{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36658/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36658","id":"gutenberg_36658","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36658","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Tales -- France -- Translations into English"],"text":"THE LAY OF THE BIRD                                   3\n    THE WOFUL KNIGHT              _Marie de France_      17\n    THE TWO LOVERS                _Marie de France_      26\n    ELIDUC                        _Marie de France_      35\n    MELION                                               73\n    THE LAY OF THE HORN             _Robert Biquet_      93\n\n\n  * Fabliaux\n\n    THE DIVIDED BLANKET                   _Bernier_     111\n    OF THE CHURL WHO WON PARADISE                       125\n    THE GRAY PALFREY                   _Huon Leroi_     131\n\n  * Contes devots et didactiques\n\n    THE KNIGHT OF THE LITTLE CASK                       173\n    THE ANGEL AND THE HERMIT                            207\n    THE JOUSTING OF OUR LADY                            228\n    THE ORDER OF CHIVALRY                               232\n\n  * Epilogue                                            249\n\n  * Bibliography                                        263\n\n  * Translator's Note                                   264\n\n\n\n\nLais\n\n\n\n\nThe Lay of the Bird\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOnce upon a time, a hundred years and more agone, there lived a rich\nvillein; his name I know not for certain, but he was rich as beseemeth\na great lord in woodland, stream and meadow, and in whatsoever else\nlongeth to a puissant man. And to tell you the sum thereof, his manor\nwas so goodly no town, or burg, or castle hath its like, for to tell\nyou true, in all the world is none other so fair and delectable; and if\nany were to show you its form and fashion, the tale would seem to you\nbut fable, for none, methinketh, could ever make such a keep, or so\nmighty a tower. Round about it ran a river, encircling all the close,\nthat the orchard, which was of great price, was all walled in by wood\nand water. Wise was the gentle knight who contrived it, but from him it\nwent to his son, who sold it to this villein; so passed it from hand to\nhand: and wit ye well, an ill heir ofttimes bringeth thorpe and manor\ninto dishonour.\n\nFair as man can desire was that orchard, and therein grew many an herb\nwhose name I know not; yet may I tell you of a truth there were roses\nand flowers that gave forth a strong and pleasant fragrance; and such\nmanner of spices grew there that if any creature, suffering from\nsickness and infirmity, were brought thither in a litter, and lay in\nthat orchard but for the space of a single night, he would go forth\nhealed and strong; so rich it was in goodly herbs. And the meadow was\nso level even that in it was neither hill nor hollow, and all the\ntree-tops were of one height; no other orchard close so fair was there\nin all the world. Ask ye not of its fruit, for none such shall ye find;\nbut in the garden they ripened in every season. Wise was he who contrived\nit, and by enchantment he wrought it, whereof within was many a proof.\n\nFull great was the orchard and wide, like a round ring in its form; and\nin its midst was a fountain whose waters were clear and fresh, and ran\nso swiftly they seemed to boil in fury, yet was it colder than marble.\nA goodly tree gave shade there, wide reaching were the branches and\ncunningly trained; good store of leaves there were, for in the longest\nday of summer, when came the month of May, ye could not see a ray of\nthe sun, so leafy was it. Full dear should that tree be held, for its\nkind was such that it kept its leaves in all seasons, and neither wind\nnor storm had might to strip its bark or its branches.\n\nPleasant and delectable was that green tree; and to it twice each day,\nand no more, came a bird to sing, in the morning namely, and again at\neventide. So wondrous fair was the bird it were over long to tell you\nall its fashion. More small it was than the sparrow, yet somewhat\ngreater than the wren, and it sang so sweetly and fairly that know\nye of a sooth, not nightingale, nor merle, nor mavis, nor starling,\nmethinketh, nor voice of lark or calender, were so good to hear as was\nits song. And it was so ready with refrains and lays and songs and\nnew tunes, that harp, or viol, or rebec were as nought beside it. So\nwondrous was its song that never before was its like heard of living\nman, for such was its virtue that no man might be so sorrowful, but if\nhe heard it sing, he must straightway rejoice, and forget all heaviness\nand grief; and though he had never before spoken of love, now was he\nkindled by it, and deemed himself worshipful as king or emperor, though\nhe were but villein or burgess; and even had he passed his hundredth\nyear, if, as he yet lingered in the world, he heard the song of the\nbird, he deemed himself then but as a youth and a stripling, and so\ncomely, he must be loved of ladies and maids and damsels. But yet\nanother wondrous virtue had it; for that orchard might not endure, if\nthe bird came not thither to sing its sweet refrain; for out of song\nissueth love, which giveth their virtue to flower and tree and coppice;\nwhereas, if the bird were gone, the orchard would straightway wither,\nand the fountain run dry, for that they kept their virtue only by\nreason of the song.\n\nNow it was the wont of the villein, who was master there, to come twice\neach day to hear this sweetness. So on a morning, he came to the fountain\nbeneath the tree to wash his face in the waters; and from the branches\nthe bird sang to him loud and clear a song of most delectable cadence;\ngood was the lay to hear, and ensample might one draw therefrom whereby\none were bettered at the last. For in his language the bird said:\n\"Listen ye to my song, both knight and clerk and layman, all ye who have\nto do with love, and suffer his torments; and to ye likewise I speak, ye\nmaids fair and sweet, who would have the world for your own. And I tell\nyou of a sooth, ye should love God before all things, and hold his law\nand his commandments; go ye with good heart to the minster, and give\nheed to the holy office, for to hear God's service cometh not amiss to\nany man; and to tell you true, God and love are of one accord. For God\nloveth honour and courtesy, and true Love despiseth them not; God hateth\npride and treachery, and Love likewise holdeth them in despite; God\ngiveth ear to sweet prayer, and from it Love turneth not away; and above\nall else God desireth largesse, for in him is nought of ill, but good\nonly. The misers are the envious hearted, and it is the jealous who\nare the covetous; the churlish are the wicked, and the traitors are the\nvile; but wisdom and courtesy, honour and loyalty uphold Love; and if ye\nhold to this ye may have both God and the world.\" So sang the bird his\nlay.\n\nBut when he saw the churl, who was cruel and envious, sit listening\nbeneath the tree, then sang he in another manner: \"Flow ye no more,\nO river; waste to ruin, ye donjons; and towers, fall ye down; fade, ye\nflowers; dry and wither, ye herbs; bear no more fruit, ye trees; for\nhere, of old, clerks and knights and ladies were wont to give ear to me,\nwho held the fountain full dear, and drew delight from my song, and\nloved the better _par amors_; and by reason of it they did much largess,\nand practised courtesy and prowess, and upheld chivalry; but now am I\nheard only by a churl, who is full of envy, and to whom silver and gold\nare more dear than the service of Love; the knights and ladies came to\nhear me for delight, and for Love's sake, and to lighten their hearts,\nbut this man cometh only that he may eat the better and drink the\nbetter.\"\n\nAnd when the bird had so sung it flew away; and the churl, who yet\nlingered there, bethought him if he might not take it; easily might he\nsell it full dear, or, if he could not sell it, he would shut it up in a\ncage that it might sing to him early and late. So he contrived a device,\nand arranged it; he sought and looked and spied until he made sure of\nthe branches whereon the bird sat oftenest; then he maketh a snare and\nspread it,--well hath he contrived the thing. And when eventide came,\nthe bird returned again to the orchard, and so soon as it lighted on\nthe tree was straightway taken in the net. Thereupon the villein, the\ncaitiff, the felon, climbeth up and taketh the bird. \"Such reward hath\nhe ever that serveth a churl, methinketh,\" saith the bird. \"Now ill\nhast thou done in that thou hast taken me, for of me shalt thou get\nsmall ransom.\" \"Yet shall I have many a song of this capture,\" quoth the\nvillein; \"before, ye served according to your own will, but now shall ye\nserve after mine.\"\n\n\"This throw is evilly divided, and the worser half falleth to me,\"\nsaith the bird. \"Of old, I had field and wood and river and meadow,\naccording to my desire, but now shall I be prisoned in a cage; never\nagain shall I know joy and solace. Of old, I was wont to live by prey,\nnow must I, like any prisoner, have my meat doled out to me. Prithee,\nfair, sweet friend, let me go; for be ye sage and certain never will\nI sing as prisoner.\" \"By my faith, then I will eat you up; on no other\nterms shall ye escape.\" \"Poor victual shall ye find in me, so small and\nslight am I; and if ye kill so frail a thing, in no wise shall your\nworship be increased. To slay me were very sin, but it were a good deed\nto set me free.\" \"By my faith, ye speak idly, for the more you beseech\nme the less will I do.\" \"Certes,\" saith the bird, \"ye say well, for so\nrunneth the law; and often have we heard it said that fair reasoning\nangers the churl. But a proverb teacheth and showeth us that necessity\nis a hard master; here my strength may not avail me, but if you will\nset me free, I will make you wise with three wisdoms that were never\nyet known to any man of your lineage, and which would much avail you.\"\n\"If I may have surety thereof, I will do it straightway,\" saith the\nvillein. \"Thereto I pledge you all my faith,\" the bird made answer;\nand forthright the villein let him go.\n\nSo the bird that had won his freedom by ready speech, taketh flight to\nthe tree; all spent he was, and ruffled, for he had been rudely handled,\nand all his plumage turned awry. With his beak as best he might, he\nsmoothed and ordered his feathers; but the churl, who was fain of the\nthree wisdoms, admonished him to speak. Full of craft was that bird, and\nhe saith: \"If thou givest good heed, great lore shalt thou learn: _Set\nnot thy trust in all thou hearest._\" But the villein frowned in anger:\n\"That knew I already,\" quoth he. \"Fair friend, henceforth hold it well\nin mind, and forget it not.\" Quoth the churl: \"Now in sooth may I look\nto learn wisdom! He who biddeth me bear this in mind, doth but jibe;\nbut certes, when you escape me again, no man else shall you mock:--but\nI brag over late. Wherefore, now tell me the next wisdom, for this one\nI know well.\"\n\n\"Give good heed,\" saith the bird, \"fair and goodly is the second: _Weep\nnot for that thou hast never had._\" Then the churl could not hold his\npeace, but answered all in anger: \"Thou hast belied thy pledge to me;\nthree wisdoms thou wert to teach me--so thou didst promise me--that were\nnever yet known to any of my kin; but every man knoweth this, for there\nis none so foolish, or ever was, that he would weep for what was never\nhis. Sorely hast thou lied to me.\" Thereupon the bird made answer:\n\"Wouldst thou that I say them over to thee lest thou forget them? Ye are\nso ready of speech I fear for thy memory; methinketh ye will not bear\nthe wisdoms in mind.\" \"I know them better than you yourself,\" quoth the\nchurl, \"and long ago knew them. Foul fall him who shall ever thank you\nfor showing him that in which he was already wise. By my head, I am not\nso untaught as ye deem me, and it is but because ye have escaped me that\nye now mock me. But if ye hold by your covenant with me, ye will tell\nme the third wisdom, for of these two I have full understanding. Now\nspeak out at your will, in that I have no power over you; tell me its\nsubstance, and I will give heed to it.\"\n\n\"Listen well, and I will tell you: the third is of such a nature that\nwhosoever knoweth it will never be a poor man.\" Greatly the churl\nrejoiced when he heard the virtue of that wisdom, and saith: \"This I\nneeds must know, for riches I dearly desire.\" Lo, how he urgeth the\nbird, and saith: \"It is time to eat, so tell me now speedily.\" And when\nthe bird heard him, it maketh answer: \"I warn thee, churl, that ye _Let\nnot fall to your feet that which you hold in your hand_.\" All angry was\nthe villein: for a long time he spoke not, and then he asketh: \"And is\nthere nought else? These are the sooth-sayings of children, for well\nI ween that many a man poor and in want knoweth this, even as thou\nknowest; ye have duped me and lied to me, for all that ye have shown\nme I was wise in before.\"\n\nThen the bird maketh answer: \"By my faith, and if thou hadst known this\nlast wisdom, never wouldst thou have let me go, for if thou hadst killed\nme as thou didst think to do, never, by my eyes, had there dawned a day\nye had not been the better for it.\" \"Ha, in God's name, what good had ye\nbeen?\" \"Ahi, foul churl, ill son of an ill race, thou knowest not what\nhath befallen thee; thou hast sorely miscarried. In my body is a gem of\ngreat worth and price, and of the weight of three ounces; its virtue is\nso great that whoso hath it in his possession may never wish for aught,\nbut straightway he hath it at his hand.\"\n\nNow when the churl heard this, he beat his breast, and tore his\ngarments, and rent his face with his nails, and cried out woe and alas.\nBut the bird, who watched him from the tree, had great joy thereof. It\nwaited until he had torn all his raiment, and wounded himself in many a\nplace; then it said to him: \"Wretched churl, when thou didst hold me in\nthy hand I was smaller than sparrow, or tit, or finch, which weigheth\nnot so much as half an ounce.\" And the villein who groaneth in anger,\nsaith: \"By my faith, ye say true.\" \"Churl, now mayest thou see well I\nhave lied to thee concerning the gem.\" \"Now I know it of a sooth, but\ncertes, at first I believed thee.\" \"Churl, now have I proved to thee on\nthe spot thou knewest not the three wisdoms; and, for what thou didst\nsay to me, that no man is, or ever was, so foolish he would weep for\nthat he had never had, now, meseemeth, thou thyself makest lament for\nwhat was never thine and never will be. And when you had me in your\nsnare, then did you cast down to your feet that which you held in your\nhand. So have you been brought to shame by the three wisdoms; henceforth,\nfair friend, hold them in mind. Good it is to learn goodly lore, for\nmany a one heareth yet understandeth not, many a one speaketh of wisdom\nwho is yet no whit wise in thought, many a one speaketh of courtesy who\nknoweth nought of the practice thereof, and many a man holdeth himself\nfor wise who is given over to folly.\"\n\nNow when the bird had so spoken, it took flight, and departed, never to\nreturn again to the garden. The leaves fell from the tree, the orchard\nfailed and withered, the fountain ran dry, whereby the churl lost all\nhis delight. Now know ye one and all that the proverb showeth us clearly\nthat he who covets all, loses all.\n\n_explicit_ li Lais de l'Oiselet.\n\n\n\n\nThe Woful Knight\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nGladly would I call to remembrance a lay whereof I have heard men speak;\nI will tell you its name and its story, and show you the city whence it\nsprang. Some call it The Woful Knight, but many there are who name it\nThe Four Sorrows.\n\nAt Nantes in Bretaigne dwelt a lady who was rich in beauty and wisdom\nand all seemliness. And in that land was no knight of prowess who, and\nif he did but see her, straightway loved her not and besought her. She\ncould in no wise love them all, yet none did she wish to renounce. And\nbetter it is to love and woo all the ladies of the land than to rob\none fool of his motley, for he will speedily fall to fighting over it,\nwhereas a lady doth pleasure to all in fair friendliness. And though it\nbe not her will to hearken to them, yet ought she not to give them ill\nwords, but rather hold them dear and honour them, and render them\nservice and thanks. Now the lady of whom I would tell you was so besought\nin love by reason of her beauty and worth that many a one had a hand\ntherein.\n\nIn Bretaigne, in those days, lived four barons; their names I cannot\ntell you, but though they were young of age, yet were they comely,\nbrave, and valiant knights, generous, courteous, and free-handed; of\ngentle birth were they in that land, and held in high honour. These four\nloved the lady, and strove in well doing for her sake; and each did his\nuttermost to win her and her love. Each sought her by himself, and set\nthereto all his intent; and there was not one but thought to succeed\nabove all the rest.\n\nNow the lady was of right great discretion, and much bethought her to\ninquire and discover which it were best to love; for all alike were of\nsuch great worship that she knew not how to choose the best among them.\nAnd in that she was not minded to lose three for one, she made fair\nsemblance to each, and gave them tokens, and sent them messengers; of\nthe four not one knew how it stood with other, and none could she bring\nherself to reject. So each one hoped by entreaty and loyal service to\nspeed better than the rest. And wheresoever knights come together, each\nwished to be the first in well doing, if that he might, to thereby\nplease his lady. All alike called her their love, each one wore her\nfavour, whether ring or sleeve or pennon, and each cried her name in\nthe tourney.\n\nAnd she on her part loved them all, and bore them all in hand, until it\nfell that after an Easter time, a tournament was cried before the city\nof Nantes. To learn the worth of the four lovers, many a man came from\nother lands,--Frenchmen and Normans, Flemings and Angevins, and men of\nBrabant, and of Boulogne, and likewise those from near at hand; all\nalike came thither with good will, and long time sojourned there. And\non the evening of the tourney they joined battle full sharply.\n\nThe four lovers had armed themselves and issued out of the city: and\nthough their knights followed after, on them fell the burden. Those from\nabroad knew them by their pennons and shields, and against them they\nsent four knights, two Flemings and two Hainaulters, ready dight for the\nonset; not one but was keen to join battle. And the four lovers on their\npart, when they saw the knights come against them, were of no mind to\ngive back. At full speed, with lowered lance, each man chooseth his\nfellow, and they come together so stoutly that the four out-landers are\nbrought to ground. No care had the four comrades for the horses, rather\nthey let them run free, and they took their stand above the fallen\nknights, who anon are rescued by their fellows. Great was the press in\nthat rescue, and many a blow was struck with sword.\n\nThe lady, meantime, was on a tower, whence she might well behold her men\nand their followers; she seeth her lovers bear themselves right bravely,\nand which among them deserveth best she knoweth not.\n\nSo the tourney was begun, and the ranks increased and thickened; and\nmany a time that day before the gate was the battle renewed. The four\nlovers did right valiantly, that they won praise above all the rest,\ntill evening fell and it was time to dispart. Then far from their men,\ntoo recklessly they set their lives in jeopardy; dearly they paid for\nit, for there three were slain, and the fourth hurt and so wounded in\nthigh and body that the lance came out at his back. Right through were\nthey smitten, and all four fell to ground. They who had slain them threw\ndown their shields upon the field; unwittingly had they done it, and\nright heavy were they therefor. So the noise arose and the cry; never\nwas sorrow heard like unto that. They of the city hasted thither, for no\nwhit did they fear those outlanders. Two thousand were there that for\nsorrow for the four knights unlaced their ventails, and tore their hair\nand their beards. All alike shared that grief.\n\nThen each of those four was laid upon a shield, and carried into the\ncity to the lady who had loved them, and so soon as she heard the\nadventure, she fell down on the hard ground in a swoon. When she\nrecovered her wit, she made sore lament for each by name. \"Alas,\" saith\nshe, \"what shall I do? Never more shall I know gladness. These four\nknights I loved, and each by himself I desired, for of great worship\nwere they, and they loved me more than aught else that liveth. By reason\nof their beauty and prowess, their valour and generosity, I led them\nto set their thoughts on love of me, and I would not lose all three by\ntaking one. Now I know not which I should pity most; yet can I not\nfeign or disemble herein. One I see wounded and three slain; nothing\nhave I in the world to comfort me. Now will I let bury the dead; and if\nthe wounded knight may be healed, gladly will I do what I may herein,\nand fetch him good doctors of physic.\" So she made him be carried into\nher own chambers. Then she directed that the others be made ready;\nrichly and nobly she appareled them with great love. And to a rich\nabbey, wherein they were buried, she made great gifts and offerings.\nNow may God grant them sweet mercy.\n\nMeantime she had summoned wise leeches, and had set them in charge of\nthe knight, who lay wounded in her own chamber until he began to mend.\nOften she went to see him, and sweetly she comforted him; but much she\nregretted the other three, and made great lament for them.\n\nAnd one summer day after meat, when she was talking with the knight,\nshe remembered her of her great sorrow, and bent low her head. So she\nfell deep in thought, and he, beginning to watch her, perceived her\nthoughtfulness. Courteously he addressed her: \"Lady, you are in\ndistress. What is in your thoughts? Tell me, and let be your sorrow.\nSurely you should take comfort.\" \"Friend,\" saith she, \"I fell\na-thinking, and remembered me of your comrades. Never will any lady of\nmy lineage, however fair and worthy and wise she may be, love another\nsuch four, or in one day lose them all, as I lost all,--save you alone,\nwho were wounded and in sore jeopardy of death. And in that I have\nso loved ye four, I would that my griefs were held in remembrance,\nwherefore of you I will make a lay, and call it The Four Sorrows.\"\nWhen he had heard her, quickly the knight made answer: \"Dame, make the\nnew lay, but call it The Woful Knight. And I will show you why it should\nbe so named: the other three long since died, and spent all their\nworldly life in the great torment they endured by reason of the love\nthey bore you. But I, who have escaped with life, all uncounselled and\nall woful, often see her whom I love most in the world come and go,\nand speak to me morning and evening, yet may I have neither kiss nor\nembrace, nor any joy of her, save that of speech only. A hundred such\nsorrows you make me endure; rather had I suffer death. For this reason\nshall the lay be named for me; The Woful Knight shall it be called, and\nwhosoever termeth it The Four Sorrows will change its true name.\" \"By my\nfaith,\" saith she, \"this pleaseth me well; now let us call it The Woful\nKnight.\"\n\nThus was the lay begun, and thereafter ended and spread abroad; but of\nthose that carried it through the land some called it The Four Sorrows.\nEach of the names suiteth the lay well, for the matter demandeth both;\nbut commonly it is called The Woful Knight. Here it endeth and goeth no\nfarther; more there is not so far as I have heard or known, and no more\nwill I tell you.\n\n\n\n\nThe Two Lovers\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn Normandy, of old, there fell an adventure oft recounted; 'tis a tale\nof two children who loved one another, and how both through their love\ndied. Of this the Bretons made a lay and called it \"Les Dous Amanz.\"\n\nKnow ye that in Neustria, which we call Normandy, is a great mountain\nmarvellous high, and on its summit lie the two lovers. Near to this\nmountain on one side, a king with great care and counsel built him a\ncity; lord he was of the Pistreis, and because of his folk he called the\ntown Pitres. Still has the name endured, and there to this day may ye\nsee houses and city; and all that region, as is well known, men call\nthe Vale of Pitres.\n\nThis king had a daughter, a fair damsel and a courteous; no other child\nhad he, and much he loved and cherished her. She was sought for in\nmarriage by many a great lord, who would gladly have taken her to wife;\nbut the king would give her to none, for that he could not bear to part\nwith her. No other companion had he, but kept her with him night and\nday, for since the death of the queen she was his only solace. Yet many\na one held it ill done on his part, and even his own household blamed\nhim for it. And when he knew that men talked thereof, much it grieved\nand troubled him; and he began to bethink him how he might so contrive\nthat none would willingly seek his daughter. And he let it be known far\nand wide, that whosoever would have the maiden, must know one thing of\na sooth: it was decreed and appointed that her suitor should carry her\nin his arms, with no stop for rest upon the way, to the summit of the\nmountain without the city. When the news thereof were made known and\nspread abroad through the land, many a one assayed the feat but none\nmight achieve it. Some there were who with much striving carried her\nmidway up the mountain; then they could go no farther but must needs\nlet be. So for a long space the damsel remained unwedded, and no man\nwould ask her in marriage.\n\nIn that same land was a damoiseau, son to a count he was, and full fresh\nand fair; and much he strove in well doing that he might have praise\nabove all others. He frequented the king's court and often sojourned\nthere; and he grew to love the king's daughter, and ofttimes besought\nher that she would grant him her favour, and love him with all her love.\nAnd in that he was brave and courteous, and much praised of the king,\nshe granted him her grace, and in all humility he rendered her thanks\ntherefor.\n\nOften they held speech together, and loyally each loved the other, yet\nthey concealed it as best they might, that none should know thereof.\nGrievous was this time to them, but the youth bethought him that it was\nbetter to endure this evil than to make haste over much only to fail;\nyet was he brought to sore anguish through love. And it fell on a time\nthat the damoiseau who was so fair and valiant came unto his love, and\nspeaking, made her his plaint. Piteously he besought her that she should\nflee thence with him, for he could no longer endure his pain; yet he\nknew full well that were he to ask her of her father, he loved her so\nmuch he would give her to none who did not first bear her in his arms\nto the top of the mountain. Then the damsel made answer: \"Dear heart,\nI know full well you could not carry me so far, for your strength is\nnot great enough; yet were I to flee with you my father would suffer so\ngreat dolour and grief it were torment for him to live; and of a sooth\nI hold him so dear and love him so much I would not willingly bring him\nsorrow. Other counsel must you find, for to this I will not hearken.\nBut in Salerno I have a kinswoman, a rich dame and a wealthy; more than\nthirty years has she dwelt there, and she is so practised in the art of\nphysic that she is wise in medicines and healing. So learned is she in\nherbs and roots, that if you will but go to her, taking with you letters\nfrom me, and tell her all your plight, she will give you help and\ncounsel. Such electuaries will she prepare for you, and such cordials\nwill she give you that they will comfort you and renew your strength.\nWhen you return again to this land, seek ye my father. He will deem you\nbut a child, and will show you the covenant whereby he will give me to\nno man or take thought of none, save him who shall carry me in his arms\nto the top of the mountain, without once resting by the way; and ye\nshall freely agree with him that only in such wise may ye win me.\"\n\nThe youth hearkened to the words and the counsel of the damsel; full\nglad was he thereof, and gave her his thanks. And thereafter he asked\nleave of her; and straightway returned into his own land, and speedily\ngathered together money and rich stuffs, palfreys and sumpters; and\ntook with him such of his men as were most worthy of trust. So he goeth\nto Salerno, and seeketh speech with the aunt of his sweet friend, and\ngiveth her the letter. And when she had read it from end to end, she\nkept him with her till he had told her all his plight. Thereafter she\nstrengthened him with medicines, and gave him such a draught that were\nhe ever so weary and spent and fordone, it would yet refresh all his\nbody, alike his bones and his sinews, that so soon as he had drunk it,\nhe would have his full strength again. Then, bearing the draught in a\nphial, he returned to his own country.\n\nJoyous and glad of heart was the damoiseau when he was come again to\nhis own land; yet he lingered not in his domain, but went straightway\nto the king to ask of him his daughter, and that he might take her and\ncarry her up the mountain. The king did not deny him, yet he deemed it\nbut folly, for the youth was young of age and many a sage and valiant\nman had assayed the feat, yet none might achieve it. But he named and\nappointed a day, and summoned all his friends and vassals, and all those\nwhom he could assemble together, nor would he suffer any to disobey his\ncall. So, for the sake of the king's daughter and the youth who would\nassay the adventure of carrying her to the top of the mountain, they\ncame from all the country round about. The damsel on her part prepared\nherself, and to lighten her weight oft she fasted and forebore from\nmeat, for she would fain help her friend.\n\nOn the appointed day, of all those that came thither the damoiseau was\nthe first, nor did he forget his draught. Then into the meadow beside\nthe Seine, among all the great folk there assembled, the king led forth\nhis daughter; no garment wore she save her shift only. And so the youth\ntook her in his arms; and in that he knew she would not betray him, he\ngave her the phial that contained the potion, to carry in her hand.\nYet I fear it will avail him nought, for he hath in him no measure.\n\nWith the damsel in his arms he set off at a swift pace, and climbed\nmidway up the mountain, and for the joy that he had of her he took no\nthought of his draught. But she felt that he was growing weary, and\nsaid: \"Dear heart, I pray you drink. I know that ye are weary; drink and\nrenew your strength.\" But the youth made answer: \"Sweet, I feel my heart\nstrong within me; for no price would I stop long enough to drink, while\nI am yet able to go three steps. The folk would cry out to us, and their\nnoise would confound me, and so might they hinder us. I will not stop\nhere.\" But when he had gone two thirds of the way, he was near to\nfalling. Ofttimes the maid besought him, \"Dear heart, drink now the\npotion.\" But he would not heed or hearken to her, and in sore pain he\nyet pressed forward. Thus he came at last to the top of the mountain,\nbut so wearied and spent was he that there he fell down and rose up no\nmore, for his heart failed within him.\n\nThe maid as she looked on her love deemed him in a swoon; so she knelt\ndown at his side, and sought to give him the drink. But he could speak\nno word to her, and so he died even as I tell you. With great outcry\nshe lamented him, and she cast from her the vessel containing the\npotion that it was scattered abroad. By it the mount was well sprinkled,\nwhereby all the land and country was much bettered, for many a precious\nherb hath been found there that sprang from that potion.\n\nBut now speak we again of the damsel. Never was she so woful as now in\nlosing her love. She lieth down beside him, and taketh him in her arms\nand straineth him close, and many a time she kisseth him on eyes and\nmouth, till her grief for him pierceth her heart. There died the maid\nwho had been so valiant, wise and fair.\n\nNow when the king and those that were awaiting them saw that the twain\ncame not again, they followed after and found them. And there the king\nfell to the ground in a swoon; and when he recovered his speech he made\ngreat lament, and so did all the stranger folk. Three days they kept the\ntwain above earth; and caused two coffins of marble to be brought, and\nin them they laid the two lovers, and by the counsel of all, buried them\nupon the top of the mountain; and then they all went their ways.\n\nBecause of the adventure of these twain the mountain is still called by\nthe name of Les Deux Amants. So it fell, even as I have told you, and\nthe Bretons turned it into a lay.\n\n\n\n\nEliduc\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nNow will I tell you all the matter and story of a most ancient Breton\nlay, even as I have heard it, and hold it for true.\n\nIn Bretaigne dwelt a knight, brave and courteous, hardy and bold; Eliduc\nwas his name, methinketh, and in all the land was no other man so\nvaliant. And he had for wife a woman wise and honourable, of high\nparentry and goodly lineage. Long they lived together, and loyally they\nloved one another; but at length it fell that by reason of strife the\nknight went to seek service abroad, and there he grew to love a maid,\ndaughter to a king and queen; Guilliadun was the name of the damsel, and\nshe was the fairest of that realm. Now Eliduc's wife was called among\nher own folk Guildeluec, and from these twain the lay hath taken the\nname of Guildeluec and Guilliadun; of old it was called Eliduc, but now\nis its title changed, in that the adventure from which the lay is drawn\nturneth upon the two dames. Now even as it befell so will I recite it,\nand tell you all the truth thereof.\n\nEliduc had for liege lord the king of Britain the Less, who showed him\nmuch love and favour, and to whom he gave faithful service. Whenever\nthe king must needs be absent, it was given to him to guard the land,\nand hold it by his prowess. Yet even better fortune befell him, for he\nwas made free to hunt in the king's forest, nor was there any forester\ntherein so bold he dared gainsay him, or speak him grudgingly. But as\noften falleth through other men's envy of our fortune, he was estranged\nfrom his lord, and so slandered and belied, that without hearing he was\nbanished from the court, though on what grounds he knew not. Ofttimes he\nbesought the king not to give ear to calumny, but to show him justice,\nin that he had long served him with right good will; yet ever the king\nwould give him no answer.\n\nNow when Eliduc saw he could win no hearing, he must needs depart. He\nwent back to his own house, and called all his friends together, and\ntold them of the wrath of the king, his liege lord, whom he had served\nas best he might,--never should the king have borne him hate. But as the\nvillein saith in proverb when he chideth his plowman, \"Lord's love is no\nfief\"; so is he wise and discreet who keeps faith with his liege lord,\nyet spendeth his love on his good friends. Now the knight was minded to\nabide no more in that land, but would, he said, cross the sea and go\ninto the kingdom of Logres, to solace himself there for a space. His\nwife he would leave in his domain, and bade his friends and liegemen\nthat they guard her loyally.\n\nSo he abode by this judgment, and prepared him full richly for the\njourney; but his friends were right sorrowful that he should depart from\nthem. He took with him ten knights, and his wife conducted him on the\nway. At parting with her lord she made exceeding great dole, but he\nassured her he would keep good faith with her. With that she left him,\nand he held straight on his way till he came to the sea, and passed over\nit, and came into Totness.\n\nIn that land were divers kings, and between them was war and strife. One\ndwelt near Exeter, full puissant, but an old man and an ancient. No heir\nmale had he, but only a daughter yet unwedded; and in that he would not\ngive her in marriage to his neighbor, that other made war upon him, and\nlaid waste all his land, and besieged him in his castle; nor was there\namong those within any man who dared issue out to risk onset and battle.\nWhen Eliduc heard thereof, he was fain to go no farther, but to abide in\nthat land wherein was war, and to seek service with, and help as best he\nmight, the king who was so harried and hard pressed and beset. Wherefore\nhe sent messengers thither, and by letter showed the king how he had\nissued out of his own land and stood ready to his aid; furthermore, he\nprayed him to make known his pleasure herein, and if he would have none\nof him, to grant him safe conduct through the land, that he might seek\nservice elsewhere.\n\nNow when the king saw the messengers, he looked on them kindly and made\nthem good cheer. He called his constable to him, and bade him straightway\nmake ready an escort to bring thither the knight, and prepare a hostel\nwhere he and his men might lodge, and furthermore, bade give and grant\nthem as much as they would spend for a month. The escort made them\nready, and set out to fetch Eliduc; and he was received with great\nhonour, for right welcome was he to the king. He was given lodging in\nthe house of a burgess full discreet and courteous, who gave up to his\nguest his own fair tapestried chamber. Eliduc bade the board be well set\nforth, and invited all needy knights that lodged in the town to share\nhis victual. And moreover, he commanded his men that none be so forward\nthat he take either gift or denier for the first forty days.\n\nNow three days after his coming, a cry arose in the city that their\nenemies were upon them, and overspread all the land thereabouts, and\npressed up to the very gates, for that they would assail the town.\nEliduc heard the noise of the folk, who were sore dismayed, and\nforthright he armed himself, and his comrades likewise. Now though many\na man had been slain and many a one made prisoner, fourteen mounted\nknights were yet left in the town, and when they saw Eliduc get him to\nhorseback, they hastened to their lodgings to arm themselves; and with\nhim they issued out of the gate, without waiting for summons. \"Sir,\"\nthey cried to him, \"we will go with thee, and what thou dost we likewise\nwill do.\" \"Gramercy,\" he made answer. \"Now is there none among you who\nknows of some hidden way or ambush where we may take them unawares? If\nwe await them here, it may be we shall do battle with them, but to no\npurpose, if any have better counsel.\" And they made answer: \"In faith,\nsir, near this wood through a bed of reeds runneth a narrow cart-road,\nwhereby they are wont to take their way back. When they have won their\nbooty they will repair thither; ofttimes they ride there unarmed upon\ntheir palfreys, and so put themselves in jeopardy of speedy death; right\nsoon could we do them damage, and hurt and annoy.\" And Eliduc answered\nthem: \"Friends, I give you my word, he who doth not often venture where\nhe thinketh to lose, will never win much, nor achieve high honour. Ye\nare all the king's liegemen, and ye should keep good faith with him.\nCome with me where I shall go, and what I do, do ye in likewise; I\npledge you my faith, ye shall suffer no hurt so long as I can help you\nin aught. And if it chance we win somewhat, the damage we do to the foe\nwill be turned to our praise.\" Thereupon they all made pledge, and\nthereafter drew towards the wood.\n\nThus they took ambush near the roadside until those others should\nreturn; and Eliduc commanded his men, and showed and devised to them how\nthey should cry out upon their foes, and how they should spur against\nthem. So when the outlanders drew near to the pass ... Eliduc cried his\ncry, and called to his comrades, and bade them do their best. Rudely\nthey laid on with their swords, and spared no whit, that their enemies\nwere all abashed,--speedily were they broken and scattered, and within\nshort time vanquished. Their constable was taken, and likewise many\nanother knight, and Eliduc's men gave them into the charge of their\nsquires. Twenty-five were they of the town, and thirty they captured of\nthose without; eagerly they seized upon the armour, and good booty had\nthey therein. So they returned again, and glad were they in that they\nhad well prospered.\n\nThe king was upon a tower, in sore dread because of his men; and much\nhe complained of Eliduc, who, he feared, had brought his knights into\njeopardy through treason. And now they draw near, riding close ranked\nand laden with spoils. Many more were they at the return than at the\noutgoing, wherefore the king knew them not, but was full of fear and\nmisgiving. He bade the gates be closed, and commanded his folk that they\nmount the walls to draw their bows and cast down missiles,--but of this\nthere will be no need. Eliduc had sent before a squire spurring fast,\nwho now made known the adventure to the king, and told him of Eliduc,\nhow he had vanquished the besiegers, and how bravely he had borne\nhimself; he had wounded many and slain many, and had taken captive their\nconstable and nine-and-twenty more,--never was there such a knight.\nGreat joy had the king of these tidings; he left the tower and rode out\nto meet Eliduc, and thanked him for his well doing. And Eliduc on his\npart gave over the prisoners to the king, and divided the armour among\nthe knights; his own share he dealt out to the prisoners and other folk,\nnought kept he for his profit save three of the horses he had heard well\npraised.\n\nAfter the deed whereof I have told you, he was loved and cherished of\nthe king, who retained him in his service a whole year, and his comrades\nlikewise. And Eliduc gave his oath to the king, and was made warden of\nthe land.\n\nEliduc was wise and courteous, a comely knight, brave and free-handed.\nSo it fell the king's daughter heard him named, and his valour\nrecounted; and she sent one of her own chamberlains to him, to pray and\nentreat that he come to her for talk and for disport, that they might\nlearn to know one another,--much she marveled that he had not yet\nsought her. Eliduc made answer he would go, gladly would he make her\nacquaintance. So he mounted his horse, and taking with him one knight,\ngoeth forth to speak with the damsel. But when he was about to enter her\nbower, he sent the chamberlain before, and lingered somewhat, delaying\nuntil the man returned again.\n\nThen with gentle bearing, frank courtesy, and right noble cheer he\naddressed Guilliadun that fair damsel, as one ready of speech, and gave\nher his thanks for that it had pleased her to call him to speak with\nher. The damsel hath taken him by the hand, and side by side they sat\nupon a couch, speaking of many things. The maiden looked at him long, at\nface and body and bearing, and to herself she said: \"He hath in him no\nfault\"; greatly she commended him in her heart. And love sent thither\nhis messenger, who commanded her that she love the knight, and caused\nher to sigh and turn pale. Yet she would not speak her thought, lest he\nshould misprize her.\n\nHe tarried there a long space, then asked leave to go away; sorrowfully\nshe granted it, and he hath departed and returned again to his hostel.\nHeavy was he and full of thought, and sore disquieted by reason of the\nfair damsel, the daughter of the king his lord, for that she had so\nsweetly summoned him, and that she had sighed. Much it misliked him\nthat he had been so long in the land, and yet had not often seen her;\nbut when he had so thought, much he repented him, and he called to\nremembrance his wife, how he had pledged him to keep good faith with\nher, and to live loyally.\n\nNow when the maiden had seen him she would fain have had him for her\nlover; none had ever seemed to her so goodly, and if she may she will\nbind him fast to her. Thus she lay awake all night long, and neither\nrested nor slept. On the morrow she rose early, and went to the window,\nand called to the chamberlain, and showed him all her thought. \"By my\nfaith,\" saith she, \"it goes hardly with me, I have fallen into an evil\nplight, for I love the new man of arms, Eliduc, the good knight. No rest\nhad I this night, nor once closed my eyes in sleep. If he will but love\nme in very love, and give himself to me, I will do all his desire, and\nhe shall win great good thereby, for he shall be king of all this land.\nBut if he will not give himself to me, I must die in great dolour, for\nlove of his wisdom and courtesy.\" When she had said what she would, the\nchamberlain gave her true counsel,--let none blame him therefor. \"Lady,\"\nsaith he, \"if you love him, send to him and tell him. And it were well\ndone to give him a girdle, a ring, or a scarf; if he receive it gladly,\nand if he have joy of the sending, you may be sure of his love. There is\nno emperor under heaven who would not be rejoiced if you chose to love\nhim.\" When she heard his counsel, the damsel made answer: \"But how shall\nI know by my gift whether he hath desire to love me? I never yet saw\nknight who, whether he loved or hated, had to be prayed in like matter,\nor would not willingly keep the gift sent him. Much would it mislike me\nthat he should scorn me. Yet none the less, can one learn somewhat from\na look; so make yourself ready and go.\" \"I am ready now,\" saith he.\n\"Take him a ring of gold, and give him my girdle, greet him from me\na thousand times!\"\n\nThereupon the chamberlain set forth, but the damsel was in such a plight\nthat well nigh had she called him back to her; yet none the less she let\nhim go, and thus began to lament her: \"Woe is me, how is my heart taken\ncaptive by a man from a strange land. I know not even if he be of high\nkindred, and belike he will go hence suddenly, and I shall be left\nunhappy. Foolishly have I set my heart. Never till yesterday did I speak\nwith him, and now I would beseech his love. I fear lest he scorn me;\nyet if he be courteous, he will show me grace. Now have I set all at\nadventure, and if he desire not my love I shall be in an evil plight.\nNever in all my life shall I know joy.\"\n\nNow while she made lament the chamberlain went on in all haste until he\ncame unto Eliduc. Privately he gave him greetings from the damsel, and\noffered him the ring and the girdle. The knight said him thanks; the\ngolden ring he put on his finger, and the girdle he bound about him.\nNought else said he to the varlet, nor asked him aught, save that he\noffered him somewhat of his own treasure, but the youth would take\nnothing, and went his way and returned again to his lady. In her chamber\nhe found her, and gave her the knight's greetings and thanks for her\ngift. \"Say on,\" saith she, \"and hide nought from me; will he love me in\nvery love?\" \"So I believe,\" he answered; \"but the knight is not light\nminded, rather I deem him to be wise and courteous, one who knoweth well\nhow to hold his own counsel. I gave him your greetings and your gifts;\nyour girdle he bound about him; tightly he girt it around his waist, and\nthe ring he set on his finger. Nought else said I to him, or he to me.\"\n\"And he did not take it for love? If this be so, I am undone.\" \"By my\nfaith,\" saith he, \"I know not. Yet hear me; if he had not wished you\nwell, he would have had nought to do with your gifts.\" \"Ye speak folly,\"\nsaith she, \"I know right well he doth not hate me, for never have I done\nhim any ill, save that I love him bitterly, and if he hate me for this,\nthen is he worthy of death. Never again by you or any other will I ask\nhim aught till I may have speech with him: I myself will tell him how I\nam constrained by love. But I know not if he is to abide here.\" \"Lady,\"\nthe chamberlain maketh answer, \"the king hath bound him by oath to a\nyear's loyal service. Thus you will have time in plenty to make known\nyour pleasure to him.\"\n\nWhen she heard the knight was to stay she rejoiced greatly, right glad\nwas she of his sojourn. But nought knew she of the trouble he endured\nsince seeing her; never knew he joy or delight save only as he thought\nof her. And for this he deemed himself given over to evil, in that\nbefore he left his own land he had promised his wife to love none save\nher only. Now is his heart in sore torment; he would fain keep faith,\nyet can he not withhold him from loving the damsel, Guilliadun, who was\nso fair to see and hold speech withal, to clip and kiss. Yet hath he\nresolved not to seek her love, deeming that dishonour, in that he would\nkeep faith with his wife, and in that he was in the king's service. In\nsore distress was Eliduc. But now he tarries no longer; he mounts his\nhorse, and calls his comrades to him, and goeth to the castle to speak\nwith the king. And if he may he will see the damsel likewise; it was for\nthis chance he went.\n\nThe king had risen from meat, and entered into his daughter's chamber;\nand now he played at chess with a knight from over sea, and thereby\ntaught his daughter who sat on the other side of the board. Eliduc came\nforward, and the king made him fair semblance, and gave him a place at\nhis side. \"Damsel,\" he saith to his daughter, \"you should in truth know\nthis knight, and do him great honour, for among five hundred you will\nfind none better.\" Now when the maid heard her father's command, she was\nright glad; and she riseth and calleth to her the knight, and they sat\ntogether apart from the rest. Both were kindled with love; she dared not\nspeak to him, and he feared to address her, save to thank her for the\ngift she had sent him,--none had he ever had so dear and goodly. She\nanswered the knight that of this she was right glad, for she had sent\nhim the ring and the girdle in token she had given herself to him, for\nshe loved him with such a love that she longed to make him her lord; and\nif she might not have him, one thing she knew of a sooth, never would\nshe have living man,--now let him make known his will. \"Lady,\" said he,\n\"grateful am I for your love, and great joy have I therein; that I am so\nprized by you maketh me dearly glad, and on my side there will be no\nwithholding. Yet though I remain a year with the king--for I have given\nhim my word not to depart until his war is ended--thereafter I must go\nback into my own land, for I would not longer remain here, if I may have\nmy leave of you.\" \"Friend, good thanks to you,\" the damsel maketh\nanswer. \"Before that time you, who are so wise and courteous, will well\ndevise what to do with me; I love and trust in you beyond all living\ncreature.\" Thus they came to good accord, and at that time spoke no\nmore together.\n\nEliduc goeth to his hostel glad at heart, in that he hath well prospered.\nOften may he have speech with his friend, and great is the love between\nthem. And thereafter he so bestirred himself in the strife that he\nseized and captured him who had made war upon the king, and brought\npeace to all the land. Greatly was he honoured for his prowess, wisdom\nand largess; and high fortune was his.\n\nNow in time already past, the king of Bretaigne, his liege lord, had\nsent three messengers from out his land to seek him, in that he was\nbeset and beleagered and harried and pillaged; many of his castles were\ntaken, and all his land laid waste. Right often he repented him that he\nhad parted with Eliduc; ill counsel had been his when that he looked\naskance upon him. But now the traitors who had slandered and accused him\nhad been banished from the land, and exiled forever; and now he conjured\nhim by his great need, and summoned and besought him by the faith he\nowed as liegeman and by the oath of his vassalage, that he come now to\naid him, for right great was his need.\n\nEliduc heard the message, and he was full heavy of heart because of the\ndamsel, for he loved her sorely, and she him so much it might not be\nmore. But between them was no lightness or folly or wrong doing, and\ntheir love showed itself only in speech and sweet customs and goodly\ngifts. Her hope and thought was that he should be wholly hers, and that\nshe would hold him to her; for she knew nought of his wife. \"Alas,\"\nsaith he, \"ill have I done; too long have I tarried in this region, and\non an ill day saw I this land. Here have I loved a maiden, Guilliadun\nthe king's daughter, right sorely, and she me. If I needs must part with\nher, one of us will die, or both mayhap. And yet it behooves me to go;\nmy liege lord hath sent for me by letter, and conjured me by my oath,\nand so hath my wife likewise. Now it beseems me to have care. I may\nnot longer abide here, but must needs depart. Were I to marry my love,\nchristianity would not suffer it; all paths lead to ill; on all sides\nlieth sorrow. God! how she feareth the parting. But I will deal fairly\nwith her, let whoso will blame me; I will do her will, and act according\nto her counsel. The king her father hath fair peace; no man, I think,\nwill again make war upon him; and so because of my liege lord's need, I\nwill ask leave of him before the day of the term set for my service, and\nI will go to the damsel and make known to her this matter; she shall\ntell me her desire herein, and I will fulfil it as well as in me lieth.\"\n\nThe knight tarried no longer, but goeth to ask leave of the king. He\nspeaketh and telleth all the story, and showed and read him his liege\nlord's letter that had summoned him at need. The king heard the summons,\nand that the knight would abide there no longer, and he was right\ngrieved and sorry. He offered him good share of his havings, the third\npart of his heritage, and what was left of his treasure. \"If you will\nbut abide here,\" he saith, \"I will do so much for you that you will\nthank me all the days of your life.\" \"In God's name,\" saith the knight,\n\"in that my liege is so hard pressed, and hath sent to me from afar off,\nI must go to him in his need; nor will I in anywise abide here at this\ntime; but if you again have need of my service, I will gladly return\nunto you, and with good force of knights.\" For this the king gave him\nthanks and sweetly granted him leave. And the king further made him free\nof all the goods of his household, gold and silver, horses and dogs, and\nstuffs of silk goodly and fair; and of all these he took in measure.\n\nThen he said courteously to the king that with his leave he would gladly\ngo speak with his daughter. \"Right willingly,\" the king made answer,\nand sent with him a damsel to open the chamber. So Eliduc goeth to\nspeak with the maiden, and so soon as she saw him she called him to her,\nand gave him greeting a thousand times. He showed her his affair, and\nbriefly maketh known to her his going; but before he had told her all,\nor had asked leave of her, she lost her colour, and swooned for very\nsorrow. Now when Eliduc saw her swoon, he began to make lament; many\ntimes he kissed her on the mouth, and weepeth right tenderly; and he\ntook her and held her in his arms until she recovered her senses. \"In\nGod's name, sweet friend,\" saith he, \"suffer me to speak to you for a\nlittle; you are my life and my death, and in you lies all my comfort,\nwherefore now I would take counsel with you because of the faith that\nis between us. 'Tis for dire need that I return into my own land and\nhave asked leave of your father; yet will I do your pleasure herein,\nwhatsoever may befall me.\" \"Take me with you,\" saith she, \"sith ye will\nnot remain here; or if you will not have it so, then will I slay myself,\nfor without you never shall I know joy or gladness.\" Eliduc answered her\ngently, for much he loved her with true love: \"Fair one, I am of a truth\npledged by oath to your father's service until the day when our term was\nset, and if I take you with me now I shall belie my faith. But truly\nI swear and promise you that if you will grant me leave, and appoint\na respite, and name a day when you would have me return to you again,\nnothing in the world shall keep me from you if I be a living man and\nsound. My life is wholly in your hands.\" When the damsel heard his great\nlove, she appointed a term, and named a day when he should come and take\nher away with him. Great sorrow they made at parting; they exchanged\nrings of gold, and sweetly each kissed the other.\n\nThen Eliduc rode down to the sea. The wind was fair and the passage\nshort; and when he was come into his own land again, his liege lord\nrejoiced and made merry. So did his friends and kinsmen, and other folk\nlikewise, but more than all others his good wife who was so fair and\nwise and valiant. But always he was sad because of the love by which he\nwas held captive, and never for any thing he saw would he show joy or\ngladness; never will he be of good cheer till he see his sweet friend\nagain. Well he guarded his secret and ever he kept his own counsel.\nHis wife was grieved at heart and knew not what it might mean, and to\nherself made great lament. Often she asked him if he had heard any say\nthat she had misdone while he was out of the land; willingly would\nshe clear herself before his people, whensoever it should please him.\n\"Lady,\" saith he, \"none hath accused you of fault or misdeed. But in\nthe land where I have been I have given oath and pledge to the king that\nI will return to him again, for that he hath right great need of me. If\nthe king my lord were at peace I should not abide here eight days. Sore\ntravail must I endure before I can return thither, and never shall I\nknow joy or gladness until I have so done, for I would not belie my\noath.\" Thereafter the dame let be.\n\nEliduc, meantime, was with his lord; much he aided and strengthened\nhim, and the king acted ever after his counsel and maintained all the\nland. But when the term drew near that the damsel had appointed, he set\nhimself to make peace, and brought all his enemies to accord. Thereafter\nhe made him ready to set forth, together with such folk as he desired\nto take with him,--his two nephews whom he greatly loved, his squire,\nand one of his chamberlains, who was in the counsel of those twain and\ncarried their messages. He had no care for other folk, and these he made\nswear and promise to keep his counsel.\n\nHe tarried no longer, but took the sea, and speedily won the other\nshore, and came into the country where he was so sore desired. Eliduc\nwas right cunning, and took lodging far from the haven, for that he\ndesired not to be seen or known or discovered. He made ready his\nchamberlain and sent him to his love, and made known to her that he had\ncome, well had he obeyed her commandment; and he bade her that night,\nwhen all was dark, that she should issue out of the city, together with\nthe chamberlain, and that he would meet her. The messenger changed his\ngarments and set forth on foot in all haste; straight to the city he\nwent where dwelt the king's daughter, and he so sought and contrived\nthat he entered into her chamber. He gave greeting to the damsel and\ntold her that her love had come. When she heard the news she was sore\nabashed and shaken, full softly she wept for joy, and many a time she\nkissed the messenger. He told her how at dusk she was to go with him;\nand all day they were together and devised well concerning their going.\nAt night when it was wholly dusk, the youth issued out of the city and\nthe damsel with him, and none other save those two only. She was dressed\nin stuff of silk but scantly broidered with gold, and all wrapped about\nin a short mantle; in great fear was she lest she be seen.\n\nA bow's shot from the gate was a wood enclosed by a goodly paling,\nand beside it her friend awaited their coming. Thither the chamberlain\nbrought her, and the knight lighted down from his horse and kissed her;\ngreat joy was theirs at being together again. Then he set her upon his\nhorse, and mounted likewise, and took the reins and rode off in all\nhaste. They came unto the haven of Totness, and entered into the ship\nforthright; no other company was there save only Eliduc's followers and\nGuilliadun his friend. The wind was fresh and fair and the weather\nserene.\n\nBut when they were about to come to land, there was a storm upon the\nsea, and a head wind arose that drave them far from the haven, and broke\nand splintered their masts, and tore all their sails. They called\ndevotely upon God and Saint Nicolas and Saint Clement, and Our Lady,\nSaint Mary, that she beseech aid of her son, that he save them from\ndestruction and suffer them to come into the haven. Now forward and now\nback, so are they driven along the shore; right sore was their peril.\nThen one of the shipmen cried aloud: \"What can we do? Sir, here within\nyou have with you her by reason of whom we perish; never shall we reach\nland. You are married to a loyal wife, yet besides, you carry with\nyou this other, against God and the law, against right and faith and\njustice. Let us cast her into the sea, then shall we straightway come to\nshore.\" Eliduc heareth what he saith and is well nigh burnt with anger.\n\"Dog,\" he saith, \"foul traitor, say not so a second time. If I could\nleave my love I would make you pay dear.\" But even then he was holding\nher in his arms, and was giving such comfort as he might against the\nsickness she had from the sea, and for that she had heard her lord had\na wife other than herself in his own land. She turned all pale and fell\ndown in a swoon, and so she remained, and neither revived nor breathed\nforth even a sigh. And those who helped her friend bear her thence\nthought of a truth that she was dead. As for him he made great sorrow;\nand sprang to his feet and ran swiftly towards the sailor who had\nspoken, and struck him with an oar that he felled him flat, then he\nseized him by the leg and cast him over the ship's side that the waves\nbore away his body. Then after he had cast him into the sea, he took the\nhelm, and so guided and directed the boat that he brought her into the\nhaven and came to land; and when she rode safe, they lowered the bridge\nand cast anchor.\n\nBut Guilliadun still lay in a swoon and seemed as one dead. Eliduc made\nright great sorrow and was full fain of death likewise. He asked of his\ncompanions what counsel they could give him as to where he might carry\nthe damsel, for he would not part with her, and she should be buried in\nholy ground with great honour and high estate, in that she was a king's\ndaughter, and such was her right. But his comrades were all abashed and\ncould in no wise counsel him. So Eliduc set himself to think to what\nspot he should bear her. His house was so near the sea he might be\nthere at the hour of meat, and round about his house lay a forest a good\nthirty leagues of length. Therewithin dwelt a hermit, and near his cell\nhe had a chapel; forty years had he dwelt there, and Eliduc had ofttimes\nspoken with him. To him, he saith, he will bear the damsel, and bury her\nthere in the chapel, and he will give of his land enough to found an\nabbey, and to establish there a convent of monks and nuns and chanons,\nwho every day shall pray for her that God grant her sweet mercy. Then he\nlet bring the horses, and bade all mount, but first he had them all give\noath that they would keep his secret. Thereafter they set out, and he\nhimself bore his love before him on his palfrey.\n\nThey followed the highroad so long that they entered into the forest and\ncame to the chapel; there they knocked and called, but found none to\nanswer or open to them, and at last the knight sent one of his men\nforward to unbar the door. Eight days before, the holy hermit, that\nperfect one, had died, and within they found the new made tomb. Right\nsorry was Eliduc and sore troubled; his comrades would fain have made\nready a grave wherein he might lay his friend, but he thrust them back,\nsaying: \"This shall not be until I have taken counsel with the wise\nfolk of the land how I may sanctify this place with abbey and minster.\nMeanwhile, we will lay her before the altar and commend her to God.\"\n\nSo he let bring his cloak, and straightway a couch was made whereon they\nlaid the damsel, and left her as one dead. But when the knight came to\ndepart he thought to die of sorrow. He kissed her eyes and face: \"Fair\none,\" saith he, \"may it not be God's will that I bear arms henceforth,\nor live the life of the world. Fair friend, on an ill day did you set\neyes on me, and on an ill day you followed me, sweet love. Fair one, a\nqueen you were, and the love with which you loved me was loyal and true.\nRight sore is my heart for you, and that day whereon I shall bury you I\nwill receive the order of monkhood; and each day will I lay my sorrow\nupon your tomb.\" Therewith he departed from the damsel and shut behind\nhim the door of the chapel.\n\nHe sent a messenger to his house, and let his wife know he was coming,\nbut was weary and spent. When she heard the tidings she was right glad\nthereof, and made herself ready against his coming. Right fairly she\nreceived her lord, but little joy had he thereof, for he made no good\ncheer, nor said any fair word; and no one dared ask him aught. Two days\nhe spent in the house in this manner: early in the morning he heard\nmass, and then set forth on the highway, and rode to the chapel in the\nwood where lay the damsel. He found her ever in the swoon, and ever she\ngave forth no sigh, nor revived, nor recovered her wit; yet it seemed to\nhim a great marvel that she was still so red and white, and save that\nshe was a little pale had not changed colour. Right bitterly he wept for\nher, and prayed for her soul; and when he had made his prayer, he\nreturned home again.\n\nOne morning as they came from mass his wife had him watched by one\nof his servants, and she promised the varlet if he rode far, and saw\nwhither her lord went, she would give him horse and arms. The youth did\nher commandment; he entered into the wood, and followed after the knight\nin such wise that he should not be seen. Well he watched, and saw how\nhe entered the chapel, and heard the lament he made there; but before\nEliduc issued forth, he returned again to his lady. All he had heard he\ntold her: the grief, the noise and the outcry her lord had made in the\nchapel hermitage. All her heart was moved thereby, and she saith: \"Let\nus go straightway, and seek through the chapel. My lord, methinketh,\nwill ride forth soon, for he goeth to the court today to speak with the\nking. The hermit died a while agone, and I know that my lord loved him\nwell, yet never for him would he make such sorrow.\" So at that time she\nlet the matter be.\n\nThat same day past noon, Eliduc goeth to hold speech with the king, and\nhis wife setteth forth with the varlet, who bringeth her to the\nhermitage; so she entered into the chapel, and saw the bed of the damsel\nwho was like unto a fresh rose; she turned back the coverlet, and saw\nher slender body, her fair arms and white hands, and her long, smooth,\ndelicate fingers. Now she knoweth the truth, and why her lord maketh\nsuch sorrow. She calleth to her the varlet, and showed him the wonder:\n\"See now this woman who is like unto a gem for beauty. She is the love\nof my lord, and 't is for her he maketh such lament, and by my faith,\nI marvel not thereat, sith so fair a woman hath perished. What for pity\nand what for love, I shall never know joy again.\" Then she began to weep\nand make lament for the maiden.\n\nNow as she sat weeping beside the bed, a weasel issued out from under\nthe altar and ran thither, and in that it had passed over the body, the\nvarlet struck it with his staff and killed it. He cast it aside, but\nbefore a man might run a league, its mate sped thither and saw the spot\nwhere it lay. The small beast ran about the head of its fellow, and\nstirred it gently with its foot, and when it failed to rouse that other,\nit seemed to make great sorrow, and issued out of the chapel and sought\namong the herbs of the wood. There it seized in its teeth a flower, all\nbright red of colour, and sped quickly back, and placed the blossom in\nthe mouth of its dead mate, in such wise that, lo you, it forthwith came\nto life. The lady saw this and cried to the boy: \"Stop it, throw your\nstaff, good youth, let it not escape you.\" So the varlet threw and\nstruck it, that it let fall the blossom. The lady riseth and taketh it,\nand speedily returneth again, and layeth the flower upon the lips of the\nmaid who was so fair. And when it had rested there a little space, she\nbreathed forth a sigh and revived, and thereafter opened her eyes and\nspake: \"God! how I have slept,\" saith she.\n\nNow when the dame heard her speak, she gave thanks to God, and asked the\nmaid who she was; and she made answer: \"Lady, I am of Logres, daughter\nto a king of that land. Greatly I loved a man of arms, Eliduc, the good\nknight. He carried me away with him, but he sinned in that he deceived\nme, for that he is married to a wife, yet never told me, nor made any\nsign thereof. When I heard speak of his wife I must needs swoon for the\nsorrow that I had; and churlishly he hath left me all uncounselled in a\nstrange land; he hath betrayed me, yet wherefore I know not. Great is\nher folly who setteth her trust in a man.\"\n\n\"Fair one,\" the dame answered her, \"there is nought living in all the\nworld that can give him joy,--this I can tell you of a sooth. He thinketh\nyou to be dead, and he is so out of all comfort that it is marvel to\nsee. Each day he cometh to look on you, and deemeth you lifeless beyond\nall doubt. I am his wife, and my heart is heavy for him; because of the\ngrief he showed I wished to know whither he went, and I followed after\nhim and found you; great joy have I that you are on live. I will take\nyou with me and give you back to your friend. For my part I will cry him\nquit of all, and will take the veil.\" In this wise the dame comforted\nher, and led her away.\n\nThe lady made ready her servant and sent for her lord. The boy rideth\nuntil he findeth Eliduc; he greeted him courteously and told him all the\nadventure. The knight mounteth a horse, nor stayeth for any squire, and\nthat same night he reached his own house. When he found his love living,\nright sweetly he thanked his wife. Full joyful was Eliduc, never on any\nday was he so glad; often he kissed the maid, and she him right sweetly,\nand together they made great joy. When his wife saw their countenance,\nshe bespoke her lord, and asked and besought his leave that she might\ndepart from him, for that she would fain be a nun and serve God. And\nshe besought him that he give her part of his land whereon to found an\nabbey; and further, she bade him take to wife the maid he so loved; for\nit is not meet or seemly that a man maintain two wives, nor will the\nlaw suffer it. Eliduc accorded to her wish, and took leave of her in all\ngentleness, saying he would do her will in all things, and would give\nher of his land.\n\nIn a boscage, not far from the castle and hard by the chapel and the\nhermitage, she established her church and let build her houses; wide\nlands and goodly possessions her lord joined to these, that she may have\ngood maintenance there,--well will she have wherewithal to live. And\nwhen all was well brought to an end, the lady let veil her head, and\nthirty nuns with her, and there took up her life and her order.\n\nEliduc wedded his love; with great honour and rich service was the feast\nheld on the day he married her. Long they lived together, and right\nperfect was the love between them. Many deeds of goodness and of alms\nthey did, until at last they turned them wholly to God. Then near the\ncastle upon the other side, Eliduc let build a church, and added thereto\nthe more part of his land, and all his gold and silver; and men of good\nreligion he placed there to maintain the house and the order. And when\nall was made ready he delayed no longer, but he, together with his wife,\nsurrendered themselves to the service of God omnipotent.\n\nThe lady whom he held so dear he placed with his first wife, who\nreceived her like a sister and did her great honour, and furthermore\nadmonished her to serve God, and instructed her in the rules of the\norder. Together they prayed God for sweet mercy for their love, and he\non his part prayed for them. Ofttimes he sent his messengers to know\nhow it was with them, and what comfort each had. And all three strove to\nlove God with good faith, and all made a right fair ending, by grace of\nGod the true and holy.\n\nIn olden time, the Bretons of their courtesy made a lay of these three\nfor remembrance, that of men they be not forgotten.\n\n\n\n\nMelion\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn the days when Arthur reigned, he who conquered lands and dealt out\nrich gifts to knights and barons, there was with him a young lord whose\nname, I have heard, was Melion. Full brave and courteous was he, and\nmade himself beloved of all; and he was of right great chivalry and\ngoodly fellowship.\n\nThe king had a full rich following, and throughout all the world he was\nfamed for courtesy and prowess, and bounty and largess. Now on that day\nwhen all the knights made their vows--and know ye that well they held\nto them--this same Melion pledged him to one that thereafter brought\nhim sore mischance. For he said he would never love any maid, howsoever\nnoble and fair, who had ever loved any other man, or had been talked\nof by any. For a long time matters went on in this wise: those who\nhad heard the vow spread it abroad in many places, and told it to the\ndamsels, and all maids who heard it, had great hatred of Melion. And\nthey who were in the royal chambers and served the queen, and of such\nthere were above a hundred, held a council concerning the matter, and\nswore they would never love him, or hold speech with him. No lady\ndesired to look on him, or any maid to talk with him.\n\nNow when Melion heard this he was right heavy thereof; no more did he\ndesire to seek adventure, and no will had he to bear arms. Full heavy he\nwas and sorrowful, and he lost somewhat of his fame. Now the king had\nnews of the matter and had great grief thereof, and he called the knight\nto him, and spoke with him. \"Melion,\" saith King Arthur, \"what hath\nbefallen thy wisdom and thy worth and thy chivalry? Tell me what aileth\nthee and conceal it not. If thou would have land or manor, or any other\nthing--so that it be in my realm--it shall be thine according to thy\ndesire; for gladly would I lighten thy sorrow,\" so saith the king to\nhim, \"if that I might. Now upon the sea shore I have a castle, in all\nthe world is not such another; fair it is with wood and river and forest\nwhich are full dear to thee, and this castle will I give thee for thy\ncheer; good delight may ye find therein.\"\n\nSo the king gave it to him in fee; and Melion gave him thanks thereof,\nand went away to his castle, taking with him an hundred knights. Right\npleasant was that country to him, and so was the forest that he held\nfull dear; and when he had lived there a year through, he grew greatly\nto love the land, for he sought no disport but he found it in the\nforest.\n\nNow on a day, Melion and his foresters rode to the chase; with him he\ntook his huntsmen, who loved him with true love, inasmuch as he was\ntheir liege lord, and all honour was found in him. Soon they came upon\na great stag, and forthright let loose the dogs upon him. Thereafter\nit fell that Melion drew rein amid a heath that he might the better\nlisten for his pack. With him was a squire, and in his leash he held two\ngreyhounds; and anon, across the heath, the which was green and fair,\nhe saw come a damsel on a fair palfrey, and right rich was her array.\nFor she was clothed in scarlet samite, laced full seemly, and about\nher neck hung a mantle of ermine, never did queen wear better. Well\nfashioned was she of body, and comely of shoulder; her hair was yellow,\nher mouth small and shapely, and red as any rose; gray-blue were her\neyes, and clear and laughing; right fair was all her seeming, full\nwinsome and gracious; and all alone without fellows came she.\n\nMelion rideth to meet her, and courteously he greeted her: \"Sweet,\nI salute you in the name of the Glorious One, of Jesus the King; tell\nme of what house you are, and what bringeth you hither.\" And the damsel\nmaketh answer: \"Even that will I tell you in all truth: I am of good\nparentry and born of noble lineage, and from Ireland have I come to you.\nKnow ye that I am much your lover. Never have I loved any man save you\nonly, and never will love any; so great praise have I heard of you that\nno other save you alone have I ever desired to love, and never shall I\nfeel love for any other.\"\n\nNow when Melion heard that his vows were fulfilled, he clipped her about\nthe middle, and kissed her thirty times over. Then he called together\nhis folk, and told them the adventure; and they looked upon the damsel,\nand in all the realm was none so fair. So Melion took her to his castle,\nand the people rejoiced greatly. He married her with great splendor,\nand made great cheer thereof, that for fifteen whole days the tourneys\nlasted.\n\nFor three years he dearly cherished her, and during those three years\nthey had two sons, whereof he was right glad and joyful. And on a day he\nrode into the forest, taking with him his much loved wife, and a squire\nto carry his bow and arrows. He soon came upon a stag, and they pursued\nit, but it fled away with lowered head. Thereafter they came into a\nheath, and in a thicket the knight saw standing a right great stag;\nlaughing, he looked down at his wife. \"Dame,\" saith he, \"if I would,\nI could show you a right great stag. Look ye, he is yonder in that\nthicket.\" \"By my faith, Melion,\" said she, \"know ye that if I have not\nthe flesh of that stag never more will I eat morsel.\" Therewith she\nfalleth in a swoon from her palfrey. Melion raised her up, but might\nnot comfort her, and bitterly she began to weep.\n\n\"Dame,\" saith he, \"mercy in God's name. Weep no more, I beg of thee.\nHere in my hand I have a ring; see it now on my finger. Two gems it\nhath in its setting, one white and one red, never were any seen of like\nfashion. Now hear ye a great marvel of them: if ye touch me with the\nwhite, and lay it upon my head when I am stripped naked, I shall become\na great wolf, big of body; and for your love I will take the stag, and\nbring you of its flesh. But I pray you, in God's name, that ye await\nme here, and keep for me my garments. With you I leave my life and my\ndeath; for I shall have no comfort if I be not touched with the other\ngem, for never again shall I become man.\" Therewith he called his squire\nto take off his shoes; the youth stepped forward and unshod him, and\nMelion went into the wood and laid aside his garments, and remained\nwholly naked, save that he wrapped his cloak about him. Now when his\nwife saw him stripped of all his raiment, she touched him with the ring,\nand he became a great wolf, big of body. So fell he into sore mischance.\n\nThe wolf set off running full swiftly to the place where he saw the stag\nlie; forthwith he set himself upon the track,--now great will be the\nstrife before he hath taken and caught it, and had its flesh. Meantime\nthe lady saith to the squire: \"Now let us leave him to take his fill of\nthe chase.\" Therewith she got her to horseback; no whit did she tarry,\nbut she took with her the squire, and straightway turned her towards\nIreland, her own land. She came to the haven, where she found a ship;\nforthwith she addressed her to the sailors, and they carried her to\nDublin, a city upon the seashore, that held of her father, the king of\nIreland. Now hath she all that she asks. And so soon as she came to the\nport, she was received with great joy: with this let us leave her, and\nspeak we again of Melion.\n\nMelion, as he pursued the stag, pressed it wondrous hard, and at length\nhe drove it into a heath where he soon brought it down. Then he took a\ngreat collop of it, and carried it away in his mouth. Swiftly he returned\nagain to the place where he had left his wife, but did not find her, for\nshe had taken her way towards Ireland. Right sorry was he, and knoweth\nnot what to do when he findeth her not in that spot. But none the less,\nthough he was a wolf, yet had he the sense and memory of a man. So he\nlurked and waited until evening fell; and he saw men loading a ship that\nwas to set sail that night and go straightway to Ireland. Thither he\nwent, and waited till it grew quite dark, when he entered into it at\nadventure, for he recked little of his life. There he crouched down\nunder a wattle, and hid and concealed himself. Meantime, the sailors\nbestirred themselves, for the wind was fair, and so they set forth\ntowards Ireland, and each had that he desired. They spread aloft their\nsails, and steered by the sky and stars; and the next day, at dawn,\nthey saw the shore of Ireland. And when they were come into port Melion\ntarried no longer, but issued out of his hiding-place, and sprang from\nthe ship to the sand. The sailors cried out upon him, and threw their\ngear at him, and one struck him with a staff, so that well nigh had they\ncaptured him. Glad was he when he escaped them; and he went up into a\nmountain, and looked long over the land where he knew his enemies dwelt.\nStill had he the collop he had brought from his own domain, but now, in\nthat his hunger was great, he ate it; sorely had the sea wearied him.\n\nAnd then he went away into a forest, where he found cows and oxen, and\nof these he killed and destroyed many. So began his war, and in this\nfirst onset he slew more than a hundred. The folk that dwelt in the\ngreenwood saw the damage he wrought to the beasts, and ran flocking into\nthe city, and told and recounted to the king that there was a wolf in\nthe forest that wasted all the land, and had slain many of their horned\nbeasts. And for all this they blamed the king.\n\nSo Melion ran through the forests and waste places, and over the\nmountains, until he joined company with ten other wolves; and he so\ncajoled and blandished them that they followed after him, and did all\nhis desire. Far and wide they wandered through the land, and sore\nmishandled both men and women. So lived they a year long, and wasted all\nthat region, harrying the land and slaying the folk. Well knew they how\nto guard themselves, and by no means could the king entrap them.\n\nOne night they had wandered far, and wearied and spent, they lay in a\nwood near Dublin, on a little hill by the sea shore. Beyond the wood was\na meadow, and all round about was plain country. There they entered to\nrest, but there they will be ensnared and betrayed. They had been seen\nof a countryman, who ran forthright to the king: \"Lord,\" saith he, \"in\nthe wood yonder lie the eleven wolves.\" And when the king heard him he\nwas right glad, and spoke to his men of the matter.\n\nNow the king called together his men: \"Barons,\" saith he, \"hearken to\nthis: know ye of a sooth this man hath seen all eleven wolves in my\nforest.\" Then round about the wood they let spread the snares with which\nthey were wont to take the wild boar. And when the snares were spread,\nthe king went thither without tarrying, and his daughter said she would\ncome with him to see the chase of the wolves. Straightway they went\ninto the forest in all quiet and secretness, and surrounded the whole\nwood, for they had folk in plenty, who bore axes and staves, and some\ntheir naked swords. Then they cheered on their dogs to the number of\na thousand, and these soon found the wolves. Melion saw that he was\nbetrayed, well knew he that sore mischance had befallen him. The wolves\nwere hard pressed by the dogs, and in their flight they came upon the\nsnares, and all were torn to pieces and slain, save only Melion. He\nsprang over the traps, and fled into a great wood; so by his wit he\nescaped them. Meantime the folk went back to the town, and the king made\ngreat joy. Greatly he rejoiced that he had ten of the eleven wolves;\nwell was he revenged on them, in that one only had escaped. But his\ndaughter said: \"That one was the biggest. And yet will he work you woe.\"\n\nWhen Melion had stolen away he went up into a mountain; full heavy and\nsorrowful was he because of the wolves he had lost. Great travail had\nbeen his, but anon he shall have help. Now at this time Arthur came into\nIreland to make peace, for there was war in the land, and he was fain\nto bring the foes into accord, in that it was his desire to subdue the\nRomans, and he wished to lead these men with him to battle. The king\ncame privately, bringing with him no great host; some twenty knights\nonly had he in his train. Sweet was the weather, and fair the wind, and\nthe ship was full rich and great; trusty was her helmsman, and full\nwell was she dight, and plenteously garnished with men and arms. Their\nshields were hung along the side,--right well Melion knew them. First\nhe spied the shield of Gawain, then saw he that of Iwain, and then the\nshield of Idel the king; and all this was dear and pleasant to him. Then\nsaw and knew he the shield of Arthur, and wit ye well, he had great joy\nthereof; glad and blithe was he, for he hoped yet to have mercy. So came\nthey sailing towards the land; but now the wind was contrary to them,\nand they might not make the port, whereof they were right sorry. So\nturned they towards another haven some two leagues from the city, where,\nof old, had been a great castle which was now ruined; and when they were\ncome thither, darkness fell, and it was night.\n\nSo the king is come into port; sore wearied and spent is he, for the\nship had much discomforted him. And he called his seneschal: \"Go forth,\"\nsaith he, \"and see where I may lie this night.\" The seneschal turned\nback into the ship, and called the chamberlain, saying: \"Come forth\nwith me, and let us make ready the king's lodging.\" So they issued out\nof the ship, and came to the castle; and they had two candles brought\nthither, and forthwith had them lighted; and they let bring carpets and\ncoverlets, and speedily was the chamber well garnished. Then the king\nissued forth, and went straight to his lodging, and when he came therein\nright glad was he to find it so fair.\n\nNow Melion had not tarried, but straightway went to meet the ship. Near\nthe moat he halted; right well he knew them all, and well he knoweth\nthat if he hath not comfort of the king, he shall come to his death in\nIreland. Yet he knoweth not what to do, for he is a wolf, and so hath no\npower of speech; yet none the less will he go thither, and set himself\nat adventure. When he came to the king's door, right well knew he all\nthe barons; for nought staid he, but hath passed straight in to the\nking, though it be at the hazard of death. At the king's feet he cast\nhimself down, nor would he rise; whereof, lo you, Arthur hath great\nwonder, and he saith: \"A marvel see I; this wolf hath come hither to\nseek me. Now see ye well that he is of my household, and woe to the man\nwho shall lay hands on or hurt him.\"\n\nWhen supper was made ready and the barons had washed, the king likewise\nwashed and seated himself. Napkins were spread before them; and the king\ncalled to Idel and made him sit at his side. And Melion lay at the\nking's feet,--well knew he all the barons. Oftentimes the king looked\ndown at him, and anon gave him a piece of bread the which he took and\nbegan to eat. Then greatly the king marvelleth, and saith to King Idel:\n\"Look now, know ye of a sooth this wolf knoweth our ways.\" Then the king\ngave him a piece of roast meat, and gladly the wolf ate it; whereat\nGawain saith: \"Lords, look you, this wolf is out of all nature.\" And the\nbarons all say one to another that never saw they so courteous a wolf.\nThereupon the king let wine be set before the wolf in a basin, and so\nsoon as he seeth it, he drinketh it, and certes, he was full fain of it;\ngood plenty he drank of that wine, as the king well saw.\n\nNow when they arose from meat and the barons had washed, they issued out\nupon the sands. And always the wolf followed after the king, and might\nnot be kept from him, wheresoever he went. And when the king desired to\ngo to rest, he commanded that his bed be made ready. So he withdrew him\nto sleep, for he was sore wearied; but with him went the wolf, and he\nlay at the king's feet, nor might any man dispart them.\n\nPassing glad was the king of Ireland in that Arthur had come to him;\ngreat joy had he thereof. Early at dawn, he rose, and went to the haven\ntogether with his barons. Straight to the haven they came riding, and\neach company gave fair welcome to other. Arthur showed the king much\nlove, and did him much honour. When he saw him come before him, he would\nnot be proud, but raised him up and kissed him. And anon the horses were\nmade ready, and without any tarrying they mounted and rode towards the\ncity.\n\nThe king mounteth upon his palfrey, and good convoy he hath of his wolf,\nwho would not be disparted from him, but kept always at his stirrup.\nPassing glad was the king of Ireland because of Arthur, and the company\nwas rich and mighty. So came they to Dublin, and lighted down from their\nhorses before the high palace. And when Arthur went up into the donjon\ntower, the wolf held him by the lap of his garment; and when King Arthur\nwas seated, the wolf lay at his feet.\n\nThe king hath looked down at his wolf, and hath called him up close\nto the dais. Side by side sit the two kings, and right rich is their\nfollowing; right well are the barons served, for throughout all the\nhousehold great plenty is dealt out. But Melion looketh about him,\nand midway down the hall he saw him who had brought thither his wife;\nwell knew he that she had crossed the sea and was come into Ireland.\nForthwith he seized the youth by the shoulder--no stand can he make\nagainst the wolf--but Melion brought him to the ground amid the hall.\nAnd he would have straightway killed and destroyed him, had it not been\nfor the king's sergeants, who ran thither in sore disorder; and from out\nall the palace they brought rods and staves, and anon they would have\nslain the wolf had not Arthur cried out: \"By my faith, ill befall whoso\nlayeth hands on him, for know ye, the wolf is my own.\"\n\nThen saith Idel, the son of Irien: \"Lords, ye misdo herein; the wolf\nwould not have set upon the youth, and if he had not sore hated him.\"\n\"Thou sayest well, Idel,\" quoth the king; and therewith he left the\ndais, and passed down the hall to the wolf, and saith to the youth:\n\"Thou shalt tell us why he set upon thee, or else thou shalt die.\"\nMelion looked up at the king, and gripped the youth so hard he cried\nout, and prayed the king's mercy, and said he would make known the\ntruth. So now he telleth the king how the lady had brought him thither,\nand how she had touched Melion with the ring, and how she had borne it\naway with her into Ireland; so hath he spoken and told all, even as it\nbefell.\n\nThen Arthur bespoke the king: \"Now know I well this is sooth, and right\nglad am I of my baron; let the ring be given over to me, and likewise\nthy daughter who stole it away; evilly hath she betrayed her lord.\" So\nthe king went thence, and entered into his daughter's chamber, and with\nhim went King Idel, and he so coaxed and cajoled her that she gave him\nthe ring, and he brought it to King Arthur. Now so soon as Melion saw\nthe ring right well he knew it; and he came to the king, and knelt down\nand kissed his two feet. King Arthur would fain have touched him with\nthe ring, but Gawain would not so have it: \"Fair uncle,\" saith he, \"do\nnot so, but rather lead him into a chamber apart where ye twain may be\nalone together, that he have not shame of the folk.\"\n\nThen the king called to him Gawain, and Idel likewise he took with him:\nso led he the wolf into a privy chamber, and when they had come within,\nshut the door fast. Then he laid the ring upon the wolf's head, and\nall his visage changed, and his face became human. So turned he to man\nagain, and he spoke, and fell down at the king's feet. They covered him\nover with a mantle; and when they saw him very man, they made great joy.\nBut the king fell a-weeping for pity, and weeping asked him how it fell\nthat by sin he had lost him. And then he let summon his chamberlain, and\nbade him bring rich raiment. Fairly they clothed and arrayed him, and so\nled him into the hall; and all they of the household greatly marvelled\nwhen they saw Melion come in amongst them.\n\nThen the king of Ireland led forth his daughter, and gave her over to\nArthur that he might do as he would with her, whether it were to slay or\nto burn her. Saith Melion: \"I will touch her with the ring, nor will\nI forbear.\" But Arthur said to him: \"Do not so, rather let her be, for\nthe sake of thy fair children.\" All the barons likewise besought him,\nand Melion accorded it.\n\nNow King Arthur abode in Ireland until he had assuaged the war; then he\nwent again into his own land, and with him took Melion; full glad and\nblithe was he thereof. But his wife he left in Ireland, and commanded\nher to the devil; never again would he love her for that she had done\nhim such wrong; never would he take her unto him again, rather would he\nhave let burn or hang her. And he said: \"Whoso believeth his wife in all\nthings cannot help but come into mischance at the end, for it is not\nmeet to set your trust in all her sayings.\"\n\nTrue is the lay of Melion, so all good barons declare.\n\n\n\n\nThe Lay of the Horn\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOnce upon a time, King Arthur held a mighty feast at Carlion. Our tale\nsaith that the king hath sent through all his realm; and from Esparlot\nin Bretagne into Alemaigne, from the city of Boillande down even into\nIreland, the king, for fellowship, hath summoned his barons, that they\nbe at Carlion at Ascension tide. On this day all came, both high and\nlow; twenty thousand knights sat at the board, and thereto twenty\nthousand damoiselles, maidens and dames. It was of great mark that each\nman had his mate, for he who had no wife yet sat with a woman, whether\nsister or friend: and herein lay great courtesy. But before they may eat\none and all shall be sore angered; for now, lo you, a youth, fair and\npleasing and mounted upon a swift horse, who cometh riding into the\npalace.\n\nIn his hand he held a horn banded about four times with gold. Of ivory\nwas that horn, and wrought with inlay wherein amid the gold were set\nstones of beryl and sardonyx and rich chalcedony; of elephant's ivory\nwas it made, and its like for size and beauty and strength was never\nseen. Upon it was a ring inlaid with silver, and it had a hundred little\nbells of pure gold,--a fairy, wise and skilful, wrought them in the\ntime of Constantine, and laid such a spell upon the horn as ye shall now\nhear: whoever struck it lightly with his finger, the hundred bells rang\nout so sweetly that neither harp nor viol, nor mirth of maidens, nor\nsyren of the sea were so joyous to hear. Rather would a man travel a\nleague on foot than lose that sound, and whoso hearkeneth thereto\nstraightway forgetteth all things.\n\nSo the messenger came into the palace and looked upon that great and\nvaliant company of barons. He was clad in a bliaut, and the horn was\nhung about his neck, and he took it in his hand and raised it on high,\nand struck upon it that all the palace resounded. The bells rang out in\nso sweet accord that all the knights left eating. Not a damsel looked\ndown at her plate; and of the ready varlets who were serving drink, and\nbore about cups of maplewood and beakers of fine gold filled with mulled\nwine and hippocrass, with drinks spiced and aromatic, not one of these\nbut stopped where he was, and he who held aught scattered it abroad.\nNor was there any seneschal so strong or so skilful but if he carried\na plate, let it tremble or fall. He who would cut the bread cut his own\nhand. All were astounded by the horn and fell into forgetfulness; all\nceased from speech to hearken to it; Arthur the great king grew silent,\nand by reason of the horn both king and barons became so still that no\nword was spoken.\n\nThe messenger goeth straightway to the king, bearing in his hand the\nivory horn; well knew he the ten kings by their rich array; and still\nbecause of the horn's music all were silent about King Arthur. The\ncomely youth addressed him, greeted him fairly, and laughing, bespoke\nhim: \"King Arthur, may God who dwells above save you and all your\nbaronage I see here assembled.\" And Arthur answered him: \"May he give\nyou joy likewise.\" Saith the messenger: \"Lord, now give heed to me for\na little space. The king of Moraine, the brave and courteous, sendeth\nyou this horn from out his treasure, on such a covenant--hearken to\nhis desire herein--that you give him neither love nor hate therefor.\"\n\"Friend,\" then saith the king, \"courteous is thy lord, and I will take\nthe horn with its four bands of gold, but will return him neither\nlove nor hate therefor.\" So King Arthur took the horn which the varlet\nproffered him: and he let fill with wine his cup of pure gold, and then\nbespoke the youth: \"Take this beaker, sit you down before me, and eat\nand drink; and when we have eaten I will make you a knight, and on\nthe morrow I will give you a hundred _livres_ of pure gold.\" But\nlaughing the youth maketh answer: \"It is not meet that the squire sit\nat table with the knight, rather will I go to the inn and repose me;\nand then when I am clothed and equipped and adorned I will come again\nto you, and claim my promise.\" Thereupon the messenger goeth his way;\nand forthright he issueth out of the city, for he feareth lest he be\nfollowed.\n\nThe king was in his palace, and his barons were gathered about him:\nnever before was he in so deep a study. He still held the horn by its\nring, never had he seen one so fair; and he showeth it to Gawain and\nIwain and Giflet; the eighty brethren looked at it, and so likewise did\nall the barons there gathered. Again the king took the horn, and on\nit he saw letters in the gold, enameled with silver, and saith to his\nchamberlain: \"Take this horn, and show it to my chaplain, that he may\nread this writing, for I would know what it saith.\" The chamberlain\ntaketh it, and gave it to the chaplain who read the writing. When he\nsaw it he laughed, and saith to the king: \"Sir, give heed, and anon\nI will tell you privately such a marvel that its like was never heard in\nEngland or any other realm; but here and now it may not be spoken.\" None\nthe less the king will not so suffer it, rather he swore and declared\nthat the chaplain should speak out before them all, and that his barons\nshould hear it. \"Nor shall a thing so desired be kept from the dames and\ndemoiselles and gentle maidens here assembled from many a far land,\" so\nsaith the king.\n\nOne and all rejoiced when they heard from the king that they should know\nwhat the writing said; but many a one made merry who thereafter repented\nhim, many a one was glad who thereafter was sorry. Now the chaplain, who\nwas neither fool nor churl, saith: \"If I had been heeded what is here\nwritten would not be read out in this place; but since it is your will,\nhear it now openly: 'Thus saith to you Mangon of Moraine, the Fair: this\nhorn was wrought by an evil fay and a spiteful, who laid such a spell\nupon it that no man, howsoever wise and valiant, shall drink therefrom\nif he be either jealous or deceived, or if he hath a wife who has ever\nin folly turned her thoughts towards any man save him only; never will\nthe horn suffer such a one to drink from it, rather will it spill out\nupon him what it may contain; howsoever valiant he be, and howsoever\nhigh, yet will it bespatter him and his garments, though they be worth\na thousand marks. For whoso would drink from this horn must have a wife\nwho has never thought, whether from disloyalty, or love of power, or\ndesire of fortune, that she would fain have another, better than her\nlord; if his wife be wholly true, then only may he drink from it.' But\nI do not believe that any knight from here to Montpelier who hath taken\nto him a wife will ever drink any whit therefrom, if it so be that the\nwriting speaketh truth.\"\n\nGod! then was many a happy dame made sorrowful. Not one was there so\ntrue but she bowed her head; even the queen sat with bent brow, and so\ndid all the barons around and about who had wives that they doubted. The\nmaidens talked and jested among themselves, and looked at their lovers,\nand smiled courteously, saying: \"Now will we see the jealous brought to\nthe test; now will we learn who is shamed and deceived.\"\n\nArthur was in great wrath, but made semblance of gladness, and he\ncalleth to Kay: \"Now fill for me this rich horn, for I would make assay,\nand know if I may drink therefrom.\" And Kay the seneschal straightway\nfilled it with a spiced wine, and offered it to the emperor. King Arthur\ntook it and set his lips to it, for he thought to drink, but the wine\npoured out upon him, down even to his feet. Then was the king in sore\nwrath. \"This is the worst,\" crieth he, and he seized a knife, and would\nhave struck the queen in the heart below the breast, had not Gawain and\nIwain and Cadain wrung it from him; they three and Giflet between them\ntook the knife from his hand, and bitterly blamed him. \"Lord,\" then\nsaith Iwain, \"be not so churlish, for there is no woman born who, if she\nbe brought to the test, hath not sometime thought folly. No marvel is it\nthat the horn spilled its wine. All here that have wives shall try it,\nto know if they can drink from it,--thereafter may ye blame the queen of\nthe fair face. Ye are of great valiance, and my lady is true; none ever\nspoke blame of her.\" \"Iwain,\" saith the queen, \"now may my lord let\nkindle a fire of thorns, and cast me into it, and if one hair of my head\nburneth, or any of my garments, then may he let me be dragged to death\nby horses. No man have I loved, and none will I ever love, save my lord\nonly. This horn is too veracious, it has attacked me for a small cause.\nIn years past I gave a ring to a damoiseau, a young boy who had slain\na giant, a hateful felon who here in the court accused Gawain of sore\ntreason. The boy, Gawain's cousin germain, gave him the lie, and did\nbattle with him, and cut off his head with his sword: and as soon as the\ngiant was slain the boy asked leave of us. I granted him my favour, and\ngave him a ring, for I hoped to retain him to strengthen the court, but\neven had he remained here, he had never been loved by me. Certes,\" saith\nthe queen, \"since I was a maid and was given to thee--blessed was that\nhour--no other evil have I done on any day of my life. On all the earth\nis no man so mighty--no, not though he were king of Rome--that I would\nlove him, even for all the gold of Pavia, no, nor any count or amiral.\nGreat shame hath he done me who sent this horn; never did he love lady.\nAnd until I be revenged, I shall never know gladness.\"\n\nThen said Arthur, \"Speak no more of this. Were any mighty neighbor, or\ncousin or kinsman, to make war upon Mangon, never more would my heart\nlove him; for I made the king a covenant before all my folk, and by all\nthat is true, that I would hate him no hate for his gift. It is not meet\nto gainsay my word,--that were great villany; I like not the king who\nswiftly belies himself.\" \"Lord,\" saith the queen, \"blessed was I when\nas a maiden I was given to you. When a lady of high parentry who hath a\ngood lord seeketh another friend, she doth great wrong. He who seeketh\na better wine than that of the grape, or better bread than that of\nthe wheat, such a one should be hung and his ashes given to the winds.\nI have the best one of the three who were ever king under God, why then\nshould I go seeking a fairer or a braver? I promise you, lord, that\nwrongfully are you angry with me. Never should a noble knight be offered\nthis horn to the shaming of his lady.\" But the king saith, \"Let them do\nit. All shall try it, kings and counts and dukes; I alone will not have\nshame herein.\"\n\nSo Arthur giveth it to the king of Sinadone, but so soon as he took it,\nthe wine spilled out upon him; then King Nuz taketh it, and it spilled\nout upon him; and Angus of Scotland would fain drink from it by force,\nbut the wine all poured out upon him, at which he was sore angered. The\nking of Cornwall thought certes to drink from it, but it splashed all\nover him that he was in great wrath; and the horn splashed over King\nGahor, and spilled great plenty upon King Glovien, and it spilled out\nupon King Cadain as soon as he took it in his hands. Then King Lot\ntaketh it, and looketh on himself as a fool; and it splashed the beard\nof Caraton; and of the two kings of Ireland there was not one it did not\nbespatter; and it splashed all the thirty counts, who had great shame\nthereof; nor of all the barons present who tried the horn was there one\nwho might take a drop therefrom. It poured out over each king, and each\nwas in great wrath; they passed it on and were in great sorrow by reason\nof it; and they all said, may the horn, and he who brought it and he who\nsent it, be given over to the devils, for whoso believeth this horn\nshameth his wife.\n\nNow when King Arthur saw it spilled out upon all, he forgot his sorrow\nand wrath, and began to laugh and made great joy. \"Lords,\" he saith to\nhis barons, \"now hear me. I am not the only one bemocked. He who sent\nme this horn gave me a good gift: by the faith I owe all those here\ngathered, I will never part with it for all the gold of Pavia; no man\nshall have it save he who shall drink from it.\" The queen grew bright\nred because of the marvel whereof she dared not speak; fairer than the\nrose was she. The king looked on her and found her most fair; he drew\nher to him and three times he kissed her: \"Gladly, dame, I forget my\nill will.\" \"Lord, gramercy,\" saith she.\n\nThen all, high and low, tried the ivory horn. A knight took it and\nlaughed across at his wife; he was the most joyous of all the court,\nand the most courteous; none boasted less, yet when he was armed none\nwas more feared; for in Arthur's court there was no better warrior, none\nmightier of his hands, save only my lord Gawain. Fair was his hair, his\nbeard russet, his eyes gray-blue and laughing, his body comely, his feet\nstraight and well arched; Caradoc was his name, a well skilled knight,\nand of full good renown. His wife sat at his left; she was sister to\nKing Galahal and was born at Cirencester. Full true was she, and thereto\ncomely and gracious, featly fashioned and like unto a fay; her hair was\nlong and golden; fairer woman was there none, save the queen only. She\nlooked upon Caradoc, nor changed colour, but bespoke him, saying: \"Fair\nfriend, fear not to drink from the horn at this high feast; lift up your\nhead and do me honour. I would not take any man for lord however mighty;\nno, though he were amiral, I would not have him for my husband and leave\nyou, friend; rather would I become a nun and wear the veil. For every\nwoman should be as the turtle dove, who after she has had one mate will\nnever take another: thus should a lady do if she be of good lineage.\"\n\nFull glad was Caradoc, and he sprang to his feet; fair he was, a well\nskilled and a courteous knight. When they had filled the horn it held\na _lot_ and a half; full to the brim it was of red wine; \"Wassail,\" he\nsaith to the king. He was tall and strong, and he set the horn to his\nlips, and I tell you truly that he tasted the wine and drank it all\ndown. Right glad was he thereof, but all the table started in wonder.\nStraightway he goeth before Arthur, and as he goeth he saith to him, nor\ndid he speak low-voiced: \"Lord, I have emptied the horn, be ye certain\nthereof.\" \"Caradoc,\" saith the king, \"brave and courteous are you; of\na sooth ye have drunk it, as was seen of more than a hundred. Keep you\nCirencester; two years is it since I gave it in charge to you, and never\nwill I take it from you, I give it to you for life and to your children;\nand for your wife--who is of great worth--I will give you this horn\nwhich is prized at a hundred pounds of gold.\" \"Lord, I give you good\nthanks,\" Caradoc made answer, and sat down again at the board beside his\nwife of the fair face. Now when they had eaten, each man took leave and\nwent back to his own domain whence he had come, taking with him the\nwoman he best loved.\n\nLords, this lay was first sung by Caradoc, who wrought its adventure.\nAnd whoso goeth to a high feast at Cirencester, will, of a sooth,\nsee there the horn: so say I, Robert Biquet, who have learned much\nconcerning the matter from an abbot, and do now, by his bidding, tell\nthe tale,--how in this wise the horn was tested at Carlion.\n\n\n\n\nFabliaux\n\n\n\n\nThe Divided Blanket\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn goodly words and speech, it behooves every man, as best he may, to\nshow and relate and tell clearly in the common tongue the adventures\nthat befall in this world. For as a man goeth to and fro he heareth\nmany a thing told that is good to tell again; and those who know and\nmay venture the emprise, should give to it all care and heed and study,\neven as did those who came before us, the good masters of old time; for\nthey who would live hereafter must be no wise idle. But in these present\ndays, which are evil, men grow slothful, wherefore now the gentle\nminstrels will venture little; for know ye of a sooth it is no light\nthing to tell a goodly tale.\n\nNow will I show you an adventure that befell some seventeen years agone,\nor twenty mayhap. A rich man of Abbeville, well garnished with goods and\ngold, departed out of his town, both he and his wife and his son, because\nhe had come into dispute with folk that were greater and stronger than\nhe, and much he feared and dreaded to abide among his enemies. So from\nAbbeville he came unto Paris. There he lived peacefully, and did homage\nto the king and became his liegeman and burgess. Now inasmuch as the\ngood man was discreet and courteous, and his dame of good disport, and\nthe lad showed himself no wise foolish or discourteous or ill-taught,\nthe neighbors in the street wherein they came to dwell were full glad\nof them, and often visited them and did them much honour. So many a one\nwith no great endeavour on his part may make himself well loved, and by\nmere fair and pleasant speech win much praise of all; for whoso speaketh\nfair, getteth a fair answer, and whoso speaketh ill or doth ill, must\nperforce win evil for himself again; even so is it ofttimes seen and\nknown, and the proverb saith, \"Ye shall know the master by his works.\"\n\nSo for seven years and more the good man lived at Paris, and bought and\nsold such goods as came in his way; and he so bartered here and there\nthat always he saved what he had, and added somewhat more thereto. So he\ntraded prosperously and lived plenteously until he lost his companion,\nwhenas God wrought his will in the wife who had been his fellow for\nthirty years. No other child had they save the youth of whom I have told\nyou, who now at his father's side was all woful and discomforted; often\nhe swooned for grief and wept, and sorely he lamented the mother who had\nreared him full softly. But his father comforted him, saying: \"Fair son,\nnow thy mother is dead, let us pray God that he grant her pardon. Wipe\nthine eyes and dry thy face for nought will tears avail thee; know of\na sooth we must needs all die, all must pass by the same road; none can\nthwart death, and from death there is no return. Yet is there comfort\nfor thee, fair son, for thou art growing a comely youth, and art near\nof an age to marry; whereas I am waxing old. If I can compass for thee\na union with persons of high estate, I will part with good share of my\nhavings; for thy friends are afar off and no wise speedily couldst thou\ncome by them at need, none hast thou in this land and if thou dost not\nwin them by thine own might. Now if I may but find a dame well born and\nrich in kindred and friends, who hath brethren and uncles and aunts and\ncousins germain, of good lineage and of good estate, I would help thee\nto win that which would profit thee, nor would I forbear on the score\nof my moneys.\"\n\nNow, lordings, the story telleth us there were in that same land three\nknights who were brethren. On both father's side and mother's side they\ncame of high parentage, and they were of much worship and honour in\narms, but all their inheritance had been put in pawn, lands and forests\nand holdings, that they might follow tourneys; three thousand pounds at\nusury had they borrowed on their inheritance, whereby they were sore\ntormented. Now the eldest had a daughter born of his wife who was no\nlonger living, and from her mother the damsel held a goodly house in\nParis, face to face with the dwelling of the burgess of whom I have told\nyou. This house did not pertain to the father, and the friends of the\nmother took good heed that he put it not in pawn, inasmuch as the rent\nthereof was reckoned at forty pounds of Paris, nor had he ever been at\nany pain or trouble for the ingathering of this sum.\n\nNow because this damsel, by reason of her kin, had friends and power,\nthe good man sought her in marriage of her father and friends. The\nknights questioned him of his goods and havings, how great they might\nbe, and readily he answered them: \"What in chatel and what in moneys I\nhave of pounds one thousand and five hundred; I were but a liar and if\nI boasted me of more, and at the most I would add thereto one hundred\npounds of Paris; honourably have I come by my fortune, and the half\nthereof am I ready to give over to my son.\" But the knights made answer:\n\"This we may not agree to, fair sir; for if you were to become a templar\nor a white monk or a black monk, anon you would leave all your havings\nto the temple or the monastery; wherefore no such covenant will we make\nwith you; no, sir, no, in faith, fair sir.\" \"What other covenant then,\ntell me now I pray you.\" \"Right gladly, fair, dear sir,\" quoth they.\n\"Whatsoever ye can render, we would that you should give your son\noutright, that you should make over all to him, and that he should be\nso invested therein that neither you, nor any other, may in any manner\ndispute it with him. And if ye will agree to this, the marriage shall be\nmade, but other wise we would not that your son should have our daughter\nand niece.\" The good man bethought him for a space, and looked at his\nson; still he pondered, but little good did his thought bring him, for\nsoon he answered them, saying: \"Sirs, whatsoever ye demand even that\nwill I fulfil, but it shall be on this covenant: let my son take your\ndaughter to wife, and I will give to him all that is mine, and since\nye will so have it that I withhold nothing, let him receive all and\ntake it for his own, for with it I endow and invest him.\" So the good\nman stripped himself bare, and before all the folk there gathered,\ndisinvested and disinherited himself of all that he had in the world;\nso was he left bare as a peeled wand, for, and if his son did not give\nit him, he had neither chatel nor denier with which to buy his bread.\nAll he gave him and declared him free of all; and when the word was\nspoken, the knight straightway took his daughter by the hand and gave\nher to the young man, who forthwith espoused her.\n\nSo for two years thereafter they lived content and at peace as husband\nand wife, at which time, meseemeth, the lady bore a fair son to the\nyoung master; heedfully was he reared and cherished, and the lady\nlikewise was dearly cared for, and often went to the bath and enjoyed\nmuch ease. And still the good man abode with them, but he had done\nhimself a mortal hurt when he stripped himself bare of all that he had\nto live at another's mercy. Yet for twelve years and over he dwelt in\nthat house, until such time as the child was well grown and of wit to\nsee what passed about him. Often he heard told what his grandfather had\ndone for his father who thereby had espoused the dame his wife, and ever\nthe child kept it in his memory.\n\nMeantime the good man had waxed in years, and age had so weakened him\nthat now he must needs support himself with a staff; and right liefly\nwould his son have bought his winding sheet, for it seemed to him\nthe old man had tarried over late above ground, and his long life was\ngrievous to him. And the wife, who was full of pride and disdain, could\nnot let be, but held the good man always in despite, and bore him such\nmalice that she could not withhold her from saying to her lord: \"Sir,\nfor love's sake I pray you send hence your father, for by the faith\nI owe my mother's soul, so long as I know him to be in this house, no\nmorsel shall pass my lips, for full fain am I that ye drive him hence.\"\n\"Dame,\" said he in answer, \"even so will I do.\"\n\nSo, for that he feared and doubted his wife, he went to his father and\nsaid to him forthright: \"Father, father, now get thee gone, for I tell\nthee here is nought to make or mend with thee or with thy lodging;\nfor these twelve years and over hath meat been given thee here in\nthis hostel, but now rise up and that speedily; go seek other lodging,\nwheresoever else ye may find it, for so it must needs be.\" At these\nwords the father wept full sorely, and often he cursed the day and the\nhour in that he had lived so long in the world. \"Ah, fair, sweet son,\nwhat sayest thou? For God's sake do me so much honour that ye suffer me\nto abide within thy gates; no great place do I need for my bed, nor will\nI crave of thee fire or carpet or rich coverlet, but let there be spread\nfor me a few handfuls of straw beneath the pent-house without there.\nNever cast me out from thy house for reason that I eat of thy bread;\nthat my bed be made without yonder irketh me not, if ye do but grant\nme my victual, but nowise should ye deny me wherewithal to live; and\nsoothly, if thou shouldst wear the hair, thou shalt not so well expiate\nthy sins as if thou dost some comfort to me.\" \"Fair father,\" quoth the\nyoung man, \"sermon me no sermons, but make haste and get thee gone, lest\nmy wife goeth out of her wit.\" \"Where would ye that I should turn, fair\nson, I that have not so much as a farthing in the world?\" \"Go ye out\ninto the city wherein there are a good ten thousand that seek and find\nwhereby to live; each one there abideth his adventure; great mischance\nit were and if you likewise did not find sustenance; and many a one that\nhath acquaintance with you will lend you hostel.\" \"Lend me, son? Will\nchance folk so do, when thou thyself deniest me thine house? Since thou\nwilt give me no comfort, how should those that are nought to me grant me\nanything ungrudgingly, when thou that art my son, failest me?\" \"Father,\"\nquoth he, \"no more can I do herein, and I take upon me all the burden;\nknow ye that this is my will.\"\n\nThereat was his father so in dole that his heart was near to bursting,\nand weak as he was, he riseth and goeth out of the house, weeping.\n\"Son,\" said he, \"I commend thee to God. But since ye are fain of my\ngoing, in God's name, give me a fragment of a strip of thy coverlet--no\nvery precious thing is that--for in truth I am so scantly clad I may not\nendure the cold, and it is from this I most suffer; wherefore I ask of\nthee wherewith to cover me withal.\" But his son, who ever shrank from\ngiving, made answer: \"Father, I have none; this is not the season of\ngifts, and none shall ye get at this time, and if I am not robbed and\npillaged.\" \"But fair, sweet son, all my body is a-tremble and greatly do\nI doubt the cold; do but give me such a covering as thou usest for thy\nhorse, that the frost may do me no hurt.\" And the young man who was fain\nof his departure, saw that he could not be quit of him and if he did not\ngrant him somewhat; so, for that he desired to be rid of him, he bade\nhis son give the old man what he asked.\n\nThe child sprang up when he was called, \"And what is your will, sir?\"\nasked he. \"Fair son,\" quoth the young master, \"I would that if ye find\nthe stable door open, ye give my father the blanket that is upon my\nblack horse; give him the best, and if it be his will, he may make of it\na covering or cloak or capuchon.\" \"Fair grandfather, now come with me,\"\nsaid the child who was ready of wit. So the good man all in anger and\nsorrow departed with him. The child found the covering, and he took the\nnewest and the best, the biggest and the widest, and folded it adown\nthe middle, and as fair and even as he might, cut it atwain with his\nknife, and gave the half thereof to his grandfather. \"Fair boy,\" quoth\nthe old man, \"what would ye? Thy father hath given the cloak to me,\nwherefore then hast thou cut it atwain? Herein hast thou done a great\nwrong, for thy father had commanded that I should have it whole and\nundivided, so now will I go my ways back to him again.\" \"Go wheresoever\nit pleaseth you, for no more shall you get of me,\" saith the boy.\n\nSo the good man issued out of the stable. \"Son,\" quoth he, \"all thy\nsayings and doings are as nought. Why dost thou not chastise thy son\nthat he may hold thee in fear and dread? See ye not, he hath kept\nback one half of the blanket?\" \"Foul fall thee, boy,\" saith the young\nmaster, \"now give him the whole thereof.\" \"Certes, that will I not,\"\nquoth the child, \"for then how would you be paid? This half will I lay\nby for you, and no more shall ye get from me. And when I come to the\nmastery here, I will turn you out, even as you now turn him. And as he\ngave you all he had, so I would fain have all, and you shall take from\nme only just so much as you now give him. And if it so be that ye let\nhim die in want, even so will I let you, and if I live.\" The young man\nheareth him, and deeply he sigheth, and bethinketh and questioneth\nhimself; great heed he gave to the words of the child. Then he turneth\nhis eyes to his father, and saith: \"Father, come hither again; it was\nsin and the devil that laid an ambush for me, but please God, this shall\nnot be; rather I will make you from this day forth lord and master in my\nhouse. And if my wife will not keep peace, and if she will not suffer\nyou, ye shall be served elsewhere. Hereafter, pillow and rich coverlet\nshall be given you for your ease, and I pledge you by Saint Martin, that\nI will never drink wine nor eat a rich morsel, but you shall have a\nbetter; and you shall dwell in a cieled chamber, and keep a good fire in\nthe chimney place; and garments shall ye have, like unto mine. For ye\ndealt fairly by me, sweet father, and if I am now rich and puissant, it\nis by reason of thy silver.\"\n\nThis tale showeth clear and beareth witness how the child turned his\nfather from his ill intent. And moreover all they who have marriageable\nchildren should give heed to it. Do not after the manner of the good\nman, and when you are foremost, yield not up your place; give not so\nmuch to your son but that ye may recover somewhat again; set not your\ntrust in him, for children are without pity, and speedily they weary of\nthe father that waxeth helpless; and whoso falleth into the power of\nanother in this world liveth in great torment. And he who liveth at the\nmercy of another, and looketh to another for his very sustenance, should\nbe to you as a warning.\n\nBernier told this ensample that teacheth so goodly matter, and of it he\nmade what he might.\n\n\n\n\nOf the Churl who won Paradise\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWe find in writing a wondrous adventure that of old befell a churl. He\ndied of a Friday morning, and it so chanced, neither angel nor devil came\nthither, and at the hour of his death when the soul departed out of his\nbody, he found none to ask aught of him or to lay any command upon him.\nKnow ye that full glad was that soul for he was sore afraid. And now as\nhe looked to the right towards Heaven, he saw Saint Michael the\nArchangel who was bearing a soul in great joy; forthright he set out\nafter the angel, and followed him so long, meseemeth, that he came into\nParadise.\n\nSaint Peter who kept the gate, received the soul borne by the angel,\nand after he had so done, turned back towards the entrance. There he\nfound the soul all alone, and asked him who had brought him thither:\n\"For herein none hath lodging and if he have it not by judgment.\nMoreover, by Saint Alain, we have little love for churls, for into this\nplace the vile may not enter.\" \"Yet greater churl than you yourself is\nthere none, fair Sir Peter,\" saith the soul, \"for you were ever harder\nthan a stone; and by the holy Paternoster God did folly when he made you\nhis apostle, little honour shall be his thereby, in that three times you\ndenied your Lord. Full little was your faith when thrice you denied him,\nand though you be of his fellowship, Paradise is not for you. Go forth,\nand that straightway, ye disloyal soul, but I am true and of good faith,\nand bliss is rightfully mine.\"\n\nStrangely shamed was Saint Peter; quickly he turned away, and as he\nwent, he met Saint Thomas, to whom he told all his misadventure word\nfor word, and all his wrath and bitterness. Then saith Saint Thomas:\n\"I myself will go to this churl; here he shall not abide, and it please\nGod.\" So he goeth into the square to the countryman. \"Churl,\" quoth the\napostle, \"this dwelling belongeth of right to us and to the martyrs and\nconfessors; wherein have you done such righteousness that you think\nto abide in it? Here you cannot stay, for this is the hostel of the\ntrue-hearted.\" \"Thomas, Thomas, like unto a man of law ye are over quick\nto make answer; yet are not you he who, as is well known, spake with the\napostles when they had seen the Lord after his resurrection? Then you\nmade oath that never would you believe it and if you felt not his wounds\nwith your hands; false and unbelieving were ye.\" Then Saint Thomas hung\nhis head, and yielded him in the dispute; and thereafter he went to\nSaint Paul and told him of his discomfiture. \"By my head,\" quoth Saint\nPaul, \"I will go thither, and try if he will argue.\"\n\nMeantime, the soul who feareth not destruction taketh his delight down\nin Paradise. \"Soul,\" quoth Saint Paul, \"who brought thee hither, and\nwherein have you done such righteousness that the gate should be opened\nto you? Get you gone out of Paradise, you false churl.\" \"How is this,\nDon Paul of the bald pate, are you now so wrathful who erst was so fell\na tyrant? Never will there be another so cruel; Saint Stephen paid dear\nfor it when you had him stoned to death. Well know I the story of your\nlife; through you many a brave man died, but in the end God gave you a\ngood big blow. Have we not had to pay for the bargain and the buffet?\nHa, what a divine and what a saint! Do ye think that I know you not?\"\nThen had Saint Paul great sorrow.\n\nSwiftly he went thence, and met Saint Thomas who was taking counsel\nwith Saint Peter, and privately he told him of the churl who had so\nvanquished him: \"Rightfully hath he won Paradise of me, and I grant it\nto him.\" Then all three went to bring complaint to God. Fairly Saint\nPeter told him of the churl who had spoken shame of them: \"By his tongue\nhath he silenced, us, and I myself was so abashed that never again will\nI speak thereof.\" Then spoke Our Lord: \"I will go thither, for I myself\nwould hear this new thing.\"\n\nHe cometh to the soul and bespeaketh him, and asked how it chanced that\nhe had come there without leave: \"For herein without consent hath no\nsoul, whether of man or woman, ever entered. My apostles you have\nslandered and scorned and outraged, yet none the less you think to abide\nhere!\" \"Lord,\" saith the churl, \"if judgment be accorded me, my right to\ndwell here is as good as theirs: for never did I deny you, or doubt you,\nnor did any man ever come to his death through me, but all these things\nhave they done, and yet are now in Paradise. While I lived on earth my\nlife was just and upright; I gave of my bread to the poor, I harboured\nthem morning and evening, I warmed them at my fire, and saw that they\nlacked not for shirt or hose; I kept them even till death, and bore them\nto holy church: and now I know not if I did wisely. Furthermore, I made\ntrue confession, and received your body with due rites; and we are told\nthat to the man who so dies God forgiveth his sins. Well know you if I\nspeak the truth. I entered in and was not denied, and now I am here, why\ngo hence? Were it so, you would gainsay your word, for surely you have\ndeclared that whoso entereth here goeth not out again; and you would\nnever lie because of me.\" \"Churl,\" saith the Lord, \"I grant it. You have\nmade good your case against Paradise, and have won it by debate. You\nwere brought up in a good school; ready of tongue are you, and know\nright well how to turn a tale.\"\n\nThe countryman saith in proverb that many a man who hath sought wrong\nhath won it by argument; wit hath falsified justice, and falsity hath\nconquered nature; wrong goeth before and right falleth behind. Wit is\nmightier than force.\n\n\n\n\nThe Gray Palfrey\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThis tale is set in writing to portray and call to remembrance the\nworth, gentleness and honour that can be drawn from women; for well\nshould we hold in mind the virtues that may be seen in them. Right sorry\nam I, and much it irketh me that they are not exalted and praised of all\nmen to the height of their deserts. God! if but their hearts were sound\nand steadfast, strong and true, there were in all the world no treasure\nlike unto them. It is great loss and great pity that they take not more\nheed to themselves; at the lightest breath a woman will change and shift\nand vary; her heart seemeth a very weather cock, for oft it chances that\nin a little space her spirit changeth more quickly than the storm wind.\n\nNow in that I have been commanded to that I have set my hand, I will not\nleave it for dread of faithless cowards who envy those whose hearts are\nbrave and valiant, nor fail to run my race out, to make me known and win\nme fame. In the lay of the Gray Palfrey, hear now the wisdom of Huon\nLeroy wisely come down to you; and inasmuch as he knoweth how to listen\nto reason, he would fain display his sayings,--right well he turns them,\nmethinketh.\n\nNow know ye that a valiant knight, courteous and right chivalrous, high\nof heart but poor in havings, dwelt in the land of Champagne. Full meet\nit is I portray his worth and the valour wherewith he was kindled; in\nmany a place he proved his prowess, for he had wisdom and honour and\na heart of great valiancy. Had he but been as rich in gear as he was\nin desire for good--provided always he did not worsen by reason of his\nwealth--he would have known no peer, equal or fellow. And now I make\nme ready for the story, for meet it is the deeds of a man of prowess\nbe told from end to end, that we may take therefrom a fair and goodly\nexample. Now this knight was praised of all folk.\n\nWheresoever he went his valour was confessed, for those who knew him\nnot yet loved the fame of him by reason of the good that sprang from\nhim. When he had helm on head and rode into the tourney, no thought\nhad he for the wooing of ladies, nor did he linger on the outskirts.\nThere where the press was greatest he smote right hardily. Armed and\nahorseback he was full fair to see; ever he went gaily clad, even in\nmidwinter; and of some he was blamed for his gaiety of heart. Little\nwealth of land he had; at the most it yielded him no more than two\nhundred pounds a year; but ever he rode far and wide in search of\nhonour.\n\nIn those days in Champagne the woodland was wilder than it is today and\nlikewise the open. Now it came to pass this knight fell to dreaming\nof a love fair and valiant,--a damsel, to wit, daughter to one of the\nforemost men of that land, one no wise wanting in riches, rather was he\nwell supplied with goods and gear, and dwelt within strong walls. A full\nthousand pounds each year his land brought him; and often men came to\nhim to seek his daughter in marriage, in that all folk were won by her\ngreat beauty. No other children he had, nor any wife living, and his\ntime was almost spent. His dwelling stood in a wood, and all round about\nit the forest was great and thick.\n\nNow the young knight of whom I told you made bold to seek the damsel,\nbut her father gainsaid him, no desire had he that the youth should\nlove her, or win him honor by means of her. The young knight's name was\nMessire Guillaume of a sooth, and he abode in that same forest wherein\nthe old vavasour had his stronghold, with its riches and its wide lands.\nThe one manor was two leagues distant from the other; but on both sides\nlove could not fail to spring up, and on nought else was their thought\nset save its maintenance. And when the knight wished to go to her he\nloved, he made a path through the deep forest that was great and thick\nthereabouts, a way traversed by no living man save him only. By it he\nrode secretly to the damsel many a time, he and his palfrey, all still\nand quietly. Sore vexed was he that he could not speak to her face\nto face, but the court was right strongly enclosed, and high was the\nbarrier; the damsel dared not issue out, but her comfort was that she\nspoke to him many a time through the timbers of the wall. Without, the\nfosse was wide, and the hedge thick and strong, so they could not come\nclose to one another. The house stood upon a rock, and was full strongly\nenclosed. At the entrance was a drawbridge; moreover, the old knight who\nwas in all ways crafty, and who had well nigh run out his time, seldom\nstirred out of the house, for he could no longer ride abroad, but sat at\nhome in peace. He had his daughter well watched; and for his delight he\nmade her sit with him, which ofttimes irked her in that thereby she lost\nthat joy to which her heart was rooted. But the young knight who was\nwise and valiant did not forget the way to her; he asketh only to see\nher.\n\nInasmuch as he saw that matters could not be otherwise, ofttimes he\nreturned to her dwelling, but never could he enter in, and never could\nhe see her, who was so close a prisoner, as nigh at hand as his heart\ndesired. Oft he came to see her, yet never could he look upon her, for\nshe could not so stand that he could see her face all clearly. And the\nheart of each was sore stricken.\n\nThe knight, whom it beseemed to love the maid who was of such marvellous\nworth her like was not known, had--so the tale telleth us--a palfrey\nof great price; a _vair_ it was, of wondrous colour, that no man might\nconceive of any colour, or the semblance of any flower so perfect in its\nbeauty; know ye that in no kingdom was there its like in those days for\ngoodliness, and none that went so soft an amble. The knight loved it\nmuch, and certes, he would not part with it for any treasure; long had\nthe folk of that land seen it in his possession. Now ofttimes on this\npalfrey he rode to seek the damsel through the fair and solitary forest\nwhere he had worn a path, known to none save to him and to the palfrey.\nLittle noise he made as he rode to seek his love; right great care must\nhe take that he be not seen of her father, for full bitter was her life\nto her.\n\nThus then they spent their days, each longing for the other, for they\ncould never comfort themselves with kiss or embrace, and I tell you of a\nsooth that if ever the lips of the one might have touched those of the\nother, right sweet had it seemed to the fellowship of those twain. Full\nfierce was the fire they could in no wise quench, for if they might have\ndrawn each other close, and kissed and embraced full sweetly as they had\ngreat will and desire to do, then could no man have wrought them annoy,\nbut their joy had been perfect. Now right great was their pain in that\nthey might in no wise touch or solace one another.\n\nLittle joy could they have in one another save that of speech and\nhearing, and rarely they saw one another, for too cruel was the interdict\nbetween these two lovers. She was in fear of her father, for were he to\nknow of the intercourse between those twain, he would more quickly give\nher in marriage elsewhere; and the knight on his part desired to do\nnought that might undo the love that was between them, and would not\nrisk a quarrel, for much he feared that old man who was rich out of all\nmeasure.\n\nNow the knight bethought himself, and day after day pondered the life he\nled, for ever he held it in mind. And at length the thought came to his\nheart that let it be for good or for ill, he would go speak to the old\nvavasour, and ask him for his daughter to wife, let what so will come\nof it, for he knoweth not what his present life will bring to him. Every\nday of the week he is denied that which he coveteth, for over narrow is\nthe path.\n\nSo one day he made him ready and went to hold speech with the old man in\nhis own house, there where his daughter was. Right well was he received,\nfor full well was he known to the old man and to his household. And the\nknight who was brave and courteous, and ready of speech like a man of\nworth in whom naught lacketh, spoke, saying: \"Sir, I am come hither, and\nof your grace I pray you hearken to my words. I have come into your\nhouse to ask a boon, may God let you grant it me.\" The old man looked\nupon him, and thereafter asked: \"What may it be? By my faith, I will help\nyou herein, if I may, saving my honour.\" \"Yea, sir, this much I know of\nyour matters that right well ye may do it; now may God grant you concede\nit.\" \"I will if it liketh me, but if it liketh me not, right well shall\nI know how to give denial; and if it is not my will to vouchsafe it,\nI will not deceive you by either token or promise.\" \"Sir,\" he saith,\n\"I will tell you now the gift I would ask of you. You know somewhat of\nmy estate; well knew ye my father, my house and dwelling, and right\nwell know ye the time and manner wherein I take my delight; and now in\nguerdon of this, sir, I would ask of you your daughter, if it be your\nwill. Now may God grant that no thought so trouble your heart that by\nreason of the presumption of my request ye refuse me this gift. And\nI would that you know I was never of her acquaintance; right glad and\njoyous had I been if I might have spoken with her, and seen for myself\nthe goodliness for which she is famed. Greatly is she beloved in this\nland by reason of her virtues; meseemeth she hath not her like in all\nthe world. So tell me all those who know her, though but to few is she\nknown, in that she lives imprisoned herewithin. An overbold thought was\nmine when I dared ask her of you, but if I have your consent, and ye\ndeign to give me the gift of her by way of service and guerdon, right\nglad and joyful shall I be thereof. Now have I made my prayer and do\nyou answer me at your pleasure.\"\n\nThen forthright and without staying for any counsel the old man saith\nto him: \"Right well do I understand all ye have said, for all is plain\ntherein. My daughter is young and fair and wise and a damsel of high\nlineage; and I am a rich vavasour, sprung of a noble house, and my land\nyieldeth a good thousand pounds each year. Now I am not so out of my\nwit that I would give my daughter to a knight who lives by what he may\nchance to win; for I have no other children save her only, nor has she\nfailed my love, and after my time all will be hers, wherefore I desire\nto marry her well. I know of no prince in this kingdom, nor from here\neven to Lorraine, who howsoever wise and valiant he may be would not\ndo well in having her to wife. Awhile agone, scarce a month since, one\nasked her of me in marriage whose land yieldeth a good five hundred\npounds a year, which would now be made over to me, if I would give\nassent to his offer. But my daughter can well wait a little, for I am so\nrich in goods and gear that she will not lose her price or her value in\nmarriage. The man of highest lineage in all this land or from here to\nAlemaigne, save only king or count, may well be hers.\"\n\nNow when the knight heard this he was sorely abashed, nor did he make\nany tarrying but took leave and went away. But he knew not what to do in\nthat he was so swayed and constrained by love, wherefore he made bitter\nlament.\n\nWhen the damsel knew of the dismissal, and what her father had said,\nshe was full sorrowful, for she was not light of love but had given her\nheart wholly to the knight, more so than words can tell. Before he who\nwas wrathful with grief returned home again, they held speech together\nwithout the wall, and both spoke their thought. The knight told her all\nhe had said to her father and of their falling out. \"O lady, frank and\nfree,\" saith the knight, \"now what shall I do? Meseemeth I must leave\nthis land and ride at errantry, for all I desired is vanished. You I may\nnot win, and I know not what will become of me. On an ill day I came to\nknow the great riches whereon your father so prides himself; liefer\nwould I have you poorer, for had your father not been so rich he would\nhave looked with favour on what I may win.\" \"Certes,\" saith she, \"and I\nmight have my way, gladly would I have less than I am to have. Ah, sir,\nif my father would but give thought to your valour and worth, by my\nfaith, he would not gainsay your wooing me, and making a covenant with\nhim; if he but weighed your riches over against your valiancy surely he\nwould grant the compact. But his heart is overladen with prudence; he\ndoes not desire what I desire, nor sorrow at my sorrow. If he were at\none with my thought, right soon were the thing granted. But the heart\nthat beats in old age giveth no thought to youth nor to the desire of\nyouth, for the heart of the old is not as that of the young, methinketh.\nYet if you will do according to my counsel you cannot fail of winning me.\"\n\n\"Yes, by my faith, even so will I do, damsel; now without fail tell me\nyour will.\" \"I have bethought me,\" she saith, \"of a thing on which my\nmind hath often dwelt. You know right well you have an uncle who is of\ngreat wealth, and a strong manor he hath within his defences. Even so\nrich as my father is he, and he hath neither wife nor child nor brother,\nnor any heir nearer than you yourself. 'T is well and fully known that\nafter his death all will be yours, and his money and rents are well\nworth sixty marks of fine gold. Now go to him straightway, old he is and\nfrail, as ye know right well; tell him that you have had such words with\nmy father that never can you be of accord with him unless he aid you\nin the matter. Let him promise you as much land as will bring in three\nhundred pounds yearly, and let him come to ask this thing of my father,\nwho greatly loves him. Your uncle looks on my father as a sage, and each\ndeems the other a man of worth; both are old and full of years, each\nwholly trusts the other; and if your uncle will graciously do so much\nfor your love that you can induce him to promise you so much of his\nhavings that he can say to my father: 'My nephew shall have three\nhundred pounds of my land in return for your daughter whom he seeketh,'\nthen the marriage will indeed come to pass, for I truly believe my\nfather would yea-say it, if your uncle spoke in this wise. And when you\nshall have married me, you will return to him again all the land which\nhe will have promised to you on these terms; and I have so given myself\nover to your love that I shall be well content of the bargain.\" \"Fair\none,\" he saith, \"now know ye of a sooth that never did I desire anything\nso much, and straightway will I speak with my uncle.\"\n\nSo he took his leave and returned home again; but his thoughts were\nsad and sombrous because of the refusal he had met with. Thus he rideth\nthrough the forest upon his gray palfrey; in sore wrath is he, and yet\nright glad at heart by reason of the wise and good counsel the damsel\nhad given him. So he rode without let or hindrance to Medet where his\nuncle dwelleth. Straightway he came before him and maketh to him sore\ncomplaint and lament. Thereafter they went into an upper chamber, and\nthere he told his uncle plainly all his plight and his covenant. \"Uncle,\nif you will do so much,\" saith he, \"that you will speak to him of the\nmatter, and tell him that you have given over to me three hundred pounds\nof your land, I will without condition pledge you, and my hand in your\nhand, herewith promise you, that when I shall have married the damsel\nwho is now denied me you shall have your land again all quit, as guerdon\nand reward; now do as I beseech you.\" \"Nephew,\" saith his uncle, \"right\nwillingly, for I am well pleased and content with the project. By my\nhead, you would marry the best in the land, and I think I can bring it\nto pass.\" \"Uncle,\" saith he, \"prithee hasten my suit, and so press it\nthat he consent to the marriage, for I would fain no longer waste my\ntime; and meantime, I will go to the tournament at Galardon; I shall be\nfull richly accoutred, and may God grant me as guerdon that I do so well\nthat my suit may thereby be bettered. And do you bethink you to so\ncontrive that the wedding may be on my return.\" \"Right willingly, fair\nnephew,\" saith he, \"I am right glad of your tidings, in that the maid is\nfrank and free.\" Then Messire Guillaume rode away forthwith; and he made\ngreat joy in that his uncle had said that he should of a sooth have to\nwife her whom he so desired,--of no other joy is he fain. So all alight\nwith happiness he rode to the tourney as one who is well wont thereto.\n\nThe next morning at dawn of day, his uncle got him to horseback, and six\nmore with him, and before the hour of prime came to the spot where dwelt\nthe old vavasour, who maintained a full rich household, and who was\nfather to her whose beauty knew no fault. He was received with full\ngreat state, for he was much beloved of the old man whose fellow he was\nin years, in that he was his neighbour and mightily rich. So the old man\nmade great cheer and joy, in that this other who was of high estate had\ncome to see him, and forgot not to say: \"Right welcome are you, fair\nsir.\" And a goodly feast was spread, for the old man was frank and free,\nand knew well how to honour him whom he would.\n\nWhen the tables were removed there were tales told,--old meetings of\nlance and sword and shield; and of old deeds was many a fair word said.\nBut the uncle of the good knight did not over long forget himself, but\nlaid bare his thought, and all openly he saith to the old man: \"Where am\nI wandering? As God may aid me, I love you right well, as you shall now\nhear. I am come to you to seek help in a matter; may God so incline your\nheart that my prayer be heard in such wise and manner that I may attain\nit.\" And the old vavasour maketh answer: \"By my head, I have so taken\nyou into my heart, that even though it be to my hurt, nothing sought\nby you shall be refused, but rather shall the boon be granted you.\"\n\"Sir, thanks and guerdon will I gladly give you,\" saith the old man, who\ndelayeth no longer to speak his thought: \"Fair sir, I have come to ask\nfor your daughter who is wise and discreet; fain would I take her to\nwife, and before I marry her, she shall receive a dower from my own\nstore, for I am passing rich. Ye know I have no heir of my own flesh\nand blood, which sore grieveth me, and to her I will be of good faith\ninasmuch as you are right dear to me. When I shall have taken your\ndaughter to wife, I shall not be fain to leave you, or to dispart my\nwealth from yours, rather all shall be one; and together we will hold in\ncommon that which God hath given us.\" Then he who was prudent and wise\nwas right glad, and said: \"Sir, without any nay-saying I will give her\nto you, and right willingly, inasmuch as you are a man of worth and\nhonesty. Full glad am I that you have asked her of me; had I been given\nthe best castle in all Friesland I would not have known such joy; to\nnone would I give her in marriage so gladly as to you, for I have found\nyou discreet and a man of wisdom in all points wherein I have known\nought of your affairs.\"\n\nThereupon he promised and affianced to him the damsel who had no desire\nfor him, but thought surely to have another. Now when the damsel knew\nthe truth she was in sore grief and dismay. Ofttimes she maketh oath to\nSaint Mary that she would never be married to that old man; all woful\nshe was, and weeping, ofttimes she made lament: \"Alas, unhappy that\nI am, how am I undone. What treason hath this old man wrought! Surely he\ndeserves death. How he hath deceived his nephew, that brave and gentle\nknight who is all compact of goodness. And now, lo you, I am given\nto this old man, all only because of his riches. May God give him his\nreward for it. Surely he hath wrought great folly; never will he know\ngladness, and on the day he weddeth me he will win a mortal enemy. Alas,\nthat I should ever see the day. Nay, may God not grant me life so long\nthat I do see it. Now hath my friend sorrow and great anguish; never\nhave I heard of such treason. If I were not so imprisoned right soon\nwould I end this matter; but I can do nought, nor even issue out of this\nhouse. I must needs abide here and endure my father's will; but the pain\nis over cruel. Ah, God, what can I do, and when will he who hath been so\ncruelly betrayed return again? If he knew how his uncle had dealt by him,\nand had sinned towards me, I know full well that all joyless I would die\nand cease to be; and if he knew this, by my head, I think he would come\nto his end; and my great woes would cease. God, how my heart is torn;\nbetter would I love death than life. What envy and what treason! How did\nthat old man dare think this thing? None can dispute with him for me,\nfor my father loveth covetousness which doth overmuch tempt and allure\nhim. Fie upon old age, fie upon wealth! Shall no man ever win a wife\nrich and of high lineage unless he have great possessions? Certes,\nI ought to hate him who separateth me from the one in whom I claim a\npart, and who thought of a surety to have me, but now meseemeth, I shall\nfail him.\"\n\nThus the damsel made lament in her sore distress, for her heart was\nso bound in love to the young knight that scarce can she conceal her\nthought from any; and contrary wise, she hateth him to whom her father\nhath given her. She thinketh herself evilly bestowed, for he is old and\nof great age, his face is all wrinkled and his eyes red and hateful.\nFrom Chalons even unto Beauvais was no knight older than he seemed\nin all points, nor even unto Sens any of greater riches, so men say.\nBut the folk of that land held him for coward and felon, whereas she\nso shone with beauty and valiancy that in all the kingdom of France\nwas no woman so fair, or so frank and courteous. Full diverse was the\nportioning, on one side bright, on the other dark; nor was there any\nshadow in the light, or any glimmer in the darkness. Fain would the\ndamsel whom love so grieved and tormented have changed her plight.\nBut he who had betrothed her and had great joy of her well devised his\naffair, and set term for the wedding, even as one who had no suspicions,\nand knew nought of the debate and grief in her whom love held captive,\neven as ye have heard me relate.\n\nNow I must not fail to tell you of the conclusion of the marriage.\nHe who was wise and a man of worth made himself ready full richly.\nAnd before the third day dawned the old vavasour had bidden all the hoary\nold heads sprung of that land and countryside, those he deemed men of\nmost wisdom, to be present at the high marriage of his daughter,--she\nwho had set her heart elsewhere. She had given her love and desire to\nthe brave and far-famed knight, but now 't is seen how without hope she\nis tricked and betrayed. The two old knights have assembled a goodly\ncompany, for they were well known to all the men of years and worth in\nthat land, and the more part came thither, a good thirty in number; not\none of them but had revenue and safeguard from the old vavasour, and now\nthey are come together in his house.\n\nSo the word is gone forth that the damsel shall be married at dawn of\nday. And the maidens who attend her are bidden to make her ready; but\nthey give thought to the day and the hour, which sorely displeases them,\nand assume looks of great dismay. The old knight asketh them on whom\nhis command is laid if his daughter is fully prepared, and if she is in\ndoubt about aught, and if anything lacketh whereof she hath need. \"No,\nfair sir, nought that I can see,\" so made answer one of the damsels,\n\"if but we had palfreys and saddles to carry us all to the minster; for\nthere will be, methinketh, great company of ladies, cousins and kindred\nwho dwell nigh at hand.\" \"There need be no fear for palfreys,\" quoth\nhe, \"methinketh there will be enough and to spare.\" And there was not a\nbaron in the land from whom he did not command one; and he to whom the\nmessage was given went straightway to the dwelling of him whose heart\nwas all fulfilled with valour,--he who shone with prowess.\n\nNow Messire Guillaume, the brave and wise, knew not that the marriage\nhad been plotted to this point, but love which goaded his heart had\nhastened his return. Of nought could he think save that which tormented\nhim; and his love waxed and flourished. Yet he had come back from the\ntourney as one no wise unglad, for he still thought to have for his own\nher he has now lost,--unless it please God and some adventure betide.\nEach day he expected fair and pleasant tidings, and that his uncle would\nsend word to him that he might marry the damsel. So he went singing\nthrough the house, and he made a minstrel play new songs upon the viol;\nfull of joy and mirth he was, for furthermore, he had won every prize at\nthe tourney. But ever he looks towards the door to see if anyone cometh\nwith news.\n\nMuch he wonders when they will send to him, and at the last he stops\nhis singing, for love forbids him to set his thought on aught beside.\nAnd now, lo you, without more tarrying, a varlet enters the court. When\nMessire Guillaume saw him his heart leaped and trembled with joy; and\nthe varlet saith to him: \"God save you, sir; the old vavasour who has\nlong been your friend, as ye well know, hath in great need sent me to\nyou. You have a palfrey of great price, no other in the world goeth so\nsoft an amble; now my lord prayeth and commandeth that you loan it to\nhim of your love, and send it to him this same night.\" \"And wherefore,\nfriend?\" saith he. \"Sir, to bear his daughter to the minster, our lady\ngracious and fair.\" \"And to what end goeth she thither?\" \"Fair sir,\nthere she is to marry your uncle to whom she is affianced; and tomorrow\nmorning at dawn she is to be escorted to the waste chapel that lieth on\nthe edge of the forest. But ye delay too long, sir, prithee haste; lend\nnow to your uncle and my liege lord your palfrey, the best in the\nkingdom as I well know, for oft has it been so proven.\"\n\nMessire Guillaume heareth him. \"God,\" saith he, \"hath my uncle whom I so\ntrusted, and besought so fairly that he help me in my need, now betrayed\nme? May the Lord God never forgive him his misdeed and his treason!\nScarce can I believe he has done this; methinketh you speak not truly.\"\n\"You may know it of a truth tomorrow,\" saith he, \"before the hour of\nprime; and already great is the assembly at his house of ancient knights\nof the land.\" \"Alas,\" saith he, \"how I have been tricked and deceived\nand betrayed.\" And for sorrow he well nigh fell to the ground in a\nswoon; in sooth, had he not feared blame from the folk of the household\nhe would have done otherwise than he did. All hot he was with wrath and\nsorrow, and knew not what to do or say. Unceasingly he made lament; but\ndespite his sore distress, the messenger urgeth him and changeth his\nthought: \"Sir, let your good palfrey be saddled straightway, and my lady\nwill ride upon him to the minster, for softly he goeth.\" And he who was\neasily moved still maketh sorrow, even while he masters his grief in\nbethinking what he will do, namely, to know of a truth if he will indeed\nsend his gray palfrey to him he needs must hate above all others. \"Yes,\"\nsaith he straightway, \"she who is of such high excellence, and whom I\nhave now lost, hath no blame herein,--much it irketh me. My palfrey will\ngo to serve her, and requite the high honour I have always found in her,\nfor I have proven her at all points; but never more will she be mine,\nthis I may know of a truth.\n\n\"Now I have not spoken wisely, rather have I lost my wit and fallen\nshort of the mark, when I thought to send my palfrey for the joy and\ndelight of him who has betrayed me and brought me to nought. Hath he not\nforced me to turn away from her whom I thought to have for mine own?\nNo man should love one who seeketh his betrayal. Over bold is he who\nasketh for my palfrey; nothing of mine will I send to him of whom I have\nnought. Hath he not disinherited me of the sweetness, beauty and great\ncourtesy for which my lady is praised?\n\n\"Long time I served her in vain; well had I deserved the sovereign\nhonour of her; but now no joy of her shall I have henceforth. How send\nhim who maketh me so sorrowful anything whereof he will be glad? But\nnone the less, though it cost me somewhat that she who is of such\ngoodness should ride upon my palfrey, well I know that when she looks\non him, he will recall me to her remembrance. I have loved her in good\nfaith, I do love her and shall love her always, but her love costs me\ntoo dear. All solitary I will be her lover, yet I know not if she put\nher heart into the old intimacy that hath made my heart so heavy and\nsorrowful; methinketh it was not dear to her; Cain the brother of Abel\ndid no greater treason. Now is my heart in sore torment by reason of\nher of whom I have no comfort.\" Thus he made lament unceasingly; but\nhe let saddle the palfrey and called the squire; to his enemy he sent\nthe gray palfrey, and the messenger set out straightway.\n\nMessire Guillaume had no respite from his sorrow, he shut himself into\nhis chamber all wrathful and sorrowful, and said to all his sergeants\nthat were any so bold as to attempt to make merry, he would have him\nhung or put to the sword. No heart had he for joy, rather he was fain to\nlead a life without cheer, for he could no wise drive out the heaviness,\nthe grief and the pain from his heart. Meantime, he to whom he had given\nthe palfrey led it away, and returned forthwith to the house of his\nmaster, who made great joy.\n\nThe night was clear and still, and within the house was a great company\nof ancient knights. When they had eaten plenteously, the old man bade\nthe watch, and said to all and commanded them, that an hour before\ndaylight they be all awake and ready, and horses and palfreys be saddled\nand accoutred without noise or disorder; and thereafter they all went to\nrest and sleep. But she whom love caused to sigh and tremble with dread\nhad no thought of sleep, not once that night did she slumber; all others\nslept, she watched. Nor was her heart asleep but all intent on making\nmoan; and if it might have been, she would never have waited for the\nstirring of the men or the coming of the dawn, but would have fled away\nforthwith.\n\nAfter midnight, the moon arose, and lighted all the heavens and the air;\nand when the watch, who had drunk deep, saw the great light round about\nhim, he thought the dawn was breaking. \"The high company of knights\nshould have been astir before now,\" he thought; and he sounded the dawn,\nand called aloud and cried: \"Up lordings, the day breaketh.\" So cried he\nwho was all bemuddled from the wine he had drunk over night. And they\nwho had scarce rested or slept arose all bewildered, and hastily the\nsquires saddled the horses, for they thought the day had come. But\nbefore ever the dawn shall break they may well ride and travel a good\nfive leagues.\n\nThe palfreys were saddled, and all the old men who were to escort the\ndamsel to the waste chapel on the edge of the forest had mounted, and\nthe maiden was committed to the care of the most discreet. The gray\npalfrey had been saddled, and when it was led forth, she made greater\nsorrow than ever she had made before. But the wise old men guessed\nnothing, nor knew her thought, rather they deemed she wept because she\nwas leaving her father's house; nought they understood of her tears\nor the sorrow that she made; all wofully she got her to horseback.\n\nSo they rode forth together, and turned straight towards the forest,\nmethinketh. They found the path so narrow that no two could ride\nabreast; now they who accompanied the damsel were in the rear, and the\nothers went on before; and he who was her escort, in that he saw the\npath was narrow, made her go before him, while he rode behind by reason\nof the straitness of the way.\n\nLong was the cavalcade, but inasmuch as they had slept little they were\nwearied and worn, and somewhat dispirited; also they rode the more\nheavily in that they old were and ancient, and by reason it was long\nbefore day they were the more given over to slumber. So drowsing upon\nthe necks of their horses they rode up hill and down dale; and he who\nhad been chosen as the most discreet escorted the damsel; but passing\nlittle rest had he had in his bed that night, and sleep tricked him\ninto forgetfulness, for great was his desire of slumber.\n\nNow as for the damsel she was distressed by nought save her love and\nher grief. And while she was in this narrow path whereof I have spoken,\nthe great company of knights and barons passed on; the more part were\nbent low over their saddles, some few watched, but their thoughts were\non other matters than the escort of the damsel; and ever they rode on\nswiftly through the deep forest. The damsel was in deep distress, even\nas one who would fain be elsewhere, in London or Winchester.\n\nThe gray palfrey well knew this old and narrow way, for many a time had\nhe traversed it. Anon they rode down a steep hillside where the forest\ngrew so thick that the light of the moon was hidden; full dusky there\nwas the wood, for right deep was the valley. Loud was the noise of the\nhorses, and the more part of the barons rode before her. Some bent low\nin sleep over their comrades, some waked and talked; and so they all\nfared on together. Now the gray palfrey which the damsel rode, following\nin the rear of the company, did not know the way of the highroad that\nran straight before them, but chose a by-path to the right which led\ndirectly to the house of Messire Guillaume. The palfrey seeth the path,\nfull oft had he traversed it, and straightway left the road and the\ncavalcade of horses. As for the knight who accompanied the damsel, he\nwas so overtaken with sleep that ever and again he let his palfrey stop\nshort in the roadway. And now no one guides the damsel, save God only;\nshe gives her palfrey the rein and he turns into the tangled by-way. Not\none of the knights discover that the damsel is no longer following them,\nmore than a league they ride before they take note thereof; little care\nhath her guide and leader given her. And she did not wittingly take\nflight, but rather rode on as one who knoweth not the way nor to what\nland the road leadeth.\n\nThe palfrey follows the path nor goeth astray, for often, both summer\nand winter, had he been there before. The damsel all woful ofttimes\nlooketh about her, but sees neither knight nor baron. Full perilous\nseemed the forest, sombre and darksome; and she was right fearful in\nthat she was without companions. No great marvel is it that she was\nafraid, and much she wondered what had become of the knights who had\nborne her company. Full glad she was of the mischance, yet woful that\nshe had no guide, save God alone, for herself and the palfrey who had\noften passed that way before. But she committed her to God, and the\npalfrey bore her away. She who was sore discomforted gave him the rein,\nnor did she utter a single cry, for she had no wish that those others\nshould hear her, or return to her again. Rather would she die in the\nwild wood than make such a marriage.\n\nThus she rode deep in thought, and the palfrey, which knew the path well\nand was eager to get him home again, went at so swift a pace that he\nspeedily traversed that great forest. On a hillside was a stream which\nran swift and dark; the palfrey went straight thither, for he knew the\nford, which was not very deep or wide, and he passed over it as fast as\nmight be. Scarce had they left it behind when the damsel heard the sound\nof a horn from the side whither the gray palfrey was bearing her. The\nwatch was above the gate, and played upon his horn to herald the day,\nand thither rode the damsel. Straight to the house she came, all abashed\nand astray, even as one who knoweth neither the road nor the pass nor\nhow to ask the way. Thus the palfrey left the path, and came out upon\nthe bridge which led across a deep water that enclosed all the manor.\n\nAnd the watch on guard sounding his horn heard the noise and clatter of\nthe palfrey upon the bridge, which had crossed there many a time before.\nHe stopped his horn blowing for a little and cometh down from his place,\nand asketh forthright: \"Who is it rides so hard over the bridge at this\nhour?\" And the damsel maketh answer: \"Surely the most unhappy lady ever\nborn of woman. In God's name let me within until the day dawneth, for I\nknow not whither I should go.\" \"Certes, damsel,\" he maketh answer, \"that\nI dare not do, nor to bring anyone into this house, save by the leave\nof my lord; and never hath any man been in greater grief than he now is;\nright sorrowful is he in that he hath been cruelly betrayed.\"\n\nNow even as he spoke in this wise, he put his face and eyes to an\nopening in the postern; neither torch nor lantern had he, for the\nmoon shone clear, and he seeth the gray palfrey; right well he knew\nit,--often had he looked on it aforetime. Much he wondered whence it\ncame; and long he looked upon the damsel who held it by the rein, and\nwho was richly dight in new and goodly raiment. Speedily the watch\ngoeth to his master, who lay upon his bed all joyless. \"Sir,\" saith he,\n\"a damsel is come hither out of the wood, all uncounselled is she, and\nyoung of look and seeming; rich is her array, full rich her garments;\nmeseemeth, she is wrapped about in a mantle richly furred, and her gown,\nmethinketh, is of fine scarlet. Sad and downcast she rideth upon your\ngray palfrey; no whit unpleasing is her speech, but fair and gracious:\nI would not willingly lie to you, sir, but I believe in all this land\nis no maid so fair and winsome. Methinketh she is a fay that God hath\nbrought hither to you, to make good the loss that hath rendered you so\nheavy hearted; fair amends will she make you for her ye have lost.\"\n\nMessire Guillaume heareth him, and forthwith springeth to his feet; with\na surcoat upon his back and nought beside he cometh to the door, and\nbade it be speedily opened. The damsel crieth out to him, sighing:\n\"Ah, gentle sir, sore travail hath been mine this night. Sir, in God's\nname, be not angry, but let me enter now your house,--I ask not to abide\nthere. I am in sore distress by reason of a company of knights who are\nnow in great dismay inasmuch as they have lost me. For safeguard I have\ncome to you, even as chance has led me; right sorrowful am I and all\nastray.\"\n\nMessire Guillaume heard her and had great joy thereof. He knew the\npalfrey that had long been his own, and he looketh hard upon the\ndamsel,--a more joyful man there might not be. So he leadeth her into\nhis house; he hath set her down from her palfrey, and taking her by the\nhand hath kissed her more than twenty times. And she made no denial, for\nright well she knew him. One looked upon the other, and right great joy\nmade they between them; and in one another they forgot all their griefs.\nHe took from her her mantle, and joyfully they sat them down upon a\ncushion of rich silk bordered with gold. Each maketh the sign of the\ncross a good twenty times, for scarcely can they believe it is not a\ndream they look upon. And when the serving-men were gone, much they\nsolaced themselves with kisses, but no other misdoing was there between\nthem.\n\nFreely the damsel told him all her plight; now she saith blessed was\nthe hour of her birth, in that God that led her thither, and hath, as\nfortune willed it, delivered her from that other who thought to make her\nhis own in return for his chatels and gear. Now in the morning at dawn\nof day, Messire Guillaume arrays himself, and lets bring the damsel into\nhis court and chapel, and without delay he lets summon his chaplain.\nSpeedily the knight had himself married and bound in holy wedlock; not\nlightly may the twain be disparted. And when the mass was sung, maids\nand serving-men and squires made great joy within the house.\n\nBut great annoy was theirs who had heedlessly lost her. They were come\ntogether at the waste chapel, and right weary were they from riding the\nnight long, not one of them but was the worse for it. Then the old man\ndemanded his daughter of him who had guarded her so ill; he knew not\nwhat to say, but speedily he made answer; \"Sir, she rode before me,\nI was behind, for right narrow was the path and the forest great and\nthick. I know not if she turned aside, for I drowsed in my saddle; now\nand again I awoke and ever I deemed her near me, but certes, she is not\nhere, now, and I know not what hath become of her; right ill have we\nguarded her.\"\n\nThe old man looked for her up and down, and asked and inquired of all\nwhere she was, and if they had seen her; sorely were they all abashed\nthereat, and had no word to say. And he who was to wed the damsel was\nyet more woful. He was not slow to seek her, but nought avails him\nhis search for the right scent was lost. Now even amid their dismay\na squire rode spurring down the path, and anon he cometh before the\nold man. \"Sir,\" saith he, \"Messire Guillaume sendeth you his goodliest\nfellowship. Very early this morning in the first dawn, he married your\ndaughter; wherefore right glad and joyful is he. Come ye to him, sir;\nand likewise he biddeth his uncle who did so falsely by him, but now\nhe pardoneth him the offence, inasmuch as he hath the gift of your\ndaughter.\"\n\nThe old man gave ear to the marvel, never had he heard its like. He\ncalleth and assembleth all his barons, and when, they were come together\nhe taketh counsel that he will go, and take with him that other to whom\nhe had pledged his daughter; the marriage he seeth to be a sooth, no\nundoing may there be of that. So he who was right wise rode thither\nquickly and all his barons with him. When they came to the house\nthey were received full richly, and Messire Guillaume made great joy,\neven as one who is glad at heart by reason of his guerdon. The father\nmust needs grant the marriage whether he would or no, and the old man\nof the twisted moustaches took what comfort he might therein. Even so,\nlordings, the Lord God willed that this marriage which seemed good to\nhim be established.\n\nMessire Guillaume was brave, courteous and right valourous, and no\nwhit did his prowess abate, but rather he strove the more, and was well\nlooked on by counts and princes. Now before the third year, as the tale\ntelleth us, the old man died, this is sooth, and he gave and granted all\nhis wealth to the knight, who thereafter held all his lands which were\nrich and plenteous. A good thousand pounds a year the land yielded\nhim.... And he held it quit of all claim.\n\nSo the adventure I have related endeth in this wise, as truth telleth\nyou.\n\n\n\n\nContes devots et didactiques\n\n\n\n\nThe Knight of the Little Cask\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAforetime, in the wild land between Normandy and Bretaigne, there dwelt\na mighty lord who was of much great fame. Near to the border and beside\nthe sea, he let build a castle full well embattled, and so strong and so\nwell garnished that he feared neither count nor viscount, neither prince\nnor duke nor king. And the high man whereof I speak, was, the tale\nsaith, most comely of body and countenance, rich in goods and noble of\nlineage; and from his face it seemed that in all the world was no man\nmore debonair, but of a sooth, he was all falseness and disloyalty, so\ntraitorous and so cruel, so fierce and so proud, so fell and of so great\ndisdain he feared neither God nor man; and all the country round about\nhim he had laid waste,--this is the sum thereof.\n\nNo man might he meet, but he did him some outrage of his body, so great\nwas his licence; he held all the roads and waylaid the pilgrims and did\nthe merchants annoy; and many were oft sore discomforted thereby. He\nspared neither churchman nor cloistered monk, neither canon nor eremite;\nand monks and nuns, whereas they are most bound unto God, he made to\nlive shamefully whensoever he had them in his might; and likewise dames\nand damsels, and widows and maids. He spared neither the wise nor the\nsimple; and he laid his hand upon both the rich and the poor; and many\nfolk had he driven forth in dishonour, and of those he had slain the\ntale may not be told. Nor would he ever take to him a wife but thought\nto be abased thereby, for had he been married to a woman he had deemed\nhimself much shamed. And always he ate flesh, nor would he observe any\nfast day; no will had he to hear either mass or sermon or holy writ, and\nall good men he held in despite. Methinketh there was never yet man so\nfulfilled with vile customs; for all the evil a man may do in deed or\nword or thought he devised, and all were brought together in him. And\nso he lived for more than thirty years and there was no let to his ill\ndoing.\n\nSo the days came and went until a certain lenten tide, upon the morning\nof Good Friday. He that was nowise tender of God had risen full early,\nand said to his household after his wont: \"Make ready now the venison,\nfor this is the hour to break our fast; I would eat betimes and then we\nwill ride out to win somewhat.\" The kitchen knaves were all abashed;\ndoubtful and troubled they made answer: \"We will do your command, lord;\nyet we would ye had said otherwise.\" But when his knights, whose hearts\nwere more inclined to God, heard him, they straightway said to him:\n\"Fool, what say ye? This is lent, a holy time, and it is that high\nFriday whereon God endured the Passion to bring us to salvation; every\nman should abstain this day, and you, you would break your fast and eat\nmeat in evil wise. The whole world is under chastisement, in fasting and\nabstinence; yea, the very children do penance,--and you would eat flesh\nthis day. God must revenge himself upon you, and certes, he will in\ntime.\" \"By my faith,\" he made answer, \"it will not be straightway, nor\nbefore I have done much malice, and many a man hath been hanged and\nburned and undone.\" \"Have ye no respite in doing despite to God?\" quoth\nthey then. \"Now ought ye incontinent to cry upon our Lord Jesus Christ\nand beweep the sins with which ye are tainted.\" \"Weep?\" quoth he, \"what\njest is this? I have no mind for such folly. But do ye make moan and\nI will laugh, for certes weep will I never.\"\n\n\"Hearken, sir,\" they make answer, \"in this wood dwelleth a right holy\nman, and to him those folk who would turn from their sin, go to make\nconfession; come, let us confess to him and give up our evil life; man\nshould not always live sinfully but rather should turn again to God.\"\n\"A hundred devils!\" saith he. \"Confess? shall I become a jest and a\nby-word? Cursed be he that turneth his footsteps thither with such\nintent, but if there be any spoils to be got I will go hang this\nhermit.\" \"Nay, sir,\" quoth they, \"prithee come with us. Do this kindness\nfor our sake.\" \"For your sake,\" he then made answer, \"I will follow\nyou, but for God will I do nought; 't is but for fellowship I go\nwith ye. Bring up my horse, and I will forth with these hypocrites.\nBut liefer had I two good mallards, nay, two tiny sparrows than all\ntheir confessions; yet will I go thither to make a jape of them. Whenso\nthat they are shriven they will go rob here or there; it is even as\nthe confession made between Reynard and the hen-hawk,--such repentance\nfalleth at a breath.\" \"Sir,\" quoth they, \"now mount your horse, that God\nwho knows no lie may do his will with you and give you true humility.\"\n\"By my faith,\" saith he, \"may it never so fall that I become mild and\ndebonair and be feared of no man.\" And straightway thereafter they set\nforth. He who is possessed of the devil rideth behind singing, and his\nfellows go before weeping. And as his men fare on before him, ever he\ngives them ill words, pricks and prods and misprises them; but they,\non their part, to humour him, say whatsoever he will.\n\nAnd they ride on by the straight paved way so long they come into the\nforest to the hermitage. There they enter, and within the chapel they\nfind the holy man; but their lord has stayed without, for he was fell\nand stark and full of malice, and fiercer than mad dog or werewolf;\nofttimes he looketh down at his feet and proudly he straighteneth\nhimself. \"Lord,\" they say, \"now light ye down and come within, amend\nyour ways, or at the least, pray God's mercy.\" \"Nay, I will not stir\nhence,\" quoth he; \"and why should I pray his mercy when nought would\nI do for his sake? But now speed ye your affair for therein have I no\npart or portion; and much I fear lest I lose all my day through this\ndallying. For even now the merchants and pilgrims, whom it behooveth me\nto bring to ground, fare along the highroad, and now they will go their\nway unhindered; and as God may aid me, this weighs heavy upon me. By\nSaint Remi, I had liefer that ye were never shriven than that they go\nhence unshamed.\"\n\nHis men perceive that he will do no otherwise, and they pass into the\nchapel before the altar and speak with the holy hermit. Each hath said\nhis matter as fairly as he might, and the hermit, as his wont was,\nassoiled them full sweetly, but only by making covenant with them,--to\nwit, that ever thenceforth they should withhold them from evil so much\nas they might. Fairly they pledged them, and then gently they besought\nhim: \"Lord, our master is without; for God's sake now call ye him, for\nhe would not come within for our asking, and who knoweth if he will come\nfor you.\" \"Certes, lords,\" saith he, \"I know not, but gladly will I make\nassay; yet do I greatly fear him.\"\n\nSo he issued out, leaning upon his staff, for he was feeble of body, and\nsaith forthright to the baron: \"Sir, be ye welcome. It is meet we put\nall evil from us, repent us and confess, and think full sweetly of God.\"\n\"Think ye of him, who forbiddeth you? But I will think of him no whit.\"\n\"Yea, that ye shall, fair sir, for you should be gentle of heart, you\nthat be a knight. A priest am I, and I require you, for the sake of him\nwho suffered death and offered up himself for us upon the cross, that\nye speak with me a little.\" \"Speak? In the devil's name what would ye\nI should say, and what have ye to make known to me? I am hot to depart\nfrom your house and you, for by a fat bellwether would I set more\nstore.\" \"Sir,\" the hermit made answer, \"I believe ye, wherefore do it\nnot for my sake but only for that of God.\" \"Proud and persistent are\nye,\" quoth the knight; \"but if I go within, it will be for neither\nprayer nor orison nor almsgiving.\" \"Sir, at the least, ye will see our\nchapel and convent.\" \"I will go,\" he saith, \"but on such conditions that\nI shall give no alms nor say no paternoster.\" \"Now come but within,\"\nhe maketh answer, \"and if it pleases you nought, return again.\" And for\nvery weariness the knight lighteth down from his horse: \"Methinks ye\nwill not have done to-day; to no good did I come hither this morn, and\nalack that I rose so early.\"\n\nBut the good man took him by the hand, and urging him on full gently,\nled him into the chapel before the altar. \"Sir,\" saith he then, \"there\nis no help, here are ye in my prison; now take it not ill of me that\nye perforce must speak with me. Ye may cut my head from off my body, but\nfor nought you may do shall you escape from me until that ye have told\nme of your life.\" He that was stark and full of malice maketh answer:\n\"Certes, that will I not, and for this were I like to slay ye; never\nshall ye learn aught from me, so let me go and that speedily.\" \"My\nlord,\" saith he then, \"go you shall not, so please you, before you tell\nme of your life and the sins with which you are tainted; I would know\nall your deeds.\" \"No, certes, that will I not, sir priest,\" saith he.\n\"Never shall ye know my doings. I am not so drunken with wine that I\nwill tell you aught.\" \"Not for me, but for the sake of God the Glorious,\nspeak, and I will hearken.\" \"Nay, certes, I will have nought to do\ntherewith. Is it to this end that you brought me hither? I am like to\nslay you, and in truth the world were well rid of you. Methinks you are\neither mad or besotted with wine that you would know my life, and\nmoreover would drive me to speak by force; now are you over-masterful,\nin sooth, you that would make me say that to which I am not minded.\"\n\"Yet will ye do it,\" quoth he, \"fair friend; and may he who was nailed\nupon the cross bring you to true penitence, and grant you so deep\nrepentance that ye shall know your sin; now begin and I will listen.\"\n\nThen looked hard upon him the tyrant who was fell and a seeker of evil.\nThe good man was in sore dread, and every moment feared the knight\nwould strike him, but he set all at adventure, and calling to mind the\nscriptures, said right gently: \"Brother, for the sake of God omnipotent\ntell me but one sin; and when you have once begun I know well God will\naid ye to tell truly all your life from end to end.\" \"Nay, in sooth,\nnought shall ye hear thereof,\" quoth the knight. \"Yea, but in truth\nI will.\" \"Nay, ye shall not.\" \"How now, ye will tell me nought! Have\nye then no mind for well doing?\" \"No, in sooth, ye may die in your\nlament but nought shall ye hear from me.\" \"Yet shall ye do my bidding,\nwhomsoever it grieves; rather shall ye stay here until nightfall than\nthat I hear nought. And now to make an end, I conjure you by God himself\nand by his most high virtue; this is the day whereon Christ suffered\ndeath and was nailed upon the cross, and I conjure you by that death\nthat slew and destroyed the arch-enemy, and by the saints and martyrs,\nthat you open your heart to me; yea, I command you,\" so spake the\nhermit, \"that ye tell me all your sins. Now delay ye no longer.\" \"Nay,\nye go too far with me,\" quoth the baron, sore moved; and so confounded\nand astonied was he that he became all shamed. \"How now,\" said he, \"are\nye such that I must perforce tell my story, may it be no other wise?\nDespite me then I will speak, but, certes, no more will I do.\"\n\nThen wrathfully he began to tell over the tale of his sins one after\nthe other, word by word he told them, nor did he fail of any. And when\nhe had made his confession he said to the hermit: \"Now have I told you\nall my deeds; are ye well content, and wherein are ye bettered? By St.\nJames, meseems ye had not been appeased and if I had not told you the\nwhole tale of my deeds. But now all is said,--and what then? Will ye\nleave me in peace henceforth? Now methinks I can go. By St. James, I\nhave no will to talk more with you, nor to let my eyes rest longer upon\nyou. Certes, without sword ye have won the day of me, ye that have made\nme speak perforce.\"\n\nThe good man had no will to laugh, but he weepeth full sorrowfully in\nthat the knight doth not repent him. \"Sir,\" he maketh answer, \"well have\nye said your say, save that it is without repentance; but now if you\nwill do some penance I shall hold me well repaid.\" \"And a fair return ye\nwould make me,\" quoth he, \"ye that would make me a penitent. Foul fall\nhim who hath aught to do herein or who would desire it of me. But if\nit were my will so to do, what penance would ye lay on me?\" \"In sooth,\neven that which ye would.\" \"Nay, but tell me.\" \"Sir, with good will;\nto overcome your sins you should fast a space, each Friday these seven\nyears.\" \"Seven years!\" quoth he, \"nay, that I will not.\" \"Then for\nthree.\" \"Nay, in sooth.\" \"Each Friday for but a single month.\" \"Hold your\npeace, nought will I do herein for I may not achieve it.\" \"Go barefoot\nfor but one full year.\" \"No, by Saint Abraham!\" \"Go all in wool without\nlinen.\" \"Anon my body would be preyed upon and devoured of vermin.\" \"Do\nbut chastise yourself with rods each night.\" \"That is ill said,\" quoth\nhe; \"know that I may not endure to beat or mutilate my flesh.\" \"Then go\na pilgrimage over sea,\" quoth the hermit. \"That is too bitter a word,\"\nanswered the knight; \"say no more of it; herein ye speak idly, for full\nof peril is the sea.\" \"Go but to Rome, or to the shrine of Saint James.\"\n\"By my soul,\" said he, \"thither will I never.\" \"Go then each day to\nchurch and hear God's service, and kneel till that ye have said two\nprayers, an ave and a pater noster, that God may grant you salvation.\"\n\"That labour were over great,\" made he answer. \"All this ado avails not,\nfor certes, no one of these things will I agree unto.\" \"How now! Ye will\nnought of good? yet shall ye do somewhat, and it please God and please\nyou, before we twain dispart. Now do but take my water cask to yonder\nstream for the love of God omnipotent, and dip it into the fountain,\nno hurt will that be to you, and if ye bring it to me full, ye shall\nbe freed and absolved of both your sins and your penance, no more need\nyou be in doubt, but I will take upon myself all the burden of your\niniquity; lo, now your penalty is meted out to you.\"\n\nThe baron heard him and laughed out in scorn, and then he spoke, saying:\n\"No great toil will it be and if I do go to the fountain; and speedily\nwill this penance be done. Now give me the cask forthwith for I am in\nhaste.\" The good man brought it to him, and lightly, as one untroubled,\nhe received it, saying: \"I take it on this covenant, that, until I have\nbrought it back full to you I will never rest me.\" \"And on this covenant\nI give it unto you, friend.\" So the knight fared forth, and his men\nwould fain have followed him, but he would have none of them: \"No, in\nsooth, abide where ye are,\" he saith.\n\nSo he cometh to the fountain and dippeth in the cask, but not a single\ndrop runneth into it, although he turns it this way and that until he\nis well nigh beside himself. Then he thinketh something hath stopped the\nopening and thrusteth in a stick, but finds it all free and empty. So\nagain in his wrath, he that was proud of heart dipped the little cask\ninto the fountain, but not a drop would enter therein. \"God's death!\"\nsaith he, \"how is it that nought comes into it?\" Then yet again he\nthrust the cask into the water; yet were he to lose his head thereby\nno whit might he fill it.\n\nThen in his chagrin he ground his teeth, and rose up in great wrath,\nand went again to the hermit. Hot and ireful he hardened his heart, and\nspoke, saying: \"God! I have not a single drop. I have done my uttermost,\nyet I could not contrive or so dip the cask that so much as a tear-drop\nof water came therein; but by him who made my soul never will I rest,\nnor will I cease night or day till that I have brought it to you again\nfilled to overflowing.\" And again he spoke to the hermit, saying: \"Ye\nhave brought me into sore trouble by this cask of the devil. Cursed be\nthe day whereon it was shaped and fashioned, since by reason of it so\ngreat toil must be mine, that never may I rest, nor know solace or ease\nby day or by night, nor let my face be washen, nor my nails trimmed,\nnor my hair or my beard be cut, till that I have fulfilled my covenant;\nafoot will I travel, and penniless will I go, nor take with me so much\nas a farthing in my doublet, nor yet bread nor meat.\"\n\nThe hermit heareth him and weepeth full gently: \"Brother,\" quoth he,\n\"in an ill hour were ye born, and most bitter are your days. Certes, and\nif a child had lowered this cask into the fountain he would have drawn\nit forth full to overflowing, and you have not gathered a single drop.\nWretch, it is by reason of your sins that God is in anger against you,\nbut now in his mercy he would that you should do your penance, and\ntorment your body for his sake; now be not unwise but serve God full\nsweetly.\" But in wrath the baron made answer: \"For God, certes, will I\ndo nought, but I will do it for very pride, and in wrath and vexation:\nit is done neither for good, nor for the sake of my fellows.\" Then all\nin pride he turned to his men, saying: \"Now get ye gone forthright, and\ntake with you my horse, and bide you quiet in your own land. And if you\nhear men talk of me, mind that ye tell them nought, neither one nor\nother, nor this man nor his fellow, but hold your peace and be silent,\nand live after your wont; for I have become such that never henceforth\nshall I know a day without travail and toil, by reason of this cask\nwhich is of the fiend,--may the cursed fire and the cursed flame devour\nit! Meseems the devils have had it in their care and have laid a spell\nupon it; but I tell you of a sooth that rather will I seek out all the\nwaters of all the world than not bring it back again full to\noverflowing.\"\n\nThen without taking leave he fared forth, and passed out of the door\nwith the little cask hung about his neck. But know ye of a truth that,\nsave only the garments he wore, he took not with him so much treasure\nas would buy him four straws; and alone he set forth, for none went with\nhim save God only. Now know ye what anon he will know, what hardships\nwill fall to him by night and by day, at morning and evening, for he\ngoeth forth into strange lands. Few will he have of those delights to\nwhich he is wont, and he must lie hard and lodge ill, and cold victual\nwill be his and scanty bread; poverty will be ofttimes his neighbor,\nand much toil and trouble will be his.\n\nSo over hill and dale fared he, and to whatsoever water he cometh he\nthrusteth in his cask and testeth it, but it avails him not, for nought\ncan he gather up. And his great wrath, that sways him overmuch, is ever\nkindled and burning. Well nigh half a week it was before he bethought\nhim of food or had any desire thereof. Ever his great wrath consumed\nhim, but when he saw that hunger so beset him that he might not defend\nhim, it behooved him to sell and barter his robe, whatever else anyone\nshould tell you, for a paltry tunic that was worn and tattered and\nshameful for so high a man. Nor had he any sleeves, whether full or\nnarrow, and neither hood nor capuchon. So he wandered by valley and\nplain until his face, which of old had been fresh and fair, grew changed\nand tanned and blackened. But whatsoever water he came unto, ever he\nthrust in his cask and proved it, but little his labour profited him,\nfor howsoever much he toiled, he might not gather up a single drop; and\nmuch he suffered and endured thereby.\n\nHis sorry raiment soon grew worn and tattered. Barefooted he crossed\nmany a great hill and many a valley. He wandereth in cold and in heat:\nhe fareth through briars and thorns, and among the wild beasts; his\nflesh is torn in many a place, and many a drop of blood falleth from\nhim, and sore pain and trouble is his. Now he passeth ill days and ill\nnights: now he is poor and a-beggared; now rebuffs and ill words are his\nportion, and he hath neither robe nor chattle; now he findeth no hostel,\nand again he meeteth with folk full harsh, churlish and cruel, for in\nthat they see him so denuded, so stark and tall and great of limb, so\nhideous and tanned and blackened, and bare legged even to the thighs,\nmany a one, forsooth, feareth to give him lodging, so that ofttimes\nhe must lie in the fields. Neither jest nor song had he, but ever great\nwrath and sore torment. And I may tell you thus much, that never could\nhe humble himself, or lighten his sore heart, save in so far as he made\nlament to God of the great travail and misease he endured; yet it was,\nbut for bewilderment, for he was nowise repentant.\n\nWhen that he had spent the money he won by the sale of his raiment, he\nhad not wherewith to buy bread; and if he would eat he must perforce\nlearn to beg. Now are all his woes exceeded, for never again shall he\nknow solace, but woe only so long as he liveth. Often he fasteth for two\ndays or three, and when his heart is so weakened that he may no longer\nendure his hunger, in wrath he goeth aside to seek for bread or some\ncrumb or morsel, and then he fares on for a space.\n\nThus he sought through all of Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and Poitou,\nNormandy and France and Burgundy, Provence and Spain and Gascony, and\nall of Hungary and Moriane, and Apulia and Calabria and Tuscany, and\nGermany, and Romagna, and all the plain of Lombardy, and all Lorraine\nand Alsace; and everywhere he setteth his heart to the task. Methinketh\nI need not tell you more; the day long I might tell ye of the woes he\nendured, but in a word, from the sea that circles and encloses England\neven unto Baretta that lieth on the Eastern shore, ye cannot name a land\nthat he hath not searched, nor any river that he hath not tested; nor\nlake, nor mere, nor spring, nor fountain, nor any water foul or fresh,\ninto which he hath not dipped his cask, but never might he draw a single\ndrop; never would any whit come into it, howsoever much he strove; and\nyet he did all his endeavour, and more and still more he laboured.\n\nAnd amid all his woe which was so great and grievous, a marvel befell\nhim, for never by any chance of adventure did he find any man who did\nhim aught of kindness, or spoke him fair in fellowship, but all men\nhated him and mocked and chid him, nor spake with him, whether in field\nor wood or hostel, and it were not to revile him; yet whatsoever shame\nmen might say to him, he would neither dispute with any nor defame any,\nfor he held them overmuch in scorn, and all men he hated and despised.\n\nWhat more should I tell you? He fared for so long, up and down, here\nand there, that his body grew so tanned and stained and blackened that\nscarce had any man known him that had seen him aforetime. His hair was\nlong and tangled and hung in locks about his shoulders; his fair hair\nand face and forehead grew black as a flitch of bacon, and his neck that\nhad been great and thick, was long and thin to the bone. All lean from\nhunger he was and hairy; his eyebrows had grown shaggy, his eyes sunken;\nhis sides were all uncovered, and his skin so hung about his bones that\nyou might count the ribs beneath; his legs were bared and brown and lean\nand shrunken; his veins showed and his sinews, and from toe to groin no\nshred of raiment had he, and black and brown and stained he was. Thereto\nhad he waxed so weary and spent that scarce might he stand upright; he\nneeds must have a stick to lean on as he walked, and much the cask, that\nhe had carried night and day for a year, now weighed upon him. What more\nneed I tell you? His body had been in so great torment the year through\nthat marvel it was how he had brooked it; and so much had he borne and\nsuffered that he knew right well he might not longer endure. Yet was\nthere a thing he must do. He holdeth he must return again,--never will\nthe hermit laugh when he seeth him, rather will he weep. So the knight\nset forth leaning upon his staff, and often he maketh lament in a\nloud voice, yet he strove so much that still he held on his way to the\nhermitage. At the end of the year on the same day he had departed from\nthat most holy place, the high day of Good Friday, even in such guise\nas I have told you, he came thither again. Now hear ye what befell him.\n\nAll dolorous he entered; and the hermit, who had no thought of him, was\nalone within, and he looked at him in wonder for that he saw in him a\nman so weary and wasted. Him he knew not, but the cask, which was hung\nabout his neck, he knew right well that aforetime he had seen it. And\nthe holy man spoke, saying: \"Fair brother, what need brings thee here,\nand who gave thee this cask? Ofttimes have I seen it, and this same\nday, a year past, I gave it forsooth to the fairest man in all the\nEmpire of Rome and to the starkest, methinketh, but if he be alive or\ndead I know not, for never since hath he returned hither again; but\ntell me now of thy courtesy, who thou art and how men call thee, for\nnever did I see so weary a man as thou seemest, nor one so poor and\ndisgarnished. Had the Saracens had you in their prison even so stripped\nand denuded had ye seemed; whence thou art come I know not, but of a\nsooth thou hast fallen among ill folk.\" But the other brake out in\nanger, for still was his wrath great, and irefully he spoke: \"Even to\nsuch a plight hast thou thyself brought me!\" \"I, how so, friend? For\nmethinks I have never before set eyes upon thee. What wrong have I done\nthee? Prithee tell me, and if I can, I will amend it.\" \"Sir,\" quoth he,\n\"I will tell thee: I am he whom a year ago this day thou didst confess,\nand gave me as a penance this cask which has brought me to such straits\nas ye see.\" Then he told him all the tale of his travels, of all the\nlands and countries he had travelled through, of the sea and the rivers\nand the great and mighty waters. \"Sir,\" saith he, \"everywhere have I\nsought, and everywhere have I tested the cask, but never a drop hath\nentered therein, and yet I have done mine uttermost; and well I know\nthat anon I must die, and may endure no more.\"\n\nThe good man heard him and was sore moved, and all in sorrow he began to\nspeak, saying: \"Wretch, wretch,\" so spake the hermit, \"thou art worse\nthan a Sodomite, or dog or wolf or any other beast. By the eyes of my\nhead, methinketh that had a dog dragged the cask to so many waters, and\nthrough so many fords, he had drawn it full,--and thou hast not taken\nup a single drop! Now I see of a sooth God hateth thee, and thy penance\nis without savour, for that thou hast done it without repentance, and\nwithout love or pity.\" Then he wept and lamented and wrung his hands,\nand so rent was his heart that he cried aloud, \"God, thou who seest and\nknowest all things and canst do all, look now upon this creature who\nhas led so toilsome a life, who has lost both body and soul, and spent\nhis time to no purpose. Blessed Mary, sweet mother, now pray God your\nsovereign father that it be his will to keep this man, and to rest his\nfair eyes upon him. If ever I did aught of good, sweet and dear God, or\naught pleasing in thy sight, I pray thee here and now that thou grantest\nmercy to this man who hath been brought to so great distress through\nme; God, in thy mercy let not his misery be wasted, but lead him to\nrepentance. God, if he were to die through me, I must render account\nthereof, and my grief were greater than I could bear. God, if thou\ntakest to thee one of us twain, leave me here at adventure, and take\nthou this man.\" And he wept right tenderly.\n\nThe knight looked long upon him yet spake no word, but all low within\nhimself he said: \"Lo, here in sooth is a strange thing, whereof my heart\nhath great marvel, that this man who is not of my house, and hath no\nkinship with me save in God, should so harass himself for my sake, and\nweep and lament for my sins. Now of a surety, I am the basest man living,\nand the vilest sinner, that this man holds my soul so dear that he\ndestroyeth himself because of my offences, and I am so spotted with\nevil, and have in me so little goodness that I have no compunction\nthereof; and yet he is full of sorrow because of them. Ah, sweet God,\nand thou wilt, through thy might and thy power, grant me such repentance\nthat this good man who is so out of all cheer may be given solace. God,\nlet not all my travail be vain and profitless to my soul; when all is\nsaid, by reason of my sin was this cask laid upon me, and for my sins I\ntook it, sweet God, if I have done wrong herein, now do thou thy will;\nlo, I am ready.\" And God straightway so wrought in him that his heart\nwas freed and discumbered of all pride and hardness, and fulfilled with\nhumility and love and repentance, and fear and hope, whereby his spirit\nmelteth, and he weepeth. Then he cast away the world from him, and the\ntears flowed forth from his heart, that nought might staunch them, all\nburning they were with repentance, and he drew such great sighs that at\neach it seemed his spirit must issue out of him. His repentance was so\npuissant that his very heart had been broke had it not been lightened\nby tears; but he shed them in so great plenteousness his relief is no\nmarvel. Such dolour laid hold of his heart that he might not speak with\nhis lips, but he made covenant with God within his heart full sweetly,\nthat thenceforth he would sin no more, nor do more wrong towards him.\n\nNow God seeth well that he repents him. The cask which had caused him\nsuch woe still hangeth about his neck, but still it was empty, and it\nwas all his desire that it should be filled. And God seeth his longing,\nthat his mind was bent on well-doing, and that he was no wise feigning;\nand then God did a great bounty and a fair kindness,--but what need to\nsay it, for never did he unkindness. But now hear you what God did to\ncomfort his friend who had cause to be out of all comfort. In his sore\ndistress there sprang from his eyes a great tear which God drew forth\nfrom a true source; with the flight of a bolt it sprang straight into\nthe cask, and the book telleth us that the cask was filled so full by\nthe tear that the overflow gushed out and ran down on all sides, for\nthis tear was so hot with repentance, and so boiling, that the froth\nover-ran.\n\nAnd the hermit hastened to him, and cast himself down at his feet, and\nkissed them both all naked as they were. \"Brother,\" said he, \"fair sweet\nfriend, the holy Ghost hath entered into thee. Brother, God hath heard\nthee, God hath saved thee from hell's pit, never henceforth shalt thou\nbe defiled. God hath pardoned thee thy sins, now rejoice and be glad,\nfor thine expiation is complete.\" Then was the knight so glad methinketh\nnever again shall I see such joy in any man; and still he weepeth, this\nis the sum thereof. Then he spake to the holy hermit, and told him all\nhis desire: \"Father,\" saith he, \"I am wholly thine; father, all good\nhast thou done me. Fair, sweet father, and I might, how gladly would\nI stay with thee. Never in sooth would I leave thee; but ever would I\nserve thee and love thee; but I may endure no longer and I needs must\nsuffer death, most sweet father, through God's mercy. This day a year\npast I was here, as vain and foolish as thou knowest, fair sweet father,\nand told thee all my sins in anger and sore wrath, without fear or\nrepentance; and now I would tell them again in great love and great\ncompunction, if it may be that God, who is life eternal, grant me to-day\na good end.\" Saith the hermit: \"Fair sweet brother, blessed be God who\nhath given thee this thought; and behold, now I am ready, speak and\nI will listen.\"\n\nThen the knight beginneth, and from his very heart telleth all his life,\nweeping and with joined hands; nought did he mis-say, and from his heart\nhe sigheth full softly, and his tears spring forth in great plenty. When\nthe good man saw it was time to shrive him, he gave him absolution and\ngranted him great treasure, the body of Jesus Christ, to wit, and well\nhe showed its great virtue. \"Dear son, lo, here is thy salvation, lo,\nhere is thy life and thy healing. Believest thou so?\" \"Yes, fair father,\nwell do I believe that this is my Redeemer and he that may save us all;\nbut haste thee, for death is near me.\" And the holy man giveth him all\nthe body of God; and the other taketh it, nor doth he delude himself,\nand in all excellence receiveth it, in love and in truth, and in right\ngreat humility.\n\nWhen he was houseled, and so cleansed and purified that there remained\nin him no drop of the lees of folly and sin, he spake to the hermit,\nand told him all his desire, saying: \"Fair sweet father, now I go hence,\npray for me for I am near my end; here I may not tarry, but must seek\nanother dwelling; my heart faileth me, sweet father, and no more may I\nspeak with thee. Most sweet father, I commend thee to God, and now at\nthe last I pray thee that thou put thy arms about me.\" And straightway\nthe good man embraced him full gently and gladly and with good will.\n\nThe knight lieth him down before the altar, and hath given all his heart\nto God. He closeth his eyes and saith his _mea culpa_ and setteth all\nhis hopes in God. His little cask that had done him more good than ill,\nlay upon his breast, nor would he let it be taken from him, for it was\nall his desire to keep it in death as in life. So upon his heart lieth\nhis penance, and a flood of repentance hath so shaken him that God hath\nwholly pardoned him all sin and sorrow. His heart travaileth and his\nbody is anguished, and it behooveth the twain to dispart, and the soul\nto leave the body. And it hath issued forth so purged and cleansed and\npurified that there is neither spot nor sin therein. So soon as the soul\nis freed of the body and hath gone forth, the blessed angels that have\ncome thither, have received it. Great comfort hath come to the soul that\nwas snatched by the holy angels, and sore peril hath it escaped, for the\ndevil was waiting for it, and he thought to have it, in all certainty\nand surety, but now he goeth thence discomforted. And all this was seen\nof the good man from point to point to the end, for he was illumined by\nthe Holy Spirit. All clear he saw the angels that bore away the soul,\nthe while the body resteth barefoot and naked, and lieth under a sorry\ncovering.\n\nBut hear ye now what adventure befell upon his death, for his knights,\nwho had been with him just a year before and to whom he had done so\ngreat annoy, came that day by reason of prayer, as was right and\nfitting, for it was the high day of Good Friday. Close upon noon the men\nof arms came within and found their lord dead; well they recognized him\nby his stature and all his form and seeming, and the cask they knew\nright well; and that it was their lord whose body was so wasted, they\ndoubted not. Then were they sore troubled in that they knew not how he\ncame to his end, whether well or ill, and every man maketh great lament;\nbut the good man comforteth them and told them all the truth. From point\nto point, he told them all as it befell,--how their lord had come to\nhim, and the hour and the time when he confessed and was repentant, and\nhow his soul was ravished above into life perdurable, and how he had\nseen the angels all clearly that had borne it away. Then the knights\nmade great joy, and honoured the body full nobly, right gently they\nshrouded it, and after mass, gave it due burial. And when that they\nhad eaten and drunk they took leave of the good man, and each went again\nto his own land, and everywhere they told and recounted all they knew of\ntheir lord; and the folk of that land had great joy thereof and great\npity, and gave thanks to Our Lord.\n\nNow have I told you all the tale of this high man, even as it hath come\ndown to us from holy men who mistell nought herein, but all they accord\nin true telling, and disagree in nought of good. These men tell us how\nthe knight strove and how God redeemed him,--and ever God knoweth how to\nwork in this wise, and to ransom sinners who would return to him, for\nno man may do so great wrong, but, if it be his desire to turn again to\nGod, God will not pardon him. And none should despise his fellow, but\nshould hold himself to be the worst, and God who hath power to create\nmen, knoweth their hearts, and hath the power rightfully to judge them;\nand subtle are his judgments. Here endeth the story of the cask, and in\nthis wise the knight came to his death. Now let us pray God who created\nall things that it be his will to lead us to that glory wherein he\ndwelleth.\n\n\n\n\nThe Angel and the Hermit\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThere dwelt in Egypt, of old time, a holy father who while yet young\nof age had withdrawn into a hermitage. There he set himself to great\ntoil and sore labour, fasting, weeping, and living ever in solitude;\nand much pain and torment he endured of his body that he might bring\njoy and content to his soul. But ofttimes it betideth that one man, be\nhe religious or layman, hath more of happiness than falleth to the lot\nof two of his fellows. And to him of whom the tale telleth, it seemed\nhe had few of those delights which God giveth to his own, delights\nspiritual, to wit, and fain would he have had such as were enjoyed by\ncertain of his acquaintance; for long had he served without reward, him\nseemed. Now oftentimes God giveth fair gifts to one who doth him scant\nservice; and yet another who is more deserving, he leaveth, mayhap,\nall his life days in poverty, misery and sore want. And the hermit\npondered much wherefore God's judgments are of so great diversity. Now\nit is summer, now winter; now it is one man, and anon to-morrow no more\nof him; and our life is even as a wheel that turns, abiding in no one\nestate. Such judgments are dark, yet are they good and right and just\nfor God doth naught unwisely. And the good man so pondered the matter,\nthat he said to himself he would go forth into the world to see if any\nman therein were of so great wisdom that he could show him wherefore\nGod made the world after this manner, and wherefore men are not equal\nin good hap and ill hap. He was all desirous to know of this matter;\nand albeit there was neither road nor highway near him to his knowledge,\nhe took his staff and set forth from his hut.\n\nHe had not travelled far before he came to a footpath; and thereinto the\ngood man turned, and when he had walked on for a space, he looked behind\nhim and saw a youth that came after him with all speed. In his hand he\nbore a javelin, and full comely he was, and well fashioned, and he was\ngirded up to the knee. His dress was seemly and such as befitteth a\nsergeant; fair of face he was, and goodly of body; and well might it\nbe seen he served a rich lord and a mighty.\n\nSo he drew near and bowed him and gave greeting; and the good man spoke\nto him, saying: \"Now tell me, brother, whom dost thou serve?\" \"By my\nfaith, sir, that will I full gladly; I am the servant of God who made\nall things.\" \"Certes, thine is a right good lord, none better canst thou\nfind. But tell me now where thou goest.\" \"Sir,\" he saith, \"I would fain\nvisit the friends and fair ladies I have known in this land.\" \"Now and\nif I might go with thee it would please me much, for never till to-day\nwas I in this land and naught know I thereof.\" \"Sir, full fair of speech\nare ye, and I were right glad of your company; so come with me, fair and\ndear father, for full well know I the land.\" Thereupon they set forth\ntogether; the varlet goeth before, and after him cometh the hermit,\npraying to God.\n\nThus they journeyed the day long, until that they came to a little wood\nwherein they espied a dead man who had been traitorously slain there,\nand who had lain so long upon the ground that, what with the summer and\nthe warm weather, the body stunk so foully that there is no man in this\nearthly world were not sickened thereby, so be that he passed that way\nand he did not well cover his face. The hermit held his nose and thought\nto die because of the foul smell. But the varlet straightway went up\nto the body, nor did he show by any sign that he perceived aught evil\ntherein. \"Fair father,\" he saith, \"now come with me, for God hath guided\nus hither that here we may bury this dead man.\" \"Fair, sweet brother,\nin God's mercy know that I may not do this thing. Because of the foul\nstink I cannot bring myself to set hand to him, for I am sore sickened\nthereby.\" Then saith the varlet: \"I myself will give him burial, if that\nI may.\" And thereupon he dragged him into a ditch that he found hard by,\nand covered the body over with earth. The hermit marvelled much that the\nother smelt not the stink, or made no sign or semblance of so doing.\n\nThereafter the varlet set forth again, and the hermit followed after,\nstriving to keep pace with him. When that they had gone on for a space\nthey encountered upon the way a train of knights and ladies; fast riding\nthey drew towards them, and right fair was their array. They came from\na feast, and I know not if they had drunk deep, but as they rode one\njostled other, and profligate they were of seeming. The varlet covered\nover his face as well as he might, even as if he could not well endure\nthe odour that came from them, and turned aside from the path. The\nhermit marvelled much that his comrade should so do, and that he should\nhide his face because of the knights, he that had not so done for the\ncarrion.\n\nBut why tell ye a long tale? They journeyed on after this manner\nuntil night, when they lodged with a hermit who gave them shelter full\nwillingly. Such meat as he had he set before them, and gladly they\nreceived it. And that evening as soon as they had supped they should\nhave turned to prayer; but the varlet saw that their host gave himself\nmuch trouble because of a certain hanap or drinking-cup that he had,\nand that he spent more pains in drying and rubbing it than he did in\npraying to God. And the varlet took note where the good man bestowed\nthe hanap, and he stole it away and hid it, for he would not leave it\nbehind. On the morrow at dawn he carried it away, and thereafter showed\nit to his comrade. Now when the hermit saw it he was full sorrowful, nor\nmight he hold his peace: \"For love of God let us take it back again;\nyou have done me much wrong and hurt in that you have deceived that\ngood man, and robbed him of that which was his. Why have ye done such\nwickedness?\" \"Hold your peace and say no more, fair and dear father,\"\nsaith the varlet; \"know that there was need for this, and hereafter ye\nshall learn the truth herein. And whatsoever ye see me do, be not angry,\nbut follow and be silent, for all is done in reason.\" And the youth so\nwrought with the hermit that he durst say no more, but goeth after him\nwith bent head.\n\nAt evening they came to a city and besought lodging in many places, but\ncould find none; ever it behooved them to pass on, for in that they were\npenniless the simplest folk looked askance at them; for still in many\nplaces do men love money dearer than God,--great is the pity and the\nblame thereof. The hermit and the varlet who were weary and wet to the\nskin, for it had rained the day long, sat them down upon the perron\nbefore the door of a great house. Both entreated the master thereof,\nbut little they won thereby, for he refused them aught. Then saith the\nhermit to the varlet: \"Certes, fair brother, I am sore weary, and here\nhave we no shelter from the rain, let us rather creep under yonder\npent-house.\" \"Nay,\" saith the varlet, \"let us call out again, for yet\nwill I lodge within.\" And they so clamoured and beat upon the door that\nfor very weariness they were suffered to enter and take refuge beneath\nthe stairway, where was strewn a little of musty straw. \"Here ye may\nrest until the morning,\" quoth the damsel; and so withdrew her, and left\nthe twain in small comfort, for they had neither eaten nor drunk, nor\nhad they either light or fire.\n\nThe master of the house was a usurer, full rich in gear and gold; but\nrather would he go without bread the day long than give a farthing to\nGod, for the devil had him in his toils. Now that night when he had\ntaken his pleasure and eaten and drunk plenteously, a few peas were\nyet left that might not be eaten, and these he sent to his guests. The\ndamsel brought them the dish, but if she gave them a light I know not.\nThus then they passed the night, and when the day dawned the hermit\nsaith: \"Now let us go hence.\" \"What say ye, sir?\" the varlet made\nanswer; \"for naught would I depart and if I did not first commend our\nhost to God. I go now to take leave of him, and inasmuch as he hath\ngiven us lodging I would give him this good hanap that is neither of\npine nor maplewood but of fair and well polished mazer,\"--the same it\nwas which he had taken from the hermit. Therewith the varlet mounted\nthe stairway, and in the chamber above he met with his host. \"Sir,\" he\nsaith, \"we would fain take leave of you; and in return for our lodging\nwe give you this hanap which is right fair, for we would be just and\nnaught beholden unto you.\" \"Now as God may aid me, here is a proper\nguest,\" saith the burgher, and taketh the cup. \"Fair sir, come ye often\nback hither; and may God keep ye, for fair is the bargain.\" So leave\ntaken, the varlet went his way, and with him the hermit.\n\nWhen they were without the city, \"Varlet,\" saith the hermit, \"I know not\nwhether it be in my despite thou dost so bear thyself; thou didst rob\nthe good hermit who was a religious, and now to this man who entertained\nus so churlishly thou hast given a gift; such deeds are against reason.\"\n\"Good sir, I pray you hold your peace,\" saith the varlet, \"you are no\nsage, instead you were brought up in these woods and wastes, and know\nnot good from evil. Now follow me and fear naught, for as yet ye have\nseen but little.\"\n\nThat day they made good speed, and at night came to a convent wherein\nthe monks gladly gave them lodging, and let serve them freely and\nbounteously; for great was the brotherhood and full rich in land and\nrents and harvest, and thereto many a fair house was theirs; no fear\nhad they of times of dearth. Right well were those twain lodged; but in\nthe morning when they were shod for their journey, the varlet lighted\na brand and laid it at the foot of his bed. There was good plenty of\nstraw, and the room was low, and lightly the blaze caught. Then the\nyouth called to the hermit to hasten, saying: \"Hie you fast, for anon\nthe fire will run through all the place.\" And the hermit made what speed\nhe might, for of the deed he was in sore fear. The varlet goeth before\nhim, and leadeth him up a great hill from the top whereof he looketh\nabroad, and saith to the hermit: \"Lo you, how clear and bright the abbey\nburneth.\" But the hermit crieth out aloud, and teareth and beateth his\nbreast. \"Woe and alas! what will become of me? Unhappy the father that\nengendered me, unhappy she who bore me, and most unhappy me in that I\nhave lost all. Alack for my soul and my salvation! Lo now, I have become\na burner of houses; never was man so wofully betrayed. Alack the day\nthat I met this youth, and woe is me that I became his comrade, for he\nhath robbed me of my life and my soul!\" And sore he rendeth himself with\nhis nails. Thereupon the varlet cometh to him and beginneth to comfort\nhim. \"Nay, I have no love for thee,\" saith the good man; \"thou hast\ntaken from me my life.\" \"Sir,\" the youth maketh answer, \"ye do wrong to\nmake such sorrow for naught. In the beginning I covenanted with you to\ndo these things, and thereby to bring you to wisdom; now come away and\nsay no more.\" And he so soothed the good man that he led him away in\nquietness.\n\nAll that day they fared on together, and at night they came to a city\nthat stood beside a wide river, and whereof the burghers were rich and\nof good conditions. The youth made great cheer in that he knew the place\nwell, and goeth straight unto a house wherein it seemeth him they might\nlodge at their ease. He cometh to the door with his master and asketh\nshelter in God's name. And right good cheer was theirs methinketh, for\nthe burgher was a goodly man. A wife he had, and one child, a boy whom\nthey dearly loved; no other had they and they were already waxing old;\nand the boy was ten years of his age. They washed the feet of the two\ntravellers, and gave them to eat and to drink, and let them sleep until\nthe day. In the morning when the time was come to depart, \"Fair host,\"\nthe varlet saith, \"lend us the child for a little, that he may guide\nus beyond the bridge since we must pass that way.\" \"That will I gladly.\nCome, fair son,\" and straightway the boy riseth up; he goeth before,\nand the other twain follow after. Now when they were come to the bridge,\nwhere there was neither edge-stone nor parapet, the varlet so jostled\nthe boy that he fell down into the water, and the stream swept him away\nand drowned him. \"Herein have we done well,\" saith the varlet; \"and\nstay, sir hermit, and ye will, for ye shall not be destroyed or slain.\"\nBut the hermit set himself to run, for he was all a-sweat with fear, and\nwell-nigh had he slain himself for sorrow. When he was come into the\nfields he cast himself down. \"Alas, unhappy that I am, what will become\nof me,\" saith the hermit. \"Woe worth the day whereon I was born, for\nnow I am come to despair and madness. Alas, caitiff that I am, why did I\nleave the place whereto I was appointed and wherein I had come to my old\nage? The devil hath betrayed and destroyed me. Never again shall I know\njoy nor peace. Was I not a party to the burning of the abbey and the\ndeath of the child? Christ! what will become of me? Now with mine own\nhands will I slay myself!\"\n\nThen saith the varlet within himself: \"It behooveth me to go comfort\nthat old man and foolish.\" So he getteth his javelin into his hand and\ncometh to the hermit, and saith: \"Fond and simple that ye are, now give\near unto me. I am nowise mad; and do ye hold your peace and hear reason\nwhich shall bring you solace. Now shall be shown unto you the virtue of\nmy deeds which ye thought done against reason. Now give heed unto me,\nfair, sweet sir; well know I that ye are a hermit, but ye were tempted\nof the devil when ye thought to go forth into the world to seek out\na man of wisdom who knew all things, and who would tell you why God\nmade the world such as we now see it. You would seek to understand\nhis judgments, so do ye dote in your old age, whereas ye should have\namended and bettered thyself; no whit wouldst thou struggle against this\ntemptation, but thou didst wander forth from thy house, thou that wert\nbewildered as a silly sheep. The devil would have put thee to shame, and\nif God had not had pity upon thee, and sent a holy angel to thee to lead\nand guide thee; for thy sake he sent me to the earth,--for know that I\nam an angel. And I have shown thee that thou soughtest to know, and that\nwhich it was thy will to seek in the world, but thou knewest it not. Now\nlisten and thou shalt learn.\n\n\"And for the dead body which lay in the wood and rotted upon the ground,\nand whereof ye smelt so great a stink that ye might not aid me\ntherewith,--it is but in the course of nature that a body should rot,\nand therefore should it be buried; but such odour vexes me not, nor was\nit displeasing to Jesus Christ, for it is nowise contrary to nature;\ntherefore I had no will to hide my face, but thou that wert neither God\nnor angel might not endure it. But when I saw the knights and squires\nand ladies that came from such a feast, each with a chaplet of flowers\nupon his head, and all fulfilled with luxury, they so stunk in my\nnostrils that it behooved me to hold my nose. Such evil odours rise even\nto God in paradise, and he lamenteth them to his own; Jesus Christ will\nrevenge him of such sin and wickedness; and for them, they are filled\nwith such vileness I have no will to say more thereof; and for the stink\nof them I covered my face.\n\n\"And now I will tell thee of the hermit whose hanap I stole, which deed\nseemed evil in thy sight. But the cup did him much hurt, for that he\ngave himself more toil and trouble in the rubbing and polishing thereof\nthan he took in praying to God; to it he gave the greater part of his\ndays and thereby was he come to sore peril, for it is God's will that\na man should love naught save him only, and the more if that man be\na hermit and a religious. Now there are certain men who hold their\npossessions so dear that they will lend them to none, and rather than\nso do they hide them away; and this methinketh is a great sin, that they\nshould make of them an indulgence and an idol; and certes, he is but\nfoolish who enters into religion and giveth not his whole heart to God.\nNow the hermit had set his heart upon the drinking-cup which he loved\novermuch, and therefore God willed that I should take it from him.\n\n\"And again I will tell thee of the usurer who left us to call and\nclamour at his door, and where we entered only through vexation. In the\nmorning when it was time to depart, I told thee I would take courteous\nleave of our host and would give him the hanap; God willed that I should\nso do, for else the usurer, when he received his damnation, might have\nsaid: 'Lord, Lord, I gave lodging to thy people; can I in justice be\ndamned?' But God cares naught for the alms of such as he, and no usurer\nshall be saved if he does not return that which he hath wrongfully\nreceived of others; God will not permit or suffer him to give in charity\nthe goods which are not rightfully his. If he bringeth a poor man into\nhis house and shareth with him his bread, God will straightway return\nit to him again. Here and now, in this world, he taketh his portion, for\ninto no other paradise shall he come. And therefore fair, sweet friend,\nGod willed that he should be doubly paid by us. Now judge if it were\nwell done.\"\n\n\"I am content,\" saith the hermit; \"but tell me now of the abbey, and\nwherefore ye set fire to it; surely herein thou didst ill.\" Saith\nthe angel: \"I will tell thee in all truth. When the order was first\nestablished it was poor and unfavoured; the monks lived without\nchattels or revenue, yet they had sufficient unto each day, for God\ngave plenteously unto them that were their purveyors. In those days the\nbrethren of the convent led holy lives and served God with all their\nmight; and never, either morning or evening, did they neglect or fail\nof prayer. But now they had come to such a pass the order was going to\ndestruction, their rule was no longer heeded by them, for they would not\nlook before, and feared neither God nor man. Despite all their rents\nand goods they had no will to visit the poor nor aid them, nor do aught\nin charity. To get money and heap up wealth that they might take their\npleasure, they grew false and cruel. Each one thought to be abbot, or at\nthe least, provost, steward or cellarer; and each one was all desirous\nto have his the richest abbey. The churches and chapterhouses were\nneglected, and the refectory and halls were given over to idle talk and\ntale telling; and God willed that they should lose these things and\nbecome poor. Never shall ye hear praise of a rich monk; but know ye\nwell a monk should be lowly, and he would be truly religious. Among\nthe poor shall ye find God, there is his true hostel upon the earth; and\ntherefore it was God's will to bring these monks again to poverty, to\namend them of their folly and sin. Those who desired power and place\nwill no longer, in that it would now yield them nought. They will build\nthem new houses nought so rich as before, and the poor labourer will\ngain somewhat of the wealth of the monks, who henceforth will be more\ncompassionate. For such reasons God made me to kindle the fire that\ndestroyed all the convent.\" Quoth the hermit: \"Well didst thou do, and\nherein I hold me content. But why didst thou drown the child of the good\nman who made us such cheer? For nought will I believe that was not very\nmurder.\" Saith the angel: \"Now hear why this was done in all justice;\nwise is he who learneth well.\n\n\"Now know, fair and dear hermit, the good man ye saw yesterday and who\nentertained us with such good will, had lived together with his wife for\nthirty years uprightly. Never a poor man came to his house but he gave\nhim lodging and shared with him what he had, and so much of his fortune\nhe gave away for God's sake that little was left him thereof; and he\nshone with charity. But much he desired to have a son, that he might\nleave his lands to him and teach him to serve God with all his heart.\nMany prayers he made to heaven, and many tears he wept, and at last God\ngranted them a child. Ten years of age or more he had come to be, and\nthe good man had grown hard of heart because of the son to whom he would\nbequeath his goods, and had so set himself to the heaping up of money\nthat his heart had no other thought; that which had been his wont he\nturned from, and had grown cold and fainthearted; his good deeds he\nforgot, and within a short space he would have become a usurer rather\nthan see his child poor in goods and heritage; it was in his heart, and\nsuch a thought would soon have come to him that all his well doing had\nbeen undone, and he had lost his soul and that of his son. But now\nthrough the loss of the child he hath escaped all peril, and the child\nknew nought of sin, wholly pure he was, wherefore he was taken to such a\nplace that his soul is now in paradise. And his father will amend him,\nand he and the mother will be more fearful, and will turn to deeds of\ncharity. So all three shall be saved, and God did graciously to the\nparents in that he took the child to his profit. Now have I made known\nto you, fair, sweet friend, the reason of my deeds. In this wise God\nhath shown you how divers are his judgments, that in this world he taxes\nhis people and renders them poor and destitute; and ofttimes grants great\nriches to his enemies, for that they shall have no part in heaven. So\nit is even as I tell you; and now may I abide here no longer; bethink\nye of well doing, get ye back to your hermitage and do penance.\" And\nforthright the youth changeth his semblance, and became a wondrous\nangel; and he rose into heaven, singing, \"Gloria in excelsis Deo.\"\n\nTo the hermit it seemed he had heard him for too short a space, and fain\nhad he not been parted from such joy. He cast himself upon the ground\nand stretched out his arms in the form of the cross, and weeping, gave\nthanks to God for the goodness he had shown him. He returned again to\nthe hermitage which he had left in his folly; there he lived all his\nlife, and when death came to him God saved his soul, and crowned it in\nparadise.\n\nNow may God grant us in this life such desire of well doing that we\nshall win the light whereby we may know God and man.\n\n\n\n\nThe Jousting of Our Lady\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nSweet Jesus, what a fair feat of arms he doth, and how nobly he bears\nhis part in the tourney who of good will entereth the minster wherein\nis celebrated the holy mystery of the sweet son of the Virgin Mother.\nTo show this I will now tell a story, even as I found it in the book\nof examples.\n\nA knight, sage and courteous, hardy and of great valiance, that none in\nall chivalry was of so great worship, held ever in great love Mary the\nVirgin. To prove his valiance and to exercise his body in feats of arms\nhe was on his way to a tourney, armed and fortified in his joy. So it\nbefell on the day of the jousting, that he to please God rode forth full\nhastily, for fain would he be first in the field. But anon from a church\nhardby he heard the bells give signal of the singing of holy mass. And\nstraightway the knight turned into the church to listen to the service\nof God. Within they sang nobly and devoutly a mass in praise of Mary\nthe Holy Virgin; and then straightway they began another. Full well\nthe knight gave ear and prayed with good heart to Our Lady.\n\nNow when the second mass was done a third was begun forthright in the\nsame place. Thereupon his squire bespoke the knight: \"Sir, by the holy\nbody of God the hour of the tourney is passing, and do you yet linger\nhere? Come away I pray you. Think you to turn hermit, or devotee, or\nhypocrite? Go we now about our own proper trade.\" \"Friend,\" the knight\nthen made answer, \"he jousts right nobly who listens to the service of\nGod. When all the masses are said and sung we will ride our way; and\nif it please God, we will not leave before; but afterwards, for God's\nhonour, I will go joust full hardily.\" Thereafter he spoke no more,\nbut turned his face to the altar and remained at prayer until all the\nchanting was ended.\n\nThen the twain mounted their horses, as it behooved them to do, and\nfared forth towards the place wherein they were to take their sport.\nBut even as they rode, they met other knights returning from the tourney\nwhich already had been fought out from end to end. And lo you, the\nknight who came even then from mass was he who had won the prize. They\nwho were returning, greeted him and praised him, and said that never\nhad any knight done so great feats of arms as he had that day done, and\nalways thenceforth would the honour thereof be his. Many there were who\nsurrendered themselves to him, saying: \"We are your prisoners, this we\nmay not deny, nor that you won us by force of arms.\" Then was the knight\nno longer abashed, for he understood speedily that she for whose sake he\nhad stayed him in the church had borne his part in the battle.\n\nFrank and free he called his barons about him, and said to them: \"Now\ngive ear, all ye of your courtesy, for I would tell you of such a marvel\nthat never have ye heard its like.\" Then he told them point by point how\nhe had waited to hear out the masses, and had not entered the lists, nor\nfought with either lance or shield, but he believed that the Maid whom\nhe had worshipped within the church had fought for him in his stead.\n\"Right wondrous is the tourney wherein she hath jousted for me, yet I\nshould make small account thereof and if I did not now do combat for\nher; foolish and simple would I be and if I turned me again to the\nvanities of the world.\" And so of a sooth he promised God that never\nthenceforth would he tourney save before the true judge, who knoweth\nall good knights and passeth sentence upon them according to their\ndeeds. Then he took leave full piteously, and many a one wept thereat\nright tenderly. But he departed from them, and in an abbey of monks\nthenceforth served the Virgin Mary, and methinks he held to the path\nthat leadeth to a good end.\n\nBy this ensample we may well see that the gentle God, whom we worship,\nloves and cherishes and honours him who gladly stays him to hear mass\nin holy church, and who gladly does service to his fair, sweet Mother.\nFruitful is the custom thereof, and he who is sage and courteous\nwillingly practises good manners; for what the colt learneth in\nteething time that will he hold to so long as he liveth.\n\n\n\n\nThe Order of Chivalry\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWell it is when the wise man speaketh, for thereby may we win much of\nwisdom and good and courtesy; well it is to haunt the company of him who\ntaketh heed to his ways and setteth not his heart upon folly. For as\nwe read in Solomon, the man who hath understanding doeth well in all\nthings, and if at whiles he fail in aught unwittingly, lightly should\nhe be forgiven, inasmuch as he would forsake his wrongdoing.\n\nBut now it behooveth me to speak and tell and relate a tale I heard of\na king in the land of paynimry, who of old was a right great lord and a\nfull loyal Saracen. Saladin was his name; cruel he was, and many a time\ndid great hurt to our faith and damage to our folk by his pride and\noutrageousness; until upon a time it fell that a prince came to do\nbattle with him. Hugh of Tabarie he hight, and with him was a great\ncompany of knights of Galilee, for he was lord of that land. Many\ngood deeds of arms were done that day, but it was not the will of the\nCreator, whom we call the King of Glory, that the victory should be with\nus, for there Prince Hugh was taken prisoner. He was led away down the\nstreets, and forthwith brought before Saladin, who greeted him in his\nown tongue which he knew right well. \"By Mahomet,\" so saith the king,\n\"I am right glad of thy taking, Hugh; and now one thing I promise thee,\neither thou must die or render great ransom.\" \"Since you give me choice\nherein,\" Hugh answered him, \"I will take the ransom, if it be that I\nhave the wherewithal to defray it.\" \"Yea,\" so saith the king to him,\n\"thou shalt give over to me a hundred thousand besants.\" \"Ha, sir, that\ncould I not compass, even were I to sell all my land.\" \"In sooth ye\nshall do it,\" quoth Saladin. \"But by what means, sir?\" \"Thou art of\ngreat valiance and full of high chivalry, and no man of worth will\nrefuse thee when thou askest for thy ransom, but will give thee a fair\ngift; and in this wise thou shalt aquit thee.\" \"Now I would fain ask\nthee how I may depart from here?\" And Saladin made answer: \"Hugh, thou\nshalt pledge me on thy word and thy law that two years from to-day\nwithout fail thou shalt have paid thy ransom, or thou wilt return again\nto my prison; on these terms ye may depart.\" \"Sir,\" saith he, \"I give\nthee good thanks, and even so make pledge.\"\n\nThen he straightway asked leave in that he would return again to his own\ncountry, but the king took him by the hand and led him away into his own\nchamber, and gently besought him: \"Hugh,\" he saith, \"by the faith that\nye owe to the God of your law, make me wise for I am fain to know all\nthe Order of Chivalry, and how knights are made.\" \"Fair sir,\" Hugh made\nanswer, \"this I may not do.\" \"Why so, fair sir?\" \"Even that will I tell\nthee. In thee the holy order of knighthood would be ill bestowed, for\nthou art of the false law, and have neither faith nor baptism. It were\ngreat folly were I to deck and cover a dunghill with cloth of silk to\nthe end it should no longer stink; in no wise could I compass it; and\neven so would I misdo, were I to invest thee with this order; never\nwould I dare do it, for much would I be blamed.\" \"Not so, Hugh,\" saith\nhe, \"no blame would be thine herein, for thou art my prisoner and\nneeds must do my will, howsoever much it mislike thee.\" \"Sir, if I must\nperforce do this thing, and no denial will avail, do it I will without\nmore caviling.\"\n\nThereupon Hugh beginneth to show him all it behooved him to do, and let\ndress his hair and beard and face right fairly, as is meet for a new\nknight. And next he made him enter a bath, and when the soudan asked him\nwhat this might signify, \"Sir,\" he made answer, \"this bath wherein you\nare bathed is to signify that even as the child which is born in sin\nissueth out of the font pure after baptism, even so, sir, should you\nissue forth clean of all felony, and be fulfilled with courtesy; for you\nshould bathe in honesty and courtesy and kindliness, that you may come\nto be loved of all men.\" \"God! right fair is this beginning,\" then said\nthe king. And thereafter he was taken out of the bath, and laid in a\ngoodly bed which was dight right heedfully. \"Hugh, tell me now without\nfail what this bed betokeneth.\" \"Sir, this bed signifieth to you that by\nyour chivalry you should win the bed of Paradise that God granteth to\nhis friends; for this is the bed of rest, and great is the folly of him\nwho will not lie therein.\"\n\nNow when he had lain in that bed for a little space, they raised him up,\nand clothed him in white garments of linen. Then again Hugh spake in his\nown tongue: \"Take not this thing lightly, for these white garments that\ncover your body give you to understand that a knight should always\nstudy to keep his flesh pure if he would attain to God.\" Thereafter he\ninvested him with a robe of scarlet, whereat Saladin marveleth much why\nthe prince so dighteth him. \"Hugh,\" he saith, \"now what does this robe\nbetoken?\" And Hugh of Tabarie maketh answer: \"Sir, this robe giveth\nyou to understand that you must hold you ready to shed your blood for\nthe defense of holy church, that it be wronged of no man; for so it\nbehooveth a knight to do, if he would fain please God: this the scarlet\ncolour betokeneth.\" \"Hugh,\" saith he, \"much I marvel.\" Thereafter the\nknight did upon his feet shoes of dark and fine-wrought say, and saith\nto him: \"Sir, of a sooth, this black foot-gear should remind you to hold\ndeath ever in remembrance, and the earth wherein you shall lie, that\ndust from which you came and to which you shall return again; upon this\nyou should set your eye, and fall not into pride; for pride should not\nhold sway over a knight, nor have any place within him, but he should\nseek simplicity in all things.\" \"All this is right good to hear,\" saith\nthe king, \"and rejoiceth me much.\"\n\nThereafter he stood upon his feet, and Hugh girt him about with a white\ngirdle finely wrought. \"Sir, by this girdle you are given to understand\nthat you should keep your flesh, your reins and all your body pure, even\nas in virginity, and scorn and blame all luxury. For a true knight\ngreatly loveth purity of body, that he sin not herein, in that such\nvileness is sore hated of God.\" And the king maketh answer: \"Good is\nuprightness.\" Next Hugh did two spurs upon his feet, and said to him:\n\"Even as swift as you would have your horse, and eager for the race when\nyou smite him with your spurs, and that he turn quickly this way or that\naccording to your will, even so these golden spurs betoken that ye be\neager to serve God all your life; for so do all knights that love God\nwith their very hearts, always they serve him loyally.\" Well pleased\ntherewith was Saladin.\n\nThereafter he was girt with a sword, and asked what the blade might\nsignify. \"Sir,\" saith Hugh, \"ward and surety against the onset of the\nfoe. The sword is two-edged, even as you see, which giveth you to\nunderstand that always should the knight have both justice and loyalty;\nwhich is to say, meseemeth, that he should always protect the poor that\nthe rich may not tread them down, and support the weak that the strong\nmay not bring them to shame. Even such is the work of mercy.\" Saladin,\nwho hath given good heed to his words, agreeth well thereto. Next Hugh\nset upon his head a coif all of white, and of this likewise the Sultan\nasked the meaning. \"Look you sir,\" saith Hugh, \"even as you know the\ncoif to be without spot, but that, fair and white, clean and pure, it\ncrowneth your head, even so upon the Day of Doom must we straightway\nrender up the soul pure and clean of our sins and all the wrong that the\nbody ever doeth to God, that we may earn the delights of Paradise,--for\ntongue may not tell, nor the ear hear, nor the heart dream what is the\nbeauty of that Paradise which God granteth to his friends.\"\n\nThe king gave heed to all this, and thereafter asked if there were now\nno more to be done. \"Yes, fair sir, but this one thing I dare not.\" \"And\nwhat may it be?\" \"Sir, the accolade.\" \"But why have you not given it to\nme and told its significance?\" \"Sir, it is the reminder of him who girt\na knight with his gear and invested him with the order; but never will\nI give it to you, for though I am in your power I ought to do no felony\nfor aught that may be said or done to me, wherefore I will not give you\nthe accolade; and this you must hold for true. But none the less I will\nshow and tell and teach you the four weightiest matters that a knight\nshould know and hold to all his life, if he would fain win honour.\n\n\"First of all let him have no part in false judgments, or be in that\nplace wherein is treason, but flee from it right speedily, for if he may\nnot change the wrong, let him straightway depart from it. Full fair is\nthe second charge: that he in no wise miscounsel dame or damsel, but if\nthey have need of him, aid them he must with all his might, if he would\nhave glory and praise; for a knight should hold women in honour and do\nhigh deeds in their defense. Now soothly the third point is that he\nshould practise abstinence; and truly I tell you that he should fast on\nFriday in holy remembrance of Jesus Christ, that for our redemption he\nwas smitten with the spear and gave pardon to Longinus. All his life\nthrough should the knight fast upon that day for the sake of our Lord\nJesus Christ,--if he be not forced to fail of it by reason of sickness,\nor of fellowship, and if for such cause he fail of his fast it behooveth\nhim to make peace with God by alms-giving or other good deeds. And\nlastly, the fourth charge is that he should hear mass each day, and if\nhe have the wherewithal should make offering, for right well is that\ngift placed that is laid upon the table of God, for so it beareth great\nvirtue.\"\n\nThe king hath given right good heed to all that Hugh telleth him, and\nhath great joy therein. And now he riseth, dight even as he is, and\ngoeth straight into his hall, where were assembled fifty amirals, all of\nhis own land. He sitteth down in his great chair; and Hugh sat at his\nfeet, but right soon the king raised him up, and showed him to one of\nthe high seats, and spoke, saying: \"Know now of a sooth that I would\nfain make thee a fair gift in that thou art a man of valour and worth,\nfor I promise thee fairly that if any of thy folk are taken, in melee or\nbattle, they shall for thy sake go free, if thou wilt come to ask it.\nBut thou shalt ride through my land peacefully and without disorder;\nhang thy helm on the neck of thy palfrey in all men's sight, that no man\nmay do thee any hurt. And of thy folk that are now in my prison I will\nsurrender ten of them to thee, if thou wouldst fain take them hence with\nthee.\" \"Gramercy sir,\" saith Hugh, \"for this deed deserveth good thanks.\nBut I would not forget that thou didst bid me whenever I met with a man\nof worth, that I ask him to aid me in my ransom; now none know I of so\ngreat worth as thou thyself, sir king, wherefore give me somewhat, as\nis meet in that thou didst bid me ask.\" Whereupon Saladin laughed and\nspoke, even as a man well pleased, saying: \"Thou hast begun right well,\nand freely and fairly will I give thee fifty thousand good besants, for\nI would not that thou shouldst fail through me.\" Thereafter he arose and\nsaid to Hugh: \"Go now to each baron and I will go with thee.\" And he\nspoke to them, saying, \"Lords, give us wherewith to help ransom this\nhigh prince.\" Then the amirals there gathered began to give to him, so\nthat he had his full ransom, and thirteen thousand besants over and\nabove, so much they gave and promised him.\n\nThereafter Hugh asked leave to go from the land of paynimry. \"Nay,\"\nsaith the king, \"go thou shalt not until thou hast received the residue\nof that they have promised us, for out of my own treasury shall be taken\nthose thirteen thousand besants of pure gold.\" Whereupon he commanded\nhis treasurer that he give the besants to Hugh, and thereafter claim\nthem again from those who had made promise to give. And the treasurer\nhath justly measured out the besants, and given them over to Count Hugh\nwho must needs take them, though liefer had he left them behind, for he\nwas fain to ransom his folk who were in thraldom and sore captivity in\nthe hands of the Saracens. But when Saladin heard this, he swore by\nMahomet that never should they be ransomed; and Hugh, when he heard him\nsay so, had great wrath in his heart, but inasmuch as the king had sworn\nby Mahomet, he did not make bold to press him further, for he dared not\nanger him.\n\nThen he bade array his ten companions, the which he was free to take\nback into his own land. Yet thereafter he abode and tarried a good\neight days in high feasting and great delight, but at the end demanded\nsafe-conduct through that land of disbelief. And Saladin granted him\ngood store of his men, fifty there were who without pride or felony\nescorted them through the land of paynimry, that they had no let or\nhindrance on the way. Then the Saracens turned back, and each departed\ninto his own land; and the Prince of Galilee likewise returned home,\nbut sore he grieved because of his folk he must needs leave behind\nhim; he might no wise amend it, yet he was more wroth thereat than any\nman beside. So into his own land he came with those ten and no more.\nThereupon he divided the great treasure he had brought with him, and\ngave of it to many a man who thereby grew wealthy.\n\nLords, this tale should be welcome to good folk, but to others it shall\nbe as nought, for they understand no better than silly sheep. By the\nfaith I owe to God in Paradise, he will of a sooth lose his jewels who\ncasteth them before swine, for know ye they will tread them underfoot,\nand take no delight therein, for they have not wit thereto, rather they\nwill take them all awry. And whoso should tell this tale to such like,\nhe too would be spurned and held as nought by their folly. But whoso\nwould learn herein may find two things right goodly in this same tale:\none, in the beginning, telleth the manner wherein knights are made, such\nas all men should honour, inasmuch as they defend us all. For if it were\nnot for chivalry little would our baronage avail, for 'tis the knights\ndefend Holy Church, and do justice against those who would mishandle us;\nand I will not withhold me from their praise. He who loveth them not\nshoweth himself a fool, even as one who should steal away the chalices\nfrom the table of God before our eyes, and might not be restrained\ntherefrom. Now their righteousness taketh heed that by them we have\ngood defense; for if they did not repulse evil folk the good might not\nendure, and there would be none left save Albigenses and Saracens and\nBarbarians and folk of the false law who would make us deny our faith.\nBut such as these stand in fear of knights, wherefore of us those same\nshould be held right dear, and exalted and honoured, and we should\nalways rise upon our feet when from afar we see them coming. Certes, we\nshould scorn those who hold them of little worth. And now I tell you of\na sooth the knight is privileged to have all his arms and to bear them\nin holy church when he goeth to hear mass, that no ill man may interrupt\nthe service of the Son of Mary, or that of the Holy Sacrament whereby\nwe win salvation; and if any seek to hinder it, him the knight may slay\nforthwith.\n\nYet a little more it behooveth me to say: come what may, do ye the\nright. This command is laid upon the knight, and if we are to hold him\ndear, let him give good heed to it. And boldly I tell you that if he\nlive according to his order, he cannot fail of coming straight into\nParadise. So have I taught you this: do that you ought, and honour\nknights above all other men, save only the priest who doth the sacrament\nof God's own body.\n\nNow soothly I tell you by this tale ye may know the truth of what befell\nPrince Hugh, who was right brave and wise. And inasmuch as he found him\nfull valiant, Saladin praised him, and bade great honour be done to him,\nin that he did good with all his might, for thereby may one win great\nworth. And I find writ in Latin, good deeds bring a good ending. And now\nat the end let us pray to him who is without end, that when we come to\nthe end of all things, we may so end that we shall win that pure joy\nwhich for the good hath no end. And for him who wrote this, may he dwell\nwith Jesus Christ, and in the love of Saint Mary; amen, amen, saith each\nand all.\n\nHere endeth The Order of Chivalry.\n\n\n\n\nEpilogue\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe tales in this volume are among the earliest examples of the French\nshort story that have come down to us. They grew up in that little\nrenaissance of the XII and XIII centuries, when the tradition that\nliterature must be epic, that it must tell of national heroes or the\nhistory of some great house, was passing, and the trouvere was free to\ntake his matter where he found it and make of it what he would. Celtic\ntraditions, stories from the East or the classics, every day happenings,\nold legends and new manners, all were turned to account, and woven, it\nmight be, into a long romance full of leisurely digressions, or retold\nin a tale admirably compact.\n\nThe short stories, like most of the literature of the time, were\ncomposed in octo-syllabic rhyming couplets, verse narratives for\nminstrels to recite. Of their authors for the most part we know nothing.\nTheir very names have vanished save in the few cases where they were\nwrought into prelude or epilogue, and made part of the text: and to none,\nwith the exception of Marie de France can more than one or two tales be\nattributed. So impersonal, however, are the stories that their being\nanonymous matters little. We look to them not for the flavour of any one\nman's mind, but for an impression of the age in which they were\nproduced, its shows and fashions, its manners, its sentiments and\nideals, its inheritance of early legends, of old, word-of-mouth\nstory-telling, stories which the trouveres dressed anew and preserved\nto us.\n\nThe tales fall into three main groups: _lais_, _fabliaux_, and _contes\ndevots_. The _lais_, like the romances to which they are close akin,\nbelong to the courtly literature of the time and found their audience in\nhall and castle. Denis Pyramus, a contemporary, in writing of Marie de\nFrance, tells us her lays were \"beloved and held right dear by counts\nand barons and knights,\" and that \"ladies likewise took great joy and\ndelight in them.\" Like the romances which they helped to foster and\nwhich superseded them, the lays tell of love and adventure, of enchantment\nand strange happenings. In them side by side with the knights and\nsquires and ladies move fays and giants and werewolves. Their material\nis that of folklore and fairy-tale. A knight hunting in the _lande\nadventureuse_ meets a maiden in the forest who leads him to a castle\nwith green walls and shining towers. There he spends three days, and\nwhen he would return home again, learns that three hundred years have\ngone by, that the king, his uncle is dead and his cities have fallen,\nand there lingers but a legend of the king's nephew who went out to hunt\nthe white boar and was lost in the forest. Often in such lays the old\nfairy-tale simplicity, its matter-of-fact narration of the marvellous\nsurvives; and yet in their somewhat spare brevity they have a grace and\ncharm that lets one feel the beauty, the wonder, or the tragedy of the\nstory.\n\nBut the interest in the lays is not always that of the land of faery;\nsometimes it is human enough, as in The Two Lovers where, despite the\nold-time test and the magic potion, our delight is all in the maid and\nthe damoiseau \"who hath in him no measure.\" Sometimes, as in Eliduc, we\nfind old, rude material--here a primitive Celtic tale of a man with two\nwives ill cloaked by its additions of mediaeval Christianity--retold with\na strange gentleness and sweetness, and turned at moments into a story\nof emotion and scruple.\n\nBoth types occur in the lays of Marie de France,--the best that have\ncome down to us. Besides her lays she versified a collection of fables,\n_Isopet_, and translated from the Latin _The Purgatory of Saint\nPatrick_,--one of those other-world journeys that preceded the Divine\nComedy. Yet apart from her works we have no record of her life. She\nherself in the prologue of her fables, tells her name: \"I am called\nMarie, and I am of France\"; but that is all, and it is only the internal\nevidence of her writings, their Anglo-Norman dialect, and a few chance\nhints and phrases that have made scholars decide that she was a Norman,\nor from that part of the Isle de France which borders upon Normandy,\nthat she lived and wrote in England in the second half of the twelfth\ncentury, and that the unnamed king to whom she dedicated the lays was\nHenry II.\n\nMarie makes no claim to originality of theme; in her prologues she tells\nus she is but rhyming anew the stories \"whereof the Bretons have made\nlays.\" Just what the source was of the Celtic matter used by Marie and\nother French writers of the time is a point of dispute among scholars.\nSome will have it the tales came wholly from the Celts of Brittany,\nothers that they are derived only from those of Wales. But there is\nreason in both theories, and the tendency now is to unite them. The\nNormans of the continent had not a little to do with their Breton\nneighbors of Armorica; sometimes they fought as enemies and sometimes\nas allies. Again, in England the Normans early settled in South Wales,\nand intermarriages were frequent. In both regions, then, they may well\nhave learned to know the songs and tales of the folk about them.\n\nBut were they Welsh or Armorican, both history and romance bear\ntestimony to the popularity of Breton minstrels in France during the\ntwelfth century. No feast was complete without their music. Their lays\nwere sung to the accompaniment of a little harp called the _rote_, and\nseem to have been given in their own tongue. But constantly in Marie and\nother writers we find a distinction between the _lai_ and the _conte_,\nand it seems probable that the songs were preceded by a short prose\nnarrative, or that prose and verse were interspersed after the manner of\n_Aucassin and Nicolette_. In just what form the tales came to Marie, how\nmuch she added to them, we cannot tell. We only know that her rendering\nof them was to the liking of the time and was long popular. Denis\nPyramus tells us her writings were often repeated and often copied,\nand we have manuscripts of them that date from a hundred years after\nher time.\n\nAs the _lai_ was the favorite literature of the courts the _fabliau_ was\nthat of the bourgeoisie, the proper kind of tale for telling at fairs or\nguild-hall feasts, at gatherings where women were not present. In time\nthey are a little later than the _lais_, for beginning in the twelfth,\nthe thirteenth century is their chief period. They deal not with the\nfanciful and the sentimental, but with the real and the comic; they\nforego magic and miracle for the happenings of every-day life. \"When a\ntale is historic,\" says M. de Montaiglon, who has given us a complete\nedition of this type of story, \"or when it is impossible, when it is\ndevout or didactic, when it is imaginative or romantic, lyric or poetic,\nit can by no means be classed as a _fabliau_.\"\n\nAt their worst they are often gross, often puerile, mere _contes pour\nrire_ from which the laughter has long ago faded; but at their best they\ninterest by the very fact that they mark an early venture into the real.\nThey show us plainly the figures of the time, knights that put their\nlands in pawn that they might follow tourneys, the rich bourgeois riding\narmed to one of the great fairs, the minstrel ready to recite a _chanson\nde geste_ or carry a love message. Light and gay, always brief and to\nthe point, they tell good humoredly of the odd chances of life, they\nsatirize manners and morals. Unlike the lays that idealize women, they\nridicule them; and they are ready to mock the villein, the lords of the\nearth, or the saints in heaven.\n\nOften the story they tell is of eastern origin, often one of those\nstories that reappear in all times and among many races. Sometimes it\nis only a situation, a figure or two that they give us. Two minstrels\nmeet and mock one another; each boasts his skill and decries that of\nthe other, each enumerates his repertory, and in so doing hopelessly\nconfuses the names and incidents of well-known romances of the time:\n\"I know all about Kay the good knight; I know about Perceval of Blois,\nand of Pertenoble le Gallois.\" Each, as he brags, sets before us the\nstock in trade of the minstrel of the time; each shows his own utter\nincompetence,--and that is all the story. If the tale has a moral, as in\n_The Divided Blanket_, it is but the moral of common sense. If it tells\na romance, as in _The Gray Palfrey_, it is still kept within the solid\nworld of pounds and pence. We are told precisely concerning everybody's\nincome. The heroine shows herself as accurate in her knowledge of the\nproperty of the hero's uncle as would one of the practical-minded damsels\nof Balzac. Her rescue is brought about not by the help of magic or\nknightly adventure, but by a lucky chance; the conclusion turns upon a\nsleepy escort and a horse's eagerness for his stable. Time and place,\nagain, are definitely specified. In the lays it is usually, \"Once upon a\ntime,\" or \"Of old, there lived a king,\" but _The Divided Blanket_ begins:\n\"Some twenty years ago, a rich man of Abbeville left his home and came\nup to Paris.\"\n\nMore limited in scope than the other tales of the period, they at least\naccomplish their aim, that is, they give us a swift and entertaining\nnarrative. \"A little tale wearies less than a long one,\" says one of\nthe prologues, and most of the _fabliaux_ contrive to tell their story\nin four or five hundred lines. Peculiarly Gallic in character, they\ninfluenced the literature of other countries less than did the French\nlays and romances, they were less often imitated and translated. In\nFrance they were popular for two hundred years; then we hear no more\nof them. But in the fifteenth century, when printed books and the stage\nwere taking the place of the minstrel, we find, as M. de Montaiglon\npoints out, similar plots and situations, the same shrewd though not\ndeep observation, the same fashion of treating the every-day incidents\nof life from the comic point of view recurring again in the farces.\n\nThe church in the middle ages looked askance upon the minstrels and\ntheir stock in trade; the sermons of the time denounce their \"ignoble\nfables,\" their \"tales all falsehood and lying.\" But the church did\nnot only censure, it tried to supplant, and produced within its own\nboundaries, quite apart from its more learned work in Latin, a large\nbody of narrative literature in the vulgar tongue. These religious\nstories were written by lay clerks or by monks in the monastery schools,\nand like other tales were spread abroad by minstrels. Those who recited\nthem were shown some favour, and M. Petit de Julleville quotes a\n_Somme de Penitence_ of the thirteenth century which would admit to\nthe sacraments those \"jongleurs who sing the exploits of princes and\nthe lives of the saints, and use their instruments of music to console\nmen in their sadness and weariness.\"\n\nBesides the lives of saints we have tales of miracles performed by Our\nLady, tales of penitence, tales of good counsel. As a whole they are\nless interesting than the lay literature of the time. Written for\nedification, many of them are rather bare little \"examples\" and their\nauthors show themselves more concerned with the lesson in point than\nwith the story. Others are told with more elaboration and skill and\ngive us good tale-telling. Sometimes, as in _The Angel and the Hermit_,\nan ancient story is given a mediaeval setting. M. Gaston Paris, in\n_La Poesie au Moyen Age_, has traced the history of this tale, which,\noriginally of Jewish invention, has travelled all over Europe; a tale\nthat was given a place in the _Koran_, and that was told both by Luther\nand Voltaire, besides its good rendering by some unknown clerk of\nFrance. Another story, _Theophilus_, gives a version of the Faust\nlegend, and tells the story of a man who has made a compact with the\ndevil, but who in this case is saved in the end by Our Lady.\n\nBut if among the _contes devots_ tales as vivid as that of the proud\nknight on whom was laid the penance of the cask are rare, there are yet\nnot a few that charm us by their mere sincerity and simplicity, that\ninterest by revealing to us the superstitions and the beliefs of the\ntime. They show us how vividly present to men's minds was the triple\ndivision of the world, how concrete that heaven and hell, whence issued\non the one side the demons, on the other the Virgin and the saints to\ntake share in the combat on earth for men's temptation and salvation.\nTo turn the pages of a collection of these stories is like looking up\nat the dim, stiff figures of some early fresco, to see again, say, the\nstrife of angels and devils for souls in The Triumph of Death on the\nwalls of the Campo Santo in Pisa.\n\nJust as the spirit of the _fabliaux_ is found again in the farces, so\nthat of the _contes devots_ continues in the miracle plays. But when,\nin the fifteenth century, prose drives out verse narrative, all three\ntypes of tale cease. In the renaissance and for long after they were\nneglected. It was in the eighteenth century, with its curiosity\nconcerning the mediaeval, that men turned back to the manuscripts so long\ndisregarded. Barbazan brought out a collection of texts, and Legrand\nd'Aussy published a collection of abridgments of twelfth and thirteenth\ncentury tales. Since then, various editors, both French and German, have\nmade the best of the tales available to us.\n\nTaken together, apart from the pleasure of the story for the story's\nsake, they give us a fresh sense of the time in which they were written,\nits feasts and tourneys bright with the gold and the vair; its wars, its\ninterrupted traffic and barter; its license, its asceticism; its prayers\nand its visions. More than that, they interest us as standing midway\nbetween the old and the new. In them one may look for fragments of\nvanished stories, bits of myth and folklore, salvage of an age that told\nits tales instead of writing them; and, at the same time, we find in\nthem the beginnings of modern literature, the first of that long and\ngoodly line, the French short story. For all their simplicity they show\nthe beginnings of a shrewd observation, of delicate description, and\nabove all of compact narrative where no words are wasted. Already there\nis a conscious artistic pride; Marie de France tells us she has waked\nmany a night in rhyming her verses; and \"Know ye,\" one of the _fabliaux_\ncharges us, \"it is no light thing to tell a goodly tale.\"\n\n\n\n\nBibliography\n\nList of Texts followed in These Translations\n\n\nThe Lay of the Bird, _Le Lai de l'Oiselet_, edited by Gaston Paris,\n    Paris, 1884. Privately printed.\n\nThe Two Lovers, The Woful Knight (Chaitivel), Eliduc: _Die Lais der\n    Marie de France_, edited by Karl Warnke, Halle, 1900.\n\nMelion, _Lai d'Ignaures, Suivi des Lais de Melion et du Trot_, edited\n    by Monmerque et Francisque Michel, Paris, 1832.\n\nThe Lay of the Horn: _Le Lai du Cor_, edited by F. Wulf, Lunt, 1888.\n    Also Tobler's notes on the same, _Zeitschrift fuer Romanische\n    Philologie_, XII., 266.\n\nOf the Churl who Won Paradise, The Divided Blanket, The Gray Palfrey:\n    _Recueil des Fabliaux des xii^e et xiii^e Siecles_, edited by\n    A. de Montaiglon and G. Raynaud, 6 vols., Paris, 1872-90.\n\nThe Knight of the Little Cask: _Zwei Altfranzoesische Dichtungen_,\n    _La Chastelaine de Saint Gille_, _Du Chevalier au Barisel_,\n    edited by O. Schultzgora, Halle, 1889.\n\nThe Angel and the Hermit: _Nouveau Recueil de Fabliaux et Contes_,\n    edited by M. Meon, 2 vols. Paris, 1823.\n\nThe Jousting of Our Lady: Chrestomatie de l'ancien francais, Karl\n    Bartsch, Leipzig, 1880.\n\nThe Order of Chivalry: _Fabliaux et Contes_, edited by E. Barbazan,\n    and revised by M. Meon, 4 vols., Paris, 1808.\n\n\n\n\nTranslator's Note\n\n\nNOTE.--In recent years, in various small books, a number of mediaeval\nFrench tales, chiefly the lays, have been rendered accessible to English\nreaders, but no attempt has been made to bring together in a single\ncollection examples of the different types of tales. The translator has\ntried within a small compass to show something of the range and scope of\nthe Old French short story, and at the same time to choose, as far as\nmight be, tales that had not been previously translated.\n\nThree of those included in the volume have, however, already been done\ninto English. _The Two Lovers_ and _Eliduc_ appeared in _Seven Lays\nof Marie de France_, by Edith Rickert, London, 1901; and a metrical\ntranslation by William Morris of _The Order of Chivalry_ was printed\nin the Kelmscott Press edition of Caxton's _Order of Chivalry_. Of the\nothers, I believe, no complete English version has been made. Condensed\nrenderings, however, of _The Order of Chivalry_ and _The Lay of the\nBird_ occur in Way's Selections of Fabliaux and Tales, London, 1796 and\n1800. Also Leigh Hunt used the plot of _Le Vair Palefroi_ for his poem\n_The Palfrey_; and in Parnell's _Hermit_ an often told story is again\nrepeated, and the anchorite and his divine comrade move, strange\nfigures, through the ordered, eighteenth century landscape.\n\nMany of the Old French tales have been preserved to us in but a single\nmanuscript, with the result we have few critical texts. Such excellent\neditions as Warnke's _Lais of Marie de France_ are rare, and the\ntranslator often encounters difficulties by the way. Some of the\nreadings must perforce be conjectural, and others can but reproduce\nthe ambiguities of the original. At the end of _The Gray Palfrey_\nI have omitted altogether a long but incomplete sentence that begins\nto tell us what happened next between the hero and his uncle. Zorak's\ntext of _Melion_ (_Zeitsckrift fuer Romanische philologie_, vol. vi.)\nunfortunately did not come to my notice until these translations were\nin press, too late to do more than borrow a few readings where Michel\nis most unsatisfactory.\n\nA word should be said as to the grouping of the tales. The types are not\nso distinct but that there is a borderland between the _lai_ and the\n_fabliau_ in which are found a few examples with the characteristics of\neach. _The Lay of the Bird_ is a case in point. Gaston Paris, in his\n_Litterature Francaise au Moyen Age_, classes it as a _fabliau_ because\nthe story is not of Celtic but Eastern origin; yet M. de Montaiglon does\nnot admit it to his complete edition of the _Fabliaux_. Indeed, the\nenchanted orchard, the talking bird, the sentiments, the praise of love\nare all in the manner of the courtly poetry. It is therefore, on account\nof its accessories, here included among the _lais_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  The Riverside Press\n  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS\n  U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Tales from the Old French","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":51777}