, and sometimes one army\nseemed to be gaining, and sometimes the other. Many times King Arthur\ndrew near Sir Lancelot, and would have slain him, and Sir Lancelot\nsuffered him, and would not strike again. But the King was unhorsed by\nSir Bors, and would have been slain but for Sir Lancelot, who stayed\nhis hand. 'My lord Arthur,' he said, 'for God's love stop this strife.\nI cannot strike you, so you will gain no fame by it, though your\nfriends never cease from trying to slay me. My lord, remember what I\nhave done in many places and how evil is now my reward.' Then when\nKing Arthur was on his horse again he looked on Sir Lancelot, and\ntears burst from his eyes, thinking of the great courtesy that was in\nSir Lancelot more than in any other man. He sighed to himself, saying\nsoftly, 'Alas! that ever this war began,' and rode away, while the\nbattle ended for that time and the dead were buried.\n\nBut Sir Gawaine would not suffer the King to make peace, and they\nfought on, now in one place, and now in another, till the Pope heard\nof the strife and sent a noble clerk, the Bishop of Rochester, to\ncharge the King to make peace with Sir Lancelot, and to take back unto\nhim his Queen, the Lady Guenevere. Now the King, as has been said,\nwould fain have followed the Pope's counsel and have accorded with Sir\nLancelot, but Sir Gawaine would not suffer him. However, as to the\nQueen Sir Gawaine said nothing; and King Arthur gave audience to the\nBishop, and swore on his great seal that he would take back the Queen\nas the Pope desired, and that if Sir Lancelot brought her he should\ncome safe and go safe. So the Bishop rode to Joyous Gard and showed\nSir Lancelot what the Pope had written and King Arthur had answered,\nand told him of the perils which would befall him if he withheld the\nQueen. 'It was never in my thought,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'to\nwithhold the Queen from King Arthur, but as she would have been dead\nfor my sake it was my part to save her life, and to keep her from\ndanger till better times came. And I thank God that the Pope has made\npeace, and I shall be a thousand times gladder to bring her back than\nI was to take her away. Therefore ride to the King, and say that in\neight days I myself will bring the Lady Guenevere unto him.' So the\nBishop departed, and came to the King at Carlisle, and told him what\nSir Lancelot had answered, and tears burst from the King's eyes once\nmore.\n\nA goodly host of a hundred Knights rode eight days later from the\nCastle of Joyous Gard; every Knight was clothed in green velvet, and\nheld in his hand a branch of olive, and bestrode a horse with\ntrappings down to his heels. And behind the Queen were four and twenty\ngentlewomen clad in green likewise, while twelve esquires attended on\nSir Lancelot. He and the Queen wore dresses of white and gold tissue,\nand their horses were clothed in housings of the same, set with\nprecious stones and pearls; and no man had ever gazed on such a noble\npair, as they rode from Joyous Gard to Carlisle. When they reached the\ncastle, Sir Lancelot sprang from his horse and helped the Queen from\nhers, and led her to where King Arthur sat, with Sir Gawaine and many\nlords around him. He kneeled down, and the Queen kneeled with him, and\nmany Knights wept as though it had been their own kin. But Arthur sat\nstill and said nothing. At that Sir Lancelot rose, and the Queen\nlikewise, and, looking straight at the King, he spoke:\n\n'Most noble King, I have brought to you my lady the Queen, as right\nrequires; and time hath been, my lord Arthur, that you have been\ngreatly pleased with me when I did battle for my lady your Queen. And\nfull well you know that she has been put to great wrong ere this, and\nit seems to me I had more cause to deliver her from this fire, seeing\nshe would have been burnt for my sake.'\n\n'Well, well, Sir Lancelot,' said the King, 'I have given you no cause\nto do to me as you have done, for I have held you dearer than any of\nmy Knights.' But Sir Gawaine would not suffer the King to listen to\nanything Sir Lancelot said, and told him roughly that while one of\nthem lived peace could never be made, and desired on behalf of the\nKing that in fifteen days he should be gone out of the country. And\nstill King Arthur said nothing, but suffered Sir Gawaine to talk as he\nwould; and Sir Lancelot took farewell of him and of the Queen, and\nrode, grieving sorely, out of the Court, and sailed to his lands\nbeyond the sea.\n\nThough the Queen was returned again, and Sir Lancelot was beyond the\nsea, the hate of Sir Gawaine towards him was in no way set at rest,\nbut he raised a great host and persuaded the King to follow him. And\nafter many sieges and long fighting Sir Gawaine did battle with Sir\nLancelot once more, and was worsted, and Sir Lancelot might have slain\nhim, but would not. While he lay wounded tidings came to King Arthur\nfrom England that caused the King to give up his war with Sir Lancelot\nand return in all haste to his own country.\n\n\n\n\n_THE END OF IT ALL_\n\n\nNow when King Arthur left England to fight with Sir Lancelot he\nordered his nephew Sir Mordred to govern the land, which that false\nKnight did gladly. And as soon as he thought he might safely do so he\ncaused some letters to be written saying that King Arthur had been\nslain in battle, and he had himself crowned King at Canterbury, where\nhe made a great feast which lasted fifteen days. After it was over, he\nwent to Winchester and summoned Queen Guenevere, and told her that on\na certain day he would wed her and that she should make herself ready.\nQueen Guenevere's soul grew cold and heavy as she heard these words of\nSir Mordred's, for she hated him with all her might, as he hated her;\nbut she dared show nothing, and answered softly that she would do his\nbidding, only she desired that first she might go to London to buy all\nmanner of things for her wedding. Sir Mordred trusted her because of\nher fair speech, and let her go. Then the Queen rode to London with\nall speed, and went straight to the Tower, which she filled in haste\nwith food, and called her men-at-arms round her. When Sir Mordred knew\nhow she had beguiled him he was wroth out of measure, and besieged the\nTower, and assaulted it many times with battering rams and great\nengines, but could prevail nothing, for the Queen would never, for\nfair speech nor for foul, give herself into his hands again.\n\nThe Bishop of Canterbury hastened unto Sir Mordred, and rebuked him\nfor wishing to marry his uncle's wife. 'Leave such desires,' said the\nBishop, 'or else I shall curse you with bell, book, and candle. Also,\nyou noise abroad that my lord Arthur is slain, and that is not so, and\ntherefore you will make ill work in the land.' At this Sir Mordred\nwaxed very wroth, and would have killed the Bishop had he not fled to\nGlastonbury, where he became a hermit, and lived in poverty and prayed\nall day long for the realm, for he knew that a fierce war was at hand.\nSoon word came to Sir Mordred that King Arthur was hurrying home\nacross the seas, to be avenged on his nephew, who had proved traitor.\nWherefore Sir Mordred sent letters to all the people throughout the\nkingdom, and many followed after him, for he had cunningly sown among\nthem that with him was great joy and softness of life, while King\nArthur would bring war and strife with him. So Sir Mordred drew with a\ngreat host to Dover, and waited for the King. Before King Arthur and\nhis men could land from the boats and ships that had brought them over\nthe sea Sir Mordred set upon them, and there was heavy slaughter. But\nin the end he and his men were driven back, and he fled, and his\npeople with him. After the fight was over the King ordered the dead to\nbe buried; and there came a man and told him that he had found Sir\nGawaine lying in a boat, and that he was sore wounded. And the King\nwent to him and made moan over him: 'You were ever the man in the\nworld that I loved most,' said he, 'you and Sir Lancelot.' 'Mine uncle\nKing Arthur,' answered Sir Gawaine, 'my death day has come, and all\nthrough my own fault. Had Sir Lancelot been with you as he used to be\nthis unhappy war had never begun, and of that I am the cause, for I\nwould not accord with him. And therefore, I pray you, give me paper,\npen, and ink that I may write to him.' So paper and ink were brought,\nand Sir Gawaine was held up by King Arthur, and a letter was writ\nwherein Sir Gawaine confessed that he was dying of an old wound given\nhim by Sir Lancelot in the siege of one of the cities across the sea,\nand thus was fulfilled the prophecy of Merlin. 'Of a more noble man\nmight I not be slain,' said he. 'Also, Sir Lancelot, make no tarrying,\nbut come in haste to King Arthur, for sore bested is he with my\nbrother Sir Mordred, who has taken the crown, and would have wedded my\nlady Queen Guenevere had she not sought safety in the Tower of London.\nPray for my soul, I beseech you, and visit my tomb.' And after writing\nthis letter, at the hour of noon, Sir Gawaine gave up his spirit, and\nwas buried by the King in the chapel within Dover Castle. Then was it\ntold King Arthur that Sir Mordred had pitched a new field upon Barham\nDown, and the next morning the King rode hither to him, and there was\na fierce battle between them, and many on both sides were slain. But\nat the last King Arthur's party stood best, and Sir Mordred and his\nmen fled to Canterbury.\n\nAfter the Knights which were dead had been buried, and those that were\nwounded tended with healing salves, King Arthur drew westwards towards\nSalisbury, and many of Sir Mordred's men followed after him, but they\nthat loved Sir Lancelot went unto Sir Mordred. And a day was fixed\nbetween the King and Sir Mordred that they should meet upon a down\nnear Salisbury, and give battle once more. But the night before the\nbattle Sir Gawaine appeared unto the King in a vision, and warned him\nnot to fight next day, which was Trinity Sunday, as he would be slain\nand many of his Knights also; but to make a truce for a month, and at\nthe end of that time Sir Lancelot would arrive, and would slay Sir\nMordred, and all his Knights with him. As soon as he awoke the King\ncalled the Bishops and the wisest men of his army, and told them of\nhis vision, and took counsel what should be done. And it was agreed\nthat the King should send an embassage of two Knights and two Bishops\nunto Sir Mordred, and offer him as much goods and lands as they\nthought best if he would engage to make a treaty for a month with King\nArthur.\n\nSo they departed, and came to Sir Mordred, where he had a grim host of\nan hundred thousand men. For a long time he would not suffer himself\nto be entreated, but at the last he agreed to have Cornwall and Kent\nin King Arthur's days, and after all England. Furthermore, it was\ndecided that King Arthur and Sir Mordred should meet in the plain\nbetween their hosts, each with fourteen persons. 'I am glad of this,'\nsaid King Arthur, when he heard what had been done; but he warned his\nmen that if they were to see a sword drawn they were to come-on\nswiftly and slay that traitor, Sir Mordred, 'for I in no wise trust\nhim.' And in like wise spake Sir Mordred unto his host. Then they two\nmet, and agreed on the truce, and wine was fetched and they drank, and\nall was well. But while they were drinking an adder crept out of a\nbush, and stung one of the fourteen Knights on his foot, and he drew\nhis sword to slay the adder, not thinking of anything but his pain.\nAnd when the men of both armies beheld that drawn sword, they blew\ntrumpets and horns and shouted grimly, and made them ready for battle.\nSo King Arthur leaped on his horse, and Sir Mordred on his, and they\nwent back to their own armies, and thus began the fight, and never was\nthere seen one more doleful in any Christian land. For all day long\nthere was rushing and riding, spearing and striking, and many a grim\nword was there spoken, and many a deadly stroke given. And at the end\nfull an hundred thousand dead men lay upon the down, and King Arthur\nhad but two Knights left living, Sir Lucan and his brother Sir\nBedivere. 'Alas! that I should have lived to see this day,' cried the\nKing, 'for now I am come to mine end; but would to God that I knew\nwhere were that traitor Sir Mordred that hath caused all this\nmischief.' Then suddenly he saw Sir Mordred leaning on his sword among\na great heap of dead men.\n\n'Give me my spear,' said King Arthur unto Sir Lucan.\n\n'Sir, let him be,' answered Sir Lucan. 'Remember your dream, and leave\noff by this. For, blessed be God, you have won the field, and we three\nbe alive, and of the others none is alive save Sir Mordred himself. If\nyou leave off now, the day of destiny is past.'\n\n'Tide me death, tide me life,' said the King, 'he shall not escape my\nhands, for a better chance I shall never have,' and he took his spear\nin both hands and ran towards Sir Mordred, crying 'Traitor! now is\nyour death day come,' and smote him under the shield, so that the\nspear went through his body. And when Sir Mordred felt he had his\ndeath wound, he raised himself up and struck King Arthur such a blow\nthat the sword clave his helmet, and then fell stark dead on the earth\nagain. When Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere saw that sight they carried the\nKing to a little chapel, but they hoped not to leave him there long,\nfor Sir Lucan had noted that many people were stealing out to rob the\nslain of the ornaments on their armour. And those that were not dead\nalready they slew.\n\n'Would that I could quit this place to go to some large town,' said\nthe King, when he had heard this, 'but I cannot stand, my head works\nso. Ah, Lancelot, sorely have I missed thee.' At that Sir Lucan and\nSir Bedivere tried to lift him, but Sir Lucan had been grievously\nwounded in the fight, and the blood burst forth again as he lifted\nArthur, and he died and fell at the feet of the King.\n\n'Alas!' said the King, 'he has died for my sake, and he had more need\nof help than I. But he would not complain, his heart was so set to\nhelp me. And I should sorrow yet more if I were still to live long,\nbut my time flieth fast. Therefore, Sir Bedivere, cease moaning and\nweeping, and take Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it to yonder\nwater side, and when thou comest there, I charge thee, throw my sword\nin that water, and come again and tell me what thou hast seen.'\n\n[Illustration: THE LAST BATTLE\n\nSir Mordred]\n\n'My lord,' answered Sir Bedivere, 'your commandment shall be done,'\nand he departed. But when he looked at that noble sword, and beheld\nthe jewels and gold that covered the pommel and hilt, he said to\nhimself, 'If I throw this rich sword into the water no good will come\nof it, but only harm and loss'; so he hid Excalibur under a tree, and\nreturned unto the King and told him his bidding was done. 'What did\nyou see there?' asked the King.\n\n'Sir,' answered Sir Bedivere, 'I saw nothing but the winds and the\nwaves.'\n\n'You have not dealt truly with me,' said the King. 'Go back, and do my\ncommand; spare not, but throw it in.' But again Sir Bedivere's heart\nfailed him, and he hid the sword, and returned to tell the King he had\nseen nothing but the wan water.\n\n'Ah, traitor!' cried King Arthur, 'this is twice you have betrayed me.\nIf you do not now fulfil my bidding, with mine own hands will I slay\nyou, for you would gladly see me dead for the sake of my sword.' Then\nSir Bedivere was shamed at having disobeyed the King, and drew forth\nthe sword from its hiding place, and carried it to the water side, and\nwith a mighty swing threw it far into the water. And as it flew\nthrough the air, an arm and hand lifted itself out of the water, and\ncaught the hilt, and brandished the sword thrice, and vanished with it\nbeneath the water. So Sir Bedivere came again unto the King, and told\nhim what he saw.\n\n'Alas!' said the King, 'help me hence, for I have tarried overlong,'\nand Sir Bedivere took him on his back, and bare him to the water side.\nAnd when they stood by the bank, a little barge containing many fair\nladies and a Queen, all in black hoods, drew near, and they wept and\nshrieked when they beheld King Arthur.\n\n'Now put me into the barge,' said the King, and Sir Bedivere laid him\nsoftly down, and the ladies made great mourning and the barge rowed\nfrom the land.\n\n'Ah, my lord Arthur!' cried Sir Bedivere, 'what shall become of me now\nyou go from me, and I am left here alone with my enemies?'\n\n'Comfort yourself,' replied the King, 'and do as well as you may, for\nI go unto the valley of Avilion, to be healed of my grievous wound.\nAnd if you never more hear of me, pray for my soul.' But Sir Bedivere\nwatched the barge till it was beyond his sight, then he rode all night\ntill he came to a hermitage. Now when Queen Guenevere heard of the\nbattle, and how that King Arthur was slain and Sir Mordred and all\ntheir Knights, she stole away, and five ladies with her, and rode to\nAmesbury; and there she put on clothes of black and white, and became\na nun, and did great penance, and many alms deeds, and people\nmarvelled at her and at her godly life. And ever she wept and moaned\nover the years that were past, and for King Arthur.\n\nAs soon as the messenger whom the King had sent with Sir Gawaine's\nletter reached Sir Lancelot, and he learned that Sir Mordred had taken\nfor himself the crown of England, he rose up in wrath, and, calling\nSir Bors, bid him collect their host, that they should pass at once\nover the sea to avenge themselves on that false Knight. A fair wind\nblew them to Dover, and there Sir Lancelot asked tidings of King\nArthur. Then the people told him that the King was slain, and Sir\nMordred, and an hundred thousand men besides, and that the King had\nburied Sir Gawaine in the chapel at Dover Castle. 'Fair Sirs,' said\nSir Lancelot, 'show me that tomb'; and they showed it to him, and Sir\nLancelot kneeled before it, and wept and prayed, and this he did for\ntwo days. And on the third morning he summoned before him all the\ngreat lords and leaders of his host, and said to them, 'Fair lords, I\nthank you all for coming here with me, but we come too late, and that\nwill be bitter grief to me as long as I shall live. But since it is\nso, I will myself ride and seek my lady Guenevere in the west country,\nwhere they say she has gone, and tarry you here, I entreat you, for\nfifteen days, and if I should not return take your ships and depart\ninto your own country.'\n\n[Illustration: EXCALIBUR RETURNS TO THE MERE]\n\nSir Bors strove to reason with him that the quest was fruitless, and\nthat in the west country he would find few friends; but his words\navailed nothing. For seven days Sir Lancelot rode, and at last he came\nto a nunnery, where Queen Guenevere was looking out from her lattice,\nand was ware of his presence as he walked in the cloister. And when\nshe saw him she swooned, and her ladies and gentlewomen tended her.\nWhen she was recovered, she spoke to them and said, 'You will marvel,\nfair ladies, why I should swoon. It was caused by the sight of yonder\nKnight who stands there, and I pray you bring him to me.' As soon as\nSir Lancelot was brought she said to her ladies, 'Through me and this\nman has this war been wrought, for which I repent me night and day.\nTherefore, Sir Lancelot, I require and pray you never to see my face\nagain, but go back to your own land, and govern it and protect it; and\ntake to yourself a wife, and pray that my soul may be made clean of\nits ill doing.'\n\n'Nay, Madam,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'that shall I never do; but the\nsame life that you have taken upon you, will I take upon me likewise.'\n\n'If you will do so,' said the Queen, 'it is well; but I may never\nbelieve but that you will turn to the world again.'\n\n'Well, Madam,' answered he, 'you speak as it pleases you, but you\nnever knew me false to my promise, and I will forsake the world as you\nhave done. For if in the quest of the Sangreal I had forsaken its\nvanities with all my heart and will, I had passed all Knights in the\nquest, except Sir Galahad my son. And therefore, lady, since you have\ntaken you to perfection, I must do so also, and if I may find a hermit\nthat will receive me I will pray and do penance while my life lasts.\nWherefore, Madam, I beseech you to kiss me once again.'\n\n'No,' said the Queen, 'that I may not do,' and Sir Lancelot took his\nhorse and departed in great sorrow. All that day and the next night he\nrode through the forest till he beheld a hermitage and a chapel\nbetween two cliffs, and heard a little bell ring to Mass. And he that\nsang Mass was the Bishop of Canterbury, and Sir Bedivere was with him.\nAfter Mass Sir Bedivere told Sir Lancelot how King Arthur had thrown\naway his sword and had sailed to the valley of Avilion, and Sir\nLancelot's heart almost burst for grief. Then he kneeled down and\nbesought the Bishop that he might be his brother. 'That I will,\ngladly,' said the Bishop, and put a robe upon him.\n\nAfter the fifteen days were ended, and still Sir Lancelot did not\nreturn, Sir Bors made the great host go back across the sea, while he\nand some of Sir Lancelot's kin set forth to seek all over England till\nthey found Sir Lancelot. They rode different ways, and by fortune Sir\nBors came one day to the chapel where Sir Lancelot was. And he prayed\nthat he might stay and be one of their fellowship, and in six months\nsix other Knights were joined to them, and their horses went where\nthey would, for the Knights spent their lives in fasting and prayer,\nand kept no riches for themselves.\n\nIn this wise six years passed, and one night a vision came to Sir\nLancelot in his sleep charging him to hasten unto Amesbury. 'By the\ntime that thou come there,' said the vision, 'thou shalt find Queen\nGuenevere dead; therefore take thy fellows with thee and fetch her\ncorpse, and bury it by the side of her husband, the noble King\nArthur.'\n\nThen Sir Lancelot rose up and told the hermit, and the hermit ordered\nhim to make ready and to do all as the vision had commanded. And Sir\nLancelot and seven of the other Knights went on foot from Glastonbury\nto Amesbury, and it took them two days to compass the distance, for\nit was far and they were weak with fasting. When they reached the\nnunnery Queen Guenevere had been dead but half an hour, and she had\nfirst summoned her ladies to her, and told them that Sir Lancelot had\nbeen a priest for near a twelvemonth. 'And hither he cometh as fast as\nhe may,' she said, 'to fetch my corpse, and beside my lord King Arthur\nhe shall bury me. And I beseech Almighty God that I may never have\npower to see Sir Lancelot with my bodily eyes.' 'Thus,' said the\nladies, 'she prayed for two days till she was dead.' Then Sir Lancelot\nlooked upon her face and sighed, but wept little, and next day he sang\nMass. After that the Queen was laid on a bier drawn by horses, and an\nhundred torches were carried round her, and Sir Lancelot and his\nfellows walked behind her singing holy chants, and at times one would\ncome forward and throw incense on the dead. So they came to\nGlastonbury, and the Bishop of Canterbury sang a Requiem Mass over the\nQueen, and she was wrapped in cloth, and placed first in a web of\nlead, and then in a coffin of marble, and when she was put into the\nearth Sir Lancelot swooned away.\n\n'You are to blame,' said the hermit, when he awaked from his swoon,\n'you ought not make such manner of sorrow.'\n\n'Truly,' answered Sir Lancelot, 'I trust I do not displease God, but\nwhen I remember her beauty, and her nobleness, and that of the King,\nand when I saw his corpse and her corpse lie together, my heart would\nnot bear up my body. And I remembered, too, that it was through me and\nmy pride that they both came to their end.'\n\nFrom that day Sir Lancelot ate so little food that he dwined away, and\nfor the most part was found kneeling by the tomb of King Arthur and\nQueen Guenevere. None could comfort him, and after six weeks he was\ntoo weak to rise from his bed. Then he sent for the hermit and to his\nfellows, and asked in a weary voice that they would give him the last\nrites of the Church; and begged that when he was dead his body might\nbe taken to Joyous Gard, which some say is Alnwick and others\nBamborough. That night the hermit had a vision that he saw Sir\nLancelot being carried up to heaven by the angels, and he waked Sir\nBors and bade him go and see if anything ailed Sir Lancelot. So Sir\nBors went and Sir Lancelot lay on his bed, stark dead, and he smiled\nas he lay there. Then was there great weeping and wringing of hands,\nmore than had been made for any man; but they placed him on the horse\nbier that had carried Queen Guenevere, and lit a hundred torches, and\nin fifteen days they reached Joyous Gard. There his body was laid in\nthe choir, with his face uncovered, and many prayers were said over\nhim. And there, in the midst of their praying, came Sir Ector de\nMaris, who for seven years had sought Sir Lancelot through all the\nland.\n\n'Ah, Lancelot,' he said, when he stood looking beside his dead body,\n'thou wert head of all Christian Knights. Thou wert the courtliest\nKnight that ever drew sword, and the faithfulest friend that ever\nbestrode a horse. Thou wert the goodliest Knight that ever man has\nseen, and the truest lover that ever loved a woman.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF RONCEVALLES\n\n_THE BATTLE OF RONCEVALLES_\n\n\nAbout twelve hundred years ago there lived an Emperor of the West\nwhose name was Charles the Great, or, as some called him, Charlemagne,\nwhich means Carolus Magnus. When he was not making war he ruled well\nand wisely at Aix-la-Chapelle, but at the time that this story begins\nhe had been for seven years in Spain, fighting against the Saracens.\nThe whole country had fallen before him, except only Saragossa, a\nfamous town on the river Ebro, not far from the outskirts of the\nPyrenees, which was held by the Moorish King Marsile, with a great\nhost.\n\nOne hot day Marsile was lying on a cool slab of blue marble which was\nshaded by overhanging fruit trees, and his nobles were sitting all\nround him. Suddenly the King sat up, and, turning to his followers, he\nsaid:\n\n'Listen to me, my Lords, for I have something of note to say unto you.\nEvil days are upon us, for the Emperor of fair France will never rest\nuntil he has driven us out of our country, and I have no army\nwherewith to meet him. Then counsel me, my wise men, how to escape\nboth death and shame.'\n\nAt the King's speech there was silence, for none knew how to reply,\ntill Blancandrin, Lord of Val-Fonde, stood up.\n\n'Fear nothing,' he said to the King, 'but send a messenger to this\nproud Charles, promising to do him faithful service and asking for his\nfriendship. And let there go with the messenger presents to soften his\nheart, bears and lions, and dogs to hunt them; seven hundred camels\nand four hundred mules, loaded with gold and silver, so that he shall\nhave money to pay his soldiers. The messenger shall tell him that on\nthe Feast of St. Michael you yourself will appear before him, and\nsuffer yourself to be converted to the faith of Christ, and that you\nwill be his man and do homage to him. If he asks for hostages, well!\nsend ten or twenty, so as to gain his confidence; the sons of our\nwives. I myself will offer up my own son, even if it leads to his\ndeath. Better they should all die, than that we should lose our\ncountry and our lands, and be forced to beg till the end of our\nlives.' And the nobles answered, 'He has spoken well.'\n\nKing Marsile broke up his Council, and chose out those who were to go\non the embassy. 'My lords,' he said, 'you will start at once on your\nmission to King Charles, and be sure you take olive branches in your\nhands, and beg him to have pity on me. Tell him that before a month\nhas passed over his head I will follow you with a thousand of my\nservants, to receive baptism and do him homage. If, besides, he asks\nfor hostages, they shall be sent.' 'It is well,' said Blancandrin,\n'the treaty is good.'\n\nThe Emperor Charles was happier than he had ever been in his life. He\nhad taken Cordova, and thrown down the walls; his war machines had\nlaid low the towers, and the rich city had been plundered, while every\nSaracen who refused to be baptized had been slain. Now he felt he\nmight rest, and sought the cool of an orchard, where were already\ngathered his nephew Roland, with Oliver his comrade, Geoffrey of Anjou\nhis standard bearer, and many other famous Knights. They lay about on\nwhite carpets doing what they best liked--some played games, chess or\ndraughts, but these were mostly the old men who were glad to be still:\nthe young ones fenced and tilted. Under a pine tree, close to a\nsweet-briar, a seat of massive gold was placed, and on it sat the\nEmperor of the fair country of France, a strong man, with his beard\nwhite as snow. But his rest was short. Soon came the messengers of the\nSaracen King, and, descending from their mules, they bowed low before\nhim.\n\n[Illustration: UNDER A PINE TREE CLOSE TO A SWEET-BRIAR ON A SEAT OF\nGOLD SAT--THE KING OF THE FAIR COUNTRY OF FRANCE\n\nCharlemagne]\n\nIt was Blancandrin who first spoke, showing with his hands the\npresents he had brought with him, and offering that the King would\nreceive baptism, and do homage for his lands, if only the Emperor\nCharles would return with his army into France, 'for,' said\nBlancandrin, 'you have been too long in this country.'\n\nWhen Blancandrin had spoken, the Emperor sat silent with his head\nbent, thinking of the words of the Saracen, for never was it his\ncustom to be hasty in his speech. At length he looked up, and a proud\nlook was on his face.\n\n'You have said well,' he answered, 'yet King Marsile is my deadly\nenemy, and how do I know that I can put my trust in your offers?'\n\n'You will have hostages,' replied the Saracen, 'sons of the highest\nnobles, and my own son will be among them. And when you have gone back\nto your own palace, my master will follow you on the Feast of St.\nMichael, and will be made a Christian in the waters of Aix.'\n\n'If he does this,' said Charles, 'his soul may still be saved,' and he\nbade hospitality to be shown to his guests.\n\nBefore sunrise next morning the Emperor left his bed, and heard Mass\nsaid and Matins sung. Then he seated himself under a pine, and called\nhis Barons to council. Many there were whose names men still remember:\nOgier the Dane, and Archbishop Turpin of Rheims, and the brave Count\nof Gascony, Count Roland, nephew of Charles, and his friend the\nvaliant Oliver. Ganelon was there too, by whom the wrong was to be\nwrought. As soon as they were all seated, the Emperor spoke and told\nthem afresh what the messengers had said. 'But Marsile makes one\ncondition,' continued Charles, 'which is that I must return to France,\nwhere he will come to me as my vassal. Now, does he swear falsely, or\ncan I trust his oath?' 'Let us be very careful how we answer him,'\ncried the nobles with one voice.\n\nAt that Roland sprang to his feet. 'It is madness to put faith in\nMarsile,' said he; 'seven years have we been in Spain, and many towns\nhave I conquered for you, but Marsile we have always proved a traitor.\nOnce before he sent us an embassy of Unbelievers each one bearing an\nolive branch, and they made you the same promises. Once before you\ncalled a meeting of your barons who counselled you to do the thing\nthey knew you wished, and you sent to the Court of the Unbelievers the\nnoble Counts Basil and Bazan. And how did Marsile treat them? He\ncommanded that they should be led into the mountains and that their\nheads should be cut off, which was done. No! Go on with the war, as\nyou have begun it; march on Saragossa and lay siege to the town,\nthough it should last to the end of your life, and avenge those whom\nMarsile put to death.'\n\nWith bent head the Emperor listened to Roland, twisting all the while\nhis fingers in his moustache. He kept silent, turning over in his mind\nthe things Roland had said, and the nobles kept silence, too, all\nexcept Ganelon. For Ganelon rose and stood before Charles and began to\nspeak. 'Believe none of us,' he said; 'think of nothing but your own\nadvantage when Marsile offers to become your vassal, and to do homage\nfor the whole of Spain, and to receive baptism besides; he who wishes\nyou to reject such offers cares nothing for the deaths the rest of us\nmay die. Pay no attention to such madness, but listen to your wise\nmen.'\n\nHe sat down in his place, and then the Duke Naimes took up his words.\n'You have heard,' he said to Charles, 'the words of Ganelon. Wise\ncounsel, if we only follow it! Marsile knows that he is conquered at\nlast. You have won his towns, and vanquished him in battle, and he is\nreduced to beg for your pity. It would be shameful to ask for anything\nfurther, and the more so as you have hostages as pledges of his good\nfaith. It is time that the war ended; therefore send him one of your\nbarons to speak with him face to face.' And the nobles answered, 'The\nDuke has spoken well.'\n\n'Noble lords, what envoy shall we send to King Marsile at Saragossa?'\n'I will go, if it is your pleasure,' said Duke Naimes. 'Give me your\nglove and the wand of office.' 'No,' replied Charles, 'your wisdom is\ngreat, and I cannot spare you from my side. Remain where you are, I\ncommand you.'\n\n'Let me go,' cried Roland. 'No, no,' answered Count Oliver; 'you are\ntoo hasty and too imprudent. You would only fall into some trap. With\nthe King's good leave I will go instead.'\n\n'Hold your peace,' said Charles, shaking his head; 'you will neither\nof you go. None of my twelve peers shall be chosen.'\n\nThen Turpin of Rheims left his seat and spoke to Charles with his loud\nand ringing voice. 'Fair King, give your Franks a little peace. For\nseven years you have been in Spain, and your barons have all that time\nbeen fighting and suffering. It is now, sire, that the glove and the\nwand of office should be given. I will go and visit this Unbeliever,\nand will tell him in what scorn I hold him.' But the Emperor, full of\nrage, cried out, 'By my beard, you will stop with me. Go to your place\non the white carpet, and give me none of your advice unless I ask for\nit.'\n\n'Good Frankish Knights,' said Charles, 'choose me a baron from my own\nland, who shall be envoy to King Marsile, and who, at need, can fight\nwell.'\n\n'Ah,' cried Roland, 'let it be Ganelon, my stepfather; you will not\nfind a better man.' 'Yes,' said the Franks, 'he is the man; let him go\nif the King pleases.'\n\n'Ganelon,' commanded the King, 'come here and I will give you the\nglove and the wand of office. It is the voice of the barons that has\nchosen you.'\n\n'No,' replied Ganelon, 'it is Roland's doing, and to the end of my\nlife I will bear him hatred for it. Oliver also will I hate, since\nOliver is his friend. And never more will I love the twelve peers, for\nthey love him. Under your own eyes, sire, I throw down my challenge.'\n\n'You are angry about nothing,' said the King, 'and as I have commanded\nyou, you will go.'\n\n'I can go, but it will be my death, as it was the death of Basil and\nof his brother Bazan. Who goes there, returns not. But, sire, do not\nforget that your sister is my wife and that I have a son Baldwin, who,\nif he lives, will be the bravest of the brave. To him I leave all my\nlands. Guard him well, for I shall see him no more.'\n\n'Your heart is too tender,' said Charles, 'but there is no help for\nit, you must go.'\n\nAt the words of the King, Ganelon flung his fur mantle to the ground\nin fury. 'It is to you,' he cried, turning to Roland, 'that I owe this\nperil. I am your stepfather, and that is reason enough that you send\nme to lose my head at the Court of King Marsile. Let it be so; but if\never I return I will bring on you such trouble that it will only end\nwith your life.'\n\n'You talk like a madman,' said Roland. 'All men know that I care\nnothing for threats. But it needs a wise man to go on such a mission,\nand if the King pleases, I will go in your place.'\n\n'You will not go in my place,' answered Ganelon. 'I am not your\nvassal, to do as you bid me. Charles has commanded me to go to\nSaragossa, therefore to Saragossa I go. But beware of what I do when I\nget there.'\n\nAt this Roland began to laugh, and when Ganelon saw him laughing, it\nseemed as if his heart would burst with anger. 'I hate you,' he\nmuttered to Roland. 'I should never have been chosen but for you.\nGreat Emperor,' he said aloud to Charles, 'behold me ready to obey\nyour orders.'\n\n[Illustration: MARSILE THREATENS GANELON WITH A JAVELIN]\n\n'Listen, fair Count,' replied Charles, 'for this is the message I\nwould have you bear to King Marsile. If he agrees to become my vassal,\nand to receive Holy Baptism, I will give him half of Spain as a fief.\nThe other half will be held by Roland, my nephew. If these terms do\nnot please King Marsile, I will myself besiege Saragossa, and will\ntake him and bind him in chains. Then he shall be brought to Aix,\nwhere he shall be put to a shameful death. So take this letter which\nis sealed with my seal, and give it into the hand of the Infidel.'\nWhen Ganelon had put the letter in safety, the King held out to him\nhis glove, but the Count was not quick to seize it, and it fell to the\nground. 'Heavens,' cried the Franks who were standing round, 'how\ndreadful an omen! This message will be the cause of dire misfortunes.'\n'I will send you news of them,' Ganelon answered. And he said to\nCharles, 'Let me depart, sire, as I must go. I wish to lose no time.'\n\n'Go then,' replied the King, making over him the sign of the cross and\ngiving him the wand of office. And Ganelon went.\n\nIt was not long before he overtook the Saracens, who had lingered,\nhoping he might join them, and Blancandrin began to sing the praises\nof Charles and his conquests. 'He is a wonderful man,' answered\nGanelon, 'and of such a strong will that no man may strive against\nit.'\n\n'How brave are these Franks,' went on Blancandrin; 'but your nobles\nwere ill-advised in the counsel they gave the King upon this matter.\nIt bodes evil to Charles and to many beside him.'\n\n'None of them merit this blame,' said Ganelon, 'save Roland only, and\nthe shame will be on his head. His pride is so great that he thinks no\nsword can touch him, but until he is really dead peace we can never\nhave.' Here the Saracen glanced at Ganelon beside him. 'He is a fine\nman,' thought he, 'but there is cunning in his eye,' and then\nBlancandrin spoke. 'Let us understand each other plainly,' he said;\n'is it your wish to be avenged of Roland? Then, by the beard of\nMahomet, deliver him into our hands. King Marsile is a generous\nmaster, and knows how to repay those who serve him.' Ganelon heard his\nwords, and bent his head in silence.\n\nBut the silence did not last long: before they had arrived at\nSaragossa, Ganelon had made an agreement with Blancandrin, that they\nwould find some means of causing Roland to perish. This decided, they\nrode through the gates of the town, and dismounted from their horses.\nIn the shadow of a pine, a throne was placed covered with soft silk\nfrom Alexandria, and on it sat he who was once the master of the whole\nof Spain. Twenty thousand Saracens stood around him, but not a sound\nwas made, so eager they were to hear Charles's answer. Blancandrin\nadvanced to the King's throne, leading Ganelon by the wrist.\n'Greeting, great King,' said he; 'we delivered your message to\nCharles, and he raised his two hands to heaven, and answered nothing.\nBut he has sent you one of his great lords, and he will tell you if it\nis peace or no peace.'\n\n'Let him speak,' replied Marsile, 'and we will listen.'\n\nGanelon waited a little before he spoke, for he knew that one careless\nword might prove his own ruin. 'Greeting,' he said, when at last he\nhad made ready his speech. 'This is the message sent you by\nCharlemagne. You must receive Holy Baptism, and Charles will allow you\nto do homage for half of Spain. The other half he gives to Roland, his\nnephew, and a proud neighbour you will find him. If these terms do not\nplease you, he will lay siege to Saragossa, and will seize your\nperson, and carry you to Aix, the capital of the Empire, where you\nwill die a shameful death.' When he heard this, Marsile trembled with\nrage, and drawing a dart he would have thrown it at Ganelon had not\nsomeone held him from behind. Ganelon looked on, his hand on his\nsword, which he drew a little from its scabbard. 'Sword,' said he,\n'you are sharp and bright. While I wear you at the Court of this\nKing, the Emperor can never say that I have died alone in a foreign\nland. But before I die you shall drink the blood of the best in his\narmy.'\n\nThe Infidels who were standing by prayed Marsile to go back to his\nseat in order that the matter might be decided, 'You put yourself in\nthe wrong,' said the old Caliph, 'when you wish to strike this Frank.'\n\n'Sire,' answered Ganelon, 'I will suffer this insult patiently, but\nnot all the treasure of your kingdom should hinder my delivering the\nmessage of my master.' With that he threw from his shoulders his\nmantle of zibeline, but kept light hold of his sword. 'See,' said the\nSaracens, 'did you ever behold a prouder warrior?' Ganelon drew near\nthe King and repeated the message that Charles had given him. When he\nhad finished he held out the letter, and Marsile, who had studied in\nthe best schools of learning, broke the seal and read it to himself.\n'Listen to this, my lords,' he cried, 'and say if ever you heard such\nmadness! Charles bids me think of Basil and Bazan, whose heads I cut\noff, up there in the mountains. And if I wish my own life to be\nspared, I am to send him my uncle, the Caliph, to deal with as he\nthinks fit.' The Saracens heard the message in grim silence, which was\nbroken by the voice of the King's son. 'Ganelon must be mad indeed to\ngive such a message as that,' said he, 'and he deserves death for his\nboldness. Deliver him to me, and I will do justice on him.' Ganelon\nunderstood his words but said nothing, only he quietly placed his back\nagainst a pine tree, and played with the hilt of his sword.\n\nKing Marsile rose and went into his orchard, followed by his best\ncouncillors, Jorfalon his son, his uncle the Caliph, and others whom\nhe most trusted. 'Summon the Frank also,' Blancandrin whispered in his\near, 'for he has promised to throw in his lot with us.' 'Bring him,'\nanswered the King, and Blancandrin brought him into the orchard, where\nthe web of treason was woven.\n\n'Noble Ganelon,' said Marsile, 'I acted foolishly towards you just\nnow, when, in my anger, I sought to strike you. Let me offer you the\nmantle of marten fur in amends. It has just arrived from a far\ncountry, and is worth five hundred pounds in gold.' 'I accept it\ngladly,' replied Ganelon as the King hung the cloak round his neck,\n'and may you be rewarded in as splendid a gift!'\n\n'Ganelon,' continued the King, 'I wish you to be my friend, though it\nwill not be wise to show you openly my goodwill. Tell me about\nCharlemagne, and whether what I have heard of him is really the truth.\nThey say he is very old, nearly two hundred years, and that he has\nwandered from one country to another and been in the thick of every\nfight, and has made the most powerful Kings beggars. When will he grow\ntired of all these wars? It is time that he rested himself at Aix.'\n\n'No,' said Ganelon, 'those who told you that Charlemagne was like that\ndid not speak truly. My tongue could never tell of his goodness and\nhis honour towards all men. Who could ever paint what Charlemagne is?\nI would rather die than leave his service.'\n\n'What you say is wonderful,' replied Marsile, 'but after all he has\ndone, will repose never seem sweet to him?'\n\n'Not while his nephew Roland lives,' said Ganelon. 'There is not such\na fighter under heaven, and his comrade Oliver is famous also for his\nprowess. The twelve peers whom the Emperor so dearly loves, with\ntwenty thousand picked men from the van of the army--truly Charlemagne\nmay rest in peace, and fear no man.'\n\n'Fair lord,' answered Marsile, 'my subjects are the finest you can\nsee, and at any moment I can summon four hundred thousand men to give\nbattle to Charlemagne.'\n\n'You will not conquer him this time,' said Ganelon, 'and in a fight\nthousands of your soldiers would be killed. Hear my counsel. Send\nCharles yet more gold and silver, and offer twenty other hostages, on\ncondition he returns himself to France, leaving his rear-guard behind\nhim. This, being the post of danger, will be claimed by his nephew\nRoland, whose comrade Oliver is always by his side. It will be easy to\nmanage that the two Counts shall meet their deaths, and Roland and\nOliver once dead the King will have no more heart for war.'\n\n'Fair lord,' replied Marsile, 'what shall I have to do in order to\nkill Roland?'\n\n'That I can easily tell you,' answered Ganelon. 'When Charlemagne has\npassed safely through the mountains, with the most part of his\nsoldiers, his baggage and his hostages, then have a hundred thousand\nof your Infidels ready to fall upon Roland and his rear-guard of\ntwenty thousand men. The Franks will fight hard, but they cannot stand\nagainst such numbers, though of their foes many will be left upon the\nfield. Then lose not a moment, but give them battle a second time.\nThey will be too few and too weak to fight long, and for the rest of\nyour life you will have peace. If you kill Roland, you will have cut\noff the Emperor's right arm. Farewell to the splendid armies of the\nFranks; never more will such forces be gathered together; never will\nCharles wear again his golden crown, but all Spain shall be in peace.'\n\nMarsile heard the words of Ganelon, and stooped and kissed his neck,\nand ordered his costliest treasures to be brought before him. Then he\nsaid: 'There is no further need of speech between us; swear that I\nshall find him in the rear-guard, and I shall swear that you shall\nhave your revenge.' And Ganelon swore. But Marsile was not content\nwith the oath that Ganelon made. He commanded that a copy of the Koran\nshould be brought, the sacred book of Mahomet, and placed it on a\nchair of ivory, which stood under an olive tree. With his hand on the\nbook Marsile also took his oath, that if among the rear-guard of\nCharlemagne's army he found Roland, he would fall upon him with all\nhis host and compass his death, and that of the twelve peers of\nFrance. So the bond of treachery was sealed. Then the Infidels crowded\nround, and one offered Ganelon his sword, and another his helmet,\nwhile the Queen brought bracelets of precious stones as gifts for his\nwife. Marsile asked his treasurer if he had made ready the presents\nthat were to be sent to Charles, and pressing Ganelon in his arms, he\ndeclared that not a day should pass without his friend likewise\nreceiving presents, if only he would give his help in the slaying of\nRoland. 'You keep me too long,' was Ganelon's answer, and he mounted\nhis horse and went.\n\nAll this while the Emperor Charles was marching towards France, but he\nhalted at a small town which long ago had been taken by Roland,\nwaiting till he heard some tidings of Ganelon, and received the news\nthat Marsile had agreed to do homage for Spain. At length, one morning\nat dawn, a messenger came to the King's tent telling him that Ganelon\nhad arrived, and Charles hastened forth with Roland and Oliver, Duke\nNaimes and a thousand more, to meet Ganelon. 'Greeting,' said the\ntraitor, bowing low; 'I bring you the keys of Saragossa, and twenty\nhostages, and great gifts. The noble King Marsile beseeches you not to\nblame him, because the Caliph, his uncle, has not come with me. I have\nseen--seen with my own eyes--three hundred thousand men all covered\nwith armour sail away in ships with the Caliph for their leader,\nbecause they could neither defend their own faith nor forswear it. But\nhardly were they out of sight of land than a fierce tempest overtook\nthem, and they were all lost. The Caliph must have died with the rest,\nor the King would have bade him come with me. As to the King himself,\nsire, before a month has passed he will be in France, ready to receive\nbaptism in your presence. And he will become your vassal, and do\nhomage for the kingdom of Spain.'\n\n'You have done wisely,' said Charles, 'and your reward shall be\ngreat.' So trumpets were sounded and tents were struck, and the host\nmarched with gaiety in their hearts to France the Fair.\n\n[Illustration: The Dream of Charlemagne]\n\n'My war is finished,' said the King, as his army gladly turned their\nbacks on Spain, and at nightfall spread their tents and slept till day\nbegan. But little he knew that four hundred thousand Unbelievers, with\nshields slung from their necks and swords in their hands, were riding\nsilently through the mountain passes with the intent of hiding\nthemselves in a wood till the moment came. There they were, and the\nFranks knew nothing of it, nor what would come.\n\nCharles slept, and in his sleep he dreamed that Ganelon took his stout\nlance of ash wood from his hands and brandished it in the air, then\nbroke it with his fists. After this dream came another. He was no\nlonger shut fast in by the mountains, but was at home in France,\nstanding in his chapel at Aix. Here a bear appeared before him and bit\nso deep into his arm that it reached the bone. Then from the other\nside, from the Ardennes, there sprang a leopard and would have torn\nhim in pieces, had not a greyhound come to his aid, and attacked first\nthe bear and then the leopard. 'A fight! a fight!' cried the Franks,\nbut they knew not which would be victorious. And all the while Charles\nslept soundly. With the dawn a thousand horns awoke the sleepers, and\nthe clamour of a camp began. 'My lords,' said Charles, calling all his\nbarons together, 'you see these narrow defiles through which we must\npass? To whom shall I give the command of the rear-guard which must\nprotect the rest of my army?'\n\n'To Roland, to Roland my stepson,' cried Ganelon. 'No Knight is so\nbrave as he, and we may trust to him the safety of our host.' Charles\nlistened and looked him in the face. 'You must be the devil himself,'\nhe said, 'for you seem as if your body was shaken by some evil\npassion. If Roland goes to the rear, who then shall command the van?'\n\n'Ogier, the Dane,' answered Ganelon. 'There is no better man.'\n\nWhen Count Roland heard his name he pressed forward. 'Fair stepfather,\nI owe you much love for proposing me to lead the rear-guard of the\narmy. Charles the King shall lose nothing through me; not a horse or a\nmule shall fall till his price is paid in blows received by the\nInfidels.' 'You speak well,' said Ganelon, 'and what you say is true.'\n\nThen Roland turned to Charlemagne: 'Give me, O King, the bow which you\nhold in your hand. I will promise not to let it fall, as Ganelon did\nyour glove.'\n\nBut the King sat silent, with his head bent, and tears ran down his\ncheeks. At last Naimes drew near and spoke to him, and among them all\nCharles had no more faithful friend. 'You have heard, sire, what Count\nRoland said. If he is to lead the rear-guard--and there is no man that\ncan do it better--give him the bow that you have drawn, for which he\nasks.' So the King gave it to him, and Roland took it gladly. 'Fair\nnephew,' said the King, 'I wish to leave half of my army behind with\nyou; keep it close to you, it will be your safeguard.'\n\n'No,' answered the Count; 'to accept the half of your army would be to\nshame my race. Leave me twenty thousand Franks, and you will pass the\ndefiles in safety. While I live you need fear no man.' Quickly Count\nRoland girded on his armour, girded on his sword Durendal, the comrade\nof many fights, and mounted his horse Veillantif, whom all men knew.\n'We will follow you to death,' cried the Franks as they saw him. But\nRoland answered them nothing. The first to come to his side was\nOliver, his old companion, then Turpin the Archbishop, the Count\nGautier, and many more, and after that they chose twenty thousand men,\nthe best that Charles had with him. Some of them he sent, under Count\nGautier, to drive the Unbelievers from the hill-top, and that same day\nthey fought a fierce battle. And while Charles and his army entered\nthe pass of Roncevalles, Roland took up his ground and prepared for\nthe fight, which he knew must come shortly. And Ganelon, the traitor,\nknew it too.\n\nHigh were the mountains, and dark the valleys; terrible were the\ndefiles amidst the black rocks. The army marched slowly and with great\ndifficulty; fifteen miles away you could hear the sound of their\ntramping. But when they caught sight of Gascony, of France, where they\nhad left their homes and their wives, there was not a man among them\nwho did not weep for happiness. Charles alone shed tears of sorrow,\nfor he thought of his nephew in the passes of Spain. 'Ganelon has\nbetrayed us,' said he to Duke Naimes, 'and he has betrayed Roland too.\nIt was he who caused him to stay behind with the rear-guard, and if I\nlose him--O God! I shall never find such another.'\n\nThe nephew of Marsile had craved a boon, that he and eleven of his\ncomrades should measure themselves against the Twelve Peers of France,\nand that none but himself should strike the first blow at Roland. The\nnoblest subjects of Marsile flocked at his call, and a gay show they\nmade when ready for battle, and mounted on horses as eager for the\nfray as themselves. So great was the noise that the sound reached even\nto the French camp. 'I think, comrade, that it will not be long before\nwe fight with the Saracens,' said Oliver.\n\n'May it be as you say,' answered Roland; 'it is our duty to make a\nstand here for the King, as one should be ready to suffer all pains\nfor one's liege lord. For him one must endure heat and cold, hunger\nand thirst, and strike hard blows with all one's might, and take heed\nthat no evil song can be made on us after we are dead. The right is on\nthe side of the Christians. Look to yourselves, for you will never see\na bad example from me.'\n\n\nTHE BATTLE\n\n\nOliver had climbed a hill, from which he could see into the plains of\nSpain. 'Roland,' cried he, 'do you see those shining helmets and\nglittering swords? It is Ganelon who has done this, and it was he who\nhad you left here.'\n\n'Be silent, Oliver,' answered Roland. 'He is my stepfather. I will not\nhear him ill spoken of.' Then Oliver went down the hill and told his\nsoldiers what he had seen. 'No battle will ever be like this one,' he\nsaid; 'you will need all your strength to keep your ground and not be\ndriven back.' 'Cursed be he who runs away,' answered they. 'There is\nnot one of us but knows how to die.'\n\n'The Infidels are many,' said Oliver again, 'and our Franks are but\nfew. Roland, blow your horn; Charles will hear it and come to our\nhelp.'\n\n'You are mad to say that,' replied Roland, 'for in France I should\nlose all my glory. No; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike, and\nour Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It was an ill day for\nthe Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I tell you, none will\nescape.'\n\n'The Unbelievers are many,' said Oliver again, 'and we are very few.\nRoland, my friend, sound your horn; Charles will hear it, and come to\nour help.'\n\n'I should be mad if I did so,' answered Roland. 'In France, when they\nknew it, I should lose all my glory! No; but my sword Durendal knows\nhow to strike, and our Franks will fight hard, and with what joy! It\nwas an ill day for the Unbelievers when they came here, for none, I\ntell you, none will escape death.'\n\n'O Roland, I pray you sound your horn, and Charles will hear it as he\npasses the defiles, and the Franks, I will swear it, will come to our\nhelp.'\n\n'Now God forbid,' said Roland, 'that through me my parents should be\nshamed, or that I should bring dishonour on the fair land of France.\nNo; but my sword Durendal knows how to strike. The Unbelievers have\ncome to their death, and they will find it.'\n\n'I see no dishonour,' said Oliver. 'With my own eyes have I beheld the\nSaracens of Spain; the mountains and the valleys alike are full of\nthem. And how few are we!'\n\n'Then we shall have the more fighting,' answered Roland. 'God forbid\nthat I should turn my Franks into cowards! Rather death than\ndishonour. The more we kill, the better the Emperor will love us.'\n\nRoland was brave, but Oliver was wise also, and the souls of both were\nas high as their words. 'Look round you, and think for a moment,' said\nOliver; 'they are close to us, and Charles is far. Ah! if you would\nonly have sounded your horn, the King would have been here, and our\ntroops would not have been in danger. The poor rear-guard will never\nmore be again such as it is to-day.'\n\n'You speak foolishly,' answered Roland. 'Cursed be he whose heart is\nafraid. We will be strong to hold our ground. From us will come the\nblows, from us the battle.'\n\nWhen Roland saw that he must give battle to the Infidels, he called\nhis Franks and bade Oliver stand beside him. 'Do not say these things,\nmy friend and comrade,' said he. 'The Emperor has left us twenty\nthousand picked men, with not one craven heart amongst them. For our\nliege lord, one must be ready to suffer cold and heat, hunger and\nthirst, and cheerfully shed his blood and endure every ill. Strike\nwith your lance, Oliver, as I shall strike with Durendal, the sword\nwhich was given me by the King himself. And if I am slain, the man who\nwins it may say, \"it was the sword of a noble vassal.\"'\n\nThen from a little hill Turpin the Archbishop spoke to them. 'Charles\nhas left us here; he is our King, and it is our duty to die for him.\nChristianity is in danger, and you must defend it. You cannot escape a\nbattle; then fight, and ask God's pardon for your sins. In His Name, I\nwill give you absolution, and already they wait for you in Paradise.'\nThe Franks got off their horses and knelt on the ground, and the\nArchbishop blessed them. After this they mounted again, and placed\nthemselves in order of battle.\n\nLike lightning Roland on his horse Veillantif swept along the defiles,\nhis face bright and smiling, his lance in rest. Oliver his friend was\nclose behind him, and the Franks said to each other, 'Look at our\nchampion!' He glanced proudly at the Infidels, but when his eyes fell\nupon the Franks they were soft and gentle. 'Go slowly, noble barons,'\nsaid he; 'the Unbelievers to-day are seeking their martyrdom, and you\nwill find richer booty than ever King of France did before.'\n\n'Words of mine are useless,' said Oliver; 'you would not let Charles\nknow of our peril, so you cannot blame him for our danger. Ride as\nhard as you can, and think only of two things, how best to give and\nreceive blows. And do not forget the battle cry of King Charles.'\n\n'Montjoie! Montjoie!' shouted the Franks, as the two armies came\ntogether with a crash.\n\nIt were long to tell of that battle and of the brave deeds that were\ndone both by Christians and Unbelievers. Roland was there where the\nstrife was hardest, and struck with his lance till the wood snapped.\nThen he drew Durendal from the scabbard and drove a bloody path\nthrough the ranks of the Infidels. Oliver and the Twelve Peers were\nnot far behind him, and the ground was red from the corpses of the\npagans. 'Well fought, well fought!' cried the Archbishop, 'Montjoie,\nMontjoie!'\n\nOliver seemed to be everywhere at once. His lance was broken in two,\nand there was only the head and a splinter remaining, but it dealt\nmore death blows than the sword of many another man. 'What are you\ndoing, comrade?' cried Roland, when for a moment their horses touched.\n'It is not wood that is needed in this battle, but well-tempered\nsteel! Where is your sword Hauteclair, with its guard of gold and its\nhandle of crystal?'\n\n'I have no time to draw it,' said Oliver. 'There are too many blows to\nstrike.'\n\nFiercer and fiercer grew the combat; thicker and thicker the corpses\nlay on the ground. Who could count the Franks who were stretched\nthere, never more to see their wives or their mothers, or the comrades\nthat awaited them in the defiles? But the number of the dead Saracens\nwas greater even than theirs. And while they fought on Spanish soil, a\nstrange tempest arose in France, thunder and wild winds, and a\ntrembling of the earth; walls fell down, and at mid-day there was\ndarkness. Men whispered to each other: 'It is the end of the world.'\nNo, no; the end of all things was not yet, it was nature mourning for\nthe death of Roland. At length the Saracens turned and fled, and the\nFranks pursued them, and Margaris the Valiant was left alone. His\nlance was broken, his shield pierced with holes, his sword-blade\nbloody, while he himself was sorely wounded. Heavens! what a warrior\nhe would have made if he had only been a Christian. He rode fast to\nMarsile the King, and cried to him to mount his horse, and rally his\nmen, and bring up fresh soldiers to deal the Franks a last blow, while\nthey were exhausted from the long fight. 'It will be easy to revenge\nthe thousands that they have slain,' said he; 'but if you let them\nslip now the tide of battle may turn against us.'\n\nThe King Marsile sent for fresh forces, and at sight of them the\nFranks embraced each other for the last time, while the Archbishop\npromised them a speedy entrance into Paradise. 'The Emperor will\navenge the treachery of Ganelon,' cried Roland, 'whether we live or\ndie, but the worst part of the fight is before us, and we shall need\nall our strength to beat back the Unbelievers. They must not tell\ntales of cowardice in the fair land of France.' Then they spurred\ntheir horses and advanced in line, crying 'Montjoie! Montjoie!'\n\n'Count Roland is not as other men,' said King Marsile, 'and as he is\nnot content with two battles, we will give him a third. To-day Charles\nwill cease to have power over Spain, and France will bow her head with\nshame.' And he gave his orders to the vanguard to go forward, while he\nhimself waited on a little hill till the moment came to charge. Fierce\nwas the shock as the two armies met, and bravely did their leaders\nfight, hand to hand and sword to sword. None struck harder than Turpin\nthe Archbishop, who cursed his foes as he bore them from their\nsaddles. 'He fights well,' said the Franks who watched his blows. But\nthe Franks had fought long, and were faint and weary. They had lost\nmuch blood, and their arms were weak to strike. 'See how our brothers\nfall,' they whispered one to another, and Roland heard their groans,\nand his heart was near breaking. Thousands lay dead, thousands more\nwere wounded, but still the battle went on. Horses without riders\nwandered about the field neighing for their masters. Then Marsile bade\nthe trumpets sound, and his army gathered round the great standard\nwith the Dragon, borne by a Saracen named Abimus. When Turpin the\nArchbishop caught sight of him, he dashed straight towards the banner,\nand with one blow of his mighty sword stretched the Unbeliever dead on\nthe ground before the Dragon. 'Montjoie! Montjoie!' he cried, and the\nFranks heard, and said one to the other, 'Heaven send that Charles has\nmany like him!' The lances of the Franks were broken, and their\nshields were for the most part split in two, but three hundred naked\nswords still were left to deal blows at the shining helmets of the\nInfidels. 'Help! help! O King!' cried the Saracens, and Marsile heard,\nand answered, 'Better die than flee before these Franks. Let no one\nthink of himself, but all press round Roland. If Roland dies, Charles\nis conquered. If Roland lives, all is over for us!' But Roland, with\nOliver at his side, swept a clear space with Durendal, and none might\ncome near him; the Archbishop kept his enemies at bay with his lance.\nFour times the Franks endured the shock of the onset, but at the fifth\nthey were borne down by numbers, and now only sixty remained upon the\nground.\n\nThen Roland turned to Oliver and said, 'Fair sir and dearest friend,\nwell may we pity France who will henceforth be widowed of such brave\nwarriors. O Charles, my King, why do you not come to us? Oliver, tell\nme, how can we let him know what straits we are in?' 'There is no\nway,' said Oliver, 'and death rather than dishonour.'\n\n'I will sound my horn,' said Roland, 'and Charles will hear, and come\nback through the defiles. I know that the Franks will retrace their\nsteps and come to our aid.'\n\n'That would be a shameful thing for them,' replied Oliver; 'all our\nkinsfolk would blush for us for ever, and we should likewise blush for\nourselves. When I begged you to do it you would not, and now the time\nis past.'\n\n'The battle is sore,' said Roland, 'I shall sound the horn, and\nCharles will hear it.'\n\n'You refused to do it while yet there was time,' answered Oliver. 'If\nthe Emperor had come then, so many of our best warriors would not be\nlying dead before us. It is not his fault that he is not here. But if\nyou sound the horn now, I will never give you my sister, the fair\nAude, for your wife.'\n\n'Why do you bear such malice?' said Roland.\n\n[Illustration: ROLAND WINDS HIS HORN IN THE VALLEY OF RONCESVALLES]\n\n'It is your fault,' answered Oliver. 'Courage and madness are not\nthe same thing, and prudence is always better than fury. If so many\nFranks lie dead, it is your folly which has killed them, and now we\ncan no longer serve the Emperor. If you would have listened to me,\nCharles would have been here, and Marsile and his Saracens would have\nbeen slain. Your courage, Roland, has cost us dear! For yourself, you\nwill be killed and France be covered with dishonour. And before night\nfalls our friendship will be ended.' Then he wept, and Roland wept\nalso.\n\nThe Archbishop had been near, and heard their words. 'Do not quarrel\nat this hour,' he said. 'Your horn could not save them now. Charles is\ntoo far; it would take him too long to come. Yet sound it, for he will\nreturn and avenge himself on the Unbelievers. And they will take our\nbodies and put them on biers, and lay them on horses, and will bury us\nwith tears of pity among the mountains, building up high walls round\nus, so that the dogs and the wild boar shall not devour us.' 'What you\nsay is good,' answered Roland, and he lifted his horn, and its mighty\nvoice rang through the mountains and Charles heard the echo thirty\nmiles away. 'Our men are fighting,' he cried, but Ganelon answered,\n'If another man had said that, we should have called him a liar.'\nCount Roland was sorely wounded and the effort to sound the horn\ncaused the blood to pour from his mouth. But he sounded it once more,\nand the echoes leaped far. Charles heard it in the defiles, and all\nhis Franks heard it too. 'It is Roland's horn,' said the King, 'and he\nis fighting.'\n\n'He is not fighting,' answered Ganelon; 'you are old, and your words\nare those of a child. Beside, you know how great is the pride of\nRoland; it is a marvel that God has suffered him to live so long. For\na hare, Roland would sound his horn all day, and at this moment he is\nmost likely laughing with his Twelve Peers over the fright he has\ncaused us. And again, who is there who would dare to attack Roland?\nNo one. March on, sire; why make halt? France is still distant.'\n\nCount Roland suffered grievous pain and a great wound was across his\nforehead. He sounded his horn for the third time, and Charles and his\nFranks heard it. 'That horn carries far,' said he, and Naimes\nanswered, 'It is Roland who is calling for help. A battle is going on;\nsome one has betrayed him. Quick, sire, he has called often enough.\nSound your war-cry and hasten to his help.' Then the Emperor ordered\nhis trumpets to be sounded, and his army gathered itself together and\ngirded on their armour with what speed they might, and each man said\nto the other, 'If only we are in time to save Roland from death, what\nblows we will strike for him.' Alas, they are too late, too late!\n\nBut before the march back there was something for the Emperor to do.\nHe sent for his head cook to appear in his presence, and he delivered\nthe traitor Ganelon into his custody, and told him to treat his\nprisoner as he liked, for he had shown himself unworthy to mix with\nwarriors. So the head cook did as he pleased with him, and beat him\nwith sticks and put a heavy chain about his neck. And thus he guarded\nhim till Charles came back.\n\nHow tall the mountains seemed to the returning army! how deep the\nvalleys, and how swift the streams! but all the while the trumpets\nwere sounded, that Roland might hear them and take heart. And as he\nrode, Charles had only one thought, 'If Roland is slain, shall I find\none man alive?'\n\nRoland stood looking at the mountains and at the plains, and wherever\nhis eyes fell his dead comrades lay before him. Loudly he mourned\ntheir loss, and then he turned to Oliver, saying, 'Brother, we must\ndie here with the rest of the Franks.' He spurred his horse and blew\nhis horn, and dashed into the ranks of the foe, shouting 'Montjoie!\nMontjoie!' The remnant that was left closed eagerly round him, and the\nbattle-cries were fierce and loud. If Marsile and his host fled\nbefore them, others not less valiant remained behind, and Roland knew\nthat the hour of his doom was come. And in valour, Oliver was no whit\nbehind him, but flung himself into the thickest of the battle. It was\nthe Caliph who gave Oliver his death blow. 'Charles made a mistake\nwhen he left you to guard these defiles,' said he, 'but your life will\npay for many that you have slain.' But Oliver was not dead yet, and\nthe taunt of the Caliph stung his blood. With all the strength he had\nleft, he swung his sword Hauteclair on high, and it came down upon the\nCaliph's helmet with a crash, cleaving it clean through. 'Ah, pagan,'\nsaid he, 'you will never boast now of the prizes you have taken in\nbattle.' Then 'Roland! Roland!' he cried, and Roland came. When he saw\nOliver before him, livid and bleeding, he swayed on his horse as if he\nshould faint. Oliver's sight was weak and troubled from loss of blood,\nand not hearing Roland's voice he mistook him for an enemy, and struck\nhim a hard blow on his helmet. This blow restored Roland to his\nsenses, and he sat upright. 'My friend,' said he, 'why have you done\nthis? I am Roland, who loves you well, and never did I think you could\nlift your hand against me.'\n\n'I hear you,' answered Oliver, 'I hear you speak, but I cannot see\nyou. If I have struck you, forgive me, for I knew it not.'\n\n'I forgive you from my heart,' said Roland, and they embraced each\nother for the last time.\n\nThe agony of death was falling upon Oliver; his sight had failed, his\nhearing was fast failing too. Slowly he dismounted from his horse and\nlaid himself painfully on the ground, making, in a loud voice, the\nconfession of his sins. Then he prayed God to bless Charlemagne, fair\nFrance, and Roland his friend, and after that his soul left him. And\nRoland returned and found him dead, and wept for him bitterly. At last\nhe stood up and looked around. Of all the twenty thousand men, not\none was left except himself, and Turpin and Gautier. And these three\nplaced themselves shoulder to shoulder, and sent many an Infidel to\njoin his dead brothers. But the wounds they received in their bodies\nwere without number, and at length the Archbishop tottered and fell.\nBut they had not slain him yet: with a mighty struggle he rose to his\nfeet and looked round for Roland. 'I am not conquered yet,' he said;\n'a brave man dies but never surrenders.' Then with his good sword he\nrushed into the _melee_ dealing death around him. Roland fought as\nkeenly as his friend, but the moments seemed long till Charles brought\nthem help. Again he sounded his horn, though the wound in his head\nburst out afresh with his effort. And the Emperor heard it, and\nstopped for an instant on his march. 'My lords,' he said, 'things are\ngoing badly with us; we shall lose my nephew Roland to-day, for I know\nby the way he blows his horn that he has not long to live. Spur your\nhorses, for I would fain see him before he dies. And let every trumpet\nin the army sound its loudest!' The Unbelievers heard the noise of the\ntrumpets, which echoed through the mountains and valleys, and they\nwhispered fearfully to each other, 'It is Charles who is coming, it is\nCharles!' It was their last chance, and a band of their best warriors\nrode straight at Roland. At that sight the strength rushed back into\nhis veins, and he waited for them proudly. 'I will fight beside you,'\nhe said to Turpin, 'and till I am dead I will never leave you. Let\nthem strike as hard as they will; Durendal knows how to strike back.'\n\n'Shame be upon every man who does not fight his best,' answered the\nArchbishop, 'for this is our last battle. Charles draws near, and will\navenge us.'\n\nThe Infidels said afterwards that an army could not have wrought the\nruin that was done that day by the Archbishop and Roland. Veillantif\nreceived thirty wounds in his body and then fell dead under his\nmaster. But Roland leaped off, and smote the Saracens, who turned and\nfled before him. He was too weak to follow after them, and turned to\nsee if the Archbishop still breathed. Kneeling by his side he unlaced\nTurpin's golden helmet, and bound up his gaping wounds. Then he\npressed him closely to his heart and laid him gently on the ground. 'O\nfriend, we must take farewell of each other, now all our comrades have\ngone before us. But let us do all we can for their bodies, which\ncannot be left lying here. I will myself go and seek their corpses,\nand bring them here and place them in rows before you.'\n\n'Go,' answered the Archbishop, 'but do not stay long. Thanks be to\nGod, the victory remains with you and me.'\n\nAlone Roland searched the battle-field; he went up the sides of the\nmountains, he descended into the plains, and everywhere he saw the\ndead faces of his friends. One after another he brought them, and laid\nthem at the feet of Turpin, and at the sight of their faces the\nArchbishop wept sore. Then he held up his hand to bless them for the\nlast time. 'Noble lords,' he said, 'you have fallen upon evil days.\nMay God receive your souls into His Paradise. As for me, among all the\npains I suffer, the worst is that never shall I see my Emperor again.'\n\nUnder a pine, close to a sweet-briar, the corpse of Oliver was lying,\nand Roland raised him in his arms and bare him to the Archbishop,\nwhere he laid him on a shield, near to the other peers. Then his heart\nbroke with a cry, and he fell fainting beside Oliver. At the sight of\nRoland's grief the Archbishop's own sorrow grew double, and he\nstretched out his hand for the horn which lay near him. A stream ran\ndown the valley of Roncevalles, and he dragged himself towards it, to\nfetch water to revive Roland. But he was too weak from the blood he\nhad lost to reach the river, and he fell where he stood. 'Pardon for\nmy sins,' he said, and died, the servant of God and of Charles. The\ncry was heard by Roland, who was slowly coming back to life, and he\nrose to his feet and went to the dead Archbishop and crossed his hands\nupon his breast. 'Ah, noble Knight,' he said, 'in God's hands I leave\nyou, for never since the Apostles has He had a more faithful servant.\nMay your soul henceforth be free from sorrow, and may the Gates of\nParadise stand wide for you to enter in!'\n\nAs he spoke, Roland knew that his own death was not far off. He made\nhis peace with God, and took his horn in one hand and Durendal in the\nother. Then he mounted a small hill where stood two pine trees, but\nfell almost unconscious as soon as he reached the top. But a Saracen\nwho had watched him, and had feigned to be dead, sprang up and seeing\nhim cried, 'Conquered! he is conquered, the nephew of Charles! and his\nfamous sword will be carried into Arabia'; so he grasped Durendal\ntightly in his fist, and pulled Roland's beard in derision. If the\nSaracen had been wise he would have left Roland's beard alone, for at\nhis touch the Count was brought back to consciousness. He felt his\nsword being taken from him, and with his horn, which was always beside\nhim, he struck the Saracen such a blow on his helmet that he dropped\nDurendal, and sank dead to the earth. 'Coward,' said Roland, 'who has\ntold you that you might dare to set hands on Roland, living or dead?\nYou were not worthy a blow from my horn.' Still death was pressing\ncloser and closer, and Roland knew it. He rose panting for breath, his\nface as white as if he was already in the grave, and took Durendal out\nof its scabbard. Ten times he struck it hard on a brown rock before\nhim, but the steel never gave way. 'O my faithful Durendal, do you\nknow that the hour of our parting has come?' he cried. 'You have\ngained many battles for me, and won Charles many kingdoms. You shall\nnever serve another master after I am dead.' Again he smote the rock\nwith all his force, but the steel of Durendal glanced aside. When\nRoland saw that he could not break it, he sat down and wept and\nlamented sore, calling back to him all the fights that they had fought\ntogether. Yet another time he struck, but the steel held good. Death\nwas drawing nearer; what was he to do? Under a pine tree he laid\nhimself down to die, his head resting on the green grass, his face\nturned towards the Infidels. Beneath him he placed Durendal and his\nhorn. Alone on the mountain, looking towards Spain, he made the\nconfession of his sins, and offered up his last prayer. Then he held\nup his right hand, and the Angels came and bore his soul to Paradise.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PURSUIT OF DIARMID\n\n_THE PURSUIT OF DIARMID_\n\n\nFionn, the son of Cumhaill, rose early from his bed and went and sat\nupon the clearing of grass that stretched at the foot of the hill of\nAllen, where was the favourite palace of the Irish Kings of Leinster.\nHe had stolen out alone, while his attendants were sleeping, but soon\nhe was missed and two of his men followed him to the green plain.\n\n'Why have you risen so early?' said Ossian as he came up.\n\n'Since my wife died,' answered Fionn, 'little sleep has come to me,\nand better I like to be sitting by the hill-side than to toss\nrestlessly between walls.'\n\n'Why did you not tell us?' answered Ossian, 'for there is not a girl\nin the whole land of Erin whom we would not have brought you by fair\nmeans or foul.'\n\nDearing, who had till now kept silence, then spoke. 'I myself know of\na wife who would be a fitting mate even for Fionn, son of\nCumhaill--Grania, the daughter of Cormac, who is fairer of speech and\nform than the daughters of other men.'\n\nFionn looked up quickly at Dearing's words.\n\n'There has been strife for long between me and Cormac,' said he, 'and\nit is not seemly that I should ask anything of him which might be\nrefused. Therefore go you and Ossian and, as from yourselves, see if\nthis marriage pleases him. It were better that he should refuse you,\nrather than me.'\n\n'Farewell then,' said Ossian, 'but let no man know of our journey till\nwe come back again.'\n\nSo the two went their ways, and found Cormac, King of Erin, holding a\ngreat council on a wide plain, with the chiefs and the great nobles\ngathered before him. He welcomed Ossian and Dearing with courtesy, and\nas he felt sure they bore some message, he bade the council meet again\non the morrow. When the nobles and chiefs had betaken themselves to\ntheir homes, Ossian told the King of Erin that they had come to know\nhis thoughts as to a marriage between his daughter and Fionn, son of\nCumhaill.\n\n'There is not the son of a king or of a great prince, a hero or a\nchampion in the whole of Erin,' answered Cormac, 'whom my daughter has\nnot refused to wed, and it is I whom all hold guilty for it, though it\nis none of my doing. Therefore betake yourselves to my daughter, and\nshe will speak for herself. It is better that you be displeased with\nher than with me.'\n\nThereupon Ossian and Dearing were led by the King to the dwelling of\nthe women, and they found Grania lying on a high couch. 'Here, O\nGrania,' said the King, 'are two of the men of Fionn, the son of\nCumhaill, and they have come to ask you as wife for him. What is your\nanswer?'\n\n'If he be a fitting son-in-law for you, why should he not be a fitting\nhusband for me?' said Grania. And at her words, her father ordered a\nbanquet to be made in the palace for Ossian and Dearing, and sent them\nback to Fionn with a message summoning him to a tryst in a fortnight's\ntime.\n\nWhen Ossian and Dearing were returned into Kildare, they found Fionn\nand his men, the Fenians, on the hill of Allen, and they told them\ntheir tale from the beginning to end. And the heart of Fionn grew\nlight as he heard it, and the fortnight of waiting stretched long\nbefore him. But everything wears away at last, and so did those\nfifteen days; and on the last, Fionn assembled seven battalions of his\nFenians from wherever they might be, and they set forth in troops\nfor the great plain where Cormac, King of Erin, had given them tryst.\n\n[Illustration: GRANIA QUESTIONS THE DRUID]\n\nThe King had made ready a splendid feast, and welcomed the new-comers\ngladly, and they ate and drank together. When the feast was over the\nDruid Derry sang songs before Grania, and she, knowing he was a man of\nwisdom, asked him why Fionn had come thither. 'If you know not that,'\nsaid the Druid, 'it is no wonder that I know it not.'\n\n'I wish to learn it from you,' answered Grania.\n\n'Well then,' replied the Druid, 'it is to ask you for wife that he is\ncome.'\n\n'I marvel,' said Grania, 'that it is not for Ossian that he asks me.\nFor my father himself is not as old as Fionn. But tell me, I pray you,\nwho is that softly spoken man with the curling black hair and ruddy\ncountenance, that sits on the left hand of Ossian, the son of Fionn?'\n\n'That is Diarmid, son of Dowd, the best lover in the whole world.'\n\n'It is a goodly company,' said Grania, and ordered her lady to bring\nher the golden goblet chased with jewels. When it was brought she\nfilled it up with the drink of nine times nine men, then bade her\nhandmaid carry it to Fionn and say that she had sent it to him, and\nthat he was to drink from it. Fionn took the goblet with joy, but no\nsooner had he drunk than he fell down into a deep slumber; and the\nsame thing befel also Cormac, and Cormac's wife, and as many as drank\nof the goblet sent by Grania.\n\nWhen all were sleeping soundly, she rose softly and said to Ossian, 'I\nmarvel that Fionn should ask such a wife as I, for it were fitter that\nhe should give me a husband of my own age than a man older than my\nfather.'\n\n'Say not so, O Grania,' answered Ossian, 'for if Fionn were to hear\nyou, he would not have you, neither should I dare to ask for you.'\n\n'Then you will not listen to word of marriage from me?' asked Grania.\n\n'I will not,' answered Ossian, 'for I must not lay my hand on what\nFionn has looked on.'\n\nThen Grania turned her face to Diarmid Dowd and what she said was,\n'Will you receive courtship from me, O Son of Dowd, since Ossian will\nnot receive it?'\n\n'I will not,' answered Diarmid, 'for whatever woman is betrothed to\nFionn, I may not take her.'\n\n'I will put you under bonds of destruction, O Diarmid,' said Grania,\n'if you take me not out of this house to-night.'\n\n'Those are indeed evil bonds,' answered Diarmid, 'and wherefore have\nyou laid them on me, seeing there is no man less worthy to be loved by\nyou than myself?'\n\n'Not so, O son of Dowd,' said Grania, 'and I will tell you wherefore.'\n\n'One day the King of Erin held a muster on the great plain of Tara,\nand Fionn and his seven battalions were there. And a goaling match was\nplayed, and all took part, save only the King, and Fionn, and myself\nand you, O Diarmid. We watched till the game was going against the men\nof the kingdom of Erin, then you rose, and, taking the pole of the man\nwho was standing by, threw him to the ground, and, joining the others,\ndid thrice win the goal from the warriors of Tara. And I turned the\nlight of my eyes upon you that day, and I never gave that love to any\nother from that time to this, and will not for ever. So to-night we\nwill pass through my wicket-gate, and take heed you follow me.'\n\nAfter she had spoken, Diarmid turned to Ossian and his companions.\n'What shall I do, O Ossian, with the bonds that have been laid on me?'\n\n'Follow Grania,' said Ossian, 'and keep away from the wiles of Fionn.'\n\n'Is that the counsel of you all to me?' asked Diarmid.\n\n'It is the counsel of us all,' said they.\n\nThen Diarmid bade them farewell, and went to the top of the Fort, and\nput the shafts of his two javelins under him, and rose like a bird\ninto the air, and found himself on the plain where Grania met him. 'I\ntrow, O Grania,' said he, 'this is an evil course upon which you are\ncome, for I know not to which corner of Erin I can take you. Return to\nthe town, and Fionn will never harm you.'\n\n'I will never go back,' answered Grania, 'and nothing save death shall\npart us.'\n\n'Then go forward,' said Diarmid.\n\nThe town was a mile behind them when Grania stopped. 'I am weary, son\nof O'Dowd.'\n\n'It is a good time to weary, Grania, for your father's house is still\nnigh at hand, and I give you my word as a warrior that I will never\ncarry you or any woman.'\n\n'You need not do that,' answered Grania, 'for my father's horses are\nin a fenced meadow by themselves, and have chariots behind them. Go\nand bring two horses and a chariot, and I will wait for you here.'\n\nAnd Diarmid did what Grania bade him, and he brought two of the\nhorses, and they journeyed together as far as Athlone.\n\n'It is the easier for Fionn to follow our track,' said Diarmid at\nlast, 'now we have the horses.'\n\n'Then leave them,' cried Grania, 'one on each side of the stream, and\nwe will travel on foot.' So they went on till they reached Galway, and\nthere Diarmid cut down a grove, and made a palisade with seven doors\nof wattles, and gathered together the tops of the birch trees and soft\nrushes for a bed for Grania.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Fionn and all that were in Tara awoke and found that Diarmid and\nGrania were not among them, a burning rage seized upon Fionn. At once\nhe sent out trackers before him, and he followed them himself with\nhis men, till they reached the land of Connaught. 'Ah, well I know\nwhere Grania and Diarmid shall be sought,' cried Fionn. And Ossian and\nDearing heard him, and said to each other, 'We must send Diarmid a\nwarning, lest he should be taken. Look where Bran is, the hound of\nFionn, and he shall take it, for he does not love Fionn better than he\nloves Diarmid, so, Oscar, tell him to go to Diarmid who is in Derry.'\nAnd Oscar told that to Bran, and Bran understood, and stole round to\nthe back part of the army where Fionn might not see him; then he\nbounded away to Derry and thrust his head into Diarmid's bosom as he\nlay asleep.\n\nAt that Diarmid awoke and sprang up and woke Grania, and told her that\nBran had come, which was a token that Fionn himself was coming. 'Fly\nthen,' said Grania; but Diarmid would not fly. 'He may take me now,'\nsaid he, 'seeing he must take me some time.' At his words Grania shook\nwith fear, and Bran departed.\n\nAll this while the friends of Diarmid took counsel together, and they\ndreaded lest Bran had not found them, and they resolved to give them\nanother warning. So they bade the henchman Feargus to give three\nshouts, for every shout could be heard over three counties. And\nDiarmid heard them, and awoke Grania, and told her that it was a\nwarning they had sent him of Fionn. 'Then take that warning,' said\nshe. 'I will not,' answered Diarmid, 'but will stay in this wood till\nFionn comes.' And Grania trembled when she heard him.\n\nBy-and-by the trackers came back to Fionn with news that they had seen\nDiarmid and Grania, and though Ossian and Diarmid's friends tried to\npersuade Fionn that the men had been mistaken, Fionn was not to be\ndeceived. 'Well did I know the meaning of the three shouts of Feargus,\nand why you sent Bran, my own hound, away. But it shall profit him\nnothing, for Diarmid shall not leave Derry till he has paid me for\nevery slight he has put upon me.'\n\n'Great foolishness it is of you, O Fionn,' said Oscar, 'to think that\nDiarmid would stay in this plain waiting to have his head taken from\nhim.'\n\n'Who else would have cut down the trees, and have made a palisade of\nthem, and cut seven doors in it? Speak, O Diarmid, is the truth with\nme or with Oscar?'\n\n'With you, O Fionn,' said Diarmid, 'and truly I and Grania are here.'\n\nWhen he heard this, Fionn bade his men surround Diarmid and take him,\nand Diarmid rose up and kissed Grania three times in presence of Fionn\nand his men, and Fionn, seeing that, swore that Diarmid should pay for\nthose kisses with his head.\n\nBut Angus, the foster-father of Diarmid, knew in what straits his\nfoster-son was, and he stole secretly to the place where Diarmid was\nhidden with Grania, and asked him what he had done to bring his head\ninto such danger. 'This,' said Diarmid; 'Grania, the daughter of\nCormac, King of Erin, has fled with me against my will to escape\nmarriage with Fionn.'\n\n'Then let one of you come under my mantle,' answered Angus, 'and I\nwill carry you out of your prison.'\n\n'Take Grania,' answered Diarmid. 'If I live, then will I follow you,\nbut if not, carry her to her father, and let him deal with her as\nseems good.'\n\nAfter that Angus put Grania under his mantle and they went their ways,\nand neither Fionn nor his Fenians knew of it.\n\nWhen Angus and Grania had left him, Diarmid girded his arms upon him,\nand standing at one of the seven wattled doors, asked who stood\nbehind. 'No foe to you,' answered a voice, 'but Ossian, the son of\nFionn, and Oscar, the son of Ossian, and others who are your friends.\nCome out, and none will do you hurt.'\n\n'I will not open the door until I find out where Fionn himself is.'\nAnd so it befel at six of the doors, and Diarmid would not open them,\nlest his friends should come under the wrath of Fionn. But as he drew\nnear the seventh, and put his question, the answer came loud: 'Here\nare Fionn, the son of Cumhaill, and four hundred of his servants, and\nwe bear you no love, and if you come out we will tear your bones in\nsunder.'\n\n'I pledge my word,' said Diarmid, 'that yours is the first door by\nwhich I will pass,' and he rose into the air on the shafts of his\njavelins, with a bound as light as a bird's, and went far beyond Fionn\nand his people, and they knew nothing of it. Then he looked back and\nshouted that he had got the better of them, and followed after the\ntrack of Angus and Grania.\n\nHe found them warm in a hut with a fire in it, watching a wild boar\nroasting on a spit, and Grania's soul almost left her body for joy at\nseeing Diarmid. They told their stories before the fire, and when\nmorning broke Angus rose and said to Diarmid, 'I must now depart, O\nson of O'Dowd, and this counsel I leave you. Go not into a tree having\nbut one trunk, when you fly before Fionn. And go not to a cave of the\nearth having only one door, or to an island which can only be reached\nby one channel. And in whatever place you cook your meal, there eat it\nnot; and in whatever place you eat, there lie not; and in whatever\nplace you lie down to sleep, there rise not on the morrow.' So saying,\nhe bade them farewell, and went his way.\n\nThe next day Diarmid and Grania journeyed up the Shannon, and they\nkilled a salmon, and crossed the river to eat it, as Angus had told\nthem. Soon they met a youth called Muadan, who wished to take service\nwith them; and he was strong, and carried them over the rivers across\ntheir path. When evening came they found a cave, where Muadan spread\nout soft rushes and birch twigs for Diarmid and Grania to lie on, and\nas soon as they were asleep he stole into the next wood, and broke a\nlong straight rod from a tree, and put a hair line and a hook upon\nit, and a holly berry on the rod, and fished in the stream. In three\ncasts he had taken three fish. That night they ate a good supper, and\nwhile Diarmid and Grania slept, Muadan kept watch for them.\n\nAt dawn Diarmid woke Grania and told her to watch while Muadan slept,\nas he was going to climb a hill near by, and see where they had best\ngo.\n\nHe soon stood on the top and looked round about him. In front of him\nwas a great company of ships bearing towards him out of the west. They\nlanded at the foot of the hill where Diarmid stood, and he swiftly ran\ndown to meet them and to ask of what country they were.\n\n'We are three royal chiefs,' said they, 'and are sent by Fionn to take\nan enemy of his whom he has outlawed, called Diarmid O'Dowd. And with\nus are three fierce hounds whom we will loose upon his track. Fire\nburns them not, nor water drowns them, nor weapons wound them, and of\nus there are two thousand men. Moreover, tell us who you yourself are,\nand if you have any tidings of the son of O'Dowd.'\n\n'I am but a warrior walking the world with the strength of my arm and\nthe blade of my sword. But I warn you, you will have no common man to\ndeal with if you meet Diarmid, whom but yesterday I saw.'\n\n'Well, no one has been found yet,' said they.\n\n'Is there wine in your ships?' asked Diarmid.\n\n'There is,' answered they.\n\n'If you would bring a tun of it here, I would do a trick for you.' So\nthe wine was sent for, and Diarmid raised the cask up and drank from\nit, and took it up to the top of the hill and stood on it, and it\nglided with him to the bottom. And that trick he did thrice, standing\non the tun as it came and went. But the strangers only scoffed, and\nthey told him they could do a much better trick than that, and one of\nthem jumped on the tun. Then, before it could move, Diarmid gave the\ntun a kick, and the young man fell, and the tun rolled over and\ncrushed him. And in like manner he did to many more, and the rest fled\nback to their ships.\n\nThe next morning they came to Diarmid where he stood on the hill, and\nhe asked if they would like him to show them any more tricks, but they\nsaid they would rather hear some news of Diarmid first. 'I have seen a\nman who met him to-day,' answered Diarmid, and thereupon he laid his\nweapons on the ground and bounded upwards upon his javelin, coming\ndown lightly beyond the host.\n\n'If you call that a feat, then you have never seen a feat,' said a\nyoung warrior of the green Fenians--for so were they called from the\ncolour of their armour. And he rose in like manner on his javelin and\ncame down heavily on it, and it pierced his heart. Diarmid drew out\nthe javelin, and another man took it and tried to do the same thing,\nand he also was slain, and so to the number of fifty. And they went to\ntheir ships while Diarmid returned to Muadan and Grania.\n\nAs soon as Diarmid awoke he went to the forest and cut two forked\npoles, which he took to the hill and placed upright, and he balanced\nthe sword of Angus across the top. Then he rose lightly over and came\ndown safely over it. 'Is there any man among you who can do that?'\nasked he of the men who had come up from their ships.\n\n'That is a foolish question,' answered one, 'for no man ever did a\nfeat in Erin which one of us could not do,' and he arose and leapt\nover the sword, but his foot caught in it, and he was cut in half.\nAfter that others tried, but none jumped that sword and lived. 'Have\nyou any tidings of the son of O'Dowd?' asked the rest at last.\n\n'I have seen him that saw him to-day,' answered Diarmid. 'I will seek\ntidings of him to-night.' And he returned to Grania.\n\nWhen the sun rose Diarmid put on his coat of mail which no sword could\npierce, and girded on the sword of Angus, and took his two javelins,\nwhose stroke none could cure. Grania trembled at this brave sight, but\nDiarmid soothed her fears, and went off to meet the Fenians.\n\n'What tidings of the son of O'Dowd?' said they. 'Show us where he is,\nthat we may take his head to Fionn.'\n\n'The body and life of Diarmid are under my protection, and I will not\nbetray him.'\n\n'Then we will take your head, as Fionn is your enemy,' said they.\n\n'Take it if you can,' answered Diarmid, and he drew his sword and\nstruck at the head of the man next him, and it rolled away from the\nbody. Then he rushed on the host, and slew them right and left, and\nnone lived to tell the tale but the three green chiefs and a few men\nwho went back to their ships. And they returned the next morning and\nrenewed the fight, but Diarmid vanquished them, and binding them fast,\nleft them where they were. For he knew that there were only four men\nin the world that could loose them.\n\nAfter this Diarmid called to Grania and Muadan to come with him, and\nthey travelled till Grania grew weary, and Muadan carried her on his\nback to the foot of a great mountain. And there they rested on the\nbank of the stream.\n\nMeanwhile the few men who had been left alive abandoned their ship,\nand sought the three chiefs who were lying bound on the hill. They\ntried to loosen the bands of the captives, but only drew them tighter.\n\nSoon they saw the witch-messenger of Fionn coming over the tops of the\nhills skimming from one to the other as lightly as a swallow.\n\n'Who has made this great slaughter?' said she.\n\n'Who are you that ask?' said they.\n\n'I am Deirdre, the witch-messenger of Fionn, and he has sent me to\nlook for you.'\n\n'We know not who the man was,' answered they, 'but his hair was black\nand curly, and his countenance ruddy. And he has bound our three\nchiefs, so that we cannot loose them.'\n\n'It was Diarmid himself,' said she; 'so loosen your hounds on his\ntrack, and I will send Fionn and his Fenians to help you.'\n\nThe men went down to their ships, and brought out their hounds, and\nloosened them on the track of Diarmid. The hounds made straight for\nthe door of the cave, and the men followed them; and the hounds left\nthe cave, and set forth westwards.\n\nBut Diarmid knew not of their coming till he saw silken banners\nwaving, and three mighty warriors marching at the head. And he was\nfilled with hatred of them, and went his ways, and Muadan took Grania\non his back and bore her a mile along the mountain.\n\nIt was not long before they heard the hound coming, and Muadan bade\nDiarmid follow Grania, and he would keep the hound at bay. And when he\nhad slain the hound, he departed after Diarmid and Grania.\n\nThen the second hound was loosened, and Diarmid waited till he came\nclose, so that he could take sure aim; and he cast his javelin into\nthe hound and it fell dead like its fellow, and having drawn his\njavelin, he followed after Grania.\n\nThey had not gone much farther before the third hound was upon them.\nHe bounded straight over the head of Diarmid, and would have seized\nGrania, but Diarmid took hold of his two hind legs, and swung him so\nfiercely against a rock that he was slain on the spot. And when that\nwas done, Diarmid put on his arms, and slipped his little finger into\nthe silken string of the javelin, and cast it straight at a youth in a\ngreen mantle that had outstripped his fellows, and slew him; and so to\nthe rest, while Deirdre, the witch, wheeled and hovered about them\nall.\n\nNow when news of the green Fenians that were bound by Diarmid reached\nFionn he summoned his men, and they took the shortest ways till they\nreached the hill of slaughter. Then Fionn spoke, and what he said was,\n'O Ossian, loose the three chiefs for me.'\n\n'I will not,' replied Ossian, 'for Diarmid bound me not to loose any\nwarrior that he should bind.'\n\n'O Oscar, loose them,' said Fionn.\n\n'Nay,' answered Oscar, 'rather would I place more bands upon them.'\nAnd so said the other two, and, before their eyes, the chiefs died of\ntheir bondage. So Fionn ordered their graves to be dug, and their flag\nlaid upon their stone, and the heart of Fionn was heavy.\n\nHe raised his head and saw drawing near Deirdre, the witch, her legs\ntrembling, her tongue raving, and her eyes dropping out of her head.\n'I have great and evil tidings for you,' said she, and she told him of\nall the slaughter Diarmid had made, and how she herself had hardly\nescaped.\n\n'Whither went the son of O'Dowd?' asked Fionn.\n\n'I know not,' said she. At that Fionn and his Fenians departed, and\nwandered far before they could hear news of Diarmid.\n\nOn the road that led to the county of Galway, Fionn saw fifty stout\nwarriors coming towards him. 'I know not who they are,' said Fionn,\n'yet I think they are enemies of mine'; and, indeed, this proved to be\nso, for the leaders of the company told Fionn that his father and\ntheir fathers had fought in battle. 'Then you must give me payment for\nthe death of my father,' said Fionn, 'and in return you shall have\npower among the Fenians.'\n\n'But we have neither silver, nor gold, nor herds, O Fionn,' answered\nthe two young men.\n\n'I want none of these,' replied Fionn; 'the payment I ask is but the\nhead of a warrior, or a handful of berries from the magic tree of\nDooros.'\n\n'Take counsel from me,' cried Ossian, 'for it is no light matter to\nbring to Fionn that which he asks of you. The head is the head of\nDiarmid, son of Dowd, and if there were two thousand of you instead of\nfifty, Diarmid would not let it go.'\n\n'And what are the berries that Fionn asks of us?' said they.\n\n'Those berries would never have been heard of but for the jealousy of\ntwo women of different tribes, each of whom swore that her husband\ncould hurl a pole farther than the other. So all the rest of the\ntribes came out to take part in the goaling match, and the game lasted\nlong, and neither won a goal. At last the tribe of the Tuatha De\nDenann saw that the Fenians were stronger than they, and they went\naway bearing their provisions with them--nuts, and apples, and\nfragrant berries. And as they passed near the river Moy one of the\nberries fell, and turned into a quicken tree. No disease or sickness\ncan touch anyone who eats three of its berries, and were he a hundred\nyears old, the eater of them shall become no more than thirty.\n\n'Since those days the tribe has set a guard over it. He is a crooked\ngiant, with an eye in the midst of his forehead. No weapon can wound\nhim, and he can only die of three strokes from his own iron club. At\nnight he sleeps on the top of the tree, and by day watches at the\nfoot. Around him is a wilderness, and the Fenians dare not hunt there,\nfor fear of that terrible one. These are the berries which Fionn asks\nof you.'\n\nBut Aod, the son of Andala, spoke and declared that he would rather\ndie seeking those berries than return to his own land with his head\nbowed in shame. So he and Angus his cousin took farewell of Ossian and\nwent their ways, and as they drew near the forest they came on the\ntrack of Diarmid; and they followed to the tent, where they found him\nwith Grania. 'Who are you?' asked Diarmid.\n\n[Illustration: Diarmid Seizes The Giant's Club]\n\n'We are Aod and Angus of the Clan Moirna,' said Aod, 'and it is\nyour head that we seek, Diarmid, son of O'Dowd. For Fionn will either\nhave that, or a handful of berries from the quicken tree.'\n\n'Neither task is easy,' answered Diarmid, 'and woe to him that falls\nunder the power of Fionn. He it was who slew your father, and surely\nthat is payment enough. And whichever of those things you take him,\nyou shall never have peace.'\n\n'What berries are those that Fionn wants?' asked Grania, 'and why\ncannot they be got for him?' Then Diarmid told her the story, and how\nthe country round was laid waste. 'But when Fionn put me under his\nban,' continued he, 'the giant gave me leave to hunt there if I would,\nbut forbade me to touch the berries. And now, O children of Moirna,\nwill you fight me or seek the berries?'\n\n'We will fight you first,' said they.\n\nThey fought long and well, but Diarmid got the better of them both,\nand bound them on the spot where they fell. 'You struck valiantly,'\nsaid Grania to Diarmid, 'but I vow that even if the children of Moirna\ngo not after those berries, I will never rest in my bed till I have\neaten them.'\n\n'Force me not to break faith with the giant,' answered Diarmid, 'for\nhe would not give them me more readily for that.'\n\n'Loose our bonds,' said the children of Moirna, 'and we will go with\nyou, and give ourselves for your sake.'\n\n'Not so,' answered Diarmid, 'for the sight of him might kill you.'\n\n'Then let us go to watch you fight, before you cut off our heads.' And\nDiarmid did so.\n\nThey found the giant asleep before the tree, and Diarmid pushed him\nwith his foot.\n\nThe giant raised his head and looked at him: 'Are you fain to break\npeace, O Diarmid?'\n\n'Not I,' answered he, 'but Grania my wife is ill, and she longs for\nthe taste of your berries, and it is to get a handful of them that I\nam now come.'\n\n'If she should die,' said the giant, 'she should have none.'\n\n'I may not do you treachery,' replied Diarmid, 'therefore I tell you I\nwill have them by fair means or foul.'\n\nThe giant having heard that, stood up and dealt Diarmid three mighty\nstrokes with his club, so that he staggered. Then, flinging down his\nweapons, he sprang upon the giant and grasped the club between his\nhands, hurling the giant to the ground by the weight of his body.\nWithout giving him time to rise, Diarmid struck three blows with the\nclub at the giant's head and he died without a word.\n\nAod and Angus had watched the combat, and now came forth. 'Bury the\ngiant under the brushwood of the forest,' said Diarmid, 'so that\nGrania may not see him, and then go and bring her to me, for I am very\nweary.'\n\nAnd the young men did so. 'There, Grania, are the berries you asked\nfor,' said Diarmid when she came, but she swore that she would not\ntaste a berry except he plucked it for her. So he plucked the berries\nfor her and for the children of Moirna, and they ate their fill of\nthem. 'Now go,' said he, 'take as many berries as you can to Fionn,\nand tell him that it was you who slew the giant.' And they gave thanks\nto Diarmid and left him, and he and Grania went to sleep on the top of\nthe tree where the sweetest berries grew.\n\nThe children of Moirna reached Fionn, and bowed before him. 'We have\nslain the giant,' said they, 'and have brought you the berries, and\nnow we shall have peace for the death of our father.' Fionn took the\nberries into his hand, and stooped down and smelt them. 'I swear,' he\ncried, 'that it was Diarmid O'Dowd who gathered these berries, and\nfull sure I am that it was he who slew the giant. I will follow him\nto the quicken tree, and it shall profit you nothing to have brought\nthe berries to me.'\n\nWith seven battalions of his Fenians, he marched along Diarmid's track\ntill he reached the foot of the quicken tree, and finding the berries\nwith no watch on them, they ate their fill. The sun was hot, and Fionn\nsaid he would stay at the foot of the tree till it grew cooler, as\nwell he knew that Diarmid was at the top. 'You judge foolishly,'\nanswered Ossian, 'to think that Diarmid would stay up there when he\nknows that you are bent on his death.'\n\nIn spite of the heat and his long march, Fionn could not sleep, and\ncalled for a chess-board, and bade Ossian play with him. Fionn was the\nmost skilled, and at length he said, 'There is but one move that can\nsave you the game, O Ossian, and I dare all that are by to show you\nthat move.' And in the top of the tree Diarmid heard him, and said, 'O\nOssian, why am I not there to show you?'\n\n'It is worse for you to be here in the power of Fionn, than for Ossian\nto lack that move,' answered Grania.\n\nBut Diarmid plucked one of the berries, and aimed it at the man which\nshould be moved, and Ossian moved it, and turned the game against\nFionn. And so he did a second time, and a third, when Ossian was in\nstraits, and he won the game and the Fenians sent up a great shout.\n\n'I marvel not at your winning, O Ossian, seeing that Oscar is doing\nhis best for you, and that the skilled knowledge of Dearing, and the\nprompting of Diarmid, are all with you.'\n\n'Now your eyes must be blinded, O Fionn, to think that Diarmid would\nstay in that tree when you are beneath him.'\n\n'Which of us has the truth on his side, O Diarmid?' said Fionn,\nlooking up.\n\n'Never did you err in your wisdom, O Fionn,' answered Diarmid, 'and\ntruly, I and Grania are here.' Then, in presence of them all, he\nkissed Grania three times. 'Thou shalt give thy head for those three\nkisses,' said Fionn.\n\nSo Fionn and the four hundred that were with him surrounded the\nquicken tree, and he bade them on pain of death not to let Diarmid\npass through them. Further, he promised to whichever man should go up\nthe tree and fetch down Diarmid, he would give him arms and armour,\nand whatever place his father held among the Fenians. But Angus heard\nwhat Fionn said, and being somewhat of a wizard, came to Diarmid's\nhelp, without being seen of the Fenians. And one man after another\nrolled down the tree.\n\nHowbeit, both Diarmid and Angus felt that this was no place for\nGrania, and Angus said he would take her with him.\n\n'Take her,' answered Diarmid; 'if I be alive this evening I will\nfollow you. If not, send Grania to her father at Tara.' And with that\nAngus bade farewell to Diarmid, and flung his magic mantle over\nhimself and Grania, and they passed out and no man knew aught of them\ntill they reached the river Boyne.\n\nWhen they were safely gone, Diarmid, son of O'Dowd, spoke from the top\nof the tree. 'I will go down to you, O Fionn, and to the Fenians, and\nwill deal slaughter and discomfiture upon you and your people, seeing\nthat I know your wish is to allow me no escape, but to work my death\nafter some manner. Moreover, I have no friend who will help or protect\nme, since full often have I wrought havoc among the warriors of the\nworld, for love of you. For there never came on you battle or strait,\nbut I would plunge into it for your sake, and for that of the Fenians.\nTherefore I swear, O Fionn, that thou shalt not get me for nothing.'\n\n'Diarmid speaks truth,' said Oscar. 'Grant him, I pray you, mercy and\nforgiveness.'\n\n[Illustration: Diarmid & Grania in the Quicken Tree]\n\n'I will not,' answered Fionn, 'till he has paid for every slight put\nupon me.'\n\n'It is a foul shame in thee to say that,' said Oscar, 'and I pledge\nthe word of a soldier that unless the heavens fall upon me or the\nearth opens under my feet, I will not suffer you nor your Fenians to\nstrike him a single blow, and I will take him under my protection, and\nkeep him safe in spite of you all. Therefore, O Diarmid, come down out\nof the tree, since Fionn will not grant you mercy. 'I will pledge that\nno evil will come to you to-day.'\n\nSo Diarmid rose, and stood upon the topmost bough of the tree, and\nleapt light and birdlike, by the shafts of his spears, and passed out\nfar beyond Fionn and the Fenians of Erin. And he and Oscar went their\nway, and no tidings were heard of them till they reached Grania and\nAngus on the banks of the Boyne.\n\nAfter Diarmid and Oscar had departed, Fionn ordered a ship to be made\nready, and as soon as it was done he marched on board with a thousand\nof his warriors and set sail for the north of Scotland. When he\narrived at the harbour nearest the King's palace, he moored his ship\nand took the path to the palace, where the King received him kindly,\nand gave him food and drink. Then Fionn told the King why he was come.\n'And truly you should give me a host,' said he, 'for Diarmid it was\nwho slew your father and two brothers and many of your men besides.'\n\n'That is so,' answered the King, 'and I will give you my two sons,\nwith a thousand men to each of them.' Joyful was Fionn to hear this,\nand he departed with his company, and nothing was known of them till\nthey reached the Boyne, where Fionn challenged Diarmid and Angus to\nbattle.\n\n'What shall I do touching this, O Oscar?' asked Diarmid.\n\n'We will give them battle and slay them all,' answered Oscar.\n\nOn the morrow Diarmid and Oscar rose, and put on their armour and went\ntheir way to the place of combat, where they bound the rims of their\nshields together, so that they might not be parted in the fight. Next\nthey proclaimed battle against Fionn, and the Scots said they would\nland and fight them first. They rushed together, and Diarmid passed\nunder them and through them and over them, as a whale would go through\nsmall fish. And all of them fell by Diarmid and Oscar before night\ncame, while they themselves had neither cut nor wound.\n\nWhen Fionn saw that great slaughter he and his men put out to sea, and\nsailed to the cave where dwelt an old woman, Fionn's nurse. And he\ntold her his story from the beginning. 'I will go with you,' said she,\n'and will practise magic against him.'\n\nThey came to the Boyne, and the witch threw magic over Fionn and his\nFenians, so that the men of Erin knew not they were there; and that\nday Diarmid was hunting alone, for he had parted from Oscar the day\nbefore. Now the witch knew this, and she flew to where a water-lily\nleaf lay with a hole in the middle of it, and as the wind lifted the\nleaf from the surface of the water she cast deadly darts at Diarmid\nthrough the hole, and did him great hurt. And every evil that had come\nupon him was little compared with that evil. Then he felt that unless\nhe could strike her through the hole in the leaf she would slay him on\nthe spot; so he lay down on his back and took his javelin in his hand,\nand reached her through the hole, and she fell dead.\n\nAfter that he cut off her head and carried it with him to Angus.\n\nThe next day Diarmid rose early and Angus with him, and they went to\nFionn and asked if he would make peace with Diarmid, and also to\nCormac, King of Erin, with a like question; and they agreed thereto,\nand asked Diarmid what terms he wanted. Diarmid demanded several of\nthe best baronies in Ireland, and he got them, and they blotted out\nall Diarmid had done during the sixteen years of his outlawry, and\nCormac gave his other daughter to Fionn that he might let Diarmid be,\nand there was peace for many years, and Diarmid prospered mightily,\nand had four sons and one daughter.\n\n\nTHE GREEN BOAR\n\n\nBut one day a restless spirit seized on Grania, and she told Diarmid\nthat it was a shame to them that the two greatest men in Erin, Cormac\nand Fionn, had never visited their house, and she wished to give a\nsplendid feast and to bid them to it. And this was done: for a year\nGrania and her daughter were preparing the feast, and when it was\nready the guests came, and stayed feasting for a year.\n\nIt was on the last day of the year that in his sleep Diarmid heard the\nvoice of a dog that caused him to start and to wake Grania. 'What is\nthe matter?' said she, and Diarmid told her. 'May you be kept safely,'\nanswered Grania; 'lie down again.' So Diarmid lay down, but no sleep\nwould come to him, and by-and-by he heard the hound's voice again, but\nagain Grania kept him from seeking it. This time he fell into a deep\nslumber, and a third time the hound bayed, and he woke and said to\nGrania, 'Now it is day, and I will go.' 'Well, then,' said she, 'take\nyour large sword and the red javelin.' But Diarmid answered, 'No, I\nwill take the little sword that bites, and the small javelin, and my\nfavourite hound on a chain.'\n\nSo he went without stopping to the top of a mountain, where Fionn\nstood alone. Diarmid asked if he was hunting, and Fionn said no, but\nthat after midnight a company of Fenians had come out, and one of the\nhounds had crossed the track of the wild boar of Ben Gulbain, which\nhad slain thirty Fenians that morning.\n\n'He is even now coming up this mountain against us,' added he, 'so let\nus leave the place.'\n\n'I will never leave the place for him,' answered Diarmid.\n\n'Know you not that when you were a child a wizard prophesied that you\nshould live as long as a green boar without ears or tail, and that it\nwas by him that you should fall at last?'\n\n'No, I knew nothing of these things, but for all that I will not leave\nthe mountain,' answered Diarmid. And Fionn went his way, and Diarmid\nstood alone on the top. 'It was to slay me that you made this hunt, O\nFionn; and if it is fated that I die here, die I must.'\n\nThe wild boar came tearing up the mountain, and behind him followed\nthe Fenians. Diarmid slipped his hound, but it profited him nothing,\nfor he did not await the boar, but fled before him. 'Woe unto him that\ndoeth not the counsel of a good wife,' said Diarmid to himself, 'for\nGrania bade me take my best hound and my red javelin.' Then he aimed\ncarefully at the boar's head, and smote him in the middle of his\nforehead; but he did not so much as cut one of his bristles, far less\npierce his skin. At that Diarmid felt his heart quail like those of\nweaker men, and he drew his sword and dealt the boar a stout blow, but\nthe sword broke in two; and the beast stood unharmed. With a spring he\nthrew himself upon Diarmid, so that he tripped and fell, and somehow\nwhen he rose up he was sitting astride the back of the boar, with his\nface looking towards the tail. The boar tried to fling him off but\ncould not, though he rushed down the hill and jumped three times\nbackwards and forwards out of the river at the foot; but Diarmid never\nstirred, and at last the boar dashed up the hill again, and Diarmid\nfell from his back. Then the boar sprang upon Diarmid with a mighty\nspring, and wounded him mortally; but Diarmid swung his broken\nsword about his head as he lay, and hit the boar such a blow on his\nhead that where he stood there he fell dead.\n\n[Illustration: The Death of Diarmid]\n\nNot long after that Fionn and his Fenians came up and watched Diarmid,\nwho was dying fast. 'It pleases me well to see you in that plight, O\nDiarmid,' said Fionn, 'and I grieve that all the fair women of Erin\ncannot see you also.'\n\n'If you wished you could still heal me, O Fionn,' answered Diarmid.\n\n'How could I heal you, O Diarmid?'\n\n'Easily,' answered Diarmid. 'Was it not given to you that whoever\nshould drink from the palms of your hands should become young and\nwhole again?'\n\n'You have not deserved that I should give you that drink,' said Fionn.\n\n'That is not true, O Fionn, well have I deserved it of you. Was it not\nI who avenged you and slew fifty of your enemies who tried to set on\nfire the house wherein you were holding your great feast? Had I asked\nyou for such a drink then, you would have given it to me, and now I\ndeserve it no less.'\n\n'Not so,' answered Fionn; 'you have deserved ill at my hands since\nthat time, and little reason have I to give you drinks or any good\nthing. For did you not bear away Grania from me before all the men of\nErin the night you were set as guard over her in Tara?'\n\n'The guilt of that was not mine, O Fionn, but Grania besought me, else\nI would not have failed to keep my charge for all the bonds in the\nworld. And well do I deserve you should give me a drink, for many is\nthe day since I came among the Fenians in which I have perilled my\nlife for your sake. Therefore you should not do me this foul\ntreachery. And soon a dire defeat will come upon the Fenians, and few\nchildren will be left to them to carry on the race. It is not for you\nthat I grieve, O Fionn, but for Ossian and for Oscar, and for the\nrest of my faithful comrades. And you shall lack me sorely yet, O\nFionn.'\n\n'I am near of kin to you, O Fionn,' said Oscar, 'but you shall not do\nDiarmid this wrong. Further, I swear that were any other prince in the\nworld to have done this to Diarmid, we would have seen whose hand was\nstrongest and who should bring him a drink.'\n\n'I know no well upon this mountain,' answered Fionn.\n\n'That is not true,' replied Diarmid, 'for nine paces from this is the\nbest well of pure water in the world.'\n\nSo Fionn went to the well and filled his palms with water; but he had\nonly come half way to where Diarmid lay when he let the water run down\nbetween his fingers. 'The water would not stay in my hands,' he said,\nas he reached the rest.\n\n'You spilt it of your will,' answered Diarmid.\n\nFor the second time Fionn set out to fetch the water, but returning he\nthought of Grania, and let it run upon the ground. Diarmid saw and\nsighed piteously. 'I swear by my sword,' cried Oscar, 'that if this\ntime you bring not that water either you or I, O Fionn, shall leave\nour body here.'\n\nAnd Fionn trembled when he heard those words, and brought back the\nwater, but as he came to his side the life went out of Diarmid. And\nthe company of the Fenians raised three exceeding great cries; while\nOscar looked fiercely at Fionn, and told him it had been better for\nthe Fenians had Fionn himself died, and not Diarmid. Then Fionn left\nthe top of the mountain, leading Diarmid's hound, and his Fenians came\nafter. But Ossian and Oscar and two others returned and laid their\nfour mantles over Diarmid, and when they had done that they went their\nways after Fionn.\n\nNow Grania was standing on the ramparts of her house when she saw\nFionn and the Fenians approaching. She said to herself that if Diarmid\nwere alive it was not Fionn who would lead his hound, and at this\nthought she swooned and fell heavily over the battlements. Ossian's\nheart was full of pity, and he bade Fionn and the Fenians to go, and\nran himself to help her, but she lifted her head and begged that Fionn\nwould leave her the hound of Diarmid. Fionn said No, he would not; but\nOssian took the stag-hound from Fionn's hand and put it into Grania's,\nand then followed after the Fenians.\n\nWhen they had gone, Grania uttered a loud and grievous cry that was\nheard far round, so that the people came to her and asked her what was\nthe matter, and when she told them that Diarmid was dead they sat down\nand wailed also. After that Grania sent five hundred men to bring her\nthe body of Diarmid.\n\nThat night it was shown to Angus in a dream that Diarmid was dead on\nBen Gulbain; and he was carried by the wind, and reached the place at\nthe same moment as Grania's men, who knew him, and held out the\ninsides of their shields to him in token of peace. And they sent up\nthree exceeding great cries, which were heard even at the gates of\nheaven.\n\nThen Angus spoke: 'There has not been one night since I took you, an\ninfant of nine months old, to the Boyne that I have not watched over\nyou, O Diarmid, until last night, when Fionn did you basely to death,\nfor all you were at peace with him.' And he told Grania's men he\nhimself would bear Diarmid's body to the Boyne. So the dead man was\nplaced on a gilded bier with his javelins over him pointed upwards,\nand the men of Grania returned to their mistress, and said as Angus\nhad bade them.\n\nThe first thing she did was to send messengers to her sons, who lived\neach in his own house, and bade them come with their followings to the\nhouse of Grania, for that their father Diarmid had been foully slain\nby Fionn. They all came forthwith, and after they had eaten and drunk\nshe pointed to the weapons and arms of Diarmid, and said they were\ntheirs, and by them they should learn all arts of brave men, till they\nshould reach their full strength, and after that they should avenge\nthemselves on Fionn.\n\nThe sayings of Grania were whispered in the ears of Fionn, and a great\nfear fell upon him. He called his Fenians together, and told them how\nthe sons of Diarmid had gone to their mother, and returned to their\nown homes again. 'It is to rebel against me that they have done this,'\nand he asked counsel in the matter. 'The guilt is yours and no other\nman's,' spoke Ossian, 'and we will not stand by you, for you slew\nDiarmid in time of peace.'\n\nWithout Ossian, Oscar, and their men Fionn knew that he could not\nconquer Grania, and resolved to try what cunning would do. So he\nslipped away secretly, and went to her house, and greeted her with\nsoft words, in reply to her bitter ones. But so cunning was he that at\nlast her wrath broke down, and she agreed to go with him back to his\nFenians.\n\nIt was a long while before the Fenians knew who that could be walking\nby the side of Fionn, but when they did they laughed and mocked till\nGrania bowed her head for shame. 'This time, O Fionn, you will guard\nher well,' said Ossian.\n\nFor seven years the sons of Diarmid exercised themselves in all the\nskill of a warrior, and then they came back to Grania's house. There\nthey learned how long ago Grania had fled with Fionn, and in wrath\nthey set out to seek Fionn, and proclaimed battle against him. Fionn\nsent Dearing to ask how many men it would take to fight them, and they\nanswered that each one of them would fight a hundred. So Fionn brought\nfour hundred men, and the young men rushed under them and through them\nand over them, till there was not a man left. 'What shall we do\nconcerning these youths, O Grania,' said Fionn, 'for I have not men\nenough to go through many such fights?'\n\n'I will visit them,' answered Grania, 'and will try to make peace\nbetween you.'\n\nAnd Fionn bade her offer them terms such as no man then living would\nrefuse, yet for long the young men did refuse them. But at the last\nthe prayers of Grania prevailed, and peace was made, and Fionn and\nGrania lived together till they died.[3]\n\n[Footnote 3: From the Transactions of the Ossianic Society.]\n\n\n\n\nSOME ADVENTURES\n\nOF\n\nWILLIAM SHORT NOSE\n\n\n\n\n_SOME_\n\n_ADVENTURES OF WILLIAM SHORT NOSE_\n\n\nWilliam Short Nose was also styled William of Orange, quite a\ndifferent man from the one who came to be King of England, although\nthey both took their title from the same small town in the south of\nFrance. This William of Orange spent his life battling with the\nSaracens in the south of France, and a very hard task he had, for\ntheir numbers seemed endless, and as fast as one army was beaten\nanother was gathered together.\n\nNow by a great effort the Infidels had been driven back south in the\nyear 732, but before a hundred years had passed they had again crossed\nthe Pyrenees and were streaming over France, south of the Loire, and,\nwhat was worse, the men of Gascony were rising too. Someone had to\nmeet the enemy and to crush the rebels, and of all the subjects of\nKing Louis, the son of the Emperor Charles, no one was so fit to lead\nthe army of the Franks as William Short Nose, Count of Orange, husband\nof the Lady Gibourc.\n\nIt was at the Aliscans that he met them, and a great host they were,\nspreading over the country till whichever way you looked you saw men\nflocking round the Golden Dragon, which was the banner of the\nSaracens. But it was not Count William's way to think about numbers,\nand he ordered his trumpeters to sound the charge. Spurring his horse,\nhe dashed from one part of the fight to the other, striking and\nkilling as he went, and heeding as little the wounds that he got as\nthose that he gave, and _they_ were many. The Franks whom he led\nfollowed after him, and slew the Pagans as they came on; but the\nChristians were in comparison but a handful, and their enemies as the\nsands of the sea. The young warriors whom William had brought with him\nwere prisoners or dying men, and from far he saw Vivian, whom he loved\nthe best, charging a multitude with his naked sword. 'Montjoie!\nMontjoie!' cried he, 'O noble Count! O Bertrand my cousin, come to my\naid! O my Lady Gibourc, never more shall my eyes look upon you!'\n\nBertrand heard and pressed to his side. 'Ride to the river,' he said,\n'and I will protect you with my life'; but Vivian was too weak even to\nsit on his horse, and fell half fainting at the feet of Bertrand.\n\nAt this moment there rode at them a large troop of Saracens, headed by\ntheir King Haucebier, and the Christian Knights knew that all was\nlost. 'It is too late now for me to think of life,' said Vivian, 'but\nI will die fighting,' and again they faced their enemies till\nBertrand's horse was killed under him. Then Vivian seized the horse of\na dead Infidel, and thrust the bridle into Bertrand's hand, 'Fly, for\nGod's sake, it is your only chance. Where is my uncle? If he is dead\nwe have lost the battle.'\n\nBut Bertrand did not fly, though every instant made the danger more\ndeadly. 'If I forsake you, if I take flight,' he said, 'I shall bring\neternal shame upon myself.'\n\n'No, no,' cried Vivian, 'seek my uncle down there in the Aliscans, and\nbring him to my aid.'\n\n'Never till my sword breaks,' answered Bertrand, and laid about him\nharder than ever. And to their joy they heard a war cry sounding in\ntheir ears, and five Frankish Counts, cousins of Vivian and of\nBertrand, galloped up. Fight they did with all their might, but none\nfought like Vivian. 'Heavens! what a warrior!' cried the Counts as\nthey saw his blows, while the Saracens asked themselves if the man\nwhom they had killed at mid-day had been brought back to life by the\nhelp of devils. 'If we let them escape now we shall be covered with\nshame before Mahomet,' said they, 'but ere night falls William shall\nacknowledge that he is conquered.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Bertrand, and with his cousins he fell upon them till\nthey fled.\n\nThe Counts were victors on this field, but, wounded and weary as they\nwere, another combat lay before them, for a force of twenty thousand\nSaracens was advancing from the valley. Their hearts never failed\nthem, but they had no strength left; the young Counts were all taken\nprisoners, except Vivian, who was left for dead by the side of a\nfountain where he had been struck down. 'O Father in Heaven,' he said,\nfeeling his life going from him, 'forgive me my sins, and help my\nuncle, if it is Thy holy will.'\n\nWilliam Short Nose was still fighting, though he knew that the victory\nlay with the Unbelievers and their hosts. 'We are beaten,' he said to\nthe fourteen faithful comrades that stood by him. 'Listen as you will,\nno sound of our war cry can be heard. But by the Holy Rood, the\nInfidels will know no rest while I am alive. I will give my\nforefathers no cause for shame, and the minstrels shall not tell in\ntheir songs how I fell back before the enemy.'\n\nThey then gave battle once more, and fought valiantly, till all lay\ndead upon the ground, save only William himself.\n\nNow the Count knew that if the Infidel was ever to be vanquished and\nbeaten out of fair France he must take heed of his own life, for the\ntask was his and no other man's; so he turned his horse's head towards\nOrange, and then stopped, for he saw a troop of freshly landed\nSaracens approaching him along the same road.\n\n'The whole world is full of these Infidels!' he cried in anger;\n'cursed be the day when they were born. Fair God, you alone can save\nme. My Lady Gibourc, shall I ever again behold you? My good horse,'\nadded he, 'you are very tired. If you had had only five hours' rest, I\nwould have led you to the charge; but I see plainly that I can get no\nhelp from you, and I cannot blame you for it, as you have served me\nwell all day, and for this I thank you greatly. If ever we reach\nOrange you shall wear no saddle for twenty days, your food shall be\nthe finest corn, and you shall drink out of a golden trough. But how\nshould I bear it if the Pagans captured you and carried you to Spain?'\n\nAnd the horse understood as well as a man, and he threw up his head,\nand pawed the ground, and his strength came back to him as of old. At\nthis sight William Short Nose felt more glad than if he had been given\nfourteen cities.\n\nBut no sooner had he entered a valley that led along the road to\nOrange than he saw a fresh body of Pagans blocking one end. He turned\nto escape into another path, but in front of him rode a handful of his\nenemies. 'By the faith that I swore to my dear Lady Gibourc,' he said,\n'I had better die than never strike a blow,' and so went straight at\nTelamon, their leader, on his horse Marchepierre. 'William!' cried the\nSaracen, 'this time you will not escape me.' But the sun was in his\neyes, and his sword missed his aim. Before he could strike another\nblow William had borne him from his horse and galloped away on\nBausant.\n\nThe mountain that he was climbing now was beset with Infidels, like\nall the rest, and William looked in vain for a way of escape. He\njumped from his horse and rubbed his flanks, saying to him the while,\n'Bausant, what will you do? Your sides are all bloody, and you can\nscarcely stand; but remember, if once you fall it means my death.' At\nthese words Bausant neighed, pricked up his ears and shook himself,\nand as he did so the blood seemed to flow strongly in his veins, as of\nold. Then the Count rode down into the field of the Aliscans, and\nfound his nephew Vivian lying under a tree.\n\n[Illustration: VIVIAN'S LAST CONFESSION]\n\n'Ah! my God,' cried William, 'what sorrow for me! To the end of my\nlife I shall mourn this day. Earth, do thou open and swallow me! Lady\nGibourc, await me no longer, for never more shall I return to Orange!'\n\nSo he lamented, grieving sore, till Vivian spoke to him. The Count was\nfull of joy to hear his words, and, kneeling beside the youth, took\nhim in his arms, and bade him, as no priest was there, confess his\nsins to him, as to his own father. One by one Vivian remembered them\nall, then a mist floated before his eyes, and, murmuring a farewell to\nthe Lady Gibourc, his soul left the world.\n\nWilliam laid him gently down on his shield, and took another shield\nfor covering, and turned to mount his horse, but at this his heart\nfailed him.\n\n'Is it you, William, that men look to as their leader, and whom they\ncall Fierbras, who will do this cowardly deed?' he said to himself,\nand he went back to his nephew's side, and lifted the body on to his\nhorse, to bury it in his city of Orange.\n\nHe had done what he could to give honour to Vivian, but he might as\nwell, after all, have left him where he fell, for in a fierce combat\nwith some Pagans on the road the Count was forced to abandon his\nnephew's body and fight for his own life. He knew the two Saracens\nwell as brave men, but he soon slew one, and the other he unhorsed\nafter a struggle.\n\n'Come back, come back,' cried the Unbeliever; 'sell me your horse, for\nnever did I behold his like! I will give you for him twice his weight\nin gold, and set free besides all your nephews that have been taken\nprisoners.' But William loved his horse, and would not have parted\nwith him to Charles himself; so he cut off the Saracen's head with his\nsword, and mounted his horse Folatisse, taking the saddle and bridle\noff Bausant so that he might the more easily escape from the Pagans.\n\nAt length, after fighting nearly every step of the way, he saw the\ntowers of Orange before him, and his palace, Gloriette, where dwelt\nhis wife, the Lady Gibourc. 'Ah, with what joy did I leave these\nwalls,' he said to himself, 'and how many noble Knights have I lost\nsince then! Oh! Gibourc, my wife, will you not go mad when you hear\nthe tidings I have brought!' And, overcome with grief, the Count bowed\nhis head on the neck of his horse.\n\nWhen he recovered himself he rode straight to the City Gate, and\ncommanded the porter to let him in. 'Let down the drawbridge,' called\nhe, 'and be quick, for time presses.' But he forgot that he had\nchanged his own arms, and had taken instead those of Aerofle the\nSaracen; therefore the porter, seeing a man with a shield and pennon\nand helmet that were strange to him, thought he was an enemy, and\nstood still where he was. 'Begone!' he said to William; 'if you\napproach one step nearer I will deal you a blow that will unhorse you!\nBegone, I tell you, and as quick as you can, or when William Short\nNose returns from the Aliscans it will be the worse for you.'\n\n'Fear nothing, friend,' replied the Count, 'for I am William himself.\nI went to the Aliscans to fight the Saracens, and to help Vivian; but\nall my men are dead, and I only am left to bring these evil tidings.\nSo open the gates, for the Saracens are close behind.'\n\n'You must wait a moment,' answered the porter, and he quitted the\nturret where he had been standing and hastened to the chamber of the\nLady Gibourc. 'Noble Countess,' cried he, 'there knocks at the\ndrawbridge a Knight in pagan armour, who seems fresh from battle, for\nhis arms are bloody. He is tall of stature and bears himself proudly,\nand he says he is William Short Nose. I pray you, my lady, come with\nme and see him for yourself.'\n\nThe face of Gibourc grew red when she heard the porter's words, and\nshe left the Palace and mounted the battlements, where she called\nacross the fosse, 'Warrior, what is your will?'\n\n'Oh, lady!' answered he, 'open the gate, and that quickly. Twenty\nthousand Saracens are close upon my track; if they reach me, I am a\ndead man.'\n\n'You cannot enter,' replied Gibourc. 'I am alone here except for this\nporter, a priest, a few children, and some ladies whose husbands are\nall at the war. Neither gate nor wicket will be opened until the\nreturn of my beloved lord, William the Count.' Then William bowed his\nhead for a moment, and two tears ran down his cheeks.\n\n'My lady, I am William himself,' said he. 'Do you not know me?'\n\n'Infidel, you lie,' replied Gibourc. 'Take off your helmet, and let me\nsee who you are!'\n\nBut the Count in his thought felt the earth trembling under his feet\nfrom the steps of the accursed ones. 'Noble Countess,' cried he, 'this\nis no time to parley. Look round you! Is not every hill covered with\nPagans?'\n\n'Ah, now I know you are not William,' answered she, 'for all the\nPagans in the world would never have stirred him with fear. By St.\nPeter! neither gate nor wicket shall be opened till I have seen your\nface. I am alone and must defend myself. The voices of many men are\nalike.'\n\nThen the Count lifted his helmet: 'Lady, look and be content. I am\nWilliam himself. Now let me in.'\n\nGibourc knew that it was indeed the Count who had returned, and was\nabout to order the gates to be opened when there appeared in sight a\ntroop of Saracens escorting two hundred prisoners, all of them young\nKnights, and thirty ladies with fair white faces. Each one was loaded\nwith chains, and they cowered under the blows of their captors. Their\ncries and prayers for mercy reached the ears of Gibourc, and,\nchanging her mind, she said quickly: 'There is the proof that you are\nnot William my husband, the \"Strong Arm,\" whose fame has spread far!\nFor _he_ would never have suffered his brethren to be so shamefully\nentreated while he was by!'\n\n'Heavens!' cried the Count, 'to what hard tests does she put me! But\nif I lose my head I will do her bidding, for what is there that I\nwould _not_ do for the love of God and of her!' Without a word more he\nturned, and, relacing his helmet, spurred his horse at the Saracens\nwith his lance in rest. So sudden and fierce was his attack that the\nforemost riders fell back on those behind, who were thrown into\nconfusion, while William's sword swept him a path to the centre, where\nthe prisoners stood bound. The Pagans expected the city gates to open\nand a body of Franks to come forth to destroy them, and without\nwaiting another moment they turned and fled. Though the prisoners were\nfree, William pursued the enemy hotly.\n\n'Oh, fair lord!' called Gibourc, who from the battlements had watched\nthe fight, 'come back, come back, for now indeed you may enter.' And\nWilliam heard her voice, and left the Saracens to go where they would\nwhile he struck the chains off the prisoners, and led them to the\ngates of Orange, while he himself rode back to the Saracens.\n\nNot again would the Lady Gibourc have reason to call him coward.\n\nAnd Gibourc saw, and her heart swelled within her, and she repented\nher of her words. 'It is my fault if he is slain,' she wept. 'Oh, come\nback, come back!'\n\nAnd William came.\n\nNow the drawbridge was let down before him, and he entered the city\nfollowed by the Christians whom he had delivered, and the Countess\nunlaced his helmet, and bathed his wounds, and then stopped, doubting.\n\n'You cannot be William after all,' said she, 'for William would have\nbrought back the young kinsmen who went with him; and Guy and Vivian,\nand all the young Barons of the country side. And William would have\nbeen encircled by minstrels singing the great deeds he had done.'\n\n[Illustration: THE CAPTIVES William Short-nose rides to the rescue]\n\n'Ah, noble Countess, you speak truth,' answered he. 'Henceforth my\nlife will be spent in mourning, for my friends and comrades who went\nto war with me are lying dead at the Aliscans. Vivian is dead also,\nbut Bertrand and Guy, Guichard the bold, and Gerard the brave, are\ncaptives in the Saracen camp.'\n\nGreat was the sorrow in the city of Orange, great likewise was the\nsorrow in the palace of her lord, where the ladies of the Countess\nmourned for their husbands. But it was Gibourc herself who first dried\nher tears, and roused herself from her grief for Vivian and others\nwhom she had loved well. 'Noble Count,' she said, 'do not lose your\ncourage, and let the Infidels crush your spirit. Remember it is not\nnear Orleans, in safety, that your lands lie, but in the very midst of\nthe Saracens. Orange never will have peace till they are subdued. So\nsend messengers to Paris, to your brother-in-law King Louis, and to\nyour father Aimeri, asking for aid. Then march upon the Saracens, and\nrescue the captives that are in their hands before they are carried\nacross the sea.'\n\n'Heavens!' cried William, 'has the world ever seen so wise a lady?'\n\n'Let no one turn you from your road,' she went on. 'At the news of\nyour distress Ermengarde of Pavia, whom may God bless, and Aimeri with\nthe white beard, and all the Barons that are your kin, will fly to\nyour help. Their numbers are as the sands of the sea.'\n\n'But how shall I make them believe in what has befallen us?' answered\nWilliam. 'Gibourc, sweetheart, in France they would hold any man mad\nwho brought such a message. If I do not go myself I will send nobody,\nand go myself I will not, for I will not leave you alone again for all\nthe gold in Pavia.'\n\n'Sir, you must go,' said Gibourc, weeping. 'I will stay here with my\nladies, of whom there are plenty, and each will place a helmet on her\nhead, and hang a shield round her neck, and buckle a sword to her\nside, and with the help of the Knights whom you have delivered we\nshall know how to defend ourselves if the Unbelievers should seek to\ntake the city by assault.'\n\nWilliam's heart bounded at her words; he took her in his arms, and\npromised that he himself would go, and more, that he would never lie\nsoft nor eat delicately nor kiss the cheek of any lady, however fair,\ntill he returned again to Orange.\n\nThus William Short Nose set forth and the next day passed through\nOrleans. There he met with his brother Ernaut, who had ridden home\nfrom escorting King Louis back to Paris. Ernaut promised his help and\nthat of his father and brothers, but counselled William to go to Laon,\nwhere a great feast would be held and many persons would be assembled.\nThe Count followed Ernaut's counsel, but refused the troop of Knights\nand men-at-arms which Ernaut offered him, liking rather to ride alone.\n\nHe made his entrance into Laon on Sunday, and the people laughed at\nhim and made jests on his tall thin horse; but William let them laugh,\nand rode on until he reached the Palace. There he alighted under an\nolive tree, and, fastening his horse to one of the branches, took off\nhis helmet and unbuckled his breastplate. The people stared as they\npassed by, but nobody spoke to him.\n\nSomeone told the King that a strange man without a squire or even a\nman-at-arms was sitting before the Palace under an olive tree. The\nKing's face grew dark as he heard their tale, for he loved to keep his\ngardens for his own pleasure. 'Sanson,' he called to one of his\nguards, 'go and find out who this stranger is and whence he comes, but\nbeware of bringing him hither.'\n\nSanson hastened to do his errand, and William answered, 'My name is\none that is known to France. I am William Short Nose, and I come from\nOrange. My body is worn out with much riding; I pray you hold my horse\nuntil I have spoken to King Louis.'\n\n'Noble Count,' replied Sanson, 'let me first return to the King and\ntell him who you are. And be not angry, I beseech you, for such are my\norders.'\n\n'Be quick, then, my friend,' said William, 'and do not neglect to tell\nthe King that I am in great distress. This is the time to show his\nlove for me; and if he truly does love me, let him come to meet me\nwith the great lords of his Court. If he does not come, I have no\nother hope.'\n\n'I will tell him what you say,' said Sanson, 'and if it rests with me\nyou shall be content.'\n\nThen Sanson went back to the King. 'It is William, the famous\nWilliam!' he said, 'and he wishes you to go out to meet him.'\n\n'Never!' answered Louis. 'Will he always be a thorn in my side? Woe be\nto him who rejoices at his coming.'\n\nSo the King sat still, and on the steps of the Palace there gathered\nKnights and Nobles in goodly numbers, and hardly one but wore a mantle\nof ermine or marten, a helmet set with precious stones, a sword or a\nshield which had been given him by William himself. But now they were\nrich and he was poor, so they mocked at him.\n\n'My lords,' said William, 'you do ill to treat me so. I have loved you\nall, and you bear the tokens of my love about you at this moment. If I\ncan give you no more gifts, it is because I have lost all I have in\nthe world at the Aliscans. My men are dead, and my nephews are\nprisoners in the hands of the Saracens. It is the Lady Gibourc who\nbade me come here, and it is she who asks for help through me. Have\npity on us, and help us.' But without a word, they rose up and went\ninto the Palace, and William knew what their love was worth.\n\nThe young men told Louis of the words that the Count had spoken, and\nthe King rose and leaned out of the window. 'Sir William,' said he,\n'go to the inn, and let them bathe your horse. You seem in a sorry\nplight, without a groom or esquire to help you.'\n\nWilliam heard and vowed vengeance. But if the King and the courtiers\nhad no hearts, in his need a friend came to him, Guimard, a citizen of\nLaon, who took the Count home and offered him rich food. But because\nof his vow to the Lady Gibourc, he would only eat coarse bread, and\ndrink water from the spring; and as soon as it was light he rose up\nfrom his bed of fresh hay, and dressed himself. 'Where are you going?'\nasked his host.\n\n'To the Palace, to entreat the aid of the King, and woe be to him who\ntries to stop me.'\n\n'May God protect you, Sir,' answered Guimard. 'To-day the King crowns\nBlanchefleur, your sister, who no doubt loves you well. And he gives\nher the Vermandois for her dower, the richest land in all fair France,\nbut a land that is never at peace.'\n\n'Well,' said William, 'I will be present at the ceremony. Indeed they\ncannot do without me, for all France is under my care, and it is my\nright to bear her standard in battle. And let them beware how they\nmove me to wrath, lest I depose the King of France and tear the crown\nfrom his head.'\n\nThe Count placed a breastplate under his jerkin and hid his sword\nunder his cloak. The gates of the Palace opened before him and he\nentered the vaulted hall. It was filled with the greatest nobles in\nthe land, and ladies with rich garments of silk and gold. Lords and\nladies both knew him, but not one gave him welcome--not even his\nsister, the Queen. His fingers played with his sword, and he had much\nado not to use it. But while his wrath was yet kindling the heralds\nannounced that his father Aimeri had come.\n\nThe Lord of Narbonne stepped on to the grass with Ermengarde, his\nnoble Countess, his four sons, and many servants. King Louis and the\nQueen hastened to meet them, and amid cries of joy they mounted the\nsteps into the hall. Aimeri sat beside the King of Saint-Denis, and\nthe Countess was seated next the Queen, while the Knights placed\nthemselves on the floor of the hall. And William sat also, but alone\nand apart, nursing his anger.\n\nAt last he rose, and, advancing to the middle of the floor, he said\nwith a loud voice: 'Heaven protect my mother, my father, my brothers\nand my friends; but may His curse alight on my sister and on the King,\nwho have no hearts, and have left me to be the butt of all the mockers\nof the Court. By all the Saints! were not my father sitting next him,\nthis sword should ere now have cloven his skull.' The King listened,\npale with fright, and the Queen wished herself at Paris or at Senlis.\nThe rest whispered to each other, 'William is angry, something will\nhappen!'\n\nWhen Ermengarde and Aimeri saw their son standing before them great\njoy filled their souls. They left their seats and flung themselves on\nhis neck, and William's brother also ran to greet him. The Count told\nthem how he had been vanquished at the Aliscans, how Vivian had been\nkilled, and he himself had fled to Orange, and of the distress in\nwhich he had left Gibourc. 'It was at her bidding I came here to ask\naid from Louis, the base King, but from the way he has treated me I\nsee plainly that he has no heart. By St. Peter! he shall repent before\nI go, and my sister also.'\n\nThe King heard and again waxed cold with fear; the nobles heard and\nwhispered low, 'Who is strong enough to compass this matter? No man,\nbe he the bravest in France, ever went to his help and came back to\ntell the tale. Let him abandon Orange, and let the King give him\ninstead the Vermandois.'\n\nIt was the Lady Ermengarde who broke the silence. 'O God,' she cried,\n'to think that the Franks should be such cowards! And you, Sir Aimeri,\nhas your courage failed you also? Have no fear, fair son William, I\nhave still left gold that would fill thirty chariots, and I will give\nit to those who enrol themselves under your banner. I myself will don\nbreastplate and shield, and will fight in the front rank of your\narmy.'\n\nAimeri smiled and sighed as he listened to her words, and his sons\nshed tears.\n\nWilliam answered nothing, but remained standing in the middle of the\nhall, his eyes fixed on his sister sitting on her throne, with a small\ngolden crown upon her head, and on her husband King Louis.\n\n'This, then, O King, is the reward of all I have done! When\nCharlemagne your father died, and all the Barons of the Empire met at\nParis, you would have lost your crown if I had not forced them to\nplace it upon your head.'\n\n'That is true,' answered the King, 'and in remembrance of your\nservices I will to-day bestow on you a fief.'\n\n'Yes,' cried Blanchefleur, 'and no doubt will deprive me of one. A\nnice agreement, truly! Woe to him who dares carry it out.'\n\n'Be silent, woman without shame!' said William. 'Every word you speak\nproclaims the depth of your baseness! You pass your days wrapped in\nrich clothing, eating costly food, and drinking rare wines, and little\nyou care that we endure heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and suffer\nwounds and death so that your life may be easy.' Then he bounded\nforwards and tore off the crown, and, drawing his sword, would have\ncut off her head had not Ermengarde wrenched the weapon from his\nhands. Before he could seize it again the Queen darted away and took\nrefuge in her chamber, where she fell fainting on the floor.\n\nIt was her daughter Alix, the fair and the wise, who raised her up and\nbrought her back to consciousness; then heard with shame the tale she\nhad to tell. 'How could you speak so to my uncle, the best man that\never wore a sword?' asked Alix. 'It was he who made you Queen of\nFrance, and the words that you uttered must have been taught you by\ndevils.'\n\n'Yes, my daughter, you say truth,' answered the Queen, 'I have done\nill, and if it rests with me I will make peace with my brother'; and\nshe wept over her wicked speech, while Alix, red and white as the\nroses in May, went down into the hall, where the Franks were still\nwhispering together, and calling curses on the head of William.\n\nThey all rose as the maiden entered; Aimeri, her grandfather, took her\nin his arms, and her four uncles kissed her cheek. Her presence seemed\nto calm the anger and trouble which before had reigned throughout the\nhall, and Ermengarde flung herself at William's feet and besought his\npardon for the Queen. William raised his mother from her knees, but\nhis anger was not soothed. 'I have no love for the King,' he said,\n'and before night I will break his pride,' and he stood where he had\nbeen always standing, his face red with wrath, leaning on his naked\nsword. Not a sound was heard, and the eyes of all were fixed\nbreathlessly upon William. Then in her turn Alix stepped forward and\nknelt at his feet. 'Punish me in my mother's place,' said she, 'and\ncut off my head if you will, or send me into exile, but let there be\npeace, I pray you, between you and my father and mother. Her ill words\ntowards you did not come from her heart, but were put into her mouth\nby devils.'\n\nAt the voice of Alix William's wrath melted, but at first he would\npromise nothing. 'Fair son William,' said Ermengarde again, 'be\ncontent. The King will do what you desire, and will aid you to the\nuttermost.'\n\n'Yes, I will aid you,' answered the King.\n\nSo peace was made, the Queen was fetched, and they all sat down to a\ngreat feast.\n\nIn this manner the pride of the King was broken.\n\n[Illustration: The Lady Alix stays the wrath of William-Shortnose]\n\nBut when one man is shifty and another is hasty wrath is not apt to\nslumber long, and treaties of peace are easier made than kept. When\nthe feast was over William pressed King Louis to prepare an army at\nonce, so that no time might be lost in giving battle to the Infidels,\nbut the King would bind himself to nothing. 'We will speak of it\nagain,' said he; 'I will tell you to-morrow whether I will go or not.'\n\nAt this answer William grew red with rage, and holding out a wand he\nsaid to the King, 'I give you back your fief. I will take nothing from\nyou, and henceforth will neither be your friend nor your vassal.'\n\n'Keep your fief,' said Ernaut to his brother, 'and leave the King to\ndo as he will. I will help you and my brothers also, and between us\ntwenty thousand men shall march to the Aliscans, and deal death to any\nInfidels we shall find there.'\n\n'You speak weak words,' cried Aimeri; 'he is Seneschal of France, and\nalso her Standard Bearer; he has a right to our help, and if that\nfails a right to vengeance.' And Alix approved of his saying, and the\nQueen likewise.\n\nThe King saw that none was on his side and from fear of Aimeri and of\nhis sons he dared refuse no longer. 'Count William, for love of you I\nwill call together my army, and a hundred thousand men shall obey your\ncommands. But I myself will not go with you, for my kingdom needs me\nbadly.'\n\n'Remain, Sire,' answered William, 'I myself will lead the host.' And\nthe King sent out his messengers, and soon a vast army was gathered\nunder the walls of Laon.\n\nIt was on one of these days when the Count stood in the great hall\nthat there entered from the kitchen a young man whom he had never seen\nbefore. The youth, whose name was Rainouart, was tall; strong as a\nwild boar, and swift as a deer. The scullions and grooms had played\noff jests upon him during the night, but had since repented them\nsorely, for he had caught the leaders up in his arms and broken their\nheads against the walls. The rest, eager to avenge their comrades'\ndeath, prepared to overcome him with numbers, and in spite of his\nstrength it might have gone ill with Rainouart had not Aimeri de\nNarbonne, hearing the noise, forbade more brawling.\n\nCount William was told of the unseemly scuffle, and asked the King who\nand what the young man was who could keep at bay so many of his\nfellows. 'I bought him once at sea,' said Louis, 'and paid a hundred\nmarks for him. They pretend that he is the son of a Saracen, but he\nwill never reveal the name of his father. Not knowing what to do with\nhim, I sent him to the kitchen.'\n\n'Give him to me, King Louis,' said William, smiling, 'I promise you he\nshall have plenty to eat.'\n\n'Willingly,' answered the King.\n\nFar off in the kitchen Rainouart knew nothing of what was passing\nbetween the King and the Count, and his soul chafed at the sound of\nthe horses' hoofs, and at the scraps of talk he heard let fall by the\nKnights, who were seeing to the burnishing of their armour before they\nstarted to fight the Unbelievers. 'To think,' he said to himself,\n'that I, who am of right King of Spain, should be loitering here,\nheaping logs on the fire and skimming the pot. But let King Louis look\nto himself! Before a year is past I will snatch the crown from his\nhead.'\n\nWhen the army had finished its preparations and was ready to march he\nmade up his mind what to do, and it was thus that he sought out\nWilliam in the great hall. 'Noble Count, let me come with you, I\nimplore you. I can help to look after the horses and cook the food,\nand if at any time blows are needed I can strike as well as any man.'\n\n'Good fellow,' answered William, who wished to try what stuff he was\nmade of, 'you dream idle dreams! How could you, who have passed your\ndays in the warmth of the kitchen, sleeping on the hearth when you\nwere not busy turning the spit--how could you bear all the fatigue\nof war, the long fasts, and the longer watches? Before a month had\npassed you would be dead by the roadside!'\n\n[Illustration: ALIX KISSES RAINOUART]\n\n'Put me to the proof,' said he, 'and if you will not have me I will go\nalone to the Aliscans, and fight barefoot. My only weapon will be an\niron-bound staff, and I promise you it shall kill as many Saracens as\nthe best sword among you all.'\n\n'Come then,' answered the Count.\n\nThe next morning the army set forth, and Alix and the Queen\nBlanchefleur watched them go from the steps of the Palace. When Alix\nsaw Rainouart stepping proudly along with his heavy staff on his\nshoulder her heart stirred, and she said to her mother, 'See, what a\ngoodly young man! In the whole army there is not one like him! Let me\nbid him farewell, for nevermore shall I see his match.'\n\n'Peace! my daughter,' answered the Queen, 'I hope indeed that he may\nnever more return to Laon.' But Alix took no heed of her mother's\nwords, but signed to Rainouart to draw near. Then Alix put her arms\nround his neck, and said, 'Brother, you have been a long time at\nCourt, and now you are going to fight under my uncle's banner. If ever\nI have given you pain, I ask your pardon.' After that she kissed him,\nand bade him go.\n\nAt Orleans William took leave of his father Count Aimeri and his\nmother Ermengarde, the noble Countess, who returned to their home at\nNarbonne, and also of his brothers, who promised to return to meet\nWilliam under the walls of Orange, which they did faithfully. He\nhimself led his army by a different road, and pressed on quickly till\nhe came in sight of his native city. But little of it could he see,\nfor a great smoke covered all the land, rising up from the burning\ntowers which the Saracens had that morning set on fire. Enter the city\nthey could not, for Gibourc and her ladies held it firm, and, armed\nwith helmets and breastplates, flung stones upon the head of any\nSaracen who appeared on the walls. So the Unbelievers fell back and\ntook the way to the Aliscans, there to build as quickly as they might\nan engine to bring up against the tower and overthrow it.\n\nWhen William beheld the smoke, and whence it came, he cried 'Orange is\nburning! Holy Saint Mary, Gibourc is carried captive! To arms! To\narms!' And he spurred his horse to Orange, Rainouart running by his\nside. From her tower Gibourc saw through the smoke a thousand banners\nwaving and the sparkle of armour, and heard the sound of the horses'\nhoofs, and it seemed to her that the Infidels were drawing near anew.\n'Oh, William!' cried she, 'have you really forgotten me? Noble Count,\nyou linger overlong! Never more shall I look upon your face.' And so\nsaying she fell fainting on the floor.\n\nBut something stirred the pulses of Gibourc, and she soon sat up\nagain, and there at the gate was William the Count, with Rainouart\nbehind him. 'Fear nothing, noble lady,' said he, 'it is the army of\nFrance that I have brought with me. Open, and welcome to us!' The news\nseemed so good to Gibourc that she could not believe it, and she bade\nthe Count unlace his helmet, so that she might indeed be sure that it\nwas he. William did her bidding, then like an arrow she ran to the\ngate and let down the drawbridge, and William stepped across it and\nembraced her tenderly. Then he ordered his army to take up its\nquarters in the city.\n\nGibourc's eyes had fallen upon Rainouart, who had passed her on his\nway to the kitchen, where he meant to leave his stout wooden staff.\n'Tell me,' said she to the Count, 'who is that young man who bears\nlightly on his shoulder that huge piece of wood which would weigh down\na horse? He is handsome and well made. Where did you find him?'\n\n'Lady,' answered William, 'he was given me by the King.'\n\n'My Lord,' said Gibourc, 'be sure you see that he is honourably\ntreated. He looks to me to be of high birth. Has he been baptized?'\n\n'No, Madam, he is not a Christian. He was brought from Spain as a\nchild, and kept for seven years in the kitchen. But take him, I pray\nyou, under your protection, and do with him as you will.'\n\nThe Count was hungry, and while waiting for dinner to be served he\nstood with Gibourc at the windows which looked out beyond the city. An\narmy was drawing near; thousands of men, well mounted and freshly\nequipped. 'Gibourc!' cried the Count joyfully, 'here is my brother\nErnaut de Gironde, with his vassals. Now all the Saracens in the world\nshall not prevent Bertrand from being delivered to-morrow.'\n\n'No,' answered Gibourc, 'nor Vivian from being avenged.'\n\nOn all sides warriors began to arrive, led by the fathers of those who\nhad been taken prisoners with Bertrand, and with them came Aimeri de\nNarbonne and the brothers of William. Glad was the heart of the Count\nas he bade them welcome to his Palace of Gloriette, and ordered a\nfeast to be made ready, and showed each Knight where he should sit.\n\nIt was late before the supper was served, but when every man had his\ntrencher filled Rainouart entered the hall, armed with his staff, and\nstood leaning against a pillar, watching the noble company. 'Sir,'\nsaid Aimeri, the man whom the Saracens most dreaded, 'who is it that I\nsee standing there holding a piece of wood that five peasants could\nhardly lift? Does he mean to murder us?'\n\n'That youth,' replied William, 'is a gift to me from King Louis. None\nliving is as strong as he.' Then Aimeri called Rainouart, and bade him\nsit at his side, and eat and drink as he would. 'Noble Count,' said\nAimeri, 'such men grow not on every bush. Keep him and cherish him,\nand bring him with you to the Aliscans. For with his staff he will\nslay many Pagans.'\n\n'Yes,' answered Rainouart, 'wherever I appear the Pagans will fall\ndead at the sight of me.' Aimeri and William laughed to hear him, but\nere four days were past they had learnt what he was worth.\n\nRainouart went back to the kitchen and slept soundly, but as he had\ndrunk much wine the cooks and scullions thought to play jokes upon\nhim, and lighted some wooden shavings with which to burn his\nmoustache. At the first touch of the flame Rainouart leapt to his\nfeet, seized the head cook by his legs, flung him on to the blazing\nfire, and turned for another victim, but they had all fled.\n\nAt daybreak they went to William to complain of the death of their\nchief, and to pray for vengeance on his murderer. If the Count would\nnot forbid him the kitchen, not a morsel of food would they cook. But\nWilliam only laughed at their threats, and said, 'Beware henceforth\nhow you meddle with Rainouart, or it will cost you dear. Did I not\nforbid anyone to mock at him, and do you dare to disobey my orders?\nLady Gibourc, take Rainouart to your chamber, and keep him beside\nyou.'\n\nSo the Countess went to the kitchen to look for Rainouart and found\nhim sitting on a bench, his head leaning against his staff. She sat\ndown by him and said graciously, 'Brother, come with me. I will give\nyou my ermine pelisse and a mantle of marten, and we will have some\ntalk together.'\n\n'Willingly,' answered Rainouart, 'the more as I can hardly keep my\nhands off these low-born scoundrels.'\n\nHe followed Gibourc to her room, and then she questioned him about\nhimself and the days of his childhood.\n\n'Have you brothers or sisters?' asked she.\n\n[Illustration: THE LADY GIBOURC WITH RAINOUART IN THE KITCHEN]\n\n'Yes,' he answered, 'beyond the sea I have a brother who is a King,\nand a sister who is more beautiful than a fairy,' and as he spoke\nhe bent his head. Something in her heart told Gibourc that this might\nbe her brother, but she only asked again, 'Where do you come from?'\n\n'Lady,' he replied, 'I will answer that question the day I come back\nfrom the battle which William shall have won, thanks to my aid.'\n\nGibourc kept silence, but she opened a chest and drew from it a white\nbreastplate that had belonged to the Emir Tournefer, her uncle, which\nwas so finely wrought that no sword could pierce it. Likewise a helmet\nof steel and a sword that could cut through iron more easily than a\nscythe cuts grass. 'My friend,' she said, 'buckle this sword to your\nleft side. It may be useful to you.' Rainouart took the sword and drew\nit from its scabbard, but it seemed so light that he threw it down\nagain. 'Lady,' he cried, 'what good can such a plaything do me? But\nwith my staff between my hands there is not a Pagan that can stand up\nagainst me, and if one escapes then let Count William drive me from\nhis door.'\n\nAt this Gibourc felt sure this was indeed her brother, but she did not\nyet like to ask him more questions, and in her joy and wonder she\nbegan to weep. 'Lady Countess,' said Rainouart, 'do not weep. As long\nas my staff is whole William shall be safe.'\n\n'My friend, may Heaven protect you,' she answered, 'but a man without\narmour is soon cut down; one blow will be his death. So take these\nthings and wear them in battle,' and she laced on the helmet, and\nbuckled the breastplate, and fastened the sword on his thigh. 'If your\nstaff breaks, it may serve you,' said she.\n\nRainouart's heart was proud indeed when the armour was girded on him,\nand he sat himself down well pleased at William's table. The Knights\nvied with each other in pouring him out bumpers of wine, and after\ndinner every man tried to lift his iron-bound staff, but none could\nraise it from the ground, except William himself, who by putting forth\nall his strength lifted it the height of a foot.\n\n'Let me aid you,' said Rainouart, and catching it up he whirled it\nround his head, throwing it lightly from hand to hand. 'We are wasting\ntime,' he went on. 'I fear lest the Pagans should fly before we come\nup with them. If I only have the chance to make them feel the weight\nof my staff, I shall soon sweep the battle-field clean.' And William\nembraced him for these words, and ordered the trumpets to be sounded\nand the army to march.\n\nFrom her window Gibourc watched them go. She saw the Knights, each\nwith his following, stream out into the plain, their banners floating\non the wind, their helmets shining in the sun, their shields\nglittering with gold. She heard their horses neigh with delight, as\nthey snuffed up the air, and she prayed God to bless all this noble\nhost.\n\nAfter two days' march they came within sight of the Aliscans, but for\nfive miles round the country was covered by the Pagan army. William\nperceived that some of his men quailed at the number of the foe, so he\nturned and spoke to his soldiers. 'My good lords,' he said, 'a fearful\nbattle awaits us, and we must not give way an inch. If any man feels\nafraid let him go back to his own land. This is no place for cowards.'\n\nThe cowards heard joyfully, and without shame took the road by which\nthey had come. They spurred their horses and thought themselves safe,\nbut they rejoiced too soon.\n\nAt the mouth of a bridge Rainouart met them, and he took them for\nPagans who were flying for their lives. But when he saw that they were\npart of the Christian host he raised his staff and barred their\npassage. 'Where are you going?' asked he. 'To France, for rest,'\nanswered the cowards; 'the Count has dismissed us, and when we reach\nour homes we shall bathe ourselves and have good cheer, and see to the\nrebuilding of our castles, which have fallen into ill-repair during\nthe wars. With William one has to bear pains without end, and at\nthe last to die suffering. Come with us, if you are a wise man.'\n\n[Illustration: RAINOUART STOPS THE COWARDS]\n\n'Ask someone else,' said Rainouart; 'Count William has given me the\ncommand of the army, and it is to him that I have to render account.\nDo you think I shall let you run away like hares? By Saint Denis! not\nanother step shall you stir!' And, swinging his staff round his head,\nhe laid about him. Struck dumb with terror at the sight of their\ncomrades falling rapidly round them they had no mind to go on, and\ncried with one voice, 'Sir Rainouart, we will return and fight with\nyou in the Aliscans; you shall lead us whither you will.' So they\nturned their horses' heads and rode the way they had come, and\nRainouart followed, keeping guard over them with his staff. When they\nreached the army he went straight to William, and begged that he might\nhave the command of them. 'I will change them into a troop of lions,'\nsaid he.\n\nHarsh words and gibes greeted the cowards, but Rainouart soon forced\nthe mockers to silence. 'Leave my men alone!' he cried, 'or by the\nfaith I owe to Gibourc I will make you. I am a King's son, and the\ntime has come to show you what manner of man I am. I have idled long,\nbut I will idle no longer. I am of the blood royal, and the saying is\ntrue that good blood cannot lie.'\n\n'How well he speaks!' whispered the Franks to each other, for they\ndared not let their voices be heard.\n\nNow the battle was to begin, for the two armies were drawn up in\nfighting array, and Rainouart took his place at the head of his\ncowards opposite the Saracens, from which race he sprang.\n\nThe charge was sounded, and the two armies met with a shock, and many\na man fell from his horse and was trampled under foot. 'Narbonne!\nNarbonne!' shouted Aimeri, advancing within reach of a crossbow shot,\nand he would have been slain had not his sons dashed to his rescue.\nCount William did miracles, and the Saracens were driven so far back\nthat Rainouart feared that the battle would be ended before he had\nstruck a blow.\n\nFollowed by his troop of cowards Rainouart made straight for the\nenemy, and before him they fell as corn before a sickle. 'Strike,\nsoldiers,' shouted he; 'strike and avenge the noble Vivian; woe to the\nKing Desrame if he crosses my path.' And a messenger came and said to\nDesrame, 'It is Rainouart with the iron staff, the strongest man in\nthe world.'\n\nRainouart and his cowards pressed on and on, and the Saracens fell\nback, step by step, till they reached the sea, where their ships were\nanchored.\n\nThen Rainouart drove his staff in the sand, and by its help swung\nhimself on board a small vessel, which happened to be the very one in\nwhich the nephews of William were imprisoned. He laid about him right\nand left with his staff, till he had slain all the gaolers, and at\nlast he came to a young man whose eyes were bandaged and his feet tied\ntogether. 'Who are you?' asked Rainouart.\n\n'I am Bertrand of France, nephew of William Short Nose. Four months\nago I was taken captive by the Pagans, and if, as I think, they carry\nme into Arabia, then may God have pity on my soul, for it is all over\nwith my body.'\n\n'Sir Count,' answered Rainouart, 'for love of William I will deliver\nyou.'\n\nBertrand was set free and his companions also. Seizing the weapons of\nthe dead Saracens, they scrambled on shore, and, while fighting for\ntheir lives, looked about for their uncle, whom they knew at last by\nthe sweep of his sword, which kept a clean space round him. More than\nonce Rainouart swept back fresh foes that were pressing forwards till\nthe tide of battle carried him away and brought him opposite Desrame\nthe King. 'Who are you?' asked Desrame, struck by his face, for there\nwas nothing royal in his dress or his arms.\n\n'I am Rainouart, vassal of William whom I love, and if you do hurt to\nhim I will do hurt to you also.'\n\n'Rainouart, I am your father,' cried Desrame, and he besought him to\nforswear Christianity and to become a follower of Mahomet; but\nRainouart turned a deaf ear, and challenged him to continue the\ncombat. Desrame was no match for his son, and was soon struck from his\nhorse. 'Oh, wretch that I am,' said Rainouart to himself, 'I have\nslain my brothers and wounded my father--it is my staff which has done\nall this evil,' and he flung it far from him.\n\nHe would have been wiser to have kept it, for in a moment three giants\nsurrounded him, and he had only his fists with which to beat them\nback. Suddenly his hand touched the sword buckled on him by Gibourc,\nwhich he had forgotten, and he drew it from its scabbard, and with\nthree blows clove the heads of the giants in twain. Meanwhile King\nDesrame took refuge in the only ship that had not been sunk by the\nChristians, and spread its sails. 'Come back whenever you like, fair\nfather,' called Rainouart after him.\n\nThe fight was over; the Saracens acknowledged that they were beaten,\nand the booty they had left behind them was immense. The army, wearied\nwith the day's toil, lay down to sleep, but before midnight Rainouart\nwas awake and trumpets called to arms. 'Vivian must be buried,' said\nhe, 'and then the march to Orange will begin.'\n\nRainouart rode at the head, his sword drawn, prouder than a lion; and\nas he went along a poor peasant threw himself before him, asking for\nvengeance on some wretches who had torn up a field of beans which was\nall he had with which to feed his family. Rainouart ordered the\nrobbers to be brought before him and had them executed. Then he gave\nto the peasant their horses and their armour in payment of the ruined\nbeans. 'Ah, it has turned out a good bargain for me,' said the\npeasant. 'Blessed be the hour when I sowed such a crop.'\n\nWilliam entered into his Palace, where a great feast was spread for\nthe visitors, but one man only remained outside the walls, and that\nwas Rainouart, of whom no one thought in the hour of triumph. His\nheart swelled with bitterness as he thought of the blows he had given,\nand the captives he had set free, and, weeping with anger, he turned\nhis face towards the Aliscans. On the road some Knights met him, and\nasked him whither he was going and why he looked so sad. Then his\nwrath and grief burst out, and he told how he mourned that ever he had\nslain a man in William's cause, and that he was now hastening to serve\nunder the banner of Mahomet, and would shortly return with a hundred\nthousand men behind him, and would avenge himself on France and her\nKing. Only towards Alix would he show any pity!\n\nIn vain the Knights tried to soften his heart, it was too sore to\nlisten. So they rode fast to Orange and told the Count what Rainouart\nhad said.\n\n'I have done him grievous wrong,' answered William, and ordered twenty\nKnights to ride after him. But the Knights were received with threats\nand curses, and came back to Orange faster than they had left it,\nthinking that Rainouart was at their heels.\n\nWilliam smiled when he heard the tale of his messengers, and bade them\nbring his horse, and commanded that a hundred Knights should follow\nhim, and prayed Gibourc to ride at his side. They found Rainouart\nentering a vessel whose sails were already spread, and all William's\nentreaties would have availed nothing had not Gibourc herself implored\nhis forgiveness.\n\n'I am your brother,' cried Rainouart, throwing himself on her neck; 'I\nmay confess it now, and for you I will pardon the Count's ingratitude\nand never more will I remind you of it.'\n\nThere was great joy in Orange when William rode through the gates with\nRainouart beside him, and the next day the Count made him his\nSeneschal, and he was baptized. Then William sent his brothers on an\nembassy to the King in Paris, to beg that he would bestow the hand of\nPrincess Alix on Rainouart, son of King Desrame and brother of Lady\nGibourc. And when the embassy returned Alix returned with it, and the\nmarriage took place with great splendour; but to the end of his life,\nwhenever Rainouart felt cold, he warmed himself in the kitchen.\n\n\n\n\nWAYLAND THE SMITH\n\n_WAYLAND THE SMITH_\n\n\nFar up to the north of Norway and Sweden, looking straight at the\nPole, lies the country of Finmark. It is very cold and very bare, and\nfor half the year very dark; but inside its stony mountains are rich\nstores of metals, and the strong, ugly men of the country spent their\nlives in digging out the ore and in working it. Like many people who\ndwell in mountains, they saw and heard strange things, which were\nunknown to the inhabitants of the lands to the south.\n\nNow in Finmark there were three brothers whose names were Slagfid,\nEigil, and Wayland, all much handsomer and cleverer than their\nneighbours. They had some money of their own, but this did not prevent\nthem working as hard as anyone else; and as they were either very\nclever or very lucky, they were soon in a fair way to grow rich.\n\nOne day they went to a new part of the mountains which was yet\nuntouched, and began to throw up the earth with their pick-axes; but\ninstead of the iron they expected to see they found they had lighted\nupon a mine of gold. This discovery pleased them greatly and their\nblows became stronger and harder, for the gold was deep in the rock\nand it was not easy to get it out. At last a huge lump rolled out at\ntheir feet, and when they picked it up they saw three stones shining\nin it, one red and one blue and one green. They took it home to their\nmother, who began to weep bitterly at the sight of it. 'What is the\nmatter?' asked her sons anxiously, for they knew things lay open to\nher which were hidden from others.\n\n'Ah, my sons,' she said as soon as she could speak, 'you will have\nmuch happiness, but I shall be forced to part with you. Therefore I\nshed tears, for I hoped that only death would divide us! Green is the\ngrass, blue is the sky, red are the roses, golden is the maiden. The\nNorns' (for so in that country they called the Fates) 'beckon you to a\nland where green fields lie under a blue sky, fields where\ngolden-haired maidens lie among the flowers.'\n\nGreat was the joy of the three brothers when they heard the words of\ntheir mother; for they hated the looks of the women who dwelt about\nthem, and longed for the tall stature and white skins of the maidens\nof the south.\n\nNext morning they rose early and buckled on their swords and coats of\nmail, and fastened on their heads helmets that they had made the day\nbefore from the lump of gold. In the centre of Slagfid's helmet was\nthe green stone, and in the centre of Eigil's was the blue stone, and\nin the centre of Wayland's was the red stone; and when they were ready\nthey put their reindeer into their sledges, and set out over the snow.\n\nWhen they reached the mountains where only yesterday they had been\ndigging they saw by the light of the moon a host of little men running\nto meet them. They were dressed all in grey, except for their caps,\nwhich were red; they had red eyes, too, and black tongues, which never\nceased chattering. These were the mountain elves, and when they came\nnear they formed themselves into a fairy ring, and sang while they\ndanced round it:\n\n    Will you leave us? Will you leave us?\n    Slagfid, Eigil, and Wayland, sons of a King.\n    Is not the emerald better than grass?\n    Is not the ruby better than roses?\n    Is not the sapphire better than the sky?\n    Why do you leave the mountains of Finmark?\n\n[Illustration: The Three Women By The Stream]\n\nBut Eigil was impatient and struck his reindeer, that willing beast\nwhich flies like the wind and needs not the touch of a whip. It\nbounded forward in surprise, and knocked down one of the elves that\nstood in its path. But the hands of his brothers laid hold of the\nreins, and stopped the reindeer, and sang again,\n\n    The Finlander's world, the Finlander's joy,\n        Lies under the earth;\n    Seek not without what we offer within,\n    Despise not the elves, small and dark though they be.\n        The best is within, do not seek it without:\n        The Finlander's world, the Finlander's joy,\n        Lies under the earth.\n\nSlagfid struck his reindeer. It bounded forward and struck down an elf\nwho stood in its road. Then his brothers stood in its path, and\nstopped the reindeer, and sang:\n\n        Because Slagfid struck his reindeer,\n        Because Eigil struck his reindeer,\n          Our hatred shall follow you.\n    A time of weal, a time of woe, a time of grief, a time of joy.\n        Because Wayland also forsook us,\n        Though he struck not the reindeer,\n    A time of weal, a time of woe, a time of grief, a time of joy.\n        Farewell, O Finlanders, sons of a King.\n\nTheir voices died away as they crossed a bright strip of moonlight\nwhich lay between them and the mountains and were seen no more.\n\nThe brothers thought no more about them or their words, but went\nswiftly on their way south, sleeping at night in their reindeer skins.\n\nAfter many days they came to a lake full of fish, in a place which was\ncalled the Valley of Wolves, because of the number of wolves which hid\nthere. But the Finlanders did not mind the wolves, and built a house\nclose to the lake, and hunted bears, and caught fish through holes in\nthe ice, till winter had passed away and spring had come. Then one\nday they noticed that the sky was blue and the earth covered with\nflowers.\n\nBy-and-by they noticed something more, and that was that three maidens\nwere sitting on the grass, spinning flax on the bank of a stream.\nTheir eyes were blue, and their skins were white as the snow on the\nmountains, while instead of the mantles of swansdown they generally\nwore, golden hair covered their shoulders.\n\nThe hearts of the brothers beat as they looked on the maidens, who\nwere such as they had often dreamed of, but had never seen; and as\nthey drew near they found to their surprise that the maidens were\ndressed each in red, green, and blue garments, and the meadow was so\nthickly dotted with yellow flowers that it seemed as if it were a mass\nof solid gold.\n\n'Hail, noble princes! Hail, Slagfid, Eigil, and Wayland,' sang the\nmaidens.\n\n    Swanvite, Alvilda, and Alruna are sent by the Norns,\n    To bring joy to the princes of Finland.\n\nThen the tongues of the young men were unloosed, and Slagfid married\nSwanvite, Eigil Alruna, and Wayland Alvilda.\n\nFor nine years they all lived on the shores of the lake, and no people\nin the world were as happy as these six: till one morning the three\nwives stood before their husbands and said with weeping eyes:\n\n'Dear lords, the time has now come when we must bid you farewell, for\nwe are not allowed to stay with you any longer. We are Norns--or, as\nsome call us, Valkyrie. Nine years of joy are granted to us, but these\nare paid for by nine years during which we hover round the combatants\non every field of battle. But bear your souls in patience, for on\nearth all things have an end, and in nine years we will return to be\nyour wives as before.'\n\n'But we shall be getting old then,' answered the brothers, 'and you\nwill have forgotten us. Stay now, we pray you, for we love you well.'\n\n'_We_ are not mortals to grow old,' said the Norns, 'and true love\ndoes not grow old either. Still, we do not wish you to fall sick with\ngrieving, so we leave you these three keys, with which you may open\nthe mountain, and busy yourselves by digging out the treasures it\ncontains. By the time the nine years are over you will have become\nrich men, and men of renown.' So they laid down the keys and vanished.\n\nFor a long while the young men only left their houses to seek for\nfood, so dreary had the Valley of Wolves become. At last Slagfid and\nEigil could bear it no longer, and declared they would travel through\nthe whole world till they found their wives; but Wayland, the\nyoungest, determined to stay at home.\n\n'You would do much better to remain where you are,' said he. 'You do\nnot know in which direction to look for them, and it is useless to\nseek on earth for those who fly through the air. You will only lose\nyourselves, and starve, and when the nine years are ended who can tell\nwhere you may be?'\n\nBut his words fell on deaf ears; for Slagfid and Eigil merely filled\ntheir wallets with food and their horns with drink, and prepared to\ntake leave of their brother. Wayland embraced them weeping, for he\nfeared that he would never more see them, and once again he implored\nthem to give up their quest. Slagfid and Eigil only shook their heads.\n'We have no rest, night or day, without them,' they said, and they\nbegged him to look after their property till they came back again.\n\nWayland saw that more words would be wasted, so he walked with them to\nthe edge of the forest, where their ways would part. Then Slagfid\nsaid, 'Our fathers, when they went a journey, left behind them a token\nby which it might be known whether they were dead or alive, and I will\ndo so also.' So he stamped heavily on the soft ground, and added, 'As\nlong as this footmark remains sharp and clear, I shall be safe. If it\nis filled with water I shall be drowned; if with blood, I shall have\nfallen in battle. But if it is filled with earth an illness will have\nkilled me, and I shall lie under the ground.' Thus he did, and Eigil\ndid likewise. Then they cut stout sticks to aid their journeys, and\nwent their ways.\n\nWayland stood gazing after them as long as they were in sight, then he\nwent sadly home.\n\nSlagfid and Eigil walked steadily on through the day, and when evening\ncame they reached a stream bordered with trees, where they took off\ntheir golden helmets and sat down to rest and eat. They had gone far\nthat day and were tired, and drank somewhat heavily, so that they knew\nnot what they did. 'If I lose my Swanvite,' said Slagfid, 'I am\nundone. She is the fairest woman that sun ever looked on, or that man\never loved.'\n\n'It is a lie,' answered Eigil. 'I know one lovelier still, and her\nname is Alruna. Odin does not love Freya so fondly as Eigil adores\nher.'\n\n'It is no lie,' cried Slagfid, 'and may shame fall on him who slanders\nme.'\n\n'And I,' answered Eigil, 'stand to what I have said, and declare that\nyou are the liar.' At this they both drew their swords and fell\nfighting, till Slagfid struck Eigil's helmet so hard that the jewel\nflew into a thousand pieces, while Eigil himself fell backwards into\nthe river.\n\nSlagfid stood still, leaning on his sword and looking at the river\ninto which his brother had fallen. Suddenly the trees behind him\nrustled, and a voice came out of them, saying, 'A time of weal, a time\nof woe, a time of tears, a time of death'; and though he could see\nnothing he remembered the mountain elves, and thought how true their\nprophecy had been. 'I have slain my brother,' he said to himself, 'my\nwife has forsaken me; I am miserable and alone. What shall I do? Go\nback to Wayland, or follow Eigil into the river? No. After all I\nmay find my wife. The Norns do not always bring misfortune.'\n\n[Illustration: Slagfid pursues the Wraith over the Mountains]\n\nAs he spoke a light gleamed in the darkness of the night, and, looking\nup, Slagfid saw it was shed by a bright star which seemed to be\ndrawing nearer to the earth, and the nearer it drew the more its shape\nseemed to change into a human figure. Then Slagfid knew that it was\nhis wife Swanvite floating just over his head and encircled by a rim\nof clear green light. He could not speak for joy, but held out his\narms to her. She beckoned to him to follow her, and, drawing out a\nlute, played on it, and Slagfid, flinging away his sword and coat of\nmail, began to climb the mountain. Half way up it seemed to him as if\na hand from behind was pulling him back, and turning he fancied he\nbeheld his mother and heard her say, 'My son, seek not after vain\nshadows, which yet may be your ruin. Strive not against the will of\nOdin, nor against the Norns.' The words caused Slagfid to pause for a\nmoment, then the figure of Swanvite danced before him and beckoned to\nhim again, and his mother was forgotten. There were rivers to swim,\nprecipices to climb, chasms to leap, but he passed them all gladly\ntill at last he noticed that the higher he got the less the figure\nseemed like Swanvite. He felt frightened and tried to turn back, but\nhe could not. On he had to go, till just as he reached the top of the\nmountain the first rays of the sun appeared above the horizon, and he\nsaw that, instead of Swanvite, he had followed a black elf.\n\nHe paused and looked over the green plain that lay thousands of feet\nbelow him, cool and inviting after the stony mountain up which he had\ncome. 'A time of death,' whispered the black elf in his ear, and\nSlagfid flung himself over the precipice.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter his brothers had forsaken him Wayland went to bed lonely and\nsad; but the next morning he got up and looked at the three keys that\nthe Norns had left behind them. One was of copper, one was of iron,\nand one was of gold. Taking up the copper one, he walked to the\nmountain till he reached a flat wall of rock. He laid his key against\nit, and immediately the mountain flew open and showed a cave where\neverything was green. Green emeralds studded the rocks, green crystals\nhung from the ceiling or formed rows of pillars, even the copper which\nmade the walls of the cave had a coating of green. Wayland broke off a\nhuge projecting lump and left the cave, which instantly closed up so\nthat not a crack remained to tell where the opening had been.\n\nHe carried the lump home, and put it into the fire till all the earth\nand stones which clung to it were burned away; and then he fashioned\nthe pure copper into a helmet, and in the front of the helmet he set\nthree of his largest emeralds.\n\nThis occupied some days, and when it was done he took the iron key,\nand went to another mountain, and laid the key against the rock, which\nflew open like the other one. But now the walls were of iron, which\nshone like blue steel, while sapphires glittered in the midst. From an\nopening above, the blue of the sky was reflected in the river beneath,\nand gentians and other blue flowers grew along the edge. Wayland gazed\nwith wonder at all these things; then he broke off a piece of the\niron, and carried it home with him. For many days after he busied\nhimself in forging a sword that was so supple he could wind it round\nhis body, and so sharp it could cut through a rock as if it had been a\nstick. In the handle and in the sheath he set some of the finest\nsapphires that he had brought away with him.\n\nWhen all was finished he laid the sword aside, and returned to the\nmountain, with the golden key. This time the mountain parted, and he\nsaw before him an archway, with a glimpse of the sea in the distance.\nBefore the entrance roses were lying, and inside the golden walls\nsparkled with rubies, while branches of red coral filled every\ncrevice. Vines clambered about the pillars, and bore large bunches of\nred grapes.\n\nWayland stood long, looking at these marvels; then he plucked some of\nthe grapes, broke off a lump of gold, and set out home again.\n\nNext day he began to make himself a golden breastplate, and in it he\nplaced the jewels, and it was so bright that you could have seen the\nglitter a mile off.\n\nAfter he had tried all the three keys, and found out the secrets of\nthe mountain, Wayland felt dull, and as if he had nothing to do or to\nthink about. So his mind went back to his brothers, and he wondered\nhow they had fared all this time. The first thing he did was to go to\nthe edge of the forest, and see if he could find the two footprints\nthey had left. He soon arrived at the spot where they had taken\nfarewell of each other, but a blue pool of water covered the trace of\nEigil's foot. He turned to look at the impression made by Slagfid, but\nfresh green grass had sprung up over it, and on a birch-tree near it a\nbird had perched, which sang a mournful song.\n\nThen Wayland knew that his brothers were dead, and he returned to his\nhut, grieving sore.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was a long time before Wayland could bring himself to go out, so\ngreat was his sorrow; but at last he roused himself from his misery,\nand went to the mountain for more gold, meaning to work hard till the\nnine years should be over and he should get his wife back again. All\nday long he stood in his forge, smelting and hammering, till he had\nmade hundreds of suits of armour and thousands of swords, and his fame\ntravelled far, so that all men spoke of his industry. At last he grew\ntired of making armour, and hammered a number of gold rings, which he\nstrung on strips of bark, and as he hammered he thought of Alvilda\nhis wife, and how the rings would gleam on her arms when once she came\nback again.\n\nNow at this time Nidud the Little reigned over Sweden, and was hated\nby his people, for he was vain and cowardly and had many other bad\nqualities. It came to his ears that away in the forests lived a man\nwho was very rich, and worked all day long in pure gold. The King was\none of those people who could not bear to see anyone with things which\nhe did not himself possess, and he began to make plans how to get hold\nof Wayland's wealth. At length he called together his chief\ncounsellors, and said to them: 'I hear a man has come to my kingdom\nwho is called Wayland, famous in many lands for his skill in\nsword-making. I have set men to inquire after him, and I have found\nthat when first he came here he was poor and of no account, so he must\nhave grown rich either by magic or else by violence. I command,\ntherefore, that my stoutest men-at-arms should buckle on their iron\nbreastplates and ride in the dead of night to Wayland's house, and\nseize his goods and his person.'\n\n'King Nidud,' answered one of the courtiers, 'that you should take\nhimself and his goods is well, but why send a troop of soldiers\nagainst one man? If he is no sorcerer, then a single one of your\nsoldiers could take him captive; but if, on the other hand, he is a\nmagician, then a whole army could do nothing with him against his\nwill.' At this reply the King flew in a rage, and, snatching up a\nsword, ran it through his counsellor's body; then, turning to the\nrest, told them that they would suffer the same fate if they refused\nto submit to his will.\n\nSo the men-at-arms put on all their armour, and, mounting their\nhorses, set forth at sunset to Wayland's house, King Nidud riding at\ntheir head. The door stood wide open, and they entered quietly, in\ndeadly fear lest Wayland should attack them. But no one was inside,\nand they looked about, their eyes dazzled by the gold on the walls.\nThe King gazed with wonder and delight at the long string of golden\nrings, and, slipping the finest off a strip of bark, placed it on his\nfinger. At that moment steps were heard in the outer court, and the\nKing hastily desired his followers to hide themselves and not to stir\ntill he signed to them to do so. In another moment Wayland stood in\nthe doorway, carrying on his shoulders a bear which he had killed with\nhis spear and was bringing home for supper. He was both tired and\nhungry, for he had been hunting all day; but he had first to skin the\nanimal, and make a bright fire, before he could cut off some steaks\nand cook them at the end of the spear. Then he poured some mead into a\ncup and drank, as he always did, to the memory of his brothers. After\nthat he spread out his bear's skin to dry in the wind, and this done\nhe stretched himself out on his bed and went to sleep.\n\nKing Nidud waited till he thought all was safe, then crept forth with\nhis men, who held heavy chains in their hands wherewith to chain the\nsleeping Wayland. But the task was harder than they expected, and he\nstarted up in wrath, asking why he should be treated so. 'If you want\nmy gold, take it and release me. It is useless fighting against such\nodds.'\n\n'I am no robber,' said the King, 'but Nidud your sovereign.'\n\n'You do me much honour,' replied Wayland, 'but what have I done to be\nloaded with chains like this?'\n\n'Wayland, I know you well,' said Nidud. 'Poor enough you were when you\ncame from Finland, and now your jewels are finer and your drinking\ncups heavier than mine.'\n\n'If I am indeed a thief,' answered Wayland, 'then you do well to load\nme with chains and lead me bound into your dungeons; but if not, I ask\nagain, Why do you misuse me?'\n\n'Riches do not come of themselves,' said Nidud, 'and if you are not a\nthief, then you must be a magician and must be watched.'\n\n'If I were a magician,' answered Wayland, 'it would be easy for me to\nburst these bonds. I know not that ever I have wronged any man, but if\nhe can prove it I will restore it to him tenfold. As to the gifts that\nmay come from the gods, no man should grudge them to his fellow.\nTherefore release me, O King, and I will pay whatever ransom you may\nfix.'\n\nBut Nidud only bade his guards take him away, and Wayland, seeing that\nresistance availed nothing, went with them quietly. By the King's\norders he was thrown into a dark hole fifteen fathoms under ground,\nand the soldiers then came and robbed the house of all its treasures,\nwhich they took to the Palace. The ring which Wayland had made for his\nwife, Nidud gave to his daughter Banvilda.\n\nOne day the Queen was playing the harp in her own room when the King\ncame in to ask her counsel how best to deal with Wayland, as he did\nnot think it wise to put him to death, for he hoped to make some\nprofit out of his skill. 'His heart will beat high,' said the Queen,\n'when he sees his good sword, and beholds his ring on Banvilda's\nfinger. But cut asunder the sinews of his strength, so that he can\nnever more escape from us, and keep him a prisoner on the island of\nSavarsted.'\n\nThe King was pleased with the Queen's words, and sent soldiers to\ncarry Wayland to the tower on the island. The sinews of his leg were\ncut so that he could not swim away; but they gave him his boots, and\nthe chests of gold they had found in his house. Here he was left, with\nnothing to do from morning till night but to make helmets and drinking\ncups and splendid armour for the King.\n\nOn this island Wayland remained for a whole year, chained to a stone\nand visited by no one but the King, who came from time to time to see\nhow his prisoner was getting on with a suit of golden armour he had\nbeen ordered to make. The shield was also of gold, and on it Wayland\nhad beaten out a history of the gods and their great deeds. He was\nvery miserable, for the hope of revenge which had kept him alive\nseemed as far off as ever in its fulfilment, and finding a sword he\nhad lately forged lying close to his hand, he seized it, with the\nintent of putting an end to his wretched life. He had hardly stretched\nout his hand when a bird began to sing at the iron bars of his window,\nwhile the evening sun shone into his prison. 'I should like to see the\nworld once more,' thought he, and, raising himself on the stone to\nwhich his chain was fastened, he was able to look at what lay beneath\nhim. The sea washed the base of the rock on which the tower was built,\nand on a neck of land a little way off some children were playing\nbefore the door of a hut. Everything was bathed in red light from the\nglow of the setting sun.\n\nWayland stood quite still on the top of the stone, gazing at the scene\nwith all his eyes, yet thinking of the land of his birth, which was so\ndifferent. Then he looked again at the sea, which was already turning\nto steel, and in the distance he saw something moving on the waves. As\nit came nearer he discovered it was a young Nixie, or water sprite,\nand she held a lyre in her hand, and sang a song which blended with\nthe murmur of the waves and the notes of the bird. And the song put\nnew life and courage into his heart, for it told him that if he would\nendure and wait the pleasure of the gods, joy would be his one day.\n\nThe Nixie finished her song, and smiled up at Wayland at the window\nbefore turning and swimming over the waves till she dived beneath\nthem. That same instant the bird flew away, and the moon was covered\nby a cloud. But Wayland's heart was cheered, and when he lay down to\nrest he slept quietly.\n\nSome days later the King paid another visit, and suddenly espied the\nthree keys which had been hidden in a corner with some of Wayland's\ntools. He at once asked Wayland what they were, and when he would not\ntell him the King grew so angry that, seizing an axe, he declared that\nhe would put his prisoner to death unless he confessed all he knew.\nThere was no help for it, and Wayland had to say how he came by them\nand what wonders they wrought. The King heard him with delight and\nwent away, taking the keys with him.\n\nNo time was lost in preparing for a journey to the mountains, and when\nhe reached the spot described by Wayland he divided his followers into\nthree parties, sending two to await him some distance off, and keeping\nthe third to enter the mountain with himself, if the copper key did\nthe wonders it had done before. So he gave it to one of the bravest of\nhis men, and told him to lay it against the side of the mountain. The\nman obeyed, and instantly the mountain split from top to bottom. The\nKing bade them enter, never doubting that rich spoils awaited him; but\ninstead the men sank into a green marsh, which swallowed up many of\nthem, while the rest were stung to death by the green serpents hanging\nfrom the roof. Those who, like the King, were near the entrance alone\nescaped.\n\nAs soon as he had recovered from the terror into which this adventure\nhad thrown him he commanded that it should be kept very secret from\nthe other two parties, and desired Storbiorn, his Chamberlain, to take\nthe key of iron and the key of gold and deliver them to the leaders of\nthe divisions he had left behind, with orders to try their fortune in\ndifferent parts of the mountain. 'Give the keys to me, my lord King,'\nanswered Storbiorn, 'and I shall know what to do with them. These\nmagicians may do their worst, my heart will not beat one whit the\nfaster; and I will see all that happens.' So he went and gave his\nmessage to the two divisions, and one stayed behind while Storbiorn\nwent to the mountain with the other.\n\nWhen they arrived the man who held the key laid it against the rock,\nwhich burst asunder, and half the men entered at Storbiorn's command.\nSuddenly an icy blue stream poured upon them from the depths of the\ncavern and drowned most of them before they had time to fly. Only\nthose behind escaped, and Storbiorn bade them go instantly to the King\nand tell him what had befallen them. Then he went to the third troop\nand marched with them to the rock, where he gave the golden key to one\nof the men, and ordered him to try it. The rock flew open at once, and\nStorbiorn told the men to enter, taking care, however, to keep behind\nhimself. They obeyed and found themselves in a lovely golden cave,\nwhose walls were lit up by thousands of precious stones of every hue.\nThere was neither sight nor sound to frighten them, and even\nStorbiorn, when he saw the gold, forgot his prudence and his fears,\nand followed them in. In a moment a red fire burst out with a terrific\nnoise, and clouds of smoke poured over them, so that they fell down\nchoked into the flames. Only one man escaped, and he ran back as fast\nas he could to the King to tell him of the fate of his army.\n\nAll this time Wayland was working quietly in his island prison waiting\nfor the day of his revenge. The suit of golden armour which the King\nhad commanded kept him busy day and night, and, besides the wonderful\nshield with figures of the gods, he had wrought a coat of mail, a\nhelmet, and armour for the thighs, such as never had been seen before.\nThe King had invited all his great nobles to meet him at the Palace\nwhen he returned from the mountain, that they might both see his\narmour and behold all the precious things he should bring with him\nfrom the caverns.\n\nWhen Nidud reached his Palace the Queen and Banvilda, their daughter,\ncame forth to meet him, and told him that the great hall was already\nfull of guests, expecting the wonders he had brought. The King said\nlittle about his adventures, but went into the armoury to put on his\narmour in order to appear before his nobles. Piece by piece he\nfastened it, but he found the helmet so heavy that he could hardly\nbear it on his head. However, he did not look properly dressed without\nit, so he had to wear it, though it felt as if a whole mountain was\npressing on his forehead. Then, buckling on the sword which Wayland\nhad forged, he entered the hall, and seated himself on the throne. The\nEarls were struck dumb by his splendour, and thought at first that it\nwas the god Thor himself, till they looked under the helmet and saw\nthe ugly little man with the pale cowardly face. So they turned their\neyes gladly on the Queen and Princess, both tall and beautiful and\nglittering with jewels, though inwardly they were not much better than\nthe King.\n\nA magnificent dinner made the nobles feel more at ease, and they\nbegged the King to tell them what man there was in Sweden so skilled\nin smith's work. Now Nidud had drunk deeply of mead, and longed to\nrevenge himself on Wayland, whom he held to have caused the loss of\nhis army; so he gave the key of the tower to one of his Earls, and\nbade him take two men and bring forth Wayland, adding that if the next\ntime he visited the tower he should find a grain of gold missing, they\nshould pay for it with their lives.\n\nThe three men got a boat, and rowed towards the tower, but on the way\none who, like the King, had drunk too much mead, fell into the sea and\nwas drowned. The other two reached the tower in safety, and finding\nWayland, blackened with dust, busy at his forge, bade him come just as\nhe was to the boat. With his hands bound they led him before the King,\nand Eyvind the Earl bowed low and said, 'We have done your desire, Sir\nKing, and must now hasten back to look for Gullorm, who fell into the\nsea.'\n\n'Leave him where he is,' replied Nidud; 'if he is not drowned by now\nhe will never drown at all, but in token of your obedience to my\norders I will give you each these golden chains.'\n\n[Illustration: Wayland mocked by the Queen and Banvilda]\n\nThe guests had not thought to see the man who had made such wonderful\narmour helpless and a cripple, and said so to the King. 'He was once\nhandsome and stately enough,' answered Nidud, 'but I have bowed his\nstubborn head.' And the Queen and her daughter joined in saying, 'The\nmaidens of Finland will hardly fancy a lover who cannot stand\nupright.' But Wayland stood as if he heard nothing till the King's son\nsnatched a bone from the table and threw it at his head. Then his\npatience gave way, and, seizing the bone, he beat Nidud about the head\nwith it till the straps of the helmet gave way and the helmet itself\nfell off. The guests all took his side, and said that, though a\ncripple, he was braver than many men whose legs were straight, and\nbegged the King to allow him to go back to his prison without being\nteased further. But the King cried that Wayland had done mischief\nenough, and must now be punished, and told them the story of his visit\nto the mountain and the loss of his followers. 'It would be a small\npunishment to put him to death,' he said, 'for to so wretched a\ncripple death would be welcome. He may use the gold that is left, but\nhenceforth he shall only have one eye to work with,' and the Princess\ncame forward and carried out the cruel sentence herself. And Wayland\nbore it all, saying nothing, but praying the gods to grant him\nvengeance.\n\nOne night Wayland sat filled with grief and despair at his window,\nlooking out over the sea, when he caught sight of two red lights,\nbobbing in his direction. He watched them curiously till they vanished\nbeneath the tower; and soon the key of the outer door turned, and two\nmen, whom he knew to be the King's sons, Gram and Skule, talked softly\ntogether. He kept very still, so that they might think he was asleep,\nand he heard Skule say: 'Let us first get the golden key from him, and\nwhen we have taken from the chest as much as we can carry we will put\nhim to death, lest he should betray us to our father.' Then Wayland\ntook a large sword which lay by his side and hid it behind his seat,\nand he had scarcely done so when the princes entered the prison. 'Good\ngreeting to you,' said Gram. 'Nidud our father has gone a journey into\nthe country, and as he is so greedy of wealth that he will give us\nnone, we have come here to get it for ourselves. Hand us the key and\nswear not to tell our father, or you shall die.'\n\n'My good lords,' answered Wayland, 'your request is reasonable, and I\nam not so foolish as to refuse it. Here is the key, and in the name of\nthe gods I will swear not to betray you.'\n\nThe brothers took the key, and opened the chest that stood by Wayland,\nwhich was still half full of gold. It dazzled their eyes, and they\nboth stooped down so as to see it better. This was what Wayland had\nwaited for, and, seizing his sword, he cut off their heads, which fell\ninto the chest. He then shut down the lid, and dug a grave for the\nbodies in the floor of his dungeon. Afterwards he dried the skulls in\nthe sun, and made them into two drinking cups wrought with gold. The\neyes he set with precious stones and fashioned into armlets, while the\nteeth he filed till they were shaped like pearls, and strung like a\nnecklace.\n\nAs soon as the King came back from his journey he paid a visit to\nWayland, who produced the drinking cups, which he said were made of\nsome curious shells washed up in a gale close to his window. The\narmlet he sent as a present to the Queen, and the bracelet to the\nPrincess.\n\n[Illustration: The Merman warns Banvilda in vain.]\n\nAfter some days had passed, and Gram and Skule had not returned, the\nKing ordered a search to be made for them, and that very evening some\nsailors brought back their boat, which had drifted into the open sea.\nTheir bodies, of course, were not to be found, and the King ordered a\nsplendid funeral feast to be prepared to do them honour. On this\noccasion the new drinking cups were filled with mead, and, besides her\nnecklace, Banvilda wore the ring which her father had taken long\nago from Wayland's house. As was the custom, the feast lasted long,\nand the dead Princes were forgotten by the guests, who drank deeply\nand grew merry. But at midnight their gaiety suddenly came to an end.\nThe King was in the act of drinking from the cup of mead when he felt\na violent pain in his head and let the vessel fall. The hues of the\narmlet became so strange and dreadful that the Queen's eyes suffered\nagony from looking at them, and she tore the armlets off her; while\nBanvilda was seized with such severe toothache that she could sit at\ntable no longer. The guests at once took leave, but it was not till\nthe sun rose that the pains of their hosts went away.\n\nIn the torture of toothache which she had endured during the night\nBanvilda had dashed her arm against the wall, and had broken some of\nthe ornaments off the ring. She feared to tell her father, who would\nbe sure to punish her, and was in despair how to get the ring mended\nwhen she caught sight of the island on which Wayland's tower stood.\n'If I had not mocked at him he might have helped me now,' thought she.\nBut no other way seemed to offer itself, and in the evening she\nloosened a boat and began to row to the tower. On the way she met an\nold merman with a long beard, floating on the waves, who warned her\nnot to go on; but she paid no heed, and only rowed the faster.\n\nShe entered the tower by a false key, and, holding the ring out to\nWayland, begged him to mend it as fast as possible, so that she might\nreturn before she was missed. Wayland answered her with courtesy, and\npromised to do his best, but said that she would have to blow the\nbellows to keep the forge fire alight. 'How comes it that these\nbellows are sprinkled with blood?' asked Banvilda.\n\n'It is the blood of two young sea dogs,' answered Wayland; 'they\ntroubled me for long, but I caught them when they least expected it.\nBut blow, I pray you, the bellows harder, or I shall never be\nfinished.'\n\nBanvilda did as she was told, but soon grew tired and thirsty, and\nbegged Wayland to give her something to drink. He mixed something\nsweet in a cup, which she swallowed hastily, and soon fell fast asleep\non a bench. Then Wayland bound her hands, and placed her in the boat,\nafter which he cut the rope that held it and let it drift out to sea.\nThis done, he shut the door of the tower, and, taking a piece of gold,\nhe engraved on it the history of all that had happened and put it\nwhere it must meet the King's eye when next he came. 'Now is my hour\ncome,' he cried with joy, snatching his spear from the wall, but\nbefore he could throw himself on it he heard a distant song and the\nnotes of a lute.\n\nBy this time the sun was high in the heavens, yet its brightness did\nnot hinder Wayland from seeing a large star, which was floating\ntowards him, and a brilliant rainbow spanned the sky. The flowers on\nthe island unfolded themselves as the star drew near, and he could\nsmell the smell of the roses on the shore. And now Wayland saw it was\nno star, but the golden chariot of Freya the goddess, whose blue\nmantle floated behind her till it was lost in the blue of the sky. On\nher left was a maiden dressed in garlands of fresh green leaves, and\non her right was one clad in a garment of red. At the sight Wayland's\nheart beat high, for he thought of the lump of gold set with jewels\nwhich he and his brothers had found in the mountain so long ago.\nFairies fluttered round them, mermaids rose from the depths of the sea\nto welcome them, and as Freya and her maidens entered the prison\nWayland saw that she who wore the red garment was really Alvilda.\n'Wayland,' said the goddess, 'your time of woe is past. You have\nsuffered much and have avenged your wrongs, and now Odin has granted\nmy prayer that Alvilda shall stay by you for the rest of your life,\nand when you die she shall carry you in her arms to the country of\nWalhalla, where you shall forge golden armour and fashion drinking\nhorns for the gods.'\n\n[Illustration: THE CHARIOT OF FREYA]\n\nWhen Freya had spoken, she beckoned to the green maiden, who held in\nher hand a root and a knife. She cut pieces off the root and laid them\non Wayland's feet, and on his eye, then, placing some leaves from her\ngarland over the whole, she breathed gently on it. 'Eyr the physician\nhas healed me,' cried Wayland, and the fairies took him in their arms\nand bore him across the waves to a bower in the forest, where he\ndreamed that Alvilda and Slagfid and Eigil were all bending over him.\n\nWhen he woke Alvilda was indeed there, and he seemed to catch glimpses\nof his brothers amid the leaves of the trees. 'Arise, my husband,'\nsaid Alvilda, 'and go straight to the Court of Nidud. He still sleeps,\nand knows nothing. Throw this mantle on your shoulders, and they will\ntake you for his servant.'\n\nSo Wayland went, and reached the royal chamber, and in his sleep the\nKing trembled, though he knew not that Wayland was near. 'Awake,'\ncried Wayland, and the King woke, and asked who had dared to disturb\nhim thus.\n\n'Be not angry,' answered Wayland; 'had you slain Wayland long ago, the\nmisfortune that I have to tell you of would never have happened.'\n\n'Do not name his name,' said the King, 'since he sent me those\ndrinking cups a burning fever has laid hold upon me.'\n\n'They were not shells, as he told you,' answered Wayland, 'but the\nskulls of your two sons, Sir King. Their bodies you will find in\nWayland's tower. As for your daughter she is tossing, bound, on the\nwild waves of the sea. But now I, Wayland, have come to give you your\ndeathblow----' But before he could draw his sword fear had slain the\nKing yet more quickly.\n\nSo Wayland went back to Alvilda, and they went into another country,\nwhere he became a famous smith, and he lived to a good old age; and\nwhen he died he was carried in Alvilda's arms to Walhalla, as Freya\nhad promised.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF ROBIN HOOD\n\n_THE STORY OF ROBIN HOOD_\n\n\nMany hundreds of years ago, when the Plantagenets were kings, England\nwas so covered with woods that a squirrel was said to be able to hop\nfrom tree to tree from the Severn to the Humber. It must have been\nvery different to look at from the country we travel through now; but\nstill there were roads that ran from north to south and from east to\nwest, for the use of those that wished to leave their homes, and at\ncertain times of the year these roads were thronged with people.\nPilgrims going to some holy shrine passed along, merchants taking\ntheir wares to Court, fat Abbots and Bishops ambling by on palfreys\nnearly as fat as themselves, to bear their part in the King's Council,\nand, more frequently still, a solitary Knight, seeking adventures.\n\nBesides the broad roads there were small tracks and little green\npaths, and these led to clumps of low huts, where dwelt the peasants,\ncharcoal-burners, and plough-men, and here and there some larger\nclearing than usual told that the house of a yeoman was near. Now and\nthen as you passed through the forest you might ride by a splendid\nabbey, and catch a glimpse of monks in long black or white gowns,\nfishing in the streams and rivers that abound in this part of England,\nor casting nets in the fish ponds which were in the midst of the abbey\ngardens. Or you might chance to see a castle with round turrets and\nhigh battlements, circled by strong walls, and protected by a moat\nfull of water.\n\nThis was the sort of England into which the famous Robin Hood was\nborn. We do not know anything about him, who he was, or where he\nlived, or what evil deed he had done to put him beyond the King's\ngrace. For he was an outlaw, and any man might kill him and never pay\npenalty for it. But, outlaw or not, the poor people loved him and\nlooked on him as their friend, and many a stout fellow came to join\nhim, and led a merry life in the greenwood, with moss and fern for\nbed, and for meat the King's deer, which it was death to slay.\nPeasants of all sorts, tillers of the land, yeomen, and as some say\nKnights, went on their ways freely, for of them Robin took no toll;\nbut lordly churchmen with money-bags well filled, or proud Bishops\nwith their richly dressed followers, trembled as they drew near to\nSherwood Forest--who was to know whether behind every tree there did\nnot lurk Robin Hood or one of his men?\n\n\nTHE COMING OF LITTLE JOHN\n\n\nOne day Robin was walking alone in the wood, and reached a river which\nwas spanned by a very narrow bridge, over which one man only could\npass. In the midst stood a stranger, and Robin bade him go back and\nlet him go over. 'I am no man of yours,' was all the answer Robin got,\nand in anger he drew his bow and fitted an arrow to it. 'Would you\nshoot a man who has no arms but a staff?' asked the stranger in scorn;\nand with shame Robin laid down his bow, and unbuckled an oaken stick\nat his side. 'We will fight till one of us falls into the water,' he\nsaid; and fight they did, till the stranger planted a blow so well\nthat Robin rolled over into the river. 'You are a brave soul,' said\nhe, when he had waded to land, and he blew a blast with his horn which\nbrought fifty good fellows, clad in green, to the little bridge. 'Have\nyou fallen into the river that your clothes are wet?' asked one; and\nRobin made answer, 'No, but this stranger, fighting on the bridge, got\nthe better of me, and tumbled me into the stream.'\n\nAt this the foresters seized the stranger, and would have ducked him\nhad not their leader bade them stop, and begged the stranger to stay\nwith them and make one of themselves. 'Here is my hand,' replied the\nstranger, 'and my heart with it. My name, if you would know it, is\nJohn Little.'\n\n'That must be altered,' cried Will Scarlett; 'we will call a feast,\nand henceforth, because he is full seven feet tall and round the waist\nat least an ell, he shall be called Little John.'\n\nAnd thus it was done; but at the feast Little John, who always liked\nto know exactly what work he had to do, put some questions to Robin\nHood. 'Before I join hands with you, tell me first what sort of life\nis this you lead? How am I to know whose goods I shall take, and whose\nI shall leave? Whom I shall beat, and whom I shall refrain from\nbeating?'\n\nAnd Robin answered: 'Look that you harm not any tiller of the ground,\nnor any yeoman of the greenwood--no, nor no Knight nor Squire, unless\nyou have heard him ill spoken of. But if Bishops or Archbishops come\nyour way, see that you spoil _them_, and mark that you always hold in\nyour mind the High Sheriff of Nottingham.'\n\nThis being settled, Robin Hood declared Little John to be second in\ncommand to himself among the brotherhood of the forest, and the new\noutlaw never forgot to 'hold in his mind' the High Sheriff of\nNottingham, who was the bitterest enemy the foresters had.\n\n\nLITTLE JOHN'S FIRST ADVENTURE\n\n\nRobin Hood, however, had no liking for a company of idle men about\nhim, and he at once sent off Little John and Will Scarlett to the\ngreat road known as Watling Street, with orders to hide among the\ntrees and wait till some adventure might come to them; and if they\ntook captive Earl or Baron, Abbot or Knight, he was to be brought\nunharmed back to Robin Hood.\n\nBut all along Watling Street the road was bare; white and hard it lay\nin the sun, without the tiniest cloud of dust to show that a rich\ncompany might be coming: east and west the land lay still.\n\nAt length, just where a side path turned into the broad highway, there\nrode a Knight, and a sorrier man than he never sat a horse on summer\nday. One foot only was in the stirrup, the other hung carelessly by\nhis side; his head was bowed, the reins dropped loose, and his horse\nwent on as he would. At so sad a sight the hearts of the outlaws were\nfilled with pity, and Little John fell on his knees and bade the\nKnight welcome in the name of his master.\n\n'Who is your master?' asked the Knight.\n\n'Robin Hood,' answered Little John.\n\n'I have heard much good of him,' replied the Knight, 'and will go with\nyou gladly.'\n\nThen they all set off together, tears running down the Knight's cheeks\nas he rode, but he said nothing, neither was anything said to him. And\nin this wise they came to Robin Hood.\n\n'Welcome, Sir Knight,' cried he, 'and thrice welcome, for I waited to\nbreak my fast till you or some other had come to me.'\n\n'God save you, good Robin,' answered the Knight, and after they had\nwashed themselves in the stream they sat down to dine off bread and\nwine, with flesh of the King's deer, and swans and pheasants. 'Such a\ndinner have I not had for three weeks and more,' said the Knight. 'And\nif I ever come again this way, good Robin, I will give you as fine a\ndinner as you have given me.'\n\n'I thank you,' replied Robin, 'my dinner is always welcome; still, I\nam none so greedy but I can wait for it. But before you go, pay me, I\npray you, for the food which you have had. It was never the custom for\na yeoman to pay for a Knight.'\n\n'My bag is empty,' said the Knight, 'save for ten shillings only.'\n\n'Go, Little John, and look in his wallet,' said Robin, 'and, Sir\nKnight, if in truth you have no more, not one penny will I take, nay,\nI will give you all that you shall need.'\n\nSo Little John spread out the Knight's mantle, and opened the bag, and\ntherein lay ten shillings and naught besides.\n\n'What tidings, Little John?' cried his master.\n\n'Sir, the Knight speaks truly,' said Little John.\n\n'Then fill a cup of the best wine and tell me, Sir Knight, whether it\nis your own ill doings which have brought you to this sorry pass.'\n\n'For an hundred years my fathers have dwelt in the forest,' answered\nthe Knight, 'and four hundred pounds might they spend yearly. But\nwithin two years misfortune has befallen me, and my wife and children\nalso.'\n\n'How did this evil come to pass?' asked Robin.\n\n'Through my own folly,' answered the Knight, 'and because of the great\nlove I bore my son, who would never be guided of my counsel, and slew,\nere he was twenty years old, a Knight of Lancaster and his Squire. For\ntheir deaths I had to pay a large sum, which I could not raise\nwithout giving my lands in pledge to the rich Abbot of St. Mary's. If\nI cannot bring him the money by a certain day they will be lost to me\nfor ever.'\n\n'What is the sum?' asked Robin. 'Tell me truly.'\n\n'It is four hundred pounds,' said the Knight.\n\n'And what will you do if you lose your lands?' asked Robin again.\n\n'Hide myself over the sea,' said the Knight, 'and bid farewell to my\nfriends and country. There is no better way open to me.'\n\nAt this tears fell from his eyes, and he turned him to depart. 'Good\nday, my friend,' he said to Robin, 'I cannot pay you what I should--'\nBut Robin held him fast. 'Where _are_ your friends?' asked he.\n\n'Sir, they have all forsaken me since I became poor, and they turn\naway their heads if we meet upon the road, though when I was rich they\nwere ever in my castle.'\n\nWhen Little John and Will Scarlett and the rest heard this they wept\nfor very shame and fury and Robin bade them fill a cup of the best\nwine, and give it to the Knight.\n\n'Have you no one who would stay surety for you?' said he.\n\n'None,' answered the Knight, 'but only Our Lady, who has never yet\nfailed to help me.'\n\n'You speak well,' said Robin, 'and you, Little John, go to my treasure\nchest, and bring me thence four hundred pounds. And be sure you count\nit truly.'\n\nSo Little John went, and Will Scarlett, and they brought back the\nmoney.\n\n'Sir,' said Little John, when Robin had counted it and found it no\nmore nor no less, 'look at his clothes, how thin they are! You have\nstores of garments, green and scarlet, in your coffers--no merchant in\nEngland can boast the like. I will measure some out with my bow.' And\nthus he did.\n\n'Master,' spoke Little John again, 'there is still something else. You\nmust give him a horse, that he may go as beseems his quality to the\nAbbey.'\n\n'Take the grey horse,' said Robin, 'and put a new saddle on it, and\ntake likewise a good palfrey and a pair of boots, with gilt spurs on\nthem. And as it were a shame for a Knight to ride by himself on this\nerrand, I will lend you Little John as Squire--perchance he may stand\nyou in yeoman's stead.'\n\n'When shall we meet again?' asked the Knight.\n\n'This day twelve months,' said Robin, 'under the greenwood tree.'\n\nThen the Knight rode on his way, with Little John behind him, and as\nhe went he thought of Robin Hood and his men, and blessed them for the\ngoodness they had shown towards him.\n\n'To-morrow,' he said to Little John, 'I must be at the Abbey of St.\nMary, which is in the city of York, for if I am but so much as a day\nlate my lands are lost for ever, and though I were to bring the money\nI should not be suffered to redeem them.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow the Abbot had been counting the days as well as the Knight, and\nthe next morning he said to his monks: 'This day year there came a\nKnight and borrowed of me four hundred pounds, giving his lands in\nsurety. And if he come not to pay his debt ere midnight tolls they\nwill be ours for ever.'\n\n'It is full early yet,' answered the Prior, 'he may still be coming.'\n\n'He is far beyond the sea,' said the Abbot, 'and suffers from hunger\nand cold. How is he to get here?'\n\n'It were a shame,' said the Prior, 'for you to take his lands. And you\ndo him much wrong if you drive such a hard bargain.'\n\n'He is dead or hanged,' spake a fat-headed monk who was the cellarer,\n'and we shall have his four hundred pounds to spend on our gardens\nand our wines,' and he went with the Abbot to attend the court of\njustice wherein the Knight's lands would be declared forfeited by the\nHigh Justiciar.\n\n'If he come not this day,' cried the Abbot, rubbing his hands, 'if he\ncome not this day, they will be ours.'\n\n'He will not come yet,' said the Justiciar, but he knew not that the\nKnight was already at the outer gate, and Little John with him.\n\n'Welcome, Sir Knight,' said the porter. 'The horse that you ride is\nthe noblest that ever I saw. Let me lead them both to the stable, that\nthey may have food and rest.'\n\n'They shall not pass these gates,' answered the Knight sternly, and he\nentered the hall alone, where the monks were sitting at meat, and\nknelt down and bowed to them.\n\n'I have come back, my lord,' he said to the Abbot, who had just\nreturned from the court. 'I have come back this day as I promised.'\n\n'Have you brought my money?' was all the Abbot said.\n\n'Not a penny,' answered the Knight, who wished to see how the Abbot\nwould treat him.\n\n'Then what do you here without it?' cried the Abbot in angry tones.\n\n'I have come to pray you for a longer day,' answered the Knight\nmeekly.\n\n'The day was fixed and cannot be gainsaid,' replied the Justiciar, but\nthe Knight only begged that he would stand his friend and help him in\nhis strait. 'I am with the Abbot,' was all the Justiciar would answer.\n\n'Good Sir Abbot, be my friend,' prayed the Knight again, 'and give me\none chance more to get the money and free my lands. I will serve you\nday and night till I have four hundred pounds to redeem them.'\n\nBut the Abbot only swore a great oath, and vowed that the money must\nbe paid that day or the lands be forfeited.\n\nThe Knight stood up straight and tall: 'It is well,' said he, 'to\nprove one's friends against the hour of need,' and he looked the Abbot\nfull in the face, and the Abbot felt uneasy, he did not know why, and\nhated the Knight more than ever. 'Out of my hall, false Knight!' cried\nhe, pretending to a courage which he did not feel. But the Knight\nstayed where he was, and answered him, 'You lie, Abbot. Never was I\nfalse, and that I have shown in jousts and in tourneys.'\n\n'Give him two hundred pounds more,' said the Justiciar to the Abbot,\n'and keep the lands yourself.'\n\n'No, by Heaven!' answered the Knight, 'not if you offered me a\nthousand pounds would I do it! Neither Justiciar, Abbot, nor Monk\nshall be heir of mine.' Then he strode up to a table and emptied out\nfour hundred pounds. 'Take your gold, Sir Abbot, which you lent to me\na year agone. Had you but received me civilly, I would have paid you\nsomething more.\n\n    'Sir Abbot, and ye men of law,\n      Now have I kept my day!\n    Now shall I have my land again,\n      For aught that you may say.'\n\nSo he passed out of the hall singing merrily, leaving the Abbot\nstaring silently after him, and rode back to his house in Verisdale,\nwhere his wife met him at the gate.\n\n    'Welcome, my lord,' said his lady,\n      'Sir, lost is all your good.'\n    'Be merry, dame,' said the Knight,\n      'And pray for Robin Hood.'\n\n'But for his kindness, we had been beggars.'\n\nAfter this the Knight dwelt at home, looking after his lands, and\nsaving his money carefully till the four hundred pounds lay ready for\nRobin Hood. Then he bought a hundred bows and a hundred arrows, and\nevery arrow was an ell long, and had a head of silver and peacock's\nfeathers. And clothing himself in white and red, and with a hundred\nmen in his train, he set off to Sherwood Forest.\n\nOn the way he passed an open space near a bridge where there was a\nwrestling, and the Knight stopped and looked, for he himself had taken\nmany a prize in that sport. Here the prizes were such as to fill any\nman with envy; a fine horse, saddled and bridled, a great white bull,\na pair of gloves, a ring of bright red gold, and a pipe of wine. There\nwas not a yeoman present who did not hope to win one of them. But when\nthe wrestling was over, the yeoman who had beaten them all was a man\nwho kept apart from his fellows, and was said to think much of\nhimself. Therefore the men grudged him his skill, and set upon him\nwith blows, and would have killed him, had not the Knight, for love of\nRobin Hood, taken pity on him, while his followers fought with the\ncrowd, and would not suffer them to touch the prizes a better man had\nwon.\n\nWhen the wrestling was finished the Knight rode on, and there under\nthe greenwood tree, in the place appointed, he found Robin Hood and\nhis merry men waiting for him, according to the tryst that they had\nfixed last year:\n\n    'God save thee, Robin Hood,\n      And all this company.'\n    'Welcome be thou, gentle Knight,\n      And right welcome to me.'\n\n    'Hast thou thy land again?' said Robin,\n      'Truth then tell thou me.'\n    'Yea, for God,' said the Knight,\n      'And that thank I God and thee.'\n\n    'Have here four hundred pounds,' said the Knight,\n      'The which you lent to me;\n    And here are also twenty marks\n      For your courtesie.'\n\nBut Robin would not take the money. A miracle had happened, he said,\nand Our Lady had paid it to him, and shame would it be for him to take\nit twice over. Then he noticed for the first time the bows and arrows\nwhich the Knight had brought, and asked what they were. 'A poor\npresent to you,' answered the Knight, and Robin, who would not be\noutdone, sent Little John once more to his treasury, and bade him\nbring forth four hundred pounds, which was given to the Knight. After\nthat they parted, in much love, and Robin prayed the Knight if he were\nin any strait 'to let him know at the greenwood tree, and while there\nwas any gold there he should have it.'\n\n\nHOW LITTLE JOHN BECAME THE\n\nSHERIFF'S SERVANT\n\n\nMeanwhile the High Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a great\nshooting-match in a broad open space, and Little John was minded to\ntry his skill with the rest. He rode through the forest, whistling\ngaily to himself, for well he knew that not one of Robin Hood's men\ncould send an arrow as straight as he, and he felt little fear of\nanyone else. When he reached the trysting place he found a large\ncompany assembled, the Sheriff with them, and the rules of the match\nwere read out: where they were to stand, how far the mark was to be,\nand how that three tries should be given to every man.\n\nSome of the shooters shot near the mark, some of them even touched it,\nbut none but Little John split the slender wand of willow with every\narrow that flew from his bow. And at this sight the Sheriff of\nNottingham swore a great oath that Little John was the best archer\nthat ever he had seen, and asked him who he was and where he was born,\nand vowed that if he would enter his service he would give twenty\nmarks a year to so good a bowman.\n\nLittle John, who did not wish to confess that he was one of Robin\nHood's men and an outlaw, said his name was Reynold Greenleaf, and\nthat he was in the service of a Knight, whose leave he must get before\nhe became the servant of any man. This was given heartily by the\nKnight, and Little John bound himself to the Sheriff for the space of\ntwelve months, and was given a good white horse to ride on whenever he\nwent abroad. But for all that he did not like his bargain, and made\nup his mind to do the Sheriff, who was hated of the outlaws, all the\nmischief he could.\n\nHis chance came on a Wednesday when the Sheriff always went hunting\nand Little John lay in bed till noon, when he grew hungry. Then he got\nup, and told the steward that he wanted some dinner. The steward\nanswered he should have nothing till the Sheriff came home, so Little\nJohn grumbled and left him, and sought out the butler. Here he was no\nmore successful than before; the butler just went to the buttery door\nand locked it, and told Little John that he would have to make himself\nhappy till his lord returned.\n\nRude words mattered nothing to Little John, who was not accustomed to\nbe baulked by trifles, so he gave a mighty kick which burst open the\ndoor, and then ate and drank as much as he would, and when he had\nfinished all there was in the buttery, he went down into the kitchen.\n\nNow the Sheriff's cook was a strong man and a bold one, and had no\nmind to let another man play the king in his kitchen; so he gave\nLittle John three smart blows, which were returned heartily. 'Thou art\na brave man and hardy,' said Little John, 'and a good fighter withal.\nI have a sword, take you another, and let us see which is the better\nman of us twain.'\n\nThe cook did as he was bid, and for two hours they fought, neither of\nthem harming the other. 'Fellow,' said Little John at last, 'you are\none of the best swordsmen that I ever saw--and if you could shoot as\nwell with the bow I would take you back to the merry greenwood, and\nRobin Hood would give you twenty marks a year and two changes of\nclothing.'\n\n'Put up your sword,' said the cook, 'and I will go with you. But first\nwe will have some food in my kitchen, and carry off a little of the\ngold that is in the Sheriff's treasure house.'\n\nThey ate and drank till they wanted no more, then they broke the locks\nof the treasure house, and took of the silver as much as they could\ncarry, three hundred pounds and more, and departed unseen by anyone to\nRobin in the forest.\n\n'Welcome! Welcome!' cried Robin when he saw them, 'welcome, too, to\nthe fair yeoman you bring with you. What tidings from Nottingham,\nLittle John?'\n\n'The proud Sheriff greets you, and sends you by my hand his cook and\nhis silver vessels, and three hundred pounds and three also.'\n\nRobin shook his head, for he knew better than to believe Little John's\ntale. 'It was never by his good will that you brought such treasure to\nme,' he answered, and Little John, fearing that he might be ordered to\ntake it back again, slipped away into the forest to carry out a plan\nthat had just come into his head.\n\nHe ran straight on for five miles, till he came up with the Sheriff,\nwho was still hunting, and flung himself on his knees before him.\n\n'Reynold Greenleaf,' cried the Sheriff, 'what are you doing here, and\nwhere have you been?'\n\n'I have been in the forest, where I saw a fair hart of a green colour,\nand sevenscore deer feeding hard by.'\n\n'That sight would I see too,' said the Sheriff.\n\n'Then follow me,' answered Little John, and he ran back the way he\ncame, the Sheriff following on horseback, till they turned a corner of\nthe forest, and found themselves in Robin Hood's presence. 'Sir, here\nis the master-hart,' said Little John.\n\n    Still stood the proud Sheriff,\n      A sorry man was he,\n    'Woe be to you, Reynold Greenleaf,\n      Thou hast betrayed me!'\n\n'It was not my fault,' answered Little John, 'but the fault of your\nservants, master. For they would not give me my dinner,' and he went\naway to see to the supper.\n\nIt was spread under the greenwood tree, and they sat down to it,\nhungry men all. But when the Sheriff saw himself served from his own\nvessels, his appetite went from him.\n\n'Take heart, man,' said Robin Hood, 'and think not we will poison you.\nFor charity's sake, and for the love of Little John, your life shall\nbe granted you. Only for twelve months you shall dwell with me, and\nlearn what it is to be an outlaw.'\n\nTo the Sheriff this punishment was worse to bear than the loss of gold\nor silver dishes, and earnestly he begged Robin Hood to set him free,\nvowing he would prove himself the best friend that ever the foresters\nhad.\n\nNeither Robin nor any of his men believed him, but he took a great\noath that he would never seek to do them harm, and that if he found\nany of them in evil plight he would deliver them out of it. With that\nRobin let him go.\n\n\nHOW ROBIN MET FRIAR TUCK\n\n\nIn many ways life in the forest was dull in the winter, and often the\ndays passed slowly; but in summer, when the leaves grew green, and\nflowers and ferns covered all the woodland, Robin Hood and his men\nwould come out of their warm resting places, like the rabbits and the\nsquirrels, and would play too. Races they ran, to stretch their legs,\nor leaping matches were arranged, or they would shoot at a mark.\nAnything was pleasant, when the grass was soft once more under their\nfeet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Who can kill a hart of grace five hundred paces off?'\n\nSo said Robin to his men in the bright May time; and they went into\nthe wood and tried their skill, and in the end it was Little John who\nbrought down the 'hart of grace,' to the great joy of Robin Hood. 'I\nwould ride my horse a hundred miles to find one who could match with\nthee,' he said to Little John, and Will Scarlett, who was perhaps\nrather jealous of this mighty deed, answered with a laugh, 'There\nlives a friar in Fountains Abbey who would beat both him and you.'\n\nNow Robin Hood did not like to be told that any man could shoot better\nthan himself or his foresters, so he swore lustily that he would\nneither eat nor drink till he had seen that friar. Leaving his men\nwhere they were, he put on a coat of mail and a steel cap, took his\nshield and sword, slung his bow over his shoulder, and filled his\nquiver with arrows. Thus armed, he set forth to Fountains Dale.\n\nBy the side of the river a friar was walking, armed like Robin, but\nwithout a bow. At this sight Robin jumped from his horse, which he\ntied to a thorn, and called to the friar to carry him over the water\nor it would cost him his life.\n\nThe friar said nothing, but hoisted Robin on his broad back and\nmarched into the river. Not a word was spoken till they reached the\nother side, when Robin leaped lightly down, and was going on his way\nwhen the friar stopped him. 'Not so fast, my fine fellow,' said he.\n'It is my turn now, and you shall take me across the river, or woe\nwill betide you.' So Robin carried him, and when they had reached the\nside from which they had started he set down the friar and jumped for\nthe second time on his back, and bade him take him whence he had come.\nThe friar strode into the stream with his burden, but as soon as they\ngot to the middle he bent his head and Robin fell into the water. 'Now\nyou can sink or swim as you like,' said the friar, as he stood and\nlaughed.\n\nRobin Hood swam to a bush of golden broom, and pulled himself out of\nthe water, and while the friar was scrambling out Robin fitted an\narrow to his bow and let fly at him. But the friar quickly held up his\nshield, and the arrow fell harmless.\n\n'Shoot on, my fine fellow, shoot on all day if you like,' shouted the\nfriar, and Robin shot till his arrows were gone, but always missed his\nmark. Then they took their swords, and at four of the afternoon they\nwere still fighting.\n\nBy this time Robin's strength was wearing, and he felt he could not\nfight much more. 'A boon, a boon!' cried he. 'Let me but blow three\nblasts on my horn, and I will thank you on my bended knees for it.'\n\nThe friar told him to blow as many blasts as he liked, and in an\ninstant the forest echoed with his horn; it was but a few minutes\nbefore 'half a hundred yeomen were racing over the lea.' The friar\nstared when he saw them; then, turning to Robin, he begged of him a\nboon also, and leave being granted he gave three whistles, which were\nfollowed by the noise of a great crashing through the trees, as fifty\ngreat dogs bounded towards him.\n\n'Here's a dog for each of your men,' said the friar, 'and I myself for\nyou'; but the dogs did not listen to his words, for two of them rushed\nat Robin, and tore his mantle of Lincoln green from off his back. His\nmen were too busy defending themselves to take heed of their master's\nplight, for every arrow shot at a dog was caught and held in the\ncreature's mouth.\n\nRobin's men were not used to fight with dogs, and felt they were\ngetting beaten. At last Little John bade the friar call off his dogs,\nand as he did not do so at once he let fly some arrows, which this\ntime left half a dozen dead on the ground.\n\n'Hold, hold, my good fellow,' said the friar, 'till your master and I\ncan come to a bargain,' and when the bargain was made this was how it\nran. That the friar was to forswear Fountains Abbey and join Robin\nHood, and that he should be paid a golden noble every Sunday\nthroughout the year, besides a change of clothes on each holy day.\n\n    This Friar had kept Fountains Dale\n      Seven long years or more,\n    There was neither Knight, nor Lord, nor Earl\n      Could make him yield before.\n\nBut now he became one of the most famous members of Robin Hood's men\nunder the name of Friar Tuck.\n\n\nHOW ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN\n\nFELL OUT\n\n\nOne Whitsunday morning, when the sun was shining and the birds\nsinging, Robin Hood called to Little John to come with him into\nNottingham to hear Mass. As was their custom, they took their bows,\nand on the way Little John proposed that they should shoot a match\nwith a penny for a wager. Robin, who held that he himself shot better\nthan any man living, laughed in scorn, and told Little John that he\nshould have three tries to his master's one, which John without more\nado accepted. But Robin soon repented both of his offer and his scorn,\nfor Little John speedily won five shillings, whereat Robin became\nangry and smote Little John with his hand. Little John was not the man\nto bear being treated so, and he told Robin roundly that he would\nnever more own him for master, and straightway turned back into the\nwood. At this Robin was ashamed of what he had done, but his pride\nwould not suffer him to say so, and he continued his way to\nNottingham, and entered the Church of St. Mary, not without secret\nfears, for the Sheriff of the town was ever his enemy. However, there\nhe was, and there he meant to stay.\n\nHe knelt down before the great cross in the sight of all the people,\nbut none knew him save one monk only, and he stole out of church and\nran to the Sheriff, and bade him come quickly and take his foe. The\nSheriff was not slow to do the monk's bidding, and, calling his men\nto follow him, he marched to the church. The noise they made in\nentering caused Robin to look round. 'Alas, alas,' he said to himself,\n'now miss I Little John.'\n\nBut he drew his two-handed sword and laid about him in such wise that\ntwelve of the Sheriff's men lay dead before him. Then Robin found\nhimself face to face with the Sheriff, and gave him a fierce blow; but\nhis sword broke on the Sheriff's head, and he had shot away all his\narrows. So the men closed round him, and bound his arms.\n\nIll news travels fast, and not many hours had passed before the\nforesters heard that their master was in prison. They wept and moaned\nand wrung their hands, and seemed to have gone suddenly mad, till\nLittle John bade them pluck up their hearts and help him to deal with\nthe monk.\n\nThe next morning he hid himself, and waited with a comrade, Much by\nname, till he saw the monk riding along the road, with a page behind\nhim, carrying letters from the Sheriff to the King telling of Robin's\ncapture.\n\n'Whence come you?' asked Little John, going up to the monk, 'and can\nyou give us tidings of a false outlaw named Robin Hood, who was taken\nprisoner yesterday? He robbed both me and my fellow of twenty marks,\nand glad should we be to hear of his undoing.'\n\n'He robbed me, too,' said the monk, 'of a hundred pounds and more, but\nI have laid hands on him, and for that you may thank me.'\n\n'I thank you so much that, with your leave, I and my friend will bear\nyou company,' answered Little John; 'for in this forest are many wild\nmen who own Robin Hood for leader, and you ride along this road at the\nperil of your life.'\n\nThey went on together, talking the while, when suddenly Little John\nseized the horse by the head and pulled down the monk by his hood.\n\n    'He was my master,' said Little John,\n      'That you have brought to bale,\n    'Never shall you come at the King\n      'For to tell him that tale.'\n\nAt these words the monk uttered loud cries, but Little John took no\nheed of him, and smote off his head, as Much had already smitten off\nthat of the page, lest he should carry the news of what had happened\nback to the Sheriff. After this they buried the bodies, and, taking\nthe letters, carried them themselves to the King.\n\nWhen they arrived at the Palace, in the presence of the King, Little\nJohn fell on his knees and held the letter out. 'God save you, my\nliege lord,' he said; and the King unfolded the letters and read them.\n\n'There never was yeoman in Merry England I longed so sore to see,' he\nsaid. 'But where is the monk that should have brought these letters?'\n\n'He died by the way,' answered Little John; and the King asked no more\nquestions.\n\nTwenty pounds each he ordered his treasurer to give to Much and to\nLittle John, and made them yeomen of the crown. After which he handed\nhis own seal to Little John and ordered him to bear it to the Sheriff,\nand bid him without delay bring Robin Hood unhurt into his presence.\n\nLittle John did as the King bade him, and the Sheriff, at sight of the\nseal, gave him and Much welcome, and set a feast before them, at which\nJohn led him to drink heavily. Soon he fell asleep, and then the two\noutlaws stole softly to the prison. Here John ran the porter through\nthe body for trying to stop his entrance, and, taking the keys, hunted\nthrough the cells until he had found Robin. Thrusting a sword into his\nhand Little John whispered to his master to follow him, and they crept\nalong till they reached the lowest part of the city wall, from which\nthey jumped and were safe and free.\n\n'Now, farewell,' said Little John, 'I have done you a good turn for\nan ill.' 'Not so,' answered Robin Hood, 'I make you master of my men\nand me,' but Little John would hear nothing of it. 'I only wish to be\nyour comrade, and thus it shall be,' he replied.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'Little John has beguiled us both,' said the King, when he heard of\nthe adventure.\n\n\nHOW THE KING VISITED ROBIN HOOD\n\n\nNow the King had no mind that Robin Hood should do as he willed, and\ncalled his Knights to follow him to Nottingham, where they would lay\nplans how best to take captive the felon. Here they heard sad tales of\nRobin's misdoings, and how of the many herds of wild deer that had\nbeen wont to roam the forest in some places scarce one remained. This\nwas the work of Robin Hood and his merry men, on whom the King swore\nvengeance with a great oath.\n\n'I would I had this Robin Hood in my hands,' cried he, 'and an end\nshould soon be put to his doings.' So spake the King; but an old\nKnight, full of days and wisdom, answered him and warned him that the\ntask of taking Robin Hood would be a sore one, and best let alone. The\nKing, who had seen the vanity of his hot words the moment that he had\nuttered them, listened to the old man, and resolved to bide his time,\nif perchance some day Robin should fall into his power.\n\nAll this time and for six weeks later that he dwelt in Nottingham the\nKing could hear nothing of Robin, who seemed to have vanished into the\nearth with his merry men, though one by one the deer were vanishing\ntoo!\n\nAt last one day a forester came to the King, and told him that if he\nwould see Robin he must come with him and take five of his best\nKnights. The King eagerly sprang up to do his bidding, and the six men\nclad in monks' clothes mounted their palfreys and rode down to the\nAbbey, the King wearing an Abbot's broad hat over his crown and\nsinging as he passed through the greenwood.\n\n[Illustration: There is Pith in your arm said ROBIN HOOD]\n\nSuddenly at the turn of a path Robin and his archers appeared before\nthem.\n\n'By your leave, Sir Abbot,' said Robin, seizing the King's bridle,\n'you will stay a while with us. Know that we are yeomen, who live upon\nthe King's deer, and other food have we none. Now you have abbeys and\nchurches, and gold in plenty; therefore give us some of it, in the\nname of holy charity.'\n\n'I have no more than forty pounds with me,' answered the King, 'but\nsorry I am it is not a hundred, for you should have had it all.'\n\nSo Robin took the forty pounds, and gave half to his men, and then\ntold the King he might go on his way. 'I thank you,' said the King,\n'but I would have you know that our liege lord has bid me bear you his\nseal, and pray you to come to Nottingham.'\n\nAt this message Robin bent his knee.\n\n    'I love no man in all the world\n      So well as I do my King';\n\nhe cried, 'and Sir Abbot, for thy tidings, which fill my heart with\njoy, to-day thou shalt dine with me, for love of my King.' Then he led\nthe King into an open place, and Robin took a horn and blew it loud,\nand at its blast seven score of young men came speedily to do his\nwill.\n\n'They are quicker to do his bidding than my men are to do mine,' said\nthe King to himself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSpeedily the foresters set out the dinner, venison, and white bread,\nand the good red wine, and Robin and Little John served the King.\n'Make good cheer,' said Robin, 'Abbot, for charity, and then you shall\nsee what sort of life we lead, that so you may tell our King.'\n\nWhen he had finished eating the archers took their bows, and hung\nrose-garlands up with a string, and every man was to shoot through\nthe garland. If he failed, he should have a buffet on the head from\nRobin.\n\nGood bowmen as they were, few managed to stand the test. Little John\nand Will Scarlett, and Much, all shot wide of the mark, and at length\nno one was left in but Robin himself and Gilbert of the White Hand.\nThen Robin fired his last bolt, and it fell three fingers from the\ngarland. 'Master,' said Gilbert, 'you have lost, stand forth and take\nyour punishment.'\n\n'I will take it,' answered Robin, 'but, Sir Abbot, I pray you that I\nmay suffer it at your hands.'\n\nThe King hesitated. 'It did not become him,' he said, 'to smite such a\nstout yeoman,' but Robin bade him smite on; so he turned up his\nsleeve, and gave Robin such a buffet on the head that he rolled upon\nthe ground.\n\n'There is pith in your arm,' said Robin. 'Come, shoot a main with me.'\nAnd the King took up a bow, and in so doing his hat fell back and\nRobin saw his face.\n\n'My lord the King of England, now I know you well,' cried he, and he\nfell on his knees and all the outlaws with him. 'Mercy I ask, my lord\nthe King, for my men and me.'\n\n'Mercy I grant,' then said the King, 'and therefore I came hither, to\nbid you and your men leave the greenwood and dwell in my Court with\nme.'\n\n'So shall it be,' answered Robin, 'I and my men will come to your\nCourt, and see how your service liketh us.'\n\n\nROBIN AT COURT\n\n\n'Have you any green cloth,' asked the King, 'that you could sell to\nme?' and Robin brought out thirty yards and more, and clad the King\nand his men in coats of Lincoln green. 'Now we will all ride to\nNottingham,' said he, and they went merrily, shooting by the way.\n\nThe people of Nottingham saw them coming, and trembled as they watched\nthe dark mass of Lincoln green drawing near over the fields. 'I fear\nlest our King be slain,' whispered one to another, 'and if Robin Hood\ngets into the town there is not one of us whose life is safe'; and\nevery man, woman, and child made ready to fly.\n\nThe King laughed out when he saw their fright, and called them back.\nRight glad were they to hear his voice, and they feasted and made\nmerry. A few days later the King returned to London, and Robin dwelt\nin his Court for twelve months. By that time he had spent a hundred\npounds, for he gave largely to the Knights and Squires he met, and\ngreat renown he had for his open-handedness.\n\nBut his men, who had been born under the shadow of the forest, could\nnot live amid streets and houses. One by one they slipped away, till\nonly Little John and Will Scarlett were left. Then Robin himself grew\nhome-sick, and at the sight of some young men shooting thought upon\nthe time when he was accounted the best archer in all England, and\nwent straightway to the King and begged for leave to go on a\npilgrimage to Bernisdale.\n\n'I may not say you nay,' answered the King, 'seven nights you may be\ngone and no more.' And Robin thanked him, and that evening set out for\nthe greenwood.\n\nIt was early morning when he reached it at last, and listened\nthirstily to the notes of singing birds, great and small.\n\n'It seems long since I was here,' he said to himself; 'it would give\nme great joy if I could bring down a deer once more'; and he shot a\ngreat hart, and blew his horn, and all the outlaws of the forest came\nflocking round him. 'Welcome,' they said, 'our dear master, back to\nthe greenwood tree,' and they threw off their caps and fell on their\nknees before him in delight at his return.\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD\n\n\nFor two and twenty years Robin Hood dwelt in Sherwood Forest after he\nhad run away from Court, and naught that the King could say would\ntempt him back again. At the end of that time he fell ill; he neither\nate nor drank, and had no care for the things he loved. 'I must go to\nmerry Kirkley,' said he, 'and have my blood let.'\n\nBut Will Scarlett, who heard his words, spoke roundly to him. 'Not by\n_my_ leave, nor without a hundred bowmen at your back. For there\nabides an evil man, who is sure to quarrel with you, and you will need\nus badly.'\n\n'If you are afraid, Will Scarlett, you may stay at home, for me,' said\nRobin, 'and in truth no man will I take with me, save Little John\nonly, to carry my bow.'\n\n'Bear your bow yourself, master, and I will bear mine, and we will\nshoot for a penny as we ride.'\n\n'Very well, let it be so,' said Robin, and they went on merrily enough\ntill they came to some women weeping sorely near a stream.\n\n'What is the matter, good wives?' said Robin Hood.\n\n'We weep for Robin Hood and his dear body, which to-day must let\nblood,' was their answer.\n\n'Pray why do you weep for me?' asked Robin; 'the Prioress is the\ndaughter of my aunt, and my cousin, and well I know she would not do\nme harm for all the world.' And he passed on, with Little John at his\nside.\n\nSoon they reached the Priory, where they were let in by the Prioress\nherself, who bade them welcome heartily, and not the less because\nRobin handed her twenty pounds in gold as payment for his stay, and\ntold her if he cost her more she was to let him know of it. Then she\nbegan to bleed him, and for long Robin said nothing, giving her credit\nfor kindness and for knowing her art, but at length so much blood came\nfrom him that he suspected treason. He tried to open the door, for she\nhad left him alone in the room, but it was locked fast, and while the\nblood was still flowing he could not escape from the casement. So he\nlay down for many hours, and none came near him, and at length the\nblood stopped. Slowly Robin uprose and staggered to the\nlattice-window, and blew thrice on his horn; but the blast was so low,\nand so little like what Robin was wont to give, that Little John, who\nwas watching for some sound, felt that his master must be nigh to\ndeath.\n\nAt this thought he started to his feet, and ran swiftly to the Priory.\nHe broke the locks of all the doors that stood between him and Robin\nHood, and soon entered the chamber where his master lay, white, with\nnigh all his blood gone from him.\n\n'I crave a boon of you, dear master,' cried Little John.\n\n'And what is that boon,' said Robin Hood, 'which Little John begs of\nme?' And Little John answered, 'It is to burn fair Kirkley Hall, and\nall the nunnery.'\n\nBut Robin Hood, in spite of the wrong that had been done him, would\nnot listen to Little John's cry for revenge. 'I never hurt a woman in\nall my life,' he said, 'nor a man that was in her company. But now my\ntime is done, that know I well; so give me my bow and a broad arrow,\nand wheresoever it falls there shall my grave be digged. Lay a green\nsod under my head and another at my feet, and put beside me my bow,\nwhich ever made sweetest music to my ears, and see that green and\ngravel make my grave. And, Little John, take care that I have length\nenough and breadth enough to lie in.' So he loosened his last arrow\nfrom the string and then died, and where the arrow fell Robin was\nburied.\n\n[Illustration: ROBIN HOOD SHOOTS HIS LAST ARROW]\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF GRETTIR THE STRONG\n\n_THE STORY OF GRETTIR THE STRONG_\n\n\nAbout nine hundred years ago, more or less, there lived in Iceland, at\na homestead called Biarg, two old folks named Asmund the Greyhaired\nand his wife Asdis. At the time our story begins they had two sons,\nAtli the eldest, and Grettir, besides daughters; sixteen years later\nanother son was born to them, named Illugi. Atli was a general\nfavourite, in disposition good-natured and yielding, in this the very\nopposite of Grettir, who held to his own way, and was, besides,\nsilent, reserved, and rough in manner. But he is described as fair to\nlook on, broad-faced, short-faced, red-haired and much freckled, not\nof quick growth in his childhood. There was little love lost between\nhim and his father, but his mother loved the boy right well. So\nmatters sped till Grettir was ten years old, when, one day, his father\ntold him to go and watch the geese on the farm, fifty of them, besides\nmany goslings. The boy went, but with an ill grace, and shortly\nafterwards the geese were found all dead or dying, with many of their\nnecks wrung, at which Asmund was mightily vexed. Again, one evening,\nbeing cold, he asked the boy to warm him by rubbing his back, but\nGrettir, taking up a wool-carder's comb, dropped it down his father's\nback. The old man was furiously angry, and would have beaten Grettir,\nhad he not run away, while Asdis, though vexed, tried her best to make\npeace between them.\n\nNext, Grettir was sent to tend the horses, amongst which was a\nfavourite mare called Keingala, who always preferred the coldest and\nwindiest spots to graze in; the boy was ill-clad and half-starved with\ncold, so, by way of paying Keingala out for her uncomfortable choice\nof pasture, he drew a sharp knife right across her shoulder and along\nboth sides of her back. When Asmund next saw the mare and stroked her\nback, the hide came off beneath his hand. He taxed Grettir with the\ndeed, but the boy sneered mockingly and said nothing. Keingala had to\nbe killed. Such and many other scurvy tricks did Grettir play in his\nchildhood, but meanwhile he grew in body and strength, though none as\nyet knew him to be strong beyond his years.\n\nThis first came to be known shortly afterwards at Midfirth Water,\nwhere some ball games were being held on the ice. Grettir was now\nfourteen; and was matched to play with one Audun, several years older\nthan himself. Audun struck the ball over Grettir's head, so that he\ncould not catch it, and it bounded far away along the ice; Grettir\nbrought it back, and in a rage threw it at Audun's forehead; Audun\nstruck at him with his bat, but Grettir closed with him and wrestled,\nfor a long time holding his own; but Audun was a man of full strength,\nand at last prevailed. Grettir's next performance brought him into\nmore trouble. Asmund had a bosom friend named Thorkel Krafla, who paid\nhim a visit at Biarg on his way to the Thing, or Icelandic parliament,\nwith a retinue of sixty followers, for Thorkel was a great chief, and\na man of substance. Each traveller had to carry his own provisions for\nthe journey, including Grettir, who joined Thorkel's company.\nGrettir's saddle turned over, however, and his meal bag was lost, nor\ncould he find it, notwithstanding a long search. Just then he saw a\nman who was in like plight with himself, having also lost his meal\nsack: his name was Skeggi, one of Thorkel's followers. All of a sudden\nSkeggi darted off, and Grettir saw him stoop and pick up a mealsack,\nwhich Skeggi claimed as his own. Grettir was not satisfied, and they\nfought for it; Skeggi cut at Grettir with his axe, but he wrenched it\nout of his hand, and clove his head in twain. Thorkel then allowed\nGrettir his choice: whether to go on to the Thing, or return home. He\nchose the first alternative; but a lawsuit was set on foot by the\nheirs of the dead man. Thorkel paid the necessary fines, but Grettir\nwas outlawed, banished from the country, and had to stay abroad three\nyears.\n\nAsmund entrusted his son to the keeping of a man called Haflidi, the\ncaptain of a ship that was sailing for Norway; father and son parted\nwith but little sorrow between them, but Asdis accompanied the boy\npart of the way, and gave him a sword which had been owned by Jokul,\nher grandfather; for which Grettir thanked her well, saying he deemed\nit better than things of more worth, so he came to the ship. With the\nsailors he was no more popular than he had been elsewhere, for he\nwould work only by fits and starts, as he pleased; besides, he had a\ngift of making very biting rhymes, which he indulged in at the expense\nof all on board. But when he did condescend to work he was a match for\nany four, or, as some say, for any eight men by reason of his\nstrength. After they had sailed some way east over the sea, and had\nmuch thick weather, one night they ran aground on a rock near an\nisland which turned out to be Haramsey, off Norway. The lord of that\nisland was called Thorfinn, son of Karr the Old. When day dawned he\nsent down a boat to rescue the shipwrecked sailors, who were saved,\nwith their merchandise, but their vessel broke up. Grettir remained\nwith Thorfinn some time; and was fond of rambling about the island,\ngoing from house to house; and he made friends with one Audun, not, of\ncourse, the one who has already been mentioned.\n\nOne night the two noticed a great blaze on a ness or headland, and\nGrettir asked the reason of it, adding, that in his country such a\nfire would only burn above hidden treasure. Audun told him he had\nbetter not inquire too closely into the matter, which, however, as one\nmight expect, only whetted his curiosity the more. He was told\naccordingly that on that headland Karr the Old was buried; that at\nfirst father and son had but one farm on the island, but since Karr\ndied he had so haunted the place that all the farmers who owned land\nwere driven away. Thorfinn, therefore, now held the whole island, and\nto such good purpose, that whosoever enjoyed his protection was not\nworried by the ghost. Grettir determined to investigate, and providing\nhimself with spades and tools, set off with Audun to dig into the\n'barrow,' as these mounds of earth are called, which northern races\nand others used to raise over their dead. Leaving Audun to guard the\nrope by which he descended, Grettir found the interior of the cavern\nvery dark, and a smell therein none of the sweetest. First he saw\nhorse-bones, then he stumbled against the arm of a high chair wherein\nwas a man sitting; great treasures of gold and silver lay heaped\ntogether, and under the man's feet a small chest full of silver. All\nthis Grettir carried towards the rope, but while doing so he was\nsuddenly seized in a strong grip; whereupon he let go the treasure and\nrushed at the Thing which lived in the barrow; and now they set on one\nanother unsparingly enough. There was a battle, first one, then the\nother gaining a slight advantage, but at last the barrow-wight fell\nover on his back with a huge din; whereupon Grettir drew his sword,\n'Jokul's gift,' and cut off Karr's head, laying it beside the thigh,\nfor, in this way only, men said, could a ghost be laid. Grettir took\nthe treasure and brought it to Thorfinn, who was not ill-pleased that\nhis father's tomb had been rifled, for he held that wealth hidden in\nthe ground was wealth wrongly placed, in which we shall probably agree\nwith him.\n\n[Illustration: GRETTIR FEELS KARR'S GRIP.]\n\nAfter the events just described, Thorfinn went away with thirty of his\nmen to one of his farms on the mainland, in order to keep the\nYule-tide feast (Christmas). His wife and daughter, the latter of whom\nwas ill in bed, remained at home. Now Thorfinn, some time previously,\nhad taken a leading part in passing a law, the object of which was\nthat all berserkers should be outlawed. These berserkers were roving\nbands of pirates, brave fighters, but respecting no man's property; on\nthe contrary, their chief object was to lay violent hands on women and\ngoods to which they had no title. It is easily to be understood that\nThorfinn, in consequence of his action, had incurred their bitterest\nenmity. One day Grettir observed a ship approaching, rowed by twelve\nmen; it landed near Thorfinn's boat-stand, wherein was his boat which\nwas never launched by less than thirty men; nevertheless these twelve\npushed it down to the water's edge, laid their own boat upon it, and\nbore it into the boat-stand.\n\nGrettir's suspicions being aroused, he went down, and after giving\nthem a hearty welcome, asked who they were. The leader told him he was\nknown as Thorir Paunch; that his brother was Ogmund, and the rest\nfellows of theirs. Grettir told them they could not have come at a\nbetter time, if, as he thought, they had some grudge against Thorfinn,\nfor he was away from home, and would not be back till Yule was past,\nbut his wife and daughter were in the house. 'Now am I well enough\nminded to take revenge on Thorfinn,' said Thorir, 'and this man is\nready enough of tidings, and no need have we to drag the words out of\nhim.' So they all went up to the farm, but the women were distracted\nwith fear, thinking that Grettir had played false. He, however,\ninduced the berserkers to lay aside their arms, and when evening was\ncome, brought them beer in abundance, and entertained them with tales\nand merry jests. After a while he proposed to lead them to Thorfinn's\ntreasure house: nothing loth they followed readily; when they were all\ninside he managed to slip out and lock them in. He then ran back for\nweapons: a broad-headed barbed spear, his sword and helmet. Now the\nberserkers knew they had been entrapped; breaking down the panelling\nof a wall they rushed out into the passage, where in the nick of time\narrived Grettir, who thrust Thorir through with his spear; Ogmund the\nEvil was pressing close behind, so that the same thrust which pierced\nthe one transfixed the other also. The remainder defended themselves\nwith logs and whatever lay ready to hand, or tried to escape; but\nGrettir slew all of them save two, who for the moment escaped, but\nwere found next day under a rock, dead from cold and wounds.\n\nShortly afterwards Thorfinn returned, and when he was told of the\nwondrous deeds of Grettir, who had thus saved the honour of his house,\nhe bade him come to him whenever he needed aid; and the two were now\nclose friends; moreover, Grettir's fame began to spread abroad, and he\nbecame renowned all over Norway. Leaving his friend Thorfinn, he took\npassage in a ship belonging to one Thorkel, who lived in Heligoland.\nHe welcomed Grettir heartily to his house, but with a man called\nBiorn, who lived there with him, the Icelander could by no means\nagree, nor indeed did others find it easy, for Biorn's temper was\nhasty and difficult.\n\nIt happened that a savage bear wrought havoc at that time, being so\ngrim that it spared neither man nor beast, so one night Biorn set out\nto slay it. The bear was in its cave, in the track leading to which\nBiorn lay down, with his shield over him, to wait for the beast to\nstir abroad as its manner was. But the beast suspected the presence of\nthe man, and was slow to move; delayed so long indeed that Biorn fell\nasleep. Now the bear became brisk enough, sallied forth, hooked its\nclaws in Biorn's shield, and threw it over the cliff. Biorn woke\nsuddenly and ran, just escaping its clutch; but the whole proceedings\nhad been watched, and he had to endure many taunts and jeers. Grettir\nwent afterwards and killed the beast, though not without a terrible\nstruggle, in which they both fell over the rocks, but the bear was\nunderneath, and Grettir was able to stab it to the heart. More than\never then on account of this did ill-will against Grettir rankle in\nBiorn's breast. He sailed west to England, as master of Thorkel's\nship; when he returned he met Grettir at a place called\nDrontheim-firth. The two took up their old quarrel again, fought on\nthe strand, and Biorn was killed.\n\nAt that time Earl Svein was ruling over Norway as regent, the rightful\nking being but a boy. At the court in the Earl's service was Biorn's\nbrother, Hiarandi, who was exceedingly wroth when he heard of Biorn's\ndeath, and begged the Earl's assistance in the matter. Svein therefore\nsent for Thorfinn and Grettir, but Hiarandi would not agree to any\nterms proposed, and lay in wait to take Grettir's life. With five\nothers he sprang out from a certain court gate, dealt a blow at him\nwith an axe, and wounded him; but Grettir and a companion turned on\nthem and slew them all save one, who escaped and told the Earl. There\nremained yet another brother of Biorn and Hiarandi to take up the\nfeud, but he fared no better, and was also slain. Earl Svein was now\n'wondrous wroth' at this tale, for said he, 'Grettir has now slain\nthree brothers, one at the heels of the other, and I will not thus\nbring wrongs into the land so as to take compensation for such\nunmeasured misdeeds'; so he would not listen to any proposals by\nThorfinn to pay blood-money. However, many more added their words to\nThorfinn's, and prayed the Earl to spare Grettir's life, for, after\nall, he had acted in self-defence, and if his life were to be forfeit,\nthere would be slayings throughout the whole land. These arguments at\nlength prevailed, Grettir was allowed to go in peace, and went back to\nIceland, the term of his outlawry being expired.\n\nBeing now grown to man's estate, and having waxed greatly in bodily\nstrength, he roamed about the country to see if there were any with\nwhom he might match himself, and took it very ill that he found none.\nAbout this time, strange rumours were flying about to the effect that\na farm belonging to one Thorhall was haunted. Thorhall was an honest\nman and very rich in cattle and livestock, but could hardly get a\nshepherd to stay in his service; whereat, being sore perplexed, he\nwent for advice to Skapti the Lawman. Skapti promised to get him a\nshepherd called Glam, a Swede, for which Thorhall thanked him. On his\nreturn he missed two dun cows, went to look for them, and on the way\nmet a man carrying faggots, who said his name was Glam. He was great\nof stature, uncouth in appearance, his eyes grey and glaring, and his\nhair wolf-grey. Thorhall told him Skapti had recommended him, adding\nthat the place was haunted, but Glam made light of this: 'Such bugs\nwill not scare me,' quoth he. There was a church at Thorhall-stead,\nbut Glam loathed church-song, being godless, foul-tempered and surly,\nand no man could abide him, Thorhall's wife least of all. So time wore\non till Christmas-eve, when Glam called for his meat, but was told\nthat no Christian man would eat meat on that day. He insisted; and the\nhousewife gave it, though prophesying evil would come of it. Glam took\nthe food and went out growling and grumbling.\n\nHe was heard in the early morning on the hills, but not as the day\nwore on; then a snowstorm came, and Glam returned not that night nor\nyet the day following, so search parties were sent out, who found the\nsheep scattered wide about in fens, beaten down by the storm, or\nstrayed up into the mountains. Then they came to a great beaten place\nhigh up in a valley, where it seemed as though there had been\nwrestling, stones and earth torn up, and signs of a severe struggle;\nlooking closer, they found Glam dead, his body blue and swollen to the\nsize of an ox. They tried to bring the body down to the church, but\ncould only move it a very little way; they returned, therefore, and\ntold how they had tracked steps as great as if a cask bottom had been\nstamped down, leading from the beaten place up to beneath sheer rocks\nhigh up the valley, and along the track great stains of blood. From\nthis men thought that the evil wight which had killed Glam had got\nsuch wounds as had sufficed for him, but none ever could say for\ncertain.\n\nThe second day after Christmas men were sent again to bring Glam's\nbody to the church, but though horses were put to drag it, they could\nnot move the corpse except down hill, so Glam was buried where he lay.\nNow within a little time men became aware that Glam lay not quiet; he\nwalked well-nigh night and day, and took to riding the house roofs at\nnight, so much so that he nearly broke them in. The folk were\nexceedingly afraid thereat; many fainted or went mad, while others\nincontinently fled there and then. Another shepherd, big and strong,\ncame to take Glam's place; he was nowise dismayed by the hauntings,\nbut deemed it good sport rather than not when Glam rode the\nhouse-roofs. But when another Christmas came the shepherd was missed;\nsearch was made, and he was found on the hill-side by Glam's cairn,\nhis neck broken, and every bone in his body smashed. Then Glam waxed\nmore mighty than ever; the cattle bellowed and roared, and gored each\nother; the byre cracked, and a cattle-man who had been long in\nThorhall's service was found dead, his head in one stall and feet in\nanother. None could go up the dale with horse or hound, because it was\nstraightway slain, and it was no easy task to get servants to remain\nat the steading.\n\nThings had come to this pass when Grettir rode over to Thorhall-stead,\nwhere the owner gave him good welcome, though warning him that few\ncared to stay long under his roof. Grettir's horse was locked up in\nthe stable, and the first night nothing happened; but on the second\nthe stable was broken into, the horse dragged out to the door, and\nevery bone of him broken. Next night Grettir sat up to watch; and when\na third of the night was past, he heard a terrible din as of one\nriding the roof, and driving his heels against the thatch so that\nevery rafter cracked again. He went to the door, and saw Glam, whose\nhead, as it appeared to him, was monstrously big. Glam came slowly in\nand took hold of a bundle lying on the seat, but Grettir planted his\nfoot against a beam, seized the bundle also, and pulled against Glam\nwith such strength that the wrapper was rent between them. Glam\nwondered who might this be that pulled with such strength against him,\nwhen Grettir rushed in, seized him round the waist, and tried to force\nhim down backwards; but he shrank all aback by reason of Glam's\nstrength, which, indeed, seemed to be almost greater than his own. A\nwondrous hard wrestling bout was that; but at last Grettir, gathering\nup his strength for a sudden effort, drove against Glam's breast, at\nthe same moment pushing with both feet against the half-sunken stone\nthat stood in the threshold of the door. For this Glam was not ready,\ntherefore he reeled backwards and spun against the door, so that his\nshoulders caught against the upper part of it; the roof burst--both\nrafters and frozen thatch--and he fell open-armed backwards out of the\nhouse with Grettir over him.\n\nIt was bright moonlight without, with drift scudding over the moon; at\nthat instant the moon's face cleared, and Glam glared up against her.\nBy that sight only Grettir confessed himself dismayed beyond all that\nhe had ever seen; nor, for weariness and fear together, could he draw\nhis sword to strike off Glam's head withal. But Glam was crafty beyond\nother ghosts, so that now he spoke: 'Exceeding eager hast thou been to\nmeet me, Grettir, but it will be deemed no wonder if this meeting work\nthee harm. This must I tell thee, that thou now hast but half the\nstrength and manhood which was thy lot if thou hadst not met me; I may\nnot take from thee the strength that was thine before, but this may I\nrule--that thou shalt never be mightier than thou now art. Hitherto\nthou hast earned fame by thy deeds, but henceforth will wrongs and\nmanslayings fall on thee, and the most part of thy doings will turn to\nthy woe and ill-hap, an outlaw shalt thou be made, and ever shall it\nbe thy lot to dwell abroad. Therefore this fate I lay upon thee, ever\nin those days to see these eyes of mine with thine eyes, and thou wilt\nfind it hard to be alone, and that shall drag thee unto death.'\nGrettir's wits came back to him, and therewith he drew his short\nsword, cut off Glam's head, and laid it at his thigh. Glam's body was\nburnt, the ashes put into a beast's skin and buried. Thorhall,\noverjoyed at the deliverance, treated Grettir handsomely, giving him a\ngood horse and decent clothes, for his own had been torn to pieces in\nthe struggle. Grettir's fame spread far abroad for this deed, and none\nwas deemed his equal for boldness and prowess. Yet Glam's curse began\nalready to work, for Grettir dared not go out after nightfall, for\nthen he seemed to see all kinds of horrors. It became a proverb in the\nland that Glam gives Glam-sight to those who see things otherwise than\nas they are, which we now express by the word 'glamour.'\n\nNow Grettir had a strong wish to go to Norway, for Earl Svein had fled\nthe country after being beaten in a battle, and Olaf the Saint held\nsole rule as king. There was also a man named Thorir of Garth who had\nbeen in Norway, and was a friend of the king; this man was anxious to\nsend out his sons to become the king's men. The sons accordingly\nsailed, and came to a haven at Stead, where they remained some days,\nduring stormy weather. Grettir also had sailed after them, and the\ncrew bore down on Stead, being hard put to it by reason of foul\nweather, snow and frost; and they were all worn, weary and wet. To\nsave expense they did not put into the harbour, but lay to beside a\ndyke, where, though perished with cold, they could not light a fire.\nAs the night wore on they saw that a great fire was burning on the\nopposite side of the sound up which they had sailed, and fell to\ntalking and wondering whether by possibility any man might fetch that\nfire. Grettir said little, but made ready for swimming; he had on but\na cape and sail-cloth breeches. He girt up the cape and tied a rope\nstrongly round his middle, and had with him a cask; then he leaped\noverboard and swam across. There he saw a house, and heard much\ntalking and noise, so he turned towards it, and found it to be a house\nof refuge for coasting sailors; twelve men were inside sitting round a\ngreat fire on the floor, drinking, and these were the sons of Thorir.\nWhen Grettir burst in he knew not who was there, he himself seemed\nhuge of bulk, for his cape was frozen all over into ice; therefore the\nmen took him to be some evil troll, and smote at him with anything\nthat lay to hand; but Grettir put all blows aside, snatched up some\nfirebrands, and swam therewith back to the ship. Grettir's comrades\nwere mightily pleased, and bepraised him and his journey and his\nprowess.\n\n[Illustration: GRETTIR OVERTHROWS THORIR REDBEARD]\n\nNext morning they crossed the sound, but found no house, only a great\nheap of ashes, and therein many bones of men. They asked if Grettir\nhad done this misdeed; but he said it had happened even as he had\nexpected. The men said wherever they came that Grettir had burnt those\npeople; and the news soon spread that the victims were the sons of\nThorir of Garth. Grettir therefore now grew into such bad repute that\nhe was driven from the ship, and scarcely anyone would say a good word\nfor him. As matters were so hopeless he determined to explain all to\nthe king, and offer to free himself from the slander by handling hot\niron without being burned. His ill-luck still pursued him, for when\nall was ready in the church where the ceremony was about to take\nplace, a wild-looking lad, or, as some said, an unclean spirit,\nstarted up from no one knew where, and spoke such impertinent words to\nGrettir that he felled him with a blow of his fist. After this the\nking would not allow the ceremony to go on: 'Thou art far too\nluckless a man to abide with us, and if ever man has been cursed, of\nall men must thou have been,' said he; and advised him to go back to\nIceland in the summer. Meanwhile Asmund the Greyhaired died, and was\nburied at Biarg, and Atli succeeded to his goods, but was soon\nafterwards basely murdered by a neighbouring chief who bore him\nill-will for his many friendships, and grudged him his possessions.\nThorir of Garth brought a suit at the Thing to have Grettir outlawed\nfor the burning of his sons; but Skapti the Lawman thought it scarcely\nfair to condemn a man unheard, and spoke these wise words: 'A tale is\nhalf told if one man tells it, for most folk are readiest to bring\ntheir stories to the worser side when there are two ways of telling\nthem.' Thorir, however, was a man of might, and had powerful friends;\nthese between them pushed on the suit, and with a high hand rather\nthan according to law obtained their decree. Thus was Grettir outlawed\nfor a deed of which he was innocent. These three pieces of bad news\ngreeted him all at once on his return to Iceland: his father's death,\nhis brother's murder, and his own outlawry.\n\nOne of the first things he did was to avenge his brother's murder, but\nthere was a price on his head, and he wandered about from place to\nplace in the wilderness. On one occasion, as he lay asleep, some men\nof Icefirth came upon him, and though they were ten in number they had\nmuch ado to take him; but at last they bound him, and put up a\ngallows, for they intended to hang him. Fortunately for Grettir, at\nthat moment there rode along the wife of the ruling chief of that\ndistrict, who interposed and set him free, on his promise not to stir\nup strife in that neighbourhood. His next adventure was at a place\ncalled Ernewaterheath where he had built himself a hut, and lived by\nfishing in the river. There were other outlaws, who, on hearing that\nGrettir was in the neighbourhood, made a bargain with one Grim that he\nshould slay him. Grim begged Grettir to take him into his hut, which\nhe agreed to do, as he was so frightened when alone in the dark;\nnevertheless, having his suspicions of the man, he kept his short\nsword always within reach. One day Grim came back from fishing, and\nthought Grettir was asleep, for he made no movement when Grim suddenly\nstamped his foot; thinking he now had his chance, he stole on tip-toe\nto the bedside, took Grettir's short sword and unsheathed it. But at\nthe very moment when Grim had it raised aloft to stab Grettir, the\nsupposed sleeping man sprang up, knocked Grim down, wrenched the sword\nout of his hand and killed him. Next, Grettir's enemy Thorir of Garth\nheard of his whereabouts, and prevailed upon one Thorir Redbeard to\nattempt to slay him. So Redbeard laid his plans, with the object, as\nit is quaintly phrased, of 'winning' Grettir. He, however, declined to\nbe 'won,' for Redbeard fared no better than Grim. He tried to slay the\noutlaw while he was swimming back from his nets, but Grettir sank like\na stone and swam along the bottom till he reached a place where he\ncould land unseen by Redbeard. He then came on him from behind, while\nRedbeard was still looking for his appearance out of the water; heaved\nhim over his head, and caused him to fall so heavily that his weapon\nfell out of his hand. Grettir seized it and smote off his head.\n\nThorir of Garth was anything but satisfied with the result of his\nendeavour to have Grettir killed, and gathered together a force of\nnearly eighty men to take him; but this time Grettir was forewarned by\na friend, and took up a position in a very narrow pass. When Thorir's\nmen came up and attacked him he slew them one by one till he had\nkilled eighteen and wounded many more, so that Thorir said, 'Lo, now\nwe have to do with trolls and not men,' and bade the rest retire.\nShortly afterwards he collected some twenty men and rode off again to\nsearch for Grettir. This time he was within an ace of coming upon the\noutlaw unawares; but Grettir and a friend had just time to conceal\nthemselves when Thorir rode by. After the party had passed, an idea\noccurred to Grettir. 'They will not deem their journey good if we be\nnot found,' he said; so, though much against the advice of his friend,\nhe disguised himself in a slouch hat and other clothes, took a staff\nand intercepted Thorir's band at a point where he knew they must pass.\nThey asked him whether he had seen any men riding over the heath.\n'Yes,' he said, 'the men you seek I have seen, and you have missed\nthem only by a very little; they are there on the south side of these\nbogs to the left.' On hearing this, off galloped Thorir and his men,\nbut the bogs were a sort of quagmire, wherein the horses stuck fast;\nand remained wallowing and struggling for the greater part of the day,\nwhile the riders 'gave to the devil withal the wandering churl who had\nso befooled them.'\n\nGrettir now deemed it advisable to go about the country in disguise,\nand, under the name of Guest, came to a place called Sandheaps, much\nhaunted by trolls. Two winters before he arrived the husband of the\ngood-wife had mysteriously disappeared during her absence, none knew\nwhither; her name was Steinvor. A loud crashing had been heard in the\nnight about the man's bed, but the folk were too frightened to rise\nand find out the cause; in the morning Steinvor came back, but her\nhusband was gone. Again, the next year, while she was away at church,\na house-servant remained behind; but he too vanished, and bloodstains\nwere found about the outer door. Grettir was told of this when he came\nto Sandheaps on Christmas-eve, staying there under the name of Guest.\nSteinvor, as usual, went away to worship, and remained absent that\nnight, leaving Grettir at home. He sat up to watch, and about midnight\nhe heard a great noise outside, shortly after which there came into\nthe hall a huge troll-wife, with a trough in one hand and a monstrous\nchopper in the other. Seeing Grettir she rushed at him, but he closed\nwith her, and there was a terrible wrestling match. She was the\nstronger, and dragged him from the house, breaking down all the\nfittings of the door; down she dragged him to the river which flowed\nthrough the farm, and Grettir, exhausted with the struggle, was\nwell-nigh at the limit of his endurance. Making one last great effort,\nhe managed to draw his short sword and strike off the hag's arm at the\nshoulder; then was he free, and she fell into the gulf and was carried\ndown the rapids. This, at least, was Grettir's story; but the men of\nthe neighbourhood say that day dawned on them while they were still\nwrestling, and that therefore the troll burst; for this trolls do,\naccording to Norse tradition, if they happen to be caught above ground\nby the rising sun.\n\nSteinvor came back with the priest, who asked Grettir where he thought\nthe two men were who had disappeared. He replied they were, he\nthought, in the gulf; but if the priest would help him he would find\nout. The priest agreed. Accordingly, taking a rope with them, they\nfollowed the stream down to a waterfall where they saw a cave up under\nthe cliff--a sheer rock the cliff was, nearly fifty fathoms down to\nthe water. The priest's heart misgave him, but Grettir determined to\nmake the attempt; so, driving a peg into the ground, he made the rope\nfast to it and bade the priest watch it; then he tied a stone to the\nend and let it sink into the water. When all was ready, he took his\nshort sword and leapt into the water. Disappearing from the priest's\nview, he dived under the waterfall--and hard work it was, for the\nwhirlpool was strong; but he reached a projecting rock on which he\nrested awhile. A great cave was under the waterfall, and the river\nfell over it from the sheer rocks. Grettir climbed into the cave,\nwhere he found a great fire flaming, and a giant sitting beside it,\nhuge and horrible to look upon. He smote at the new-comer with a\nbroadsword, but Grettir avoided the blow, and returned such a mighty\nstroke with his own sword that the giant fell dead at once. The priest\non the bank, seeing blood washed down by the swirling waters, and\nthinking Grettir was killed, fled in alarm and spread the report of\nhis death. Grettir meanwhile stayed in the cave till far on into the\nnight; he found there the bones of two men, which he put in a bag;\nswimming with them to the rope, he shook it, but as the priest had\ngone he had to draw himself up by strength of hands. He took the bones\nto the church, where he left them, returning himself to Sandheaps.\nWhen the priest saw Grettir, the latter taxed him with breach of faith\nin quitting the rope, which charge the priest must needs admit;\nhowever, no great harm had resulted, the bones were buried, and the\ndistrict was freed from hauntings. Grettir received much credit, in so\nfar as he had cleansed the land from these evil wights who had wrought\nthe loss of the men there in the dale.\n\nOur hero remained in hiding at Sandheaps, but Thorir of Garth heard of\nhim and sent men to take him. Grettir accordingly left the place and\nwent to Maddervales, to Gudmund the Rich, of whom he begged shelter.\nGudmund, however, dared not harbour him, but advised him to seek\nshelter in an isle called Drangey in Skagafirth. The place, he said,\nwas excellent for defence, for without ladders no one could land.\nGrettir agreed to go, and went home to Biarg to bid his mother\nfarewell. His brother, Illugi, was now fifteen years old, a handsome\nboy, and he overheard Grettir's conversation with his mother about his\nproposed departure to Drangey. 'I will go with thee, brother,' said\nhe, 'though I know not that I shall be of any help to thee, unless\nthat I shall be ever true to thee, nor run from thee whiles thou\nstandest up.' Asdis bade them farewell, warning Grettir against\nsorcery; yet well she knew that she would never see either of her sons\nagain. They left Biarg, going north towards Drangey; and on the way\nmet with a big ill-clad loon called Thorbiorn Noise, a man too lazy to\nwork, and a great swaggerer; but they allowed him to join them.\n\nNow Drangey was an island whose cliffs rose sheer up from the sea;\nthere was good pasturage on it, and many sheep and cattle, owned by\nabout twenty men, who amongst them held the island in shares. Two men\ncalled Hialti and Thorbiorn Angle, being the richest men, had the\nlargest shares. When the men got ready to fetch their beasts from the\nisland for slaughter, they found it occupied, which they thought\nstrange; but supposing the men in possession to be shipwrecked\nsailors, they rowed to the place where the ladders were, but found\nthese drawn up. Persuasion was of no avail, so the baffled owners\nretired, and in one way or another made over their respective shares\nto Angle, on the understanding that he would free the island from\nthese unwelcome intruders. The months wore on, and brought no change;\nbut now Grettir said he would go to the mainland and get victuals.\nDisguising himself, he carried out his plan, leaving Illugi and Noise\nto guard the ladders. Sports were being held at a place called\nHeron-ness, and the stranger was asked if he would wrestle. 'Time\nwas,' he said, 'when he had been fond of it, but he had now given it\nup; yet, upon condition of peace and safe conduct being assured to him\nuntil such time as he returned home, he was willing to try a bout.'\nThis was agreed to, whereupon he cast aside his disguise, and stood\nrevealed as Grettir the outlaw. All saw that they had been beguiled,\nyet, for their oath's sake, they could do nothing. First Hialti alone\ntried to throw Grettir, but met with nothing but a mighty fall; then\nhe and his brother Angle tried together, but though each of them had\nthe strength of two men they were no match for their antagonist, and\nhad to retire discomfited.\n\nThen Grettir went back to Drangey. Two winters had now been spent on\nthe island, but firewood was hard to come by; Noise was sent down to\ngather drifted logs from the sea, but he grew lazier and grumbled more\nand more every day, letting the fire out on one occasion, whereas his\nduty was to keep it burning. Grettir determined to swim to the\nmainland and bring back wood; in this he was successful, though the\ndistance was a sea mile, whereat all said his prowess both on land and\nsea was marvellous. Meanwhile Angle, having been baffled in a second\nattempt to land and drive out Grettir, induced a young man called\nHoering, an expert climber, to try to scale the cliffs, promising\nhim if successful a very large reward. Angle rowed him over, and\nHoering did, indeed, scale the precipice, but young Illugi was on\nthe watch, chased him round the island, and Hoering, sore pressed,\nleapt over the cliff and was killed.\n\n[Illustration: The Witch Thurid cuts a charm on the log.]\n\nAbout this time, Grettir having been so many years in outlawry, many\nthought that the sentence should be annulled; and it was deemed\ncertain that he would be pardoned in the next ensuing summer; but they\nwho had owned the island were exceedingly discontented at the\nprospect of his acquittal, and urged Angle either to give back the\nisland or slay Grettir. Now Angle had a foster-mother, Thurid; she was\nold and cunning in witchcraft, which she had learnt in her youth; for\nthough Christianity had now been established in the island, yet there\nremained still many traces of heathendom. Angle and she put out in a\nten-oared boat to pick a quarrel with Grettir, of which the upshot was\nthat the outlaw threw a huge stone into the boat, where the witch lay\ncovered up with wrappings, and broke her leg. Angle had to endure many\ntaunts at the failure of all his attempts to outplay Grettir. One day,\nThurid was limping along by the sea, when she found a large log, part\nof the trunk of a tree. She cut a flat space on it, carved magic\ncharacters, or runes, on the root, reddened them with her blood, and\nsang witch-words over them; then she walked backwards round it, and\nwiddershins--which means in a direction against the sun--and thrust\nthe log out to sea under many strong spells, in such wise that it\nshould drive out to Drangey. In the teeth of the wind it went, till it\ncame to the island, where Illugi and Grettir saw it, but knowing it\nboded them ill, they thrust it out from shore; yet next morning was it\nthere again, nearer the ladders than before; but again they drove it\nout to sea. The days wore on to summer, and a gale sprang up with wet;\nthe brothers being short of firewood, Noise was sent down to the shore\nto look for drift, grumbling at being ordered out in bad weather,\nwhen, lo! the log was there again, and he fetched it up.\n\nGrettir was angry with Noise, and not noticing what the log was, hewed\nat it with his axe, which glanced from the wood and cut into his leg,\nright down to the bone. Illugi bound it up, and at first it seemed as\nthough the wound was healed. But after a time his leg took to paining\nGrettir, and became blue and swollen, so that he could not sleep, and\nIllugi watched by him night and day. At this time Thurid advised\nAngle to make another attempt on the island; he therefore gathered a\nforce of a dozen men together, and set sail in very foul weather, but\nno sooner had they reached open sea than the wind lulled, so they came\nto Drangey at dusk. Noise had been told to guard the ladders, and had\ngone out as usual with very ill grace; he thought to himself he would\nnot draw them up, so he lay down there and fell asleep, remaining all\nday long in slumber till Angle came to the island. Mounting the\nladders, he and his men found Noise snoring at the top; arousing him\nroughly, they learned from him what had happened, and how Grettir lay\nsick in the hut with Illugi tending him. Angle thrashed Noise soundly\nfor betraying his master, and the men made for the hut. Illugi guarded\nthe door with the greatest valour, and when they thrust at him with\nspears he struck off all the spear heads from the shafts. But some of\nthe men leapt up on to the roof, tore away the thatch, and broke one\nof the rafters. Grettir thrust up with a spear and killed one man, but\nhe could not rise from his knee by reason of his wound; the others\nleapt down and attacked him; young Illugi threw his shield over him\nand made defence for both in most manly wise. Grettir killed another\nman, whose body fell upon him, so that he could not use his sword;\nwherefore Angle at that moment was able to stab him between the\nshoulders, and many another wound they gave him till they thought he\nwas dead. Angle took Grettir's short sword and struck at the head of\nthe body with such force that a piece of the sword-blade was nicked\nout. So died Grettir, the bravest man of all who ever dwelt in\nIceland.\n\nThe gallant young Illugi was offered his life by Angle if he would\npromise not to try to avenge Grettir; but he scorned the offer, and\nwas slain next day; the brothers were buried in a cairn on the island.\nNoise was taken aboard the boat, but bore himself so ill that he too\nwas killed. Now Angle thought to claim from Thorir of Garth the\nreward set upon Grettir's head; but the murderer was very ill spoken\nof in the land: first, because he had used sorcery, which was against\nthe law; next, that he had acted a cowardly part in bearing arms\nagainst a half-dead man. A suit of outlawry was brought against him in\nthe Thing; but seeing that it would go against him he escaped to\nNorway. In that country lived an elder half-brother of Grettir, who\nhad heard of his fate and determined to avenge him; neither knew the\nother by sight. Angle, however, becoming uneasy, went to Micklegarth\n(Constantinople), whither he was followed by Thorstein Dromond. One\nday, at a weapon-showing, or exhibition of arms, Angle drew the short\nsword which had belonged to Grettir; it was praised by all as a good\nweapon, but the notch in the edge was a blemish. Angle related how he\nhad slain Grettir, and how the notch came to be there. Thereupon\nThorstein, who was present, knew his man, and asked to be allowed,\nlike the rest, to see the short sword; Angle gave it to him, whereupon\nThorstein clove his head in two with it, and Angle fell to earth dead\nand dishonoured.\n\nThus Grettir was avenged.\n\n\nThe End.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nEDITED BY ANDREW LANG.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nTHE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. With 138 Illustrations.\nCrown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s.\n\nTHE RED FAIRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.\nCrown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s.\n\nTHE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. 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Crown 8vo. gilt edges, 6s.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 39 Paternoster Row, London\nNew York and Bombay.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *","title":"The Book of Romance","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":98184}