{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6323/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6323","id":"gutenberg_6323","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6323","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Children's Anthologies","Children's literature"],"text":"Produced by Tom Allen, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JUNIOR CLASSICS:\nA LIBRARY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: HE SEIZED THE HILT\nAND INSTANTLY DREW FORTH THE SWORD (Page 16)\nFrom the painting by Walter Crane]\n\n\n\n\nTHE JUNIOR CLASSICS\n\n\nSELECTED AND ARRANGED BY WILLIAM PATTEN\nManaging Editor of the Harvard Classics\n\nINTRODUCTION BY CHARLES W. ELIOT, LL.D.\nPresident Emeritus of Harvard University\n\nWITH A READING GUIDE BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON, Ph.D.\nProfessor of English, Harvard University\nPresident, Smith College, Northampton, Mass., since 1917\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME FOUR:\nHEROES AND HEROINES OF CHIVALRY\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nTHE STORY OF KING ARTHUR\n\nOf Arthur's Birth and How He Became King (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Round Table (Beatrice Clay)\n\nMerlin the Magician (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Sword Excalibur (Sir Thomas Malory)\n\nSir Launcelot and the Adventure of the Castle Perilous (Beatrice\nClay)\n\nSir Launcelot and the Falcon (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Adventures of Sir Gareth (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Coming of Sir Galahad (Beatrice Clay)\n\nHow Sir Galahad Won the Red Cross Shield (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Adventures of Sir Percivale (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Adventures of Sir Bors (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Adventures of Sir Launcelot (Beatrice Clay)\n\nHow Sir Launcelot Saw the Holy Grail (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe End of the Quest (Beatrice Clay)\n\nThe Fair Maid of Astolat (Beatrice Clay)\n\n\nTHE MABINOGION\n\nKynon's Adventure at the Fountain (Lady Charlotte Guest)\n\nOwain's Adventure at the Fountain (Lady Charlotte Guest)\n\nGawain's Adventure in Search of Owain (Lady Charlotte Guest)\n\nThe Adventure of the Lion (Lady Charlotte Guest)\n\nHow Pwyll Outwitted Gawl (Lady Charlotte Guest)\n\nHow Manawyddan Caught a Thief (Lady Charlotte Guest)\n\nThe Story of Lludd and Llevelys (Lady Charlotte Guest)\n\n\nTALES FROM EARLY ENGLISH CHRONICLES\n\nThe Adventures of King Horn (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nHorn is Dubbed Knight (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nHorn the Knight Errant (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nHorn in Exile (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nHorn's Return (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nThe King of Suddenne (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nHavelok Hid from the Traitor (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nHavelok Married Against His Will (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nHavelok Wins Back His Kingdom (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nThe Fair Unknown (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nThe Fight With the Two Giants (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nIn the Castle of the Sorcerers (F. J. H. Darton)\n\n\nTALES TOLD BY CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS\n\nThe Old Woman and the Knight (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nDeath and the Three Revellers (F. J. H. Darton)\n\nPatient Griselda (F. J. H. Darton)\n\n\nTALES FROM FRENCH AND ITALIAN CHRONICLES\n\nOgier the Dane (Thomas Bulfinch)\n\nA Roland for an Oliver (Thomas Bulfinch)\n\nThe Treason of Ganelon (Sir George W. Cox)\n\nThe Great Battle of Roncesvalles (Sir George W. Cox)\n\nCharlemagne Revenges Roland (Sir George W. Cox)\n\nHow Thierry Vanquished Ganelon (Sir George W. Cox)\n\nRinaldo and Bayard (Thomas Bulfinch)\n\nHow the Child of the Sea Was Made Knight (Robert Southey)\n\n\nTHE SPANISH CHRONICLE OF THE CID\n\nWhy Don Sancho Attacked His Neighbors (Robert Southey)\n\nDon Garcia Defies Don Sancho (Robert Southey)\n\nDon Garcia Takes Don Sancho Prisoner (Robert Southey)\n\nThe Siege of Zamora (Robert Southey)\n\nHow Don Diego Fought the Three Brothers (Robert Southey)\n\n\nTALES OF ROBIN HOOD\n\nRobin Hood and the Knight (Mary Macleod)\n\nLittle John and the Sheriff of Nottingham (Mary Macleod)\n\nHow Robin Hood Was Paid His Loan (Mary Macleod)\n\nThe Golden Arrow (Mary Macleod)\n\nHow the Sheriff Took Sir Richard Prisoner (Mary Macleod)\n\nHow the King Came to Sherwood Forest (Mary Macleod)\n\nHow Robin Hood Went Back to the Greenwood (Mary Macleod)\n\nRobin Hood and the Butcher (Mary Macleod)\n\nThe Jolly Tanner (Mary Macleod)\n\nHow Robin Hood Drew His Bow for the Last Time (Mary Macleod)\n\n\nDON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA (Miguel de Cervantes)\n\nAn Introduction to that Spanish Gentleman (Judge Parry)\n\nHe Sets Forth on His Adventures (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Knighting of Don Quixote (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Dreadful Adventure of the Windmills (Judge Parry)\n\nDon Quixote and the Goatherds (Judge Parry)\n\nHow Don Quixote Arrived at an Inn Which He Imagined to be a Castle\n(Judge Parry)\n\nHow Sancho Paid the Reckoning at the Inn (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Adventure of the Two Armies (Judge Parry)\n\nDon Quixote Does Penance as Did the Knights of Old (Judge Parry)\n\nSancho's Journey to the Lady Dulcinea (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Story of Cardenio (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Story of Dorothea (Judge Parry)\n\nThe End of the Penance (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Journey to the Inn (Judge Parry)\n\nSancho Panza's Story of His Visit to the Lady Dulcinea (Judge\nParry)\n\nDon Quixote Wages a Battle Against a Giant (Judge Parry)\n\nAdventures at the Inn (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Princess Micomicona (Judge Parry)\n\nThe Last of the Notable Adventures of our Good Knight (Judge\nParry)\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nHE SEIZED THE HILT, AND INSTANTLY DREW FORTH THE SWORD\nOf Arthur's Birth and How He Became King\nFrontispiece illustration in color from the painting by Walter\nCrane\n\nTHERE CAME AN ARM AND A HAND ABOVE THE WATER\nThe Sword Excalibur\nFrom the painting by Walter Crane\n\nAN AGED MAN ENTERED THE HALL, FOLLOWED BY A YOUNG MAN\nThe Coming of Sir Galahad\nFrom the painting by Walter Crane\n\n\"THIS IS MY BRIDE,\" HE CRIED TO ALL THE PEOPLE\nPatient Griselda\nFrom the drawing by Hugh Thomson\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThe word chivalry is taken from the French cheval, a horse. A knight\nwas a young man, the son of a good family, who was allowed to wear\narms. In the story \"How the Child of the Sea was made Knight,\" we are\ntold how a boy of twelve became a page to the queen, and in the\nopening pages of the story \"The Adventures of Sir Gareth,\" we get a\nglimpse of a young man growing up at the court of King Arthur. It was\nnot an easy life, that of a boy who wished to become a knight, but it\nmade a man of him. He was taken at an early age, sometimes when only\nseven years old, to the castle of the king or knight he was to\nserve. He first became a page or valet, and, under the instruction of\na governor, was taught to carve and wait on the table, to hunt and\nfish, and was drilled in wrestling and riding on horseback. Most pages\nwere taught to dance, and if a boy had talent he was taught to play\nthe harp so he could accompany his voice when singing to the ladies.\n\nBy the time a boy was fourteen he was ready to become an esquire. He\nwas then taught to get on and off a horse with his heavy armor on, to\nwield the battle axe, and practise tilting with a spear. His service\nto the ladies had now reached the point where he picked out a lady to\nserve loyally. His endeavor was to please her in all things, in order\nthat he might be known as her knight, and wear her glove or scarf as a\nbadge or favor when he entered the lists of a joust or tournament.\n\nTo become a knight was almost as solemn an affair as it was to become\na priest. Before the day of the ceremony he fasted, spent the night in\nprayer, confessed his sins, and received the Holy Sacrament. When\nmorning came he went, clothed in white, to the church or hall, with a\nknight's sword suspended from his neck. This the priest blessed and\nreturned to him. Upon receiving back the sword he went and knelt\nbefore the presiding knight and took the oath of knighthood. The\nfriends who accompanied him now came forward and handed him the spurs,\nthe coat of mail, the armlet and gauntlet, and having put these on he\ngirded on his sword. The presiding knight now bade him kneel, and,\ntouching him three times on the shoulder with the flat of his sword,\nhe pronounced the words that received him into the company of worthy\nknights: \"In the name of God, of St. Michael, and St. George, I make\nthee a knight; be valiant, courteous, and loyal!\" After this he\nreceived his helmet, his shield, and his spear, and the ceremony was\ncompleted.\n\nThe knight's real work, and greatest joy, was fighting for some one\nwho needed his help. Tournaments and jousts gave them chances to show\noff their skill in public. We must remember that there were no big\nopen-air theatres in those days, such as the Greeks had, no public\nraces or trials of strength such as the Greeks held in the stadiums,\nnor were there chariot races or fighting gladiators such as the Romans\nhad at an earlier day. Tournaments or jousts were the big public\nentertainments, and you will find a famous description of one by Sir\nWalter Scott in Ivanhoe, in the volume \"Stories that Never Grow Old,\"\nthe tournament of Ashby-de-la-Zouche. In it you will find a clear\ndescription of how the field of contest was laid out, of the\nmagnificent pavilions decorated with flags, and the galleries spread\nwith carpets and tapestries for the ladies.\n\nThe same qualities that made a manful fighter then, make one now: to\nspeak the truth, to perform a promise to the utmost, to reverence all\nwomen, to be constant in love, to despise luxury, to be simple and\nmodest and gentle in heart, to help the weak and take no unfair\nadvantage of an inferior. This was the ideal of the age, and chivalry\nis the word that expresses that ideal. In all our reading we shall\nperhaps find no more glowing example of it as something real, than in\nthe speech of Sir Jean de Vienne, governor of the besieged town of\nCalais who, when called upon by King Edward III of England to\nsurrender unconditionally, replied:--\n\n\"We are but a small number of knights and squires, who have loyally\nserved our lord and master as you would have done, and have suffered\nmuch ill and disquiet, but we will endure far more than any man has\ndone in such a post, before we consent that the smallest boy in the\ntown shall fare worse than ourselves.\"\n\nAnd this story you can find in the volume \"Tales of Courage and\nHeroism,\" entitled \"The Noble Burghers of Calais.\"\n\nWILLIAM PATTEN.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF KING ARTHUR\n\nThis great treasure-house of stories is to the English race what\nthe stories of Ulysses and Aeneas were to the Greeks and Latins, a\nnational inheritance of which they should be, and are, proud.\n\nThe high nobility, dauntless courage and gentle humility of Arthur and\nhis knights have had a great effect in moulding the character of\nEnglish peoples, since none of us can help trying to imitate what he\nadmires and loves most.\n\nAs a series of pictures of life in the Middle Ages the stories are of\nthe greatest value. The geography is confused, as it is in the Iliad\nand the Odyssey, and facts are sometimes mixed up with magic, but\nmodern critics believe there was a real Arthur, who lived about the\nyear 500 A.D.\n\n\n\n\nOF ARTHUR'S BIRTH AND HOW HE BECAME KING\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nLong years ago, there ruled over Britain a king called Uther\nPendragon. A mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet when he\nsought the love of the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have naught\nto do with him, so that, from grief and disappointment, Uther fell\nsick, and at last seemed like to die.\n\nNow in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so\npowerful that he could change his form at will, or even make himself\ninvisible; nor was there any place so remote that he could not reach\nit at once, merely by wishing himself there. One day, suddenly he\nstood at Uther's bedside, and said: \"Sir king, I know thy grief, and\nam ready to help thee. Only promise to give me, at his birth, the son\nthat shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have thy heart's desire.\"\nTo this the king agreed joyfully, and Merlin kept his word: for he\ngave Uther the form of one whom Igraine had loved dearly, and so she\ntook him willingly for her husband.\n\nWhen the time had come that a child should be born to the king and\nqueen, Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise; and\nUther swore it should be as he had said. Three days later, a prince\nwas born, and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the name of\nArthur; but immediately thereafter, the king commanded that the child\nshould be carried to the postern-gate, there to be given to the old\nman who would be found waiting without.\n\nNot long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come;\nso, by Merlin's advice, he called together his knights and barons, and\nsaid to them: \"My death draws near. I charge you, therefore, that ye\nobey my son even as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon him if he\nclaim not the crown when he is a man grown.\" Then the king turned his\nface to the wall and died.\n\nScarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of the\nnobles had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them would\nhave been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought himself\nfitted to be king, and, strengthening his own castle, made war on his\nneighbors until confusion alone was supreme, and the poor groaned\nbecause there was none to help them.\n\nNow when Merlin carried away Arthur--for Merlin was the old man who\nhad stood at the postern-gate--he had known all that would happen, and\nhad taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons until he\nshould be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all the wonders\nprophesied of him. He gave the child to the care of the good knight\nSir Ector to bring up with his son Kay, but revealed not to him that\nit was the son of Uther Pendragon that was given into his charge.\n\nAt last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth well\nskilled in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop of\nCanterbury and advised him that he should call together at\nChristmas-time all the chief men of the realm to the great cathedral\nin London; \"for,\" said Merlin, \"there shall be seen a great marvel by\nwhich it shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful king of this\nland.\" The archbishop did as Merlin counselled. Under pain of a\nfearful curse, he bade the barons and knights come to London to keep\nthe feast, and to pray heaven to send peace to the realm.\n\nThe people hastened to obey the archbishop's commands, and, from all\nsides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of\nOur Lord. And when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the\ncathedral they saw a strange sight. There, in the open space before\nthe church, stood, on a great stone, an anvil thrust through with a\nsword; and on the stone were written these words: \"Whoso can draw\nforth this sword is rightful King of Britain born.\"\n\nAt once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamoring to be the first\nto try his fortune, none doubting his success. Then the archbishop\ndecreed that each should make the venture in turn, from the greatest\nbaron to the least knight; and each in turn, having put forth his\nutmost strength, failed to move the sword one inch, and drew back\nashamed. So the archbishop dismissed the company, and having\nappointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers through all\nthe land to give word of great jousts to be held in London at Easter,\nwhen each knight could give proof of his skill and courage, and try\nwhether the adventure of the sword was for him.\n\nAmong those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector, and\nwith him his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young Arthur.\nWhen the morning came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay and Arthur\nmounted their horses and set out for the lists; but before they\nreached the field, Kay looked and saw that he had left his sword\nbehind. Immediately Arthur turned back to fetch it for him, only to\nfind the house fast shut, for all were gone to view the tournament.\nSore vexed was Arthur, fearing lest his brother Kay should lose his\nchance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he bethought him of the\nsword in the great anvil before the cathedral. Thither he rode with\nall speed, and the guards having deserted their post to view the\ntournament, there was none to forbid him the adventure. He leaped from\nhis horse, seized the hilt, and instantly drew forth the sword as\neasily as from a scabbard; then, mounting his horse and thinking no\nmarvel of what he had done, he rode after his brother and handed him\nthe weapon.\n\nWhen Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword\nfrom the stone. In great joy he sought his father, and showing it to\nhim, said: \"Then must I be King of Britain.\" But Sir Ector bade him\nsay how he came by the sword, and when Sir Kay told how Arthur had\nbrought it to him, Sir Ector bent his knee to the boy, and said: \"Sir,\nI perceive that ye are my king, and here I tender you my homage;\" and\nKay did as his father. Then the three sought the archbishop, to whom\nthey related all that had happened; and he, much marvelling, called\nthe people together to the great stone, and bade Arthur thrust back\nthe sword and draw it forth again in the presence of all, which he did\nwith ease. But an angry murmur arose from the barons, who cried that\nwhat a boy could do, a man could do; so, at the archbishop's word, the\nsword was put back, and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in\nhis turn to draw it forth, and failed. Then, for the third time,\nArthur drew forth the sword. Immediately there arose from the people a\ngreat shout: \"Arthur is King! Arthur is King! We will have no King\nbut Arthur;\" and, though the great barons scowled and threatened, they\nfell on their knees before him while the archbishop placed the crown\nupon his head, and swore to obey him faithfully as their lord and\nsovereign.\n\nThus Arthur was made King; and to all he did justice, righting wrongs\nand giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those that had\nbeen his friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he made\nseneschal and chief of his household, and to Sir Ector, his foster\nfather, he gave broad lands.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROUND TABLE\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nThus Arthur was made King, but he had to fight for his own; for eleven\ngreat kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as their\nlord, and chief among the rebels was King Lot of Orkney, who had\nmarried Arthur's sister, Bellicent.\n\nBy Merlin's advice, Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors,\nthe two great kings who ruled in Gaul.\n\nWith their aid, he overthrew his foes in a great battle near the river\nTrent; and then he passed with them into their own lands and helped\nthem drive out their enemies. So there was ever great friendship\nbetween Arthur and the Kings Ban and Bors, and all their kindred, and\nafterward some of the most famous Knights of the Round Table were of\nthat kin.\n\nThen King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his kingdom.\nTo all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he showed kindness;\nbut those who persisted in oppression and wrong he removed, putting in\ntheir places others who would deal justly with the people. And because\nthe land had become overrun with forest during the days of misrule, he\ncut roads through the thickets, that no longer wild beasts and men,\nfiercer than the beasts, should lurk in their gloom, to the harm of\nthe weak and defenceless. Thus it came to pass that soon the peasant\nplowed his fields in safety, and where had been wastes, men dwelt\nagain in peace and prosperity.\n\nAmong the lesser kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns and\nrestore order, was King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Now Leodegrance had\none fair child, his daughter Guenevere; and from the first he saw her,\nArthur gave her all his love. So he sought counsel of Merlin, his\nchief adviser. Merlin heard the king sorrowfully, and he said: \"Sir\nking, when a man's heart is set, he may not change. Yet had it been\nwell if ye had loved another.\"\n\nSo the king sent his knights to Leodegrance, to ask of him his\ndaughter; and Leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good\nand knightly a king. With great pomp, the princess was conducted to\nCanterbury, and there the king met her, and they two were wed by the\narchbishop in the great cathedral, amid the rejoicings of the people.\n\nOn that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the\nfame of which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure through\nall time. Now the Round Table had been made for King Uther Pendragon\nby Merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to all men the\nroundness of the earth. After Uther died, King Leodegrance had\npossessed it; but when Arthur was wed, he sent it to him as a gift,\nand great was the king's joy at receiving it. One hundred and fifty\nknights might take their places about it, and for them Merlin made\nsieges or seats. One hundred and twenty-eight did Arthur knight at\nthat great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were empty, at the high\nfestival of Pentecost new knights were ordained to fill them, and by\nmagic was the name of each knight found inscribed, in letters of gold,\nin his proper siege. One seat only long remained unoccupied, and that\nwas the Siege Perilous. No knight might occupy it until the coming of\nSir Galahad; for, without danger to his life, none might sit there who\nwas not free from all stain of sin.\n\nWith pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of true\nknighthood: to obey the king; to show mercy to all who asked it; to\ndefend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a wrongful cause:\nand all the knights rejoiced together, doing honor to Arthur and to\nhis queen. Then they rode forth to right the wrong and help the\noppressed, and by their aid, the king held his realm in peace, doing\njustice to all.\n\n\n\n\nMERLIN THE MAGICIAN\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nOf Merlin and how he served King Arthur, something has been already\nshown. Loyal he was ever to Uther Pendragon and to his son, King\nArthur, and for the latter especially he wrought great marvels. He\nbrought the king to his rights; he made him his ships; and some say\nthat Camelot, with its splendid halls, where Arthur would gather his\nknights around him at the great festivals of the year, at Christmas,\nat Easter, and at Pentecost, was raised by his magic, without human\ntoil. Bleise, the aged magician who dwelt in Northumberland and\nrecorded the great deeds of Arthur and his knights, had been Merlin's\nmaster in magic; but it came to pass in time that Merlin far excelled\nhim in skill, so that his enemies declared no mortal was his father,\nand called him devil's son.\n\nThen, on a certain time, Merlin said to Arthur: \"The time draws near\nwhen ye shall miss me, for I shall go down alive into the earth; and\nit shall be that gladly would ye give your lands to have me again.\"\nThen Arthur was grieved, and said: \"Since ye know your danger, use\nyour craft to avoid it.\" But Merlin answered: \"That may not be.\"\n\nNow there had come to Arthur's court, a damsel of the Lady of the\nLake--her whose skill in magic, some say, was greater than Merlin's\nown; and the damsel's name was Vivien. She set herself to learn the\nsecrets of Merlin's art, and was ever with him, tending upon the old\nman, and with gentleness and tender service, winning her way to his\nheart; but all was a pretence, for she was weary of him and sought\nonly his ruin, thinking it should be fame for her, by any means\nwhatsoever, to enslave the greatest wizard of his age. And so she\npersuaded him to pass with her over seas into King Ban's land of\nBenwick, and there, one day, he showed her a wondrous rock formed by\nmagic art. Then she begged him to enter into it, the better to declare\nto her its wonders; but when once he was within, by a charm that she\nhad learned from Merlin's self, she caused the rock to shut down that\nnever again might he come forth. Thus was Merlin's prophecy fulfilled,\nthat he should go down into the earth alive. Much they marvelled in\nArthur's court what had become of the great magician, till on a time,\nthere rode past the stone a certain Knight of the Round Table and\nheard Merlin lamenting his sad fate. The knight would have striven to\nraise the mighty stone, but Merlin bade him not waste his labor, since\nnone might release him save her who had imprisoned him there. Thus\nMerlin passed from the world through the treachery of a damsel, and\nthus Arthur was without aid in the days when his doom came upon him.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SWORD EXCALIBUR\n\nBy Sir Thomas Malory\n\n\nMerlin took up King Arthur, and rode forth with him upon the knight's\nhorse. As they rode King Arthur said, \"I have no sword.\" \"No matter,\"\nsaid Merlin, \"hereby is a sword that shall be yours, Sir King.\" So\nthey rode till they came to a lake, which was a fair water and a\nbroad; and in the midst of the lake King Arthur was aware of an arm\nclothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in the hand. \"Lo,\"\nsaid Merlin unto the king, \"yonder is the sword that I spake of.\" With\nthat they saw a damsel going upon the lake. \"What damsel is that?\"\nsaid the king. \"That is the Lady of the Lake,\" said Merlin, \"and\nwithin that lake is a reach, and therein is as fair a place as any is\non earth, and richly beseen; and this damsel will come to you anon,\nand then speak fair to her that she will give you that sword.\"\nTherewith came the damsel to King Arthur and saluted him, and he her\nagain. \"Damsel,\" said the king, \"what sword is that which the arm\nholdeth yonder above the water? I would it were mine, for I have no\nsword.\" \"Sir king,\" said the damsel of the lake, \"that sword is mine,\nand if ye will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have\nit.\"--\"By my faith,\" said King Arthur, \"I will give you any gift that\nyou will ask or desire.\" \"Well,\" said the damsel, \"go ye into yonder\nbarge, and row yourself unto the sword, and take it and the scabbard\nwith you; and I will ask my gift when I see my time.\" So King Arthur\nand Merlin alighted, tied their horses to two trees, and so they went\ninto the barge. And when they came to the sword that the hand held,\nKing Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with him: and the\narm and the hand went under the water, and so King Arthur came to the\nland, and rode forth. * * * Then the king looked upon the sword, and\nliked it passing well. \"Whether liketh you better,\" said Merlin, \"the\nsword or the scabbard?\" \"Me liketh better the sword,\" said King\nArthur.--\"Ye are more unwise,\" said Merlin; \"for the scabbard is worth\nten of the sword; for while ye have the scabbard upon you ye shall\nlose no blood, be ye never so sore wounded; therefore keep well the\nscabbard alway with you.\"\n\n* * * Then Arthur proclaimed that all the lords, knights, and\ngentlemen of arms, should draw unto a castle, that was called in those\ndays Camelot, and the king would have a council-general and a great\njoust. So when the king was come thither, with all his baronage, and\nlodged as them seemed best, there came a damsel, sent on message from\nthe great Lady Lily, of Avilion; and, when she came before King\nArthur, she told him from whom she came, and how she was sent on\nmessage unto him for these causes. And she let her mantle fall, that\nwas richly furred, and then she was girded with a noble sword, whereof\nthe king had great marvel, and said, \"Damsel, for what cause are ye\ngird with that sword? It beseemeth you not.\" \"Now shall I tell you,\"\nsaid the damsel. \"This sword, that I am gird withal, doth me great\nsorrow and remembrance; for I may not be delivered of this sword but\nby a good knight; and he must be a passing good man of his hands and\nof his deeds, and without villany or treachery. If I may find such a\nknight that hath all these virtues, he may draw out this sword of the\nscabbard. For I have been at King Rience; for it was told that there\nwere passing good knights, and he and all his knights have assayed it,\nand none can speed.\"\n\n\"This is a great marvel,\" said King Arthur, \"and if besooth, I will\nmyself assay to draw out the sword; not presuming upon myself that I\nam the best knight, but that I will begin to draw at your sword, in\ngiving example to all the barons, that they shall assay every one\nafter other, when I have assayed.\" Then King Arthur took the sword by\nthe scabbard and girdle and pulled at it eagerly, but the sword would\nnot out. \"Sir,\" said the damsel, \"ye need not pull half so hard; for\nhe that shall pull it out shall do it with little might.\" \"Ye say\nwell,\" said King Arthur: \"now assay ye, all my barons; but beware ye\nbe not defiled with shame, treachery, nor guile.\"--\"Then it will not\navail,\" said the damsel; \"for he must be a clean knight, without\nvillany, and of gentle stream of father's side and mother's side.\"\nMost of all the barons of the Round Table, that were there at that\ntime, assayed all in turn, but none might speed. Wherefore the damsel\nmade great sorrow out of measure, and said, \"Alas! I weened in this\ncourt had been the best knights, without treachery or treason.\" \"By my\nfaith,\" said King Arthur, \"here are as good knights as I deem any be\nin the world; but their grace is not to help you, wherefore I am\ngreatly displeased.\"\n\nIt happened so, at that time, that there was a poor knight with King\nArthur, that had been prisoner with him half a year and more, for\nslaying of a knight, which was cousin to King Arthur. The knight was\nnamed Balin le Savage: and by good means of the barons he was\ndelivered out of prison; for he was a good man named of his body, and\nhe was born in Northumberland. And so he went privily into the court,\nand saw this adventure, whereof his heart rose, and would assay it as\nother knights did; but for because he was poor, and poorly arrayed, he\nput him not far in press. But in his heart he was fully assured (if\nhis grace happened him) as any knight that was there. And, as that\ndamsel took her leave of King Arthur and the barons, this knight,\nBalin, called unto her, and said, \"Damsel, I pray you of your\ncourtesy, to suffer me as well to assay as these lords; though I be\npoorly clothed, in mine heart meseemeth I am fully assured as some of\nthese other lords, and meseemeth in my heart to speed right well.\" The\ndamsel beheld the poor knight, and saw he was a likely man; but,\nbecause of his poor array, she thought he should be of no worship\nwithout villany or treachery. And then she said to the knight Balin,\n\"Sir, it is no need to put me to any more pain or labour; for\nbeseemeth not you to speed there as others have failed.\" \"Ah, fair\ndamsel,\" said Balin, \"worthiness and good graces and good deeds are\nnot all only in raiment, but manhood and worship is hid within man's\nperson; and many a worshipful knight is not known unto all people; and\ntherefore worship and hardiness is not in raiment and clothing.\"--\"By\nGod!\" said the damsel, \"ye say truth; therefore ye shall assay to do\nwhat ye may.\" Then Balin took the sword by the girdle and scabbard,\nand drew it out easily; and when he looked upon the sword, it pleased\nhim well. * * * Anon after Balin sent for his horse and his armour,\nand so would depart from the court, and took his leave of King Arthur.\n\nThe meanwhile that this knight was making him ready to depart, there\ncame into the court a lady, which hight the Lady of the Lake, and she\ncame on horseback, richly beseen, and saluted King Arthur, and there\nasked him a gift that he had promised her when she gave him the sword.\n\n\"That is sooth,\" said King Arthur, \"a gift I promised you; but I have\nforgotten the name of the sword which ye gave me.\" \"The name of it,\"\nsaid the lady, \"is Excalibur; that is as much to say _cut-steel_.\"--\n\"Ye say well,\" said King Arthur. \"Ask what ye will, and ye shall have\nit, if it lie in my power to give it.\" \"Well,\" said the Lady of the\nLake, \"I ask the head of the knight that hath won the sword, or else\nthe damsel's head that brought it. And though I have both their heads\nI care not; for he slew my brother, a full good knight and true, and\nthe gentlewoman was causer of my father's death.\"--\"Truly,\" said King\nArthur, \"I may not grant you either of their heads with my worship;\ntherefore ask what ye will else, and I shall fulfil your desire.\" \"I\nwill ask none other thing of you,\" said the lady. When Balin was ready\nto depart, he saw the Lady of the Lake there, by whose means was slain\nhis own mother, and he had sought her three years. And when it was\ntold him that she demanded his head of King Arthur, he went straight\nto her, and said, \"Evil be ye found. Ye would have my head, and\ntherefore ye shall lose yours!\" And with his sword lightly he smote\noff her head, in the presence of King Arthur. \"Alas! for shame,\" said\nthe king. \"Why have you done so? You have shamed me and all my court.\nFor this was a lady that I was much beholden unto; and hither she came\nunder my safe conduct. I shall never forgive you that trespass.\" \"My\nlord,\" said Balin, \"me forethinketh much of your displeasure; for this\nlady was the untruest lady living; and by her enchantment and\nwitchcraft she hath been the destroyer of many good knights, and she\nwas the causer that my mother was burnt, through her falsehood and\ntreachery.\" Then King Arthur and all his court made great dole, and\nhad great shame of the death of the Lady of the Lake. Then the king\nfull richly buried her.\n\n* * * \"My time hieth fast,\" said King Arthur unto Sir Bedivere;\n\"therefore take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it unto\nyonder water-side; and when thou comest there, I charge thee, throw my\nsword into that water, and come again and tell me what thou shalt see\nthere.\" \"My lord,\" said Sir Bedivere, \"your command shall be done, and\nlightly bring you word again.\" And so Sir Bedivere departed, and by\nthe way he beheld that noble sword, where the pommel and the haft were\nall of precious stones. And then he said to himself, \"If I throw this\nrich sword into the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and\nloss.\" And then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree; and as soon\nas he might, he came again unto King Arthur, and said he had been at\nthe water. \"What sawest thou there?\" said the king. \"Sir,\" said he, \"I\nsaw nothing but waves and wind.\"--\"That is untruly said of thee,\" said\nKing Arthur. \"Therefore go thou lightly, and do my command; as thou\nart to me life and dear, spare not, but throw it in.\" Then Sir\nBedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and then he\nthought it sin and shame to throw away that noble sword: and so after\nhe hid the sword and returned again, and told the king that he had\nbeen at the water and done his command. \"What saw ye there?\" said the\nking. \"Sir,\" said he, \"I saw nothing but the water lap and waves\nwan.\"--\"Ah! traitor untrue,\" said King Arthur, \"now hast thou betrayed\nme two times, who would have weened that thou that hast been unto me\nso self and dear, and thou art named a noble knight, and wouldest\nbetray me for the rich sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long\ntarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken\ncold; and but if thou do as I command thee, and if ever I may see\nthee, I shall slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldest for my\nrich sword see me dead.\" Then Sir Bedivere departed and went to the\nsword and lightly took it up and went to the water's side, and there\nhe bound the girdle about the belts. And then he threw the sword into\nthe water as far as he might, and there came an arm and a hand above\nthe water, and met it and caught it, and so shook it thrice and\nbrandished. And then the hand vanished away with the sword in the\nwater.\n\nSo Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he had\nseen. \"Alas!\" said the king, \"help me from hence; for I dread me I\nhave tarried over long.\" Then Sir Bedivere took King Arthur upon his\nback, and so went with him to the water's side; and, when they were at\nthe water's side, even fast by the bank hovered a little barge, with\nmany fair ladies in it: and among them all was a queen, and they all\nhad black hoods; and they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur.\n\n\"Now put me into the barge,\" said the king. And so he did softly, and\nthere received him three queens with great mourning; and so these\nthree queens sat them down, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid\nhis head. And then that queen said: \"Ah! dear brother, why have ye\ntarried so long from me? Alas! this wound on your head hath taken\novermuch cold.\" And so then they rowed from the land; and Sir Bedivere\ncried, \"Ah! my lord Arthur, what shall become of me now ye go from me,\nand leave me here alone among mine enemies?\" \"Comfort thyself,\" said\nKing Arthur, \"and do as well as thou mayest; for in me is no trust for\nto trust in: for I will into the vale of Avilion, for to heal me of my\ngrievous wound; and, if thou never hear more of me, pray for my soul.\"\n\n\n\n\nSIR LAUNCELOT AND THE ADVENTURE OF THE CASTLE PERILOUS\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nNow, as time passed, King Arthur gathered into his Order of the Round\nTable knights whose peers shall never be found in any age; and\nforemost among them all was Sir Launcelot du Lac. Such was his\nstrength that none against whom he had lain lance in rest could keep\nthe saddle, and no shield was proof against his sword dint; but for\nhis courtesy even more than for his courage and strength, Sir\nLauncelot was famed far and near. Gentle he was and ever the first to\nrejoice in the renown of another; and, in the jousts, he would avoid\nencounter with the young and untried knight, letting him pass to gain\nglory if he might.\n\nIt would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of Sir\nLauncelot, and all his adventures. He was of Gaul, for his father;\nKing Ban, ruled over Benwick; and some say that his first name was\nGalahad, and that he was named Launcelot du Lac by the Lady of the\nLake, who reared him when his mother died. Early he won renown by\ndelivering his father's people from the grim King Claudas, who, for\nmore than twenty years, had lain waste the fair land of Benwick; then,\nwhen there was peace in his own land, he passed into Britain, to\nArthur's Court, where the king received him gladly, and made him\nKnight of the Round Table and took him for his trustiest friend. And\nso it was that, when Guenevere was to be brought to Canterbury, to be\nmarried to the king, Launcelot was chief of the knights sent to wait\nupon her.\n\nNow on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Launcelot met a\ndamsel weeping bitterly, and seeing him, she cried, \"Stay, sir knight!\nBy your knighthood I require you to aid me in my distress.\"\nImmediately Sir Launcelot checked his horse and asked in what she\nneeded his service. \"Sir,\" said the maiden, \"my brother lies at the\npoint of death, for this day he fought with the stout knight, Sir\nGilbert, and sorely they wounded each other; and a wise woman, a\nsorceress, has said that nothing may stanch my brother's wounds unless\nthey be searched with the sword and bound up with a piece of the cloth\nfrom the body of the wounded knight who lies in the ruined chapel hard\nby. And well I know you, my lord Sir Launcelot, and that, if ye will\nnot help me, none may.\" \"Tell me your brother's name,\" said Sir\nLauncelot. \"Sir Meliot de Logris,\" replied the damsel. \"A Knight of\nour Round Table,\" said Sir Launcelot; \"the more am I bound to your\nservice. Only tell me, gentle damsel, where I may find this Chapel\nPerilous.\" So she directed him, and, riding through forest byways, Sir\nLauncelot came presently upon a little ruined chapel, standing in the\nmidst of a churchyard, where the tombs showed broken and neglected\nunder the dark yews. In front of the porch, Sir Launcelot paused and\nlooked, for thereon hung, upside down, dishonored, the shield of many\na good knight whom Sir Launcelot had known.\n\nAs he stood wondering, suddenly there pressed upon him from all sides\nthirty stout knights, all giants and fully armed, their drawn swords\nin their hands and their shields advanced. With threatening looks,\nthey spoke to him, saying, \"Sir Launcelot, it were well ye turned back\nbefore evil befell you.\" But Sir Launcelot, though he feared to have\nto do with thirty such warriors, answered boldly, \"I turn not back for\nhigh words. Make them good by your deeds.\" Then he rode upon them\nfiercely, whereupon instantly they scattered and disappeared, and,\nsword in hand, Sir Launcelot entered the little chapel. All was dark\nwithin, save that a little lamp hung from the roof, and by its dim\nlight he could just espy how on a bier before the altar there lay,\nstark and cold, a knight sheathed in armor. And drawing nearer Sir\nLauncelot saw that the dead man lay on a blood-stained mantle, his\nnaked sword by his side, but that his left hand had been lopped off at\nthe wrist by a mighty sword-cut. Then Sir Launcelot boldly seized the\nsword and with it cut off a piece of the bloody mantle. Immediately\nthe earth shook and the walls of the chapel rocked, and in fear Sir\nLauncelot turned to go. But, as he would have left the chapel, there\nstood before him in the doorway a lady, fair to look upon and\nbeautifully arrayed, who gazed earnestly upon him, and said: \"Sir\nknight, put away from you that sword lest it be your death.\" But Sir\nLauncelot answered her: \"Lady, what I have said, I do; and what I have\nwon, I keep.\" \"It is well,\" said the lady. \"Had ye cast away the sword\nyour life days were done. And now I make but one request. Kiss me\nonce.\" \"That may I not do,\" said Sir Launcelot. Then said the lady,\n\"Go your way, Launcelot; ye have won, and I have lost. Know that, had\nye kissed me, your dead body had lain even now on the altar bier. For\nmuch have I desired to win you; and to entrap you, I ordained this\nchapel. Many a knight have I taken, and once Sir Gawain himself\nhardly escaped, but he fought with Sir Gilbert and lopped off his\nhand, and so got away. Fare ye well; it is plain to see that none but\nour lady, Queen Guenevere, may have your services.\" With that, she\nvanished from his sight. So Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and rode\naway from that evil place till he met Sir Meliot's sister, who led him\nto her brother where he lay, pale as the earth, and bleeding fast. And\nwhen he saw Sir Launcelot, he would have risen to greet him; but his\nstrength failed him, and he fell back on his couch. Sir Launcelot\nsearched his wounds with the sword, and bound them up with the\nblood-stained cloth, and immediately Sir Meliot was sound and well,\nand greatly he rejoiced. Then Sir Meliot and his sister begged Sir\nLauncelot to stay and rest, but he departed on his adventures, bidding\nthem farewell until he should meet them again at Arthur's court. As\nfor the sorceress of the Chapel Perilous, it is said she died of grief\nthat all her charms had failed to win for her the good knight Sir\nLauncelot.\n\n\n\n\nSIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FALCON\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nSir Launcelot rode on his way, by marsh and valley and hill, till he\nchanced upon a fair castle, and saw fly from it, over his head, a\nbeautiful falcon, with the lines still hanging from her feet. And as\nhe looked, the falcon flew into a tree where she was held fast by the\nlines becoming entangled about the boughs. Immediately, from the\ncastle there came running a fair lady, who cried: \"O Launcelot,\nLauncelot! As ye are the noblest of all knights, I pray you help me to\nrecover my falcon. For if my husband discover its loss, he will slay\nme in his anger.\" \"Who is your husband, fair lady?\" asked Sir\nLauncelot. \"Sir Phelot, a knight of Northgalis, and he is of a hasty\ntemper; wherefore, I beseech you, help me.\" \"Well, lady,\" said Sir\nLauncelot, \"I will serve you if I may; but the tree is hard to climb,\nfor the boughs are few, and, in truth, I am no climber. But I will do\nmy best.\" So the lady helped Sir Launcelot to unarm, and he led his\nhorse to the foot of the tree, and springing from its back, he caught\nat the nearest bough, and drew himself up into the branches. Then he\nclimbed till he reached the falcon and, tying her lines to a rotten\nbough, broke it off, and threw down the bird and bough to the lady\nbelow. Forthwith Sir Phelot came from among the trees and said: \"Ah!\nSir Launcelot! Now at length I have you as I would; for I have long\nsought your life.\" And Sir Launcelot made answer: \"Surely ye would not\nslay me, an unarmed man; for that were dishonor to you. Keep my armor\nif ye will; but hang my sword on a bough where I may reach it, and\nthen do with me as ye can.\" But Sir Phelot laughed mockingly and said:\n\"Not so, Sir Launcelot. I know you too well to throw away my\nadvantage; wherefore, shift as ye may.\" \"Alas!\" said Sir Launcelot,\n\"that ever knight should be so unknightly. And you, madam, how could\nye so betray me?\" \"She did but as I commanded her,\" said Sir Phelot.\n\nThen Launcelot looked about him to see how he might help himself in\nthese straits, and espying above his head a great bare branch, he tore\nit down. Then, ever watching his advantage, he sprang to the ground\non the far side of his horse, so that the horse was between him and\nSir Phelot. Sir Phelot rushed upon him with his sword, but Launcelot\nparried it with the bough, with which he dealt his enemy such a blow\non the head that Sir Phelot sank to the ground in a swoon. Then Sir\nLauncelot seized his sword where it lay beside his armor, and stooping\nover the fallen knight, unloosed his helm. When the lady saw him do\nthat, she shrieked and cried: \"Spare his life! spare his life, noble\nknight, I beseech you!\" But Sir Launcelot answered sternly: \"A felon's\ndeath for him who does felon's deeds. He has lived too long already,\"\nand with one blow he smote off his head. Then he armed himself, and\nmounting upon his steed, rode away, leaving the lady to weep beside\nher lord.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF SIR GARETH\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nGareth was the youngest of the sons of Lot and Bellicent, and had\ngrown up long after Gawain and Mordred left their home for King\nArthur's court; so that when he came before the king, all humbly\nattired, he was not known even by his own brothers.\n\nKing Arthur was keeping Pentecost at Kink Kenadon on the Welsh border,\nand, as his custom was, waited to begin the feast until some adventure\nshould befall. Presently there was seen approaching a youth who, to\nthe wonderment of all that saw, leaned upon the shoulders of two men,\nhis companions; and yet as he passed up the hall, he seemed a goodly\nyouth, tall and broad-shouldered. When he stood before the king,\nsuddenly he drew himself up and after due greeting, said: \"Sir king, I\nwould ask of you three boons; one to be granted now and two hereafter\nwhen I shall require them.\" And Arthur, looking upon him, was pleased,\nfor his countenance was open and honest. So he made answer: \"Fair son,\nask of me aught that is honorable and I will grant it.\" Then the youth\nsaid: \"For this present, I ask only that ye will give me meat and\ndrink for a year and a day.\" \"Ye might have asked and had a better\ngift,\" replied the king; \"tell me now your name.\" \"At this time, I may\nnot tell it,\" said the youth. Now King Arthur trusted every man until\nhe proved himself unworthy, and in this youth he thought he saw one\nwho should do nobly and win renown; so laughing, he bade him keep his\nown counsel since so he would, and gave him in charge to Sir Kay, the\nseneschal.\n\nNow Sir Kay was but harsh to those whom he liked not, and from the\nfirst he scorned the young man. \"For none,\" said he, \"but a low-born\nlout would crave meat and drink when he might have asked for a horse\nand arms.\" But Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain took the youth's part.\nNeither knew him for Gareth of the Orkneys, but both believed him to\nbe a youth of good promise who, for his own reasons, would pass in\ndisguise for a season.\n\nSo Gareth lived the year among the kitchen boys, all the time mocked\nand scorned by Sir Kay, who called him Fairhands because his hands\nwere white and shapely. But Launcelot and Gawain showed him all\ncourtesy, and failed not to observe how, in all trials of strength, he\nexcelled his comrades, and that he was ever present to witness the\nfeats of the knights in the tournaments.\n\nSo the year passed, and again King Arthur was keeping the feast of\nPentecost with his knights, when a damsel entered the hall and asked\nhis aid: \"For,\" said she, \"my sister is closely besieged in her castle\nby a strong knight who lays waste all her lands. And since I know that\nthe knights of your court be the most renowned in the world, I have\ncome to crave help of your mightiest.\" \"What is your sister's name,\nand who is he that oppresses her?\" asked the king. \"The Red Knight, he\nis called,\" replied the damsel. \"As for my sister, I will not say her\nname, only that she is a high-born lady and owns broad lands.\" Then\nthe king frowned and said: \"Ye would have aid but will say no name. I\nmay not ask knight of mine to go on such an errand.\"\n\nThen forth stepped Gareth from among the serving-men at the hall end\nand said: \"Sir king, I have eaten of your meat in your kitchen this\ntwelvemonth since, and now I crave my other two boons.\" \"Ask and\nhave,\" replied the king. \"Grant me then the adventure of this damsel,\nand bid Sir Launcelot ride after me to knight me at my desire, for of\nhim alone would I be made knight.\" \"It shall be so,\" answered the\nking. \"What!\" cried the damsel, \"I ask for a knight and ye give me a\nkitchen-boy. Shame on you, sir king.\" And in great wrath she fled from\nthe hall, mounted her palfrey and rode away. Gareth but waited to\narray himself in the armor which he had kept ever in readiness for the\ntime when he should need it, and mounting his horse, rode after the\ndamsel.\n\nBut when Sir Kay knew what had happened, he was wroth, and got to\nhorse to ride after Gareth and bring him back. Even as Gareth overtook\nthe damsel, so did Kay come up with him and cried: \"Turn back,\nFairhands! What, sir, do ye not know me?\" \"Yes,\" answered Gareth, \"I\nknow you for the most discourteous knight in Arthur's court.\" Then Sir\nKay rode upon him with his lance, but Gareth turned it aside with his\nsword and pierced Sir Kay through the side so that he fell to the\nground and lay there without motion. So Gareth took Sir Kay's shield\nand spear and was about to ride away, when seeing Sir Launcelot draw\nnear he called upon him to joust. At the first encounter, Sir\nLauncelot unhorsed Gareth, but quickly helped him to his feet. Then,\nat Gareth's desire, they fought together with swords, and Gareth did\nknightly till, at length, Sir Launcelot said, laughing: \"Why should we\nfight any longer? Of a truth ye are a stout knight.\" \"If that is\nindeed your thought, I pray you make me knight,\" cried Gareth. So Sir\nLauncelot knighted Gareth, who, bidding him farewell, hastened after\nthe damsel, for she had ridden on again while the two knights talked.\nWhen she saw him coming, she cried: \"Keep off! ye smell of the\nkitchen!\" \"Damsel,\" said Sir Gareth, \"I must follow until I have\nfulfilled the adventure.\" \"Till ye accomplish the adventure,\nTurn-spit? Your part in it shall soon be ended.\" \"I can only do my\nbest,\" answered Sir Gareth.\n\nNow as they rode through the forest, they met with a knight sore beset\nby six thieves, and him Sir Gareth rescued. The knight then bade\nGareth and the damsel rest at his castle, and entertained them right\ngladly until the morn, when the two rode forth again. Presently, they\ndrew near to a deep river where two knights kept the ford. \"How now,\nkitchen knave? Will ye fight or escape while ye may?\" cried the\ndamsel. \"I would fight though there were six instead of two,\" replied\nSir Gareth. Therewith he encountered the one knight in midstream and\nstruck him such a blow on the head that he fell, stunned, into the\nwater and was drowned. Then, gaining the land, Gareth cleft in two\nhelmet and head of the other knight, and turned to the damsel, saying,\n\"Lead on; I follow.\"\n\nBut the damsel mocked him, saying: \"What a mischance is this that a\nkitchen boy should slay two noble knights! Be not overproud,\nTurn-spit. It was but luck, if indeed ye did not attack one knight\nfrom behind.\" \"Say what you will, I follow,\" said Sir Gareth.\n\nSo they rode on again, the damsel in front and Sir Gareth behind, till\nthey reached a wide meadow where stood many fair pavilions; and one,\nthe largest, was all of blue, and the men who stood about it were\nclothed in blue, and bore shields and spears of that color; and of\nblue, too, were the trappings of the horses. Then said the damsel,\n\"Yonder is the Blue Knight, the goodliest that ever ye have looked\nupon, and five hundred knights own him lord.\" \"I will encounter him,\"\nsaid Sir Gareth; \"for if he be good knight and true as ye say, he will\nscarce set on me with all his following; and man to man, I fear him\nnot.\" \"Fie!\" said the damsel, \"for a dirty knave, ye brag loud. And\neven if ye overcome him, his might is as nothing to that of the Red\nKnight who besieges my lady sister. So get ye gone while ye may.\"\n\"Damsel,\" said Sir Gareth, \"ye are but ungentle so to rebuke me; for,\nknight or knave, I have done you good service, nor will I leave this\nguest while life is mine.\" Then the damsel ashamed, and, looking\ncuriously at Gareth, she said, \"I would gladly know what manner of man\nye are. For I heard you call yourself kitchen knave before Arthur's\nself, but ye have ever answered patiently though I have chidden you\nshamefully; and courtesy comes only of gentle blood.\" Thereat Sir\nGareth but laughed, and said: \"He is no knight whom a maiden can anger\nby harsh words.\"\n\nSo talking, they entered the field, and there came to Sir Gareth a\nmessenger from the Blue Knight to ask him if he came in peace or in\nwar. \"As your lord pleases,\" said Sir Gareth. So when the messenger\nhad brought back this word, the Blue Knight mounted his horse, took\nhis spear in his hand, and rode upon Sir Gareth. At their first\nencounter their lances shivered to pieces, and such was the shock that\ntheir horses fell dead. So they rushed on each other with swords and\nshield, cutting and slashing till the armor was hacked from their\nbodies; but at last, Sir Gareth smote the Blue Knight to the\nearth. Then the Blue Knight yielded, and at the damsel's entreaty, Sir\nGareth spared his life.\n\nSo they were reconciled, and, at the request of the Blue Knight, Sir\nGareth and the damsel abode that night in his tents. As they sat at\ntable, the Blue Knight said: \"Fair damsel, are ye not called Linet?\"\n\"Yes,\" answered she, \"and I am taking this noble knight to the relief\nof my sister, the Lady Liones.\" \"God speed you, sir,\" said the Blue\nKnight, \"for he is a stout knight whom ye must meet. Long ago might he\nhave taken the lady, but that he hoped that Sir Launcelot or some\nother of Arthur's most famous knights, coming to her rescue, might\nfall beneath his lance. If ye overthrow him, then are ye the peer of\nSir Launcelot and Sir Tristram.\" \"Sir knight,\" answered Gareth, \"I can\nbut strive to bear me worthily as one whom the great Sir Launcelot\nmade knight.\"\n\nSo in the morning they bade farewell to the Blue Knight, who vowed to\ncarry to King Arthur word of all that Gareth had achieved; and they\nrode on till, in the evening, they came to a little ruined hermitage\nwhere there awaited them a dwarf, sent by the Lady Liones, with all\nmanner of meats and other store. In the morning, the dwarf set out\nagain to bear word to his lady that her rescuer was come. As he drew\nnear the castle, the Red Knight stopped him, demanding whence he came.\n\"Sir,\" said the dwarf, \"I have been with my lady's sister, who brings\nwith her a knight to the rescue of my lady.\" \"It is lost labor,\" said\nthe Red Knight; \"even though she brought Launcelot or Tristram, I hold\nmyself a match for them.\" \"He is none of these,\" said the dwarf, \"but\nhe has overthrown the knights who kept the ford, and the Blue Knight\nyielded to him.\" \"Let him come,\" said the Red Knight; \"I shall soon\nmake an end of him, and a shameful death shall he have at my hands, as\nmany a better knight has had.\" So saying, he let the dwarf go.\n\nPresently, there came riding toward the castle Sir Gareth and the\ndamsel Linet, and Gareth marvelled to see hang from the trees some\nforty knights in goodly armor, their shields reversed beside them. And\nwhen he inquired of the damsel, she told him how these were the bodies\nof brave knights who, coming to the rescue of the Lady Liones, had\nbeen overthrown and shamefully done to death by the Red Knight. Then\nwas Gareth shamed and angry, and he vowed to make an end of these evil\npractices. So at last they drew near to the castle walls, and saw how\nthe plain around was covered with the Red Knight's tents, and the\nnoise was that of a great army. Hard by was a tall sycamore tree, and\nfrom it hung a mighty horn, made of an elephant's tusk. Spurring his\nhorse, Gareth rode to it, and blew such a blast that those on the\ncastle walls heard it; the knights came forth from their tents to see\nwho blew so bold a blast, and from a window of the castle the Lady\nLiones looked forth and waved her hand to her champion. Then, as Sir\nGareth made his reverence to the lady, the Red Knight called roughly\nto him to leave his courtesy and look to himself: \"For,\" said he, \"she\nis mine, and to have her, I have fought many a battle.\" \"It is but\nvain labor,\" said Sir Gareth, \"since she loves you not. Know, too, sir\nknight, that I have vowed to rescue her from you.\" \"So did many\nanother who now hangs on a tree,\" replied the Red Knight, \"and soon ye\nshall hang beside them,\" Then both laid their spears in rest, and\nspurred their horses. At the first encounter, each smote the other\nfull in the shield, and the girths of the saddles bursting, they were\nborne to the earth, where they lay for a while as if dead. But\npresently they rose, and setting their shields before them, rushed\nupon each other with their swords, cutting and hacking till the armor\nlay on the ground in fragments. So they fought till noon and then\nrested; but soon they renewed the battle, and so furiously they\nfought, that often they fell to the ground together. Then, when the\nbells sounded for evensong, the knights rested again, unlacing their\nhelms to breathe the evening air. But looking up to the castle\nwindows, Gareth saw the Lady Liones gazing earnestly upon him; then he\ncaught up his helmet, and calling to the Red Knight, bade him make\nready for the battle; \"And this time,\" said he, \"we will make an end\nof it.\" \"So be it,\" said the Red Knight. Then the Red Knight smote\nGareth on the hand so that his sword flew from his grasp, and with\nanother blow he brought him grovelling to the earth. At the sight of\nthis, Linet cried aloud, and hearing her, Gareth, with a mighty\neffort, threw off the Red Knight, leaped to his sword, and got it\nagain within his hand. Then he pressed the Red Knight harder than\never, and at the last bore him to the earth, and unlacing his helm,\nmade ready to slay him; but the Red Knight cried aloud: \"Mercy! I\nyield.\" At first, remembering the evil deaths of the forty good\nknights, Gareth was unwilling to spare him; but the Red Knight\nbesought him to have mercy, telling him how, against his will, he had\nbeen bound by a vow to make war on Arthur's knights. So Sir Gareth\nrelented, and bade him set forth at once for Kink Kenadon and entreat\nthe king's pardon for his evil past. And this the Red Knight promised\nto do.\n\nThen amid much rejoicing, Sir Gareth was borne into the castle. There\nhis wounds were dressed by the Lady Liones, and there he rested until\nhe recovered his strength. And having won her love, when Gareth\nreturned to Arthur's court the Lady Liones rode with him, and they two\nwere wed with great pomp in the presence of the whole fellowship of\nthe Round Table; the king rejoicing much that his nephew had done so\nvaliantly. So Sir Gareth lived happily with Dame Liones, winning fame\nand the love of all true knights. As for Linet, she came again to\nArthur's court and wedded Sir Gareth's younger brother, Sir Gaheris.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nMany times had the Feast of Pentecost come round, and many were the\nknights that Arthur had made since first he founded the Order of the\nRound Table; yet no knight had appeared who dared claim the seat named\nby Merlin the Siege Perilous. At last, one vigil of the great feast, a\nlady came to Arthur's court at Camelot and asked Sir Launcelot to ride\nwith her into the forest hard by, for a purpose not then to be\nrevealed. Launcelot consenting, they rode together until they came to\na nunnery hidden deep in the forest; and there the lady bade Launcelot\ndismount, and led him into a great and stately room. Presently there\nentered twelve nuns, and with them a youth, the fairest that Launcelot\nhad ever seen. \"Sir,\" said the nuns, \"we have brought up this child\nin our midst, and now that he is grown to manhood, we pray you make\nhim knight, for of none worthier could he receive the honor.\" \"Is this\nthy own desire?\" asked Launcelot of the young squire; and when he said\nthat so it was, Launcelot promised to make him knight after the great\nfestival had been celebrated in the church next day.\n\nSo on the morrow, after they had worshipped, Launcelot knighted\nGalahad--for that was the youth's name--and asked him if he would ride\nat once with him to the king's court; but the young knight excusing\nhimself, Sir Launcelot rode back alone to Camelot, where all rejoiced\nthat he was returned in time to keep the feast with the whole Order of\nthe Round Table.\n\nNow, according to his custom, King Arthur was waiting for some marvel\nto befall before he and his knights sat down to the banquet. Presently\na squire entered the hall and said: \"Sir king, a great wonder has\nappeared. There floats on the river a mighty stone, as it were a block\nof red marble, and it is thrust through by a sword, the hilt of which\nis set thick with precious stones.\" On hearing this, the king and all\nhis knights went forth to view the stone and found it as the squire\nhad said; moreover, looking closer, they read these words: \"None shall\ndraw me hence, but only he by whose side I must hang; and he shall be\nthe best knight in all the world.\" Immediately, all bade Launcelot\ndraw forth the sword, but he refused, saying that the sword was not\nfor him. Then, at the king's command, Sir Gawain made the attempt and\nfailed, as did Sir Percivale after him. So the knights knew the\nadventure was not for them, and returning to the hall, took their\nplaces about the Round Table.\n\nNo sooner were they seated than an aged man, clothed all in white,\nentered the hall, followed by a young knight in red armor, by whose\nside hung an empty scabbard. The old man approached King Arthur, and\nbowing low before him, said: \"Sir, I bring you a young knight of the\nhouse and lineage of Joseph of Arimathea, and through him shall great\nglory be won for all the land of Britain.\" Greatly did King Arthur\nrejoice to hear this, and welcomed the two right royally. Then when\nthe young knight had saluted the king, the old man led him to the\nSiege Perilous and drew off its silken cover; and all the knights were\namazed, for they saw that where had been engraved the words, \"The\nSiege Perilous,\" was written now in shining gold: \"This is the siege\nof the noble prince, Sir Galahad.\" Straightway the young man seated\nhimself there where none other had ever sat without danger to his\nlife; and all who saw it said, one to another: \"Surely this is he that\nshall achieve the Holy Grail.\" Now the Holy Grail was the blessed dish\nfrom which Our Lord had eaten the Last Supper, and it had been brought\nto the land of Britain by Joseph of Arimathea; but because of men's\nsinfulness, it had been withdrawn from human sight, only that, from\ntime to time, it appeared to the pure in heart.\n\nWhen all had partaken of the royal banquet, King Arthur bade Sir\nGalahad come with him to the river's brink; and showing him the\nfloating stone with the sword thrust through it, told him how his\nknights had failed to draw forth the sword. \"Sir,\" said Galahad, \"it\nis no marvel that they failed, for the adventure was meant for me, as\nmy empty scabbard shows.\" So saying, lightly he drew the sword from\nthe heart of the stone, and lightly he slid it into the scabbard at\nhis side. While all yet wondered at this adventure of the sword,\nthere came riding to them a lady on a white palfrey who, saluting King\nArthur, said: \"Sir king, Nacien the hermit sends thee word that this\nday shall great honor be shown to thee and all thine house; for the\nHoly Grail shall appear in thy hall, and thou and all thy fellowship\nshall be fed therefrom.\" And to Launcelot she said: \"Sir knight, thou\nhast ever been the best knight of all the world; but another has come\nto whom thou must yield precedence. \"Then Launcelot answered humbly:\n\"I know well I was never the best.\" \"Ay, of a truth thou wast and art\nstill, of sinful men,\" said she, and rode away before any could\nquestion her further.\n\nSo, that evening, when all were gathered about the Round Table, each\nknight in his own siege, suddenly there was heard a crash of thunder,\nso mighty that the hall trembled, and there flashed into the hall a\nsunbeam, brighter far than any that had ever before been seen; and\nthen, draped all in white samite, there glided through the air what\nnone might see, yet what all knew to be the Holy Grail. And all the\nair was filled with sweet odors, and on every one was shed a light in\nwhich he looked fairer and nobler than ever before. So they sat in an\namazed silence, till presently King Arthur rose and gave thanks to God\nfor the grace given to him and to his court. Then up sprang Sir Gawain\nand made his avow to follow for a year and a day the Quest of the Holy\nGrail, if perchance he might be granted the vision of it. Immediately\nother of the knights followed his example, binding themselves to the\nQuest of the Holy Grail until, in all, one hundred and fifty had vowed\nthemselves to the adventure.\n\nThen was King Arthur grieved, for he foresaw the ruin of his noble\nOrder. And turning to Sir Gawain, he said: \"Nephew, ye have done ill,\nfor through you I am bereft of the noblest company of knights that\never brought honor to any realm in Christendom. Well I know that never\nagain shall all of you gather in this hall, and it grieves me to lose\nmen I have loved as my life and through whom I have won peace and\nrighteousness for all my realm.\"\n\nSo the king mourned and his knights with him, but their oaths they\ncould not recall.\n\n\n\n\nHOW SIR GALAHAD WON THE RED CROSS SHIELD\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nGreat woe was there in Camelot next day when, after worship in the\ncathedral, the knights who had vowed themselves to the Quest of the\nHoly Grail got to horse and rode away. A goodly company it was that\npassed through the streets, the townfolk weeping to see them go; Sir\nLauncelot du Lac and his kin, Sir Galahad of whom all expected great\ndeeds, Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, and many another scarcely less\nfamed than they. So they rode together that day to the Castle of\nVagon, where they were entertained right hospitably, and the next day\nthey separated, each to ride his own way and see what adventures\nshould befall him.\n\nSo it came to pass that, after four days' ride, Sir Galahad reached an\nabbey. Now Sir Galahad was still clothed in red armor as when he came\nto the king's court, and by his side hung the wondrous sword; but he\nwas without a shield. They of the abbey received him right heartily,\nas also did the brave King Bagdemagus, Knight of the Round Table, who\nwas resting there. When they had greeted each other, Sir Galahad asked\nKing Bagdemagus what adventure had brought him there. \"Sir,\" said\nBagdemagus, \"I was told that in this abbey was preserved a wondrous\nshield which none but the best knight in the world might bear without\ngrievous harm to himself. And though I know well that there are better\nknights than I, to-morrow I purpose to make the attempt. But, I pray\nyou, bide at this monastery awhile until you hear from me; and if I\nfail, do ye take the adventure upon you.\" \"So be it,\" said Sir\nGalahad.\n\nThe next day, at their request, Sir Galahad and King Bagdemagus were\nled into the church by a monk and shown where, behind the altar, hung\nthe wondrous shield, whiter than snow save for the blood-red cross in\nits midst. Then the monk warned them of the danger to any who, being\nunworthy, should dare to bear the shield. But King Bagdemagus made\nanswer: \"I know well that I am not the best knight in the world, yet\nwill I try if I may bear it.\" So he hung it about his neck, and\nbidding farewell, rode away with his squire.\n\nThe two had not journeyed far before they saw a knight approach, armed\nall in white mail and mounted upon a white horse. Immediately he laid\nhis spear in rest and, charging King Bagdemagus, pierced him through\nthe shoulder and bore him from his horse; and standing over the\nwounded knight, he said: \"Knight, thou hast shown great folly, for\nnone shall bear this shield save the peerless knight, Sir Galahad.\"\nThen, taking the shield, he gave it to the squire, and said: \"Bear\nthis shield to the good Knight Galahad and greet him well from me.\"\n\"What is your name?\" asked the squire. \"That is not for thee or any\nother to know.\" \"One thing I pray you,\" said the squire; \"why may this\nshield be borne by none but Sir Galahad without danger?\" \"Because it\nbelongs to him only,\" answered the stranger knight, and vanished.\n\nThen the squire took the shield and setting King Bagdemagus on his\nhorse, bore him back to the abbey where he lay long, sick unto death.\nTo Galahad the squire gave the shield and told him all that had\nbefallen. So Galahad hung the shield about his neck and rode the way\nthat Bagdemagus had gone the day before; and presently he met the\nWhite Knight, whom he greeted courteously, begging that he would make\nknown to him the marvels of the red-cross shield. \"That will I\ngladly,\" answered the White Knight. \"Ye must know, sir knight, that\nthis shield was made and given by Joseph of Arimathea to the good King\nEvelake of Sarras, that, in the might of the holy symbol, he should\noverthrow the heathen who threatened his kingdom. But afterward, King\nEvelake followed Joseph to this land of Britain, where they taught the\ntrue faith unto the people who before were heathen. Then when Joseph\nlay dying, he bade King Evelake set the shield in the monastery where\nye lay last night, and foretold that none should wear it without loss\nuntil that day when it should be taken by the knight, ninth and last\nin descent from him, who should come to that place the fifteenth day\nafter receiving the degree of knighthood. Even so has it been with\nyou, sir knight.\" So saying, the unknown knight disappeared and Sir\nGalahad rode on his way.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF SIR PERCIVALE\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nAfter he had left his fellows, Sir Percivale rode long through the\nforest until, one evening, he reached a monastery where he sought\nshelter for the night. The next morning, he went into the chapel to\nhear mass and there he espied the body of an old, old man, laid on a\nrichly adorned couch. At first it seemed as if the aged man were dead,\nbut presently, raising himself in his bed, he took off his crown and,\ndelivering it to the priest, bade him place it on the altar. So when\nthe service was concluded, Sir Percivale asked who the aged king might\nbe. Then he was told that it was none other than King Evelake who\naccompanied Joseph of Arimathea to Britain. And on a certain occasion,\nthe king had approached the Holy Grail nigher than was reverent and,\nfor his impiety, God had punished him with blindness. Thereupon he\nrepented and, entreating God earnestly, had obtained his petition that\nhe should not die until he had seen the spotless knight who should be\ndescended from him in the ninth degree. (This his desire was fulfilled\nlater when Sir Galahad came thither; after which, he died and was\nburied by the good knight.)\n\nThe next day, Sir Percivale continued his journey and presently met\nwith twenty knights who bore on a bier the body of a dead knight. When\nthey espied Sir Percivale, they demanded of him who he was and whence\nhe came. So he told them, whereupon they all shouted, \"Slay him! slay\nhim!\" and setting upon him all at once, they killed his horse and\nwould have slain him but that the good knight, Sir Galahad, passing\nthat way by chance, came to his rescue and put his assailants to\nflight. Then Galahad rode away as fast as he might, for he would not\nbe thanked, and Sir Percivale was left, horseless and alone, in the\nforest.\n\nSo Sir Percivale continued his journey on foot as well as he might;\nand ever the way became lonelier, until at last he came to the shores\nof a vast sea. There Sir Percivale abode many days, without food and\ndesolate, doubting whether he should ever escape thence. At last it\nchanced that, looking out to sea, Sir Percivale descried a ship and,\nas it drew nearer, he saw how it was all hung with satin and velvet.\nPresently it reached the land and out of it there stepped a lady of\nmarvellous beauty, who asked him how he came there; \"For know,\" said\nshe, \"ye are like to die here by hunger or mischance.\" \"He whom I\nserve will protect me,\" said Sir Percivale. \"I know well whom ye\ndesire most to see,\" said the lady. \"Ye would meet with the Red Knight\nwho bears the red-cross shield.\" \"Ah! lady, I pray you tell me where I\nmay find him,\" cried Sir Percivale. \"With a good will,\" said the\ndamsel; \"if ye will but promise me your service when I shall ask for\nit, I will lead you to the knight, for I met him of late in the\nforest.\" So Sir Percivale promised gladly to serve her when she should\nneed him. Then the lady asked him how long he had fasted. \"For three\ndays,\" answered Sir Percivale. Immediately she gave orders to her\nattendants forthwith to pitch a tent and set out a table with all\nmanner of delicacies, and of these she invited Sir Percivale to\npartake, \"I pray you, fair lady,\" said Sir Percivale, \"who are ye that\nshow me such kindness?\" \"Truly,\" said the lady, \"I am but a hapless\ndamsel, driven forth from my inheritance by a great lord whom I have\nchanced to displease. I implore you, sir knight, by your vows of\nknighthood, to give me your aid.\" Sir Percivale promised her all the\naid he could give, and then she bade him lie down and sleep, and\nherself took off his helmet, and unclasped his sword-belt. So Sir\nPercivale slept, and when he waked, there was another feast prepared,\nand he was given the rarest and the strongest wines that ever he had\ntasted. Thus they made merry, and, when the lady begged Percivale to\nrest him there awhile, promising him all that ever he could desire if\nhe would vow himself to her service, almost he forgot the quest to\nwhich he was vowed, and would have consented, but that his eye fell\nupon his sword where it lay. Now in the sword-hilt there was set a red\ncross and, seeing it, Percivale called to mind his vow, and, thinking\non it, he signed him with the cross on his forehead. Instantly, the\ntent was overthrown and vanished in thick smoke; and she who had\nappeared a lovely woman disappeared from his sight in semblance of a\nfiend.\n\nThen was Sir Percivale sore ashamed that almost he had yielded to the\ntemptings of the Evil One and earnestly he prayed that his sin might\nbe forgiven him. Thus he remained in prayer far into the night,\nbewailing his weakness; and when the dawn appeared, a ship drew nigh\nthe land. Sir Percivale entered into it, but could find no one there;\nso commending himself to God, he determined to remain thereon, and was\nborne over the seas for many days, he knew not whither.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF SIR BORS\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nAmong the knights vowed to the Quest of the Holy Grail was Sir Bors,\none of the kin of Sir Launcelot, a brave knight and pious. He rode\nthrough the forest many a day, making his lodging most often under a\nleafy tree, though once on his journey he stayed at a castle, that he\nmight do battle for its lady against a felon knight who would have\nrobbed and oppressed her.\n\nSo, on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Bors came to the\nparting of two ways. While he was considering which he should follow,\nhe espied two knights driving before them a horse on which was\nstretched, bound and naked, none other than Sir Bors' own brother, Sir\nLionel; and, from time to time, the two false knights beat him with\nthorns so that his body was all smeared with blood, but, so great was\nhis heart, Sir Lionel uttered never a word. Then, in great wrath, Sir\nBors laid his lance in rest and would have fought the felon knights to\nrescue his brother, but that, even as he spurred his horse, there came\na bitter cry from the other path and, looking round, he saw a lady\nbeing dragged by a knight into the darkest part of the forest where\nnone might find and rescue her. When she saw Sir Bors, she cried to\nhim: \"Help me! sir knight, help me! I beseech you by your knighthood.\"\nThen Sir Bors was much troubled, for he would not desert his brother;\nbut bethinking him that ever a woman must be more helpless than a man,\nhe wheeled his horse, rode upon her captor, and beat him to the\nearth. The damsel thanked him earnestly and told him how the knight\nwas her own cousin, who had that day carried her off by craft from her\nfather's castle. As they talked, there came up twelve knights who had\nbeen seeking the lady everywhere; so to their care Sir Bors delivered\nher, and rode with haste in the direction whither his brother had been\nborne. On the way, he met with an old man, dressed as a priest, who\nasked him what he sought. When Sir Bors had told him, \"Ah! Bors,\" said\nhe, \"I can give you tidings indeed. Your brother is dead;\" and\nparting the bushes, he showed him the body of a dead man, to all\nseeming Sir Lionel's self. Then Sir Bors grieved sorely, misdoubting\nalmost whether he should not rather have rescued his own brother; and\nat the last, he dug a grave and buried the dead man; then he rode\nsorrowfully on his way.\n\nWhen he had ridden many days, he met with a yeoman whom he asked if\nthere were any adventures in those parts. \"Sir,\" said the man, \"at the\ncastle, hard by, they hold a great tournament.\" Sir Bors thanked him\nand rode along the way pointed out to him; and presently, as he passed\na hermitage, whom should he see sitting at its door but his brother,\nSir Lionel, whom he had believed dead.\n\nThen in great joy, he leaped from his horse, and running to Lionel,\ncried: \"Fair brother, how came ye hither?\" \"Through no aid of yours,\"\nsaid Sir Lionel angrily; \"for ye left me bound and beaten, to ride to\nthe rescue of a maiden. Never was brother so dealt with by brother\nbefore. Keep you from me as ye may!\" When Sir Bors understood that his\nbrother would slay him, he knelt before him entreating his pardon. Sir\nLionel took no heed, but mounting his horse and taking his lance,\ncried: \"Keep you from me, traitor! Fight, or die!\" And Sir Bors moved\nnot; for to him it seemed a sin most horrible that brother should\nfight with brother. Then Sir Lionel, in his rage, rode his horse at\nhim, bore him to the ground and trampled him under the horse's hoofs,\ntill Bors lay beaten to the earth in a swoon. Even so, Sir Lionel's\nanger was not stayed; for, alighting, he drew his sword and would have\nsmitten off his brother's head, but that the holy hermit, hearing the\nnoise of conflict, ran out of the hermitage and threw himself upon Sir\nBors. \"Gentle knight,\" he cried, \"have mercy upon him and on thyself;\nfor of the sin of slaying thy brother, thou couldst never be quit.\"\n\"Sir priest,\" said Lionel, \"if ye leave him not, I shall slay you\ntoo.\" \"It were a lesser sin than to slay thy brother,\" answered the\nhermit. \"So be it,\" cried Lionel, and with one blow struck off the\nhermit's head. Then he would have worked his evil will upon his\nbrother too, but that, even as he was unlacing Sir Bors' helm to cut\noff his head, there rode up the good knight Sir Colgrevance, a fellow\nof the Round Table. When he saw the dead hermit and was aware how\nLionel sought the life of Bors, he was amazed, and springing from his\nhorse, ran to Lionel and dragged him back from his brother. \"Do ye\nthink to hinder me?\" said Sir Lionel. \"Let come who will, I will have\nhis life.\" \"Ye shall have to do with me first,\" cried Colgrevance.\nTherewith, they took their swords, and, setting their shields before\nthem, rushed upon each other. Now Sir Colgrevance was a good knight,\nbut Sir Lionel was strong and his anger added to his strength. So long\nthey fought that Sir Bors had time to recover from his swoon, and\nraising himself with pain on his elbow, saw how the two fought for his\nlife; and as it seemed, Sir Lionel would prevail, for Sir Colgrevance\ngrew weak and weary. Sir Bors tried to get to his feet, but so weak he\nwas, he could not stand; and Sir Colgrevance, seeing him stir, called\non him to come to his aid, for he was in mortal peril for his\nsake. But even as he called, Sir Lionel cut him to the ground, and, as\none possessed, rushed upon his brother to slay him. Sir Bors entreated\nhim for mercy, and when he would not, sorrowfully he took his sword,\nsaying: \"Now, God forgive me, though I defend my life against my\nbrother.\"\n\nImmediately there was heard a voice saying, \"Flee, Bors, and touch not\nthy brother;\" and at the same time, a fiery cloud burned between them,\nso that their shields glowed with the flame, and both knights fell to\nthe earth. But the voice came again, saying, \"Bors, leave thy brother\nand take thy way to the sea. There thou shalt meet Sir Percivale.\"\nThen Sir Bors made ready to obey, and, turning to Lionel, said: \"Dear\nbrother, I pray you forgive me for aught in which I have wronged you.\"\n\"I forgive you,\" said Sir Lionel, for he was too amazed terrified to\nkeep his anger.\n\nSo Sir Bors continued his journey, and at the last, coming to the\nsea-shore, he espied a ship draped all with white samite, and entering\nthereon, he saw Sir Percivale, and much they rejoiced them in each\nother's company.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF SIR LAUNCELOT\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nAfter Sir Launcelot had parted from his fellows at the Castle of\nVagon, he rode many days through the forest without adventure, till he\nchanced upon a knight close by a little hermitage in the wood.\nImmediately, as was the wont of errant knights, they prepared to\njoust, and Launcelot, whom none before had overthrown, was borne down,\nman and horse, by the stranger knight. Thereupon a nun, who dwelt in\nthe hermitage, cried: \"God be with thee, best knight in all this\nworld,\" for she knew the victor for Sir Galahad. But Galahad, not\nwishing to be known, rode swiftly away; and presently Sir Launcelot\ngot to horse again and rode slowly on his way, shamed and doubting\nsorely in his heart whether this quest was meant for him.\n\nWhen night fell, he came to a great stone cross which stood at the\nparting of the way and close by a little ruined chapel. So Sir\nLauncelot, being minded to pass the night there, alighted, fastened\nhis horse to a tree and hung his shield on a bough. Then he drew near\nto the little chapel, and wondered to see how, all ruinous though it\nwas, yet within was an altar hung with silk and a great silver\ncandlestick on it; but when he sought entrance, he could find none\nand, much troubled in his mind, he returned to his horse where he had\nleft it, and unlacing his helm and ungirding his sword, laid him down\nto rest.\n\nThen it seemed to Sir Launcelot that, as he lay between sleeping and\nwaking, there passed him two white palfreys bearing a litter wherein\nwas a sick knight, who cried: \"Sweet Lord, when shall I be pardoned\nall my transgressions, and when shall the holy vessel come to me, to\ncure me of my sickness?\" And instantly it seemed that the great\ncandlestick came forth of itself from the chapel, floating through the\nair before a table of silver on which was the Holy Grail. Thereupon,\nthe sick knight raised himself, and on his bended knees he approached\nso nigh that he kissed the holy vessel; and immediately he cried: \"I\nthank Thee, sweet Lord, that I am healed of my sickness.\" And all the\nwhile Sir Launcelot, who saw this wonder, felt himself held that he\ncould not move. Then a squire brought the stranger knight his weapons,\nin much joy that his lord was cured. \"Who think ye that this knight\nmay be who remains sleeping when the holy vessel is so near?\" said the\nknight. \"In truth,\" said the squire, \"he must be one that is held by\nthe bond of some great sin. I will take his helm and his sword, for\nhere have I brought you all your armor save only these two.\" So the\nknight armed him from head to foot, and taking Sir Launcelot's horse,\nrode away with his squire. On the instant, Sir Launcelot awoke amazed,\nnot knowing whether he had dreamed or not; but while he wondered,\nthere came a terrible voice, saying: \"Launcelot, arise and leave this\nholy place.\" In shame, Sir Launcelot turned to obey, only to find\nhorse and sword and shield alike vanished. Then, indeed, he knew\nhimself dishonored. Weeping bitterly, he made the best of his way on\nfoot, until he came to a cell where a hermit was saying prayer. Sir\nLauncelot knelt too, and, when all was ended, called to the hermit,\nentreating him for counsel. \"With good will,\" said the hermit. So Sir\nLauncelot made himself known and told the hermit all, lamenting how\nhis good fortune was turned to wretchedness and his glory to shame;\nand truly, the hermit was amazed that Sir Launcelot should be in such\ncase. \"Sir,\" said he, \"God has given you manhood and strength beyond\nall other knights; and more are ye bounden to his service.\" \"I have\nsinned,\" said Sir Launcelot; \"for in all these years of my knighthood,\nI have done everything for the honor and glory of my lady and naught\nfor my Maker; and little thank have I given to God for all his\nbenefits to me.\" Then the holy man gave Sir Launcelot good counsel and\nmade him rest there that night; and the next day he gave him a horse,\na sword and a helmet, and bade him go forth and bear himself knightly\nas the servant of God.\n\n\n\n\nHOW SIR LAUNCELOT SAW THE HOLY GRAIL\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nFor many days after he bad left the hermitage, Sir Launcelot rode\nthrough the forest, but there came to him no such adventures as had\nbefallen him on other quests to the increase of his fame. At last, one\nnight-tide, he came to the shores of a great water and there he lay\ndown to sleep; but as he slept, a voice called on him: \"Launcelot,\narise, put on thine armor and go on thy way until thou comest to a\nship. Into that thou shalt enter.\" Immediately, Sir Launcelot started\nfrom his sleep to obey, and, riding along the shore, came presently to\na ship beached on the strand; no sooner had he entered it, than the\nship was launched--how, he might not know. So the ship sailed before\nthe wind for many a day. No mortal was on it, save only Sir Launcelot,\nyet were all his needs supplied. Then, at last, the ship ran ashore\nat the foot of a great castle; and it was midnight. Sir Launcelot\nwaited not for the dawn, but, his sword gripped in his hand, sprang\nashore, and then right before him, he saw a postern where the gate\nstood open indeed, but two grisly lions kept the way. And when Sir\nLauncelot would have rushed upon the great beasts with his sword, it\nwas struck from his hands, and a voice said: \"Ah! Launcelot, ever is\nthy trust in thy might rather than thy Maker!\" Sore ashamed, Sir\nLauncelot took his sword and thrust it back into the sheath, and going\nforward, he passed unhurt through the gateway, the lions that kept it\nfalling back from his path. So without more adventure, Launcelot\nentered into the castle; and there he saw how every door stood open,\nsave only one, and that was fast barred, nor, with all his force,\nmight he open it. Presently from the chamber within came the sound of\na sweet voice in a holy chant, and then in his heart Launcelot knew\nthat he was come to the Holy Grail. So, kneeling humbly, he prayed\nthat to him might be shown some vision of that he sought. Forthwith\nthe door flew open and from the chamber blazed a light such as he had\nnever known before; but when he made to enter, a voice cried:\n\"Launcelot, forbear,\" and sorrowfully he withdrew. Then where he\nknelt, far even from the threshold of the wondrous room, he saw a\nsilver table and, on it, covered with red samite, the Holy Grail. At\nsight of that which he had sought so long, his joy became so great\nthat, unmindful of the warning, he advanced into the room and drew\nnigh even to the table itself. Then on the instant there burst between\nhim and it a blaze of light, and he fell to the ground. There he lay,\nnor might he move nor utter any sound; only he was aware of hands busy\nabout him which bore him away from the chamber.\n\nFor four-and-twenty days Sir Launcelot lay as in a trance. At the end\nof that time he came to himself, and found those about him that had\ntended him in his swoon. These, when they had given him fresh raiment,\nbrought him to the aged king--Pelles was his name--that owned that\ncastle. The king entertained him right royally, for he knew of the\nfame of Sir Launcelot; and long he talked with him of his quest and of\nthe other knights who followed it, for he was of a great age and knew\nmuch of men. At the end of four days he spoke to Sir Launcelot,\nbidding him return to Arthur's court: \"For,\" said he, \"your quest is\nended here, and all that ye shall see of the Holy Grail ye have seen.\"\nSo Launcelot rode on his way, grieving for the sin that hindered him\nfrom the perfect vision of the Holy Grail, but thanking God for that\nwhich he had seen. So in time he came to Camelot, and told to Arthur\nall that had befallen him.\n\n\n\n\nTHE END OF THE QUEST\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nAfter he had rescued Sir Percivale from the twenty knights who beset\nhim, Sir Galahad rode on his way till nightfall, when he sought\nshelter at a little hermitage. Thither there came in the night a\ndamsel who desired to speak with Sir Galahad; so he arose and went to\nher. \"Galahad,\" said she, \"arm you and mount your horse and follow me,\nfor I am come to guide you in your quest.\" So they rode together until\nthey had come to the seashore, and there the damsel showed Galahad a\ngreat ship into which he must enter. Then she bade him farewell, and\nhe, going on to the ship, found there already the good knights Sir\nBors and Sir Percivale, who made much joy of the meeting. They abode\nin that ship until they had come to the castle of King Pelles, who\nwelcomed them right gladly. Then, as they all sat at supper that\nnight, suddenly the hall was filled with a great light, and the holy\nvessel appeared in their midst, covered all in white samite. While\nthey all rejoiced, there came a voice, saying: \"My knights whom I have\nchosen, ye have seen the holy vessel dimly. Continue your journey to\nthe city of Sarras and there the perfect Vision shall be yours.\"\n\nNow in the city of Sarras had dwelt long time Joseph of Arimathea,\nteaching its people the true faith, before ever he came into the land\nof Britain; but when Sir Galahad and his fellows came there after long\nvoyage, they found it ruled by a heathen king named Estorause, who\ncast them into a deep dungeon. There they were kept a year, but at the\nend of that time, the tyrant died. Then the great men of the land\ngathered together to consider who should be their king; and, while\nthey were in council, came a voice bidding them take as their king the\nyoungest of the three knights whom Estorause had thrown into prison.\n\nSo in fear and wonder they hastened to the prison, and, releasing the\nthree knights, made Galahad king as the voice had bidden them.\n\n[Illustration: THERE CAME AN ARM AND A HAND ABOVE THE WATER. From\nthe painting by Walter Crane.]\n\nThus Sir Galahad became king of the famous city of Sarras, in far\nBabylon. He had reigned a year when, one morning early, he and the\nother two knights, his fellows, went into the chapel, and there they\nsaw, kneeling in prayer, an aged man, robed as a bishop and round him\nhovered many angels. The knights fell on their knees in awe and\nreverence, whereupon he that seemed a bishop turned to them and said:\n\"I am Joseph of Arimathea, and I am come to show you the perfect\nVision of the Holy Grail.\" On the instant there appeared before them,\nwithout veil or cover, the holy vessel, in a radiance of light such as\nalmost blinded them. Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, when at length they\nwere recovered from the brightness of that glory, looked up to find\nthat the holy Joseph and the wondrous vessel had passed from their\nsight. Then they Went to Sir Galahad where he still knelt as in\nprayer, and behold, he was dead; for it had been with him even as he\nhad prayed; in the moment when he had seen the vision, his soul had\ngone back to God.\n\nSo the two knights buried him in that far city, themselves mourning\nand all the people with them. And immediately after, Sir Percivale\nput off his arms and took the habit of a monk, living a devout and\nholy life until, a year and two months later, he also died and was\nburied near Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bors armed him, and bidding\nfarewell to the city, sailed away until, after many weeks, he came\nagain to the land of Britain. There he took horse, and stayed not till\nhe had come to Camelot. Great was the rejoicing of Arthur and all his\nknights when Sir Bors was once more among them. When he had told all\nthe adventures which had befallen him and the good knights, his\ncompanions, all who heard were filled with amaze. But the king, he\ncaused the wisest clerks in the land to write in great books this\nQuest of the Holy Grail, that the fame of it should endure unto all\ntime.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT\n\nRetold by Beatrice Clay\n\n\nAt last, the Quest of the Holy Grail was ended, and by ones and twos\nthe knights came back to Camelot, though many who had set out so\nboldly were never seen again about the Round Table.\n\nGreat was the joy of King Arthur when Sir Launcelot and Sir Bors\nreturned, for, so long had they been away, that almost he had feared\nthat they had perished. In their honor there was high festival for\nmany days in London, where Arthur then had his court; and the king\nmade proclamation of a great tournament that he would hold at Camelot,\nwhen he and the King of Nortgalis would keep the lists against all\ncomers.\n\nSo, one fair morning of spring, King Arthur made ready to ride to\nCamelot and all his knights with him, save Launcelot who excused\nhimself, saying that an old wound hindered him from riding. But when\nthe king, sore vexed, had departed, the queen rebuked Sir Launcelot,\nand bade him go and prove his great prowess as of old. \"Madam,\" said\nSir Launcelot, \"in this, as in all else, I obey you; at your bidding I\ngo, but know that in this tournament I shall adventure me in other\nwise than ever before.\"\n\nThe next day, at dawn, Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and, riding\nforth unattended, journeyed all that day till, as evening fell, he\nreached the little town of Astolat, and there, at the castle, sought\nlodgment for that night. The old Lord of Astolat was glad at his\ncoming, judging him at once to be a noble knight, though he knew him\nnot, for it was Sir Launcelot's will to remain unknown.\n\nSo they went to supper, Sir Launcelot and the old lord, his son, Sir\nLavaine, and his daughter Elaine, whom they of the place called the\nFair Maid of Astolat. As they sat at meat, the baron asked Sir\nLauncelot if he rode to the tournament. \"Yea,\" answered Launcelot;\n\"and right glad should I be if, of your courtesy, ye would lend me a\nshield without device.\" \"Right willingly,\" said his host; \"ye shall\nhave my son Sir Tirre's shield. He was but lately made knight and was\nhurt in his first encounter, so his shield is bare enough. If ye will\ntake with you my young son, Sir Lavaine, he will be glad to ride in\nthe company of so noble a knight and will do you such service as he\nmay.\" \"I shall be glad indeed of his fellowship,\" answered Sir\nLauncelot courteously.\n\nNow it seemed to the fair Elaine that never had she beheld so noble a\nknight as this stranger; and seeing that he was as gentle and\ncourteous as he was strong, she said to him: \"Fair knight, will ye\nwear my favor at this tournament? For never have I found knight yet to\nwear my crimson sleeve, and sure am I that none other could ever win\nit such honor.\" \"Maiden,\" said Sir Launcelot, \"right gladly would I\nserve you in aught; but it has never been my custom to wear lady's\nfavor.\" \"Then shall it serve the better for disguise,\" answered\nElaine. Sir Launcelot pondered her words, and at last he said; \"Fair\nmaiden, I will do for you what I have done for none, and will wear\nyour favor.\" So with great glee, she brought it him, a crimson velvet\nsleeve embroidered with great pearls, and fastened it in his\nhelmet. Then Sir Launcelot begged her to keep for him his own shield\nuntil after the tournament, when he would come for it again and tell\nthem his name.\n\nThe next morn Sir Launcelot took his departure with Sir Lavaine and,\nby evening, they were come to Camelot. Forthwith Sir Lavaine led Sir\nLauncelot to the house of a worthy burgher, where he might stay in\nprivacy, undiscovered by those of his acquaintance. Then, when at dawn\nthe trumpets blew, they mounted their horses and rode to a little wood\nhard by the lists, and there they abode some while; for Sir Launcelot\nwould take no part until he had seen which side was the stronger. So\nthey saw how King Arthur sat high on a throne to overlook the combat,\nwhile the King of Northgalis and all the fellowship of the Round Table\nheld the lists against their opponents led by King Anguish of Ireland\nand the King of Scots.\n\nThen it soon appeared that the two kings with all their company could\ndo but little against the Knights of the Round Table, and were sore\npressed to maintain their ground. Seeing this, Sir Launcelot said to\nSir Lavaine: \"Sir knight, will ye give me your aid if I go to the\nrescue of the weaker side? For it seems to me they may not much longer\nhold their own unaided.\" \"Sir,\" answered Lavaine, \"I will gladly\nfollow you and do what I may.\" So the two laid their lances in rest\nand charged into the thickest of the fight and, with one spear, Sir\nLauncelot bore four knights from the saddle. Lavaine, too, did nobly,\nfor he unhorsed the bold Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan the Butler. Then\nwith their swords they smote lustily on the left hand and on the\nright, and those whom they had come to aid rallying to them, they\ndrove the Knights of the Round Table back a space. So the fight raged\nfuriously, Launcelot ever being in the thickest of the press and\nperforming such deeds of valor, that all marvelled to see him, and\nwould fain know who was the Knight of the Crimson Sleeve. But the\nknights of Arthur's court felt shame of their discomfiture, and, in\nespecial, those of Launcelot's kin were wroth that one should appear\nwho seemed mightier even than Launcelot's self. So they called to each\nother and, making a rally, directed all their force against the\nstranger knight who had so turned the fortunes of the day. With lances\nin rest, Sir Lionel, Sir Bors, and Sir Ector, bore down together upon\nSir Launcelot, and Sir Bors' spear pierced Sir Launcelot and brought\nhim to the earth, leaving the spear head broken off in his side. This\nSir Lavaine saw, and immediately, with all his might, he rode upon the\nKing of Scots, unhorsed him and took his horse to Sir Launcelot. Now\nSir Launcelot felt as he had got his death-wound, but such was his\nspirit that he was resolved to do some great deed while yet his\nstrength remained. So, with Lavaine's aid, he got upon the horse, took\na spear and laying it in rest, bore down, one after the other, Sir\nBors, Sir Lionel, and Sir Ector. Next he flung himself into the\nthickest of the fight, and before the trumpets sounded the signal to\ncease, he had unhorsed thirty good knights. Then the Kings of Scotland\nand Ireland came to Sir Launcelot and said: \"Sir knight, we thank you\nfor the service done us this day. And now, we pray you, come with us\nto receive the prize which is rightly yours; for never have we seen\nsuch deeds as ye have done this day.\" \"My fair lords,\" answered Sir\nLauncelot, \"for aught that I have accomplished, I am like to pay\ndearly; I beseech you, suffer me to depart.\" With these words, he rode\naway full gallop, followed by Sir Lavaine; and when he had come to a\nlittle wood, he called Lavaine to him, saying: \"Gentle knight, I\nentreat you, draw forth this spear head, for it nigh slayeth me.\" \"Oh!\nmy dear lord,\" said Lavaine, \"I fear sore to draw it forth lest ye\ndie.\" \"If ye love me, draw it out,\" answered Launcelot. So Lavaine did\nas he was bidden, and, with a deathly groan, Sir Launcelot fell in a\nswoon to the ground. When he was a little recovered, he begged Lavaine\nto help him to his horse and lead him to a hermitage hard by where\ndwelt a hermit who, in bygone days, had been known to Launcelot for a\ngood knight and true. So with pain and difficulty they journeyed to\nthe hermitage, Lavaine oft fearing that Sir Launcelot would die. And\nwhen the hermit saw Sir Launcelot, all pale and besmeared with blood,\nhe scarce knew him for the bold Sir Launcelot du Lac; but he bore him\nwithin and dressed his wounds and bade him be of good cheer, for he\nshould recover. So there Sir Launcelot abode many weeks and Sir\nLavaine with him; for Lavaine would not leave him, such love had he\nfor the good knight he had taken for his lord.\n\nNow when it was known that the victorious knight had departed from the\nfield sore wounded, Sir Gawain vowed to go in search of him. So it\nchanced that, in his wanderings, he came to Astolat, and there he had\na hearty welcome of the Lord of Astolat, who asked him for news of the\ntournament. Then Sir Gawain related how two stranger knights, bearing\nwhite shields, had won great glory, and in especial one, who wore in\nhis helm a crimson sleeve, had surpassed all others in knightly\nprowess. At these words, the fair Elaine cried aloud with delight.\n\"Maiden,\" said Gawain, \"know ye this knight?\" \"Not his name,\" she\nreplied; \"but full sure was I that he was a noble knight when I prayed\nhim to wear my favor.\" Then she showed Gawain the shield which she had\nkept wrapped in rich broideries, and immediately Sir Gawain knew it\nfor Launcelot's. \"Alas!\" cried he, \"without doubt it was Launcelot\nhimself that we wounded to the death. Sir Bors will never recover the\nwoe of it.\"\n\nThen, on the morrow, Sir Gawain rode to London to tell the court how\nthe stranger knight and Launcelot were one; but the Fair Maid of\nAstolat rose betimes, and having obtained leave of her father, set out\nto search for Sir Launcelot and her brother Lavaine. After many\njourneyings, she came, one day, upon Lavaine exercising his horse in a\nfield, and by him she was taken to Sir Launcelot. Then, indeed, her\nheart was filled with grief when she saw the good knight to whom she\nhad given her crimson sleeve thus laid low; so she abode in the\nhermitage, waiting upon Sir Launcelot and doing all within her power\nto lessen his pain.\n\nAfter many weeks, by the good care of the hermit and the fair Elaine,\nSir Launcelot was so far recovered that he might bear the weight of\nhis armor and mount his horse again. Then, one morn, they left the\nhermitage and rode all three, the Fair Maid, Sir Launcelot, and Sir\nLavaine, to the castle of Astolat, where there was much joy of their\ncoming. After brief sojourn, Sir Launcelot desired to ride to court,\nfor he knew there would be much sorrow among his kinsmen for his long\nabsence. But when he would take his departure, Elaine cried aloud:\n\"Ah! my lord, suffer me to go with you, for I may not bear to lose\nyou.\" \"Fair child,\" answered Sir Launcelot gently, \"that may not be.\nBut in the days to come, when ye shall love and wed some good knight,\nfor your sake I will bestow upon him broad lands and great riches; and\nat all times will I hold me ready to serve you as a true knight may.\"\nThus spoke Sir Launcelot, but the fair Elaine answered never a word.\n\nSo Sir Launcelot rode to London where the whole court was glad of his\ncoming; but from the day of his departure, the Fair Maid drooped and\npined until, when ten days were passed, she felt that her end was at\nhand. So she sent for her father and two brothers, to whom she said\ngently: \"Dear father and brethren, I must now leave you.\" Bitterly\nthey wept, but she comforted them all she might, and presently desired\nof her father a boon. \"Ye shall have what ye will,\" said the old\nlord; for he hoped that she might yet recover. Then first she required\nher brother, Sir Tirre, to write a letter, word for word as she said\nit; and when it was written, she turned to her father and said: \"Kind\nfather, I desire that, when I am dead, I may be arrayed in my fairest\nraiment, and placed on a bier; and let the bier be set within a barge,\nwith one to steer it until I be come to London, Then, perchance, Sir\nLauncelot will come and look upon me with kindness.\" So she died, and\nall was done as she desired; for they set her, looking as fair as a\nlily, in a barge all hung with black, and an old dumb man went with\nher as helmsman.\n\nSlowly the barge floated down the river until it had come to\nWestminster; and as it passed under the palace walls, it chanced that\nKing Arthur and Queen Guenevere looked forth from a window. Marvelling\nmuch at the strange sight, together they went forth to the quay,\nfollowed by many of the knights. Then the king espied the letter\nclasped in the dead maiden's hand, and drew it forth gently and broke\nthe seal. And thus the letter ran: \"Most noble knight, Sir Launcelot,\nI, that men called the Fair Maid of Astolat, am come hither to crave\nburial at thy hands for the sake of the unrequited love I gave thee.\nAs thou art peerless knight, pray for my soul.\"\n\nThen the king bade fetch Sir Launcelot, and when he was come, he\nshowed him the letter. And Sir Launcelot, gazing on the dead maiden,\nwas filled with sorrow. \"My lord Arthur,\" he said, \"for the death of\nthis dear child I shall grieve my life long. Gentle she was and\nloving, and much was I beholden to her; but what she desired I could\nnot give.\" \"Yet her request now thou wilt grant, I know,\" said the\nking, \"for ever thou art kind and courteous to all.\" \"It is my\ndesire,\" answered Sir Launcelot.\n\nSo the Maid of Astolat was buried in the presence of the king and\nqueen and of the fellowship of the Round Table, and of many a gentle\nlady who wept, that time, the fair child's fate. Over her grave was\nraised a tomb of white marble, and on it was sculptured the shield of\nSir Launcelot; for, when he had heard her whole story, it was the\nking's will that she that in life had guarded the shield of his\nnoblest knight, should keep it also in death.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MABINOGION\n\n\nMabinogion means Tales, and it is the name given to the collection of\npopular tales belonging to the people of Wales. The Welsh is a very\nold language, one of the oldest in Europe, with poems dating from the\nsixth century. It is so much a spoken language, and so little a\nprinted language, that it was only in recent years that the tales were\ntranslated into English by Lady Charlotte Guest. The following stories\nhave been retold from her text.\n\n\n\n\nKYNON'S ADVENTURE AT THE FOUNTAIN\n\nBy Lady Charlotte Guest\n\n\nKing Arthur was at Caerleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his\nchamber, and with him were Owain, the son of Urien, and Kynon the son\nof Clydno, and Kay the son of Kyner, and Guenevere and her handmaidens\nat needlework by the window. In the centre of the chamber King Arthur\nsat, upon a seat of green rushes, over which was spread a covering of\nflame-covered satin, and a cushion of red satin was under his elbow.\n\nThen Arthur spoke. \"If I thought you would not disparage me,\" said he,\n\"I would sleep while I wait for my repast; and you can entertain one\nanother with relating tales, and can obtain a flagon of mead and some\nmeat from Kay.\" And the king went to sleep. And Kynon the son of\nClydno asked Kay for that which Arthur had promised them. \"I too will\nhave the good tale which he promised me,\" said Kay. \"Nay,\" answered\nKynon; \"fairer will it be for thee to fulfil Arthur's behest in the\nfirst place, and then we will tell thee the best tale that we know.\"\nSo Kay went to the kitchen and to the mead-cellar, and returned,\nbearing a flagon of mead, and a golden goblet, and a handful of\nskewers, upon which were broiled slices of meat. They ate the collops,\nand began to drink the mead. \"Now,\" said Kay, \"it is time for you to\ngive me my story.\" \"Kynon,\" said Owain, \"do thou pay to Kay the tale\nthat is his due.\" \"I will do so,\" answered Kynon.\n\n\"I was the only son of my mother and father, and I was exceedingly\naspiring, and my daring was very great. I thought there was no\nenterprise in the world too mighty for me: and after I had achieved\nall the adventures that were in my own country I equipped myself, and\nset forth to journey through deserts and distant regions. And at\nlength it chanced that I came to the fairest valley in the world,\nwherein were trees all of equal growth; and a river ran through the\nvalley, and a path was by the side of the river. I followed the path\nuntil midday, and continued my journey along the remainder of the\nvalley until the evening; and at the extremity of the plain I came to\na large and lustrous castle, at the foot of which was a torrent. I\napproached the castle, and there I beheld two youths with yellow\ncurling hair, each with a frontlet of gold upon his head, and clad in\na garment of yellow satin; and they had gold clasps upon their\ninsteps. In the hand of each of them was an ivory bow, strung with the\nsinews of the stag, and their arrows and their shafts were of the bone\nof the whale, and were winged with peacock's feathers. The shafts also\nhad golden heads. They had daggers with blades of gold, with hilts of\nthe bone of the whale, and they were shooting at a mark.\n\n\"A little away from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his\nbeard newly shorn, clad in a robe and mantle of yellow satin, and\nround the top of his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were\nshoes of variegated leather, fastened by two bosses of gold. When I\nsaw him I went towards him and saluted him; and such was his courtesy,\nthat he no sooner received my greeting than he returned it. And he\nwent with me towards the castle. Now there were no dwellers in the\ncastle, except those who were in one hall. There I saw four and twenty\ndamsels, embroidering satin at a window. And this I tell thee, Kay,\nthat the least fair of them was fairer than the fairest maid thou\ndidst ever behold in the island of Britain; and the least lovely of\nthem was more lovely than Guenevere, the wife of Arthur, when she\nappeared loveliest, at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming,\nand six of them took my horse, and divested me of my armor, and six\nothers took my arms and washed them in a vessel till they were\nperfectly bright. And the third six spread cloths upon the tables, and\nprepared meat. And the fourth six took off my soiled garments, and\nplaced others upon me, namely, an under vest and a doublet of fine\nlinen, and a robe and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, with a\nbroad gold band upon the mantle. And they placed cushions both beneath\nand around me, with coverings of red linen. And I sat down. Now the\nsix maidens who had taken my horse unharnessed him as well as if they\nhad been the best squires in the island of Britain.\n\n\"Then behold they brought bowls of silver, wherein was water to wash,\nand towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a\nlittle while the man sat down at the table. I sat next to him, and\nbelow me sat all the maidens, except those who waited on us. The table\nwas of silver, and the cloths upon the table were of linen. No vessel\nwas served upon the table that was not either of gold or of silver or\nof buffalo horn, and our meat was brought to us. And verily, Kay, I\nsaw there every sort of meat and every sort of liquor that I ever saw\nelsewhere; but the meat and the liquor were better served there than I\never saw them in any other place.\n\n\"Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the\ndamsels spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it\nwould be more agreeable for me to converse than to eat any more, he\nbegan to inquire of me who I was. I told the man who I was, and what\nwas the cause of my journey, and said that I was seeking whether any\none was superior to me, or whether I could gain mastery over all. The\nman looked upon me, and smiled and said, 'If I did not fear to do thee\na mischief, I would show thee that which thou seekest.' Then I\ndesired him to speak freely. And he said: 'Sleep here to-night, and in\nthe morning arise early, take the road upwards through the valley,\nuntil thou reachest the wood. A little way within the wood thou wilt\ncome to a large sheltered glade, with a mound in the centre, and thou\nwilt see a black man of great stature on the top of the mound. He has\nbut one foot, and one eye in the middle of his forehead. He is the\nwood-ward of that wood. Thou wilt see a thousand wild animals grazing\naround him. Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will reply\nto thee briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find\nthat which thou art in quest of.'\n\n\"Long seemed that night to me. The next morning I arose and equipped\nmyself, mounted my horse, and proceeded straight through the valley to\nthe wood, and at length I arrived at the glade. The black man was\nthere, sitting upon the top of the mound; and I was three times more\nastonished at the number of wild animals that I beheld than the man\nhad said I should be. I inquired of him the way, and he asked me\nroughly whither I would go. When I had told him who I was and what I\nsought, 'Take,' said he, 'that path that leads toward the head of the\nglade, and there thou wilt find an open space like to a large valley,\nand in the midst of it a tall tree. Under this tree is a fountain, and\nby the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the marble slab a\nsilver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, that it may not be carried\naway. Take the bowl and throw a bowlful of water on the slab. If thou\ndost not find trouble in that adventure, thou needest not seek it\nduring the rest of thy life'\n\n\"So I journeyed on until I reached the summit of the steep. And there\nI found everything as the black man had described it to me. I went up\nto the tree, and beneath it I saw the fountain, and by its side the\nmarble slab, and the silver bowl fastened by the chain. Then I took\nthe bowl, and cast a bowlful of water upon the slab. Immediately I\nheard a mighty peal of thunder, so that heaven and earth seemed to\ntremble with its fury. And after the thunder came a shower; and of a\ntruth I tell thee, Kay, that it was such a shower as neither man nor\nbeast could endure and live. I turned my horse's flank toward the\nshower, and placed the point of my shield over his head and neck,\nwhile I held the upper part of it over my own neck. And thus I\nwithstood the shower. Presently the sky became clear, and with that,\nbehold, the birds lighted upon the tree, and sang. Truly, Kay, I never\nheard any melody equal to that, either before or since. And when I was\nmost charmed with listening to the birds, lo! a chiding voice was\nheard of one approaching me, and saying: 'O knight, what has brought\nthee hither? What evil have I done to thee, that thou shouldst act\ntoward me and my possessions as thou hast this day? Dost thou not know\nthat the shower to-day has left in my dominions neither man nor beast\nalive that was exposed to it?' And thereupon, behold, a knight on a\nblack horse appeared, clothed in jet-black velvet, and with a tabard\nof black linen about him. We charged each other, and as the onset was\nfurious, it was not long before I was overthrown. Then the knight\npassed the shaft of his lance through the bridle-rein of my horse, and\nrode off with the two horses, leaving me where I was. He did not even\nbestow so much notice upon me as to imprison me, nor did he despoil me\nof my arms. So I returned along the road by which I had come. And\nwhen I reached the glade where the black man was, I confess to thee,\nKay, it is a marvel that I did not melt down into a liquid pool,\nthrough the shame that I felt at the black man's derision. That night\nI came to the same castle where I had spent the night preceding, and I\nwas more agreeably entertained that night than I had been the night\nbefore. I conversed freely with the inmates of the castle, and none of\nthem alluded to my expedition to the fountain, neither did I mention\nit to any. And I remained there that night. When I arose on the\nmorrow I found ready saddled a dark bay palfrey, with nostrils as red\nas scarlet. After putting on my armor, and leaving there my blessing,\nI returned to my own court. That horse I still possess, and he is in\nthe stable yonder. And I declare that I would not part with him for\nthe best palfrey in the island of Britain.\n\n\"Now, of a truth, Kay, no man ever before confessed to an adventure so\nmuch to his own discredit; and verily it seems strange to me that\nneither before nor since have I heard of any person who knew of this\nadventure, and that the subject of it should exist within King\nArthur's dominions without any other person lighting upon it.\"\n\n\n\n\nOWAIN'S ADVENTURE AT THE FOUNTAIN\n\nBy Lady Charlotte Guest\n\n\n\"Now,\" quoth Owain, \"would it not be well to go and endeavor to\ndiscover that place?\" \"By the hand of my friend,\" said Kay, \"often\ndost thou utter that with thy tongue which thou wouldest not make good\nwith thy deeds.\"\n\n\"In very truth,\" said Guenevere, \"it were better thou wert hanged,\nKay, than to use such uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain.\"\n\n\"By the hand of my friend, good lady,\" said Kay, \"thy praise of Owain\nis not greater than mine.\"\n\nWith that Arthur awoke, and asked if he had not been sleeping a\nlittle.\n\n\"Yes, lord,\" answered Owain, \"thou hast slept awhile.\"\n\n\"Is it time for us to go to meat?\"\n\n\"It is, lord,\" said Owain.\n\nThen the horn for washing was sounded, and the king and all his\nhousehold sat down to eat. When the meal was ended Owain withdrew to\nhis lodging, and made ready his horse and his arms.\n\nOn the morrow with the dawn of day he put on his armor, mounted his\ncharger, and travelled through distant lands, and over desert\nmountains. At length he arrived at the valley which Kynon had\ndescribed to him, and he was certain that it was the same that he\nsought. Journeying along the valley, by the side of the river, he\nfollowed its course till he came to the plain, and within sight of the\ncastle. When he approached the castle he saw the youths shooting with\ntheir bows, in the place where Kynon had seen them, and the yellow\nman, to whom the castle belonged, standing hard by. And no sooner had\nOwain saluted the yellow man, than he was saluted by him in return.\n\nHe went forward towards the castle, and there he saw the chamber; and\nwhen he had entered the chamber, he beheld the maidens working at\nsatin embroidery, in chains of gold. Their beauty and their comeliness\nseemed to Owain far greater than Kynon had represented to him. They\narose to wait upon Owain, as they had done to Kynon, and the meal\nwhich they set before him gave even more satisfaction to Owain than it\nhad done to Kynon.\n\nAbout the middle of the repast the yellow man asked Owain the object\nof his journey. Owain made it known to him, and said, \"I am in quest\nof the knight who guards the fountain.\" Upon this the yellow man\nsmiled, and said that he was as loath to point out that adventure to\nhim as he had been to Kynon. However, he described the whole to Owain,\nand they retired to rest.\n\nThe next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the\ndamsels, and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man\nwas. The stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain than\nit had done to Kynon; and Owain asked of him his road, and he showed\nit to him. And Owain followed the road till he came to the green tree;\nand he beheld the fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, with the\nbowl upon it. Owain took the bowl and threw a bowlful of water upon\nthe slab. And, lo! the thunder was heard, and after the thunder came\nthe shower, more violent than Kynon had described, and after the\nshower the sky became bright. Immediately the birds came and settled\nupon the tree and sang. And when their song was most pleasing to Owain\nhe beheld a knight coming towards him through the valley; and he\nprepared to receive him, and encountered him violently. Having broken\nboth their lances, they drew their swords and fought blade to blade.\nThen Owain struck the knight a blow through his helmet, head-piece,\nand visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the bone, until it\nwounded the very brain. Then the black knight felt that he had\nreceived a mortal wound, upon which he turned his horse's head and\nfled. Owain pursued him, and followed close upon him, although he was\nnot near enough to strike him with his sword. Then Owain descried a\nvast and resplendent castle; and they came to the castle gate. The\nblack knight was allowed to enter, but the portcullis was let fall\nupon Owain, and it struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in\ntwo, and carried away the rowels of the spurs that were upon Owain's\nheels. And the portcullis descended to the floor. And the rowels of\nthe spurs and part of the horse were without, and Owain with the other\npart of the horse remained between the two gates, and the inner gate\nwas closed, so that Owain could not go thence; and Owain was in a\nperplexing situation. While he was in this state, he could see through\nan aperture in the gate a street facing him, with a row of houses on\neach side. He beheld a maiden with yellow, curling hair, and a\nfrontlet of gold upon her head; and she was clad in a dress of yellow\nsatin, and on her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And she\napproached the gate, and desired that it should be opened. \"Heaven\nknows, lady,\" said Owain, \"it is no more possible for me to open to\nthee from hence, than it is for thee to set me free.\" And he told her\nhis name, and who he was. \"Truly,\" said the damsel, \"it is very sad\nthat thou canst not be released; and every woman ought to succor thee,\nfor I know there is no one more faithful in the service of ladies than\nthou. Therefore,\" quoth she, \"whatever is in my power to do for thy\nrelease, I will do it. Take this ring and put it on thy finger, with\nthe stone inside thy hand, and close thy hand upon the stone. As long\nas thou concealest it, it will conceal thee. When they come forth to\nfetch thee, they will be much grieved that they cannot find thee. I\nwill await thee on the horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be able to see\nme, though I cannot see thee. Therefore come and place thy hand upon\nmy shoulder, that I may know that thou art near me. And by the way\nthat I go hence do thou accompany me.\"\n\nThen the maiden went away from Owain, and he did all that she had told\nhim. The people of the castle came to seek Owain to put him to death;\nand when they found nothing but the half of his horse, they were\nsorely grieved.\n\nAnd Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed\nhis hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed\nher, until they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and\nthe maiden opened it, and they went in. Owain looked around the\nchamber, and behold there was not a single nail in it that was not\npainted with gorgeous colors, and there was not a single panel that\nhad not sundry images in gold portrayed upon it.\n\nThe maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver bowl, and gave\nOwain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver table, inlaid\nwith gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen, and she brought him\nfood. Of a truth, Owain never saw any kind of meat that was not there\nin abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever found it\nin any other place. There was not one vessel from which he was served\nthat was not of gold or of silver. Owain eat and drank until late in\nthe afternoon, when lo! they heard a mighty clamor in the castle, and\nhe asked the maiden what it was. \"They are administering extreme\nunction,\" said she, \"to the nobleman who owns the castle.\" And she\nprepared a couch for Owain which was meet for Arthur himself, and\nOwain went to sleep.\n\nA little after daybreak he heard an exceeding loud clamor and wailing,\nand he asked the maiden what was the cause of it. \"They are bearing to\nthe church the body of the nobleman who owned the castle.\"\n\nAnd Owain rose up, and clothed himself, and opened a window of the\nchamber, and looked towards the castle. He could see neither the\nbounds nor the extent of the hosts that filled the streets, and they\nwere fully armed; and a vast number of women were with them, both on\nhorseback and on foot, and all the ecclesiastics in the city singing.\nIn the midst of the throng he beheld the bier, over which was a veil\nof white linen; and wax tapers were burning beside and around it; and\nnone that supported the bier was lower in rank than a powerful baron.\n\nNever did Owain see an assemblage so gorgeous with silk and\nsatin. And, following the train, he beheld a lady with yellow hair\nfalling over her shoulders, and stained with blood; and about her a\ndress of yellow satin, which was torn. Upon her feet were shoes of\nvariegated leather. It was a marvel that the ends of her fingers were\nnot bruised from the violence with which she smote her hands together.\nTruly she would have been the fairest lady Owain ever saw, had she\nbeen in her usual guise. And her cry was louder than the shout of the\nmen or the clamor of the trumpets. No sooner had he beheld the lady\nthan he became inflamed with her love, so that it took entire\npossession of him.\n\nThen he inquired of the maiden who the lady was. \"Heaven knows,\"\nreplied the maiden, \"she is the fairest, the purest, the most liberal,\nand the most noble of women. She is my mistress, and she is called the\nCountess of the Fountain, the wife of him whom thou didst slay\nyesterday.\" \"Verily,\" said Owain, \"she is the woman that I love best.\"\n\"Verily,\" said the maiden, \"she shall also love thee not a little.\"\n\nThe maiden prepared a repast for Owain, and truly he thought he had\nnever before so good a meal, nor was he ever so well served. Then she\nleft him, and went towards the castle. When she came there, she found\nnothing but mourning and sorrow; and the countess in her chamber could\nnot bear the sight of any one through grief. Luned, for that was the\nname of the maiden, saluted her, but the Countess of the Fountain\nanswered her not. And the maiden bent down towards her, and said,\n\"What aileth thee, that thou answerest no one to-day?\" \"Luned,\" said\nthe countess, \"what change hath befallen thee, that thou hast not come\nto visit me in my grief. It was wrong in thee, and I so sorely\nafflicted.\" \"Truly,\" said Luned, \"I thought thy good sense was greater\nthan I find it to be. Is it well for thee to mourn after that good\nman, or for anything else that thou canst not have?\" \"I declare to\nHeaven,\" said the countess, \"that in the whole world there is not a\nman equal to him.\" \"Not so,\" said Luned, \"for an ugly man would be as\ngood as or better than he.\" \"I declare to Heaven,\" said the countess,\n\"that were it not repugnant to me to put to death one whom I have\nbrought up, I would have thee executed, for making such a comparison\nto me. As it is, I will banish thee.\" \"I am glad,\" said Luned, \"that\nthou hast no other cause to do so than that I would have been of\nservice to thee, where thou didst not know what was to thine\nadvantage. Henceforth, evil betide whichever of us shall make the\nfirst advance towards reconciliation to the other, whether I should\nseek an invitation from thee, or thou of thine own accord should send\nto invite.\"\n\nWith that Luned went forth; and the countess arose and followed her to\nthe door of the chamber, and began coughing loudly. When Luned looked\nback, the countess beckoned to her, and she returned to the countess.\n\"In truth,\" said the countess, \"evil is thy disposition; but if thou\nknowest what is to my advantage, declare it to me.\" \"I will do so,\"\nsaid she.\n\n\"Thou knowest that, except by warfare and arms, it is impossible for\nthee to preserve thy possessions; delay not, therefore, to seek some\none who can defend them.\" \"How can I do that?\" said the countess. \"I\nwill tell thee,\" said Luned; \"unless thou canst defend the fountain,\nthou canst not maintain thy dominions; and no one can defend the\nfountain except it be a knight of Arthur's household. I will go to\nArthur's court, and I'll betide me if I return not thence with a\nwarrior who can guard the fountain as well as, or even better than he\nwho defended it formerly.\" \"That will be hard to perform,\" said the\ncountess. \"Go, however, and make proof of that which thou hast\npromised.\"\n\nLuned set out under the pretence of going to Arthur's court; but she\nwent back to the mansion where she had left Owain, and she tarried\nthere as long as it might have taken her to travel to the court of\nKing Arthur and back. At the end of that time she apparelled herself,\nand went to visit the countess. The countess was much rejoiced when\nshe saw her, and inquired what news she brought from the court. \"I\nbring thee the best of news,\" said Luned, \"for I have compassed the\nobject of my mission. When wilt thou that I should present to thee the\nchieftain who has come with me hither?\" \"Bring him here to visit me\ntomorrow,\" said the countess, \"and I will cause the town to be\nassembled by that time.\" And Luned returned home.\n\nThe next day, at noon, Owain arrayed himself in a coat and a surcoat,\nand a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a broad band of gold\nlace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated leather, which\nwere fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And they\nproceeded to the chamber of the countess.\n\nRight glad was the countess of their coming. She gazed steadfastly\nupon Owain, and said, \"Luned, this knight has not the look of a\ntraveller.\" \"What harm is there in that, lady?\" said Luned. \"I am\ncertain,\" said the countess, \"that no other man than this chased the\nsoul from the body of my lord.\" \"So much the better for thee, lady,\"\nsaid Luned, \"for had he not been stronger than thy lord, he could not\nhave deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past,\nbe it as it may.\" \"Go back to thine abode,\" said the countess, \"and I\nwill take counsel.\"\n\nThe next day the countess caused all her subjects to assemble, and\nshowed them that her earldom was left defenceless, and that it could\nnot be protected but with horse and arms, and military skill.\n\"Therefore,\" said she, \"this is what I offer for your choice: either\nlet one of you take me, or give your consent for me to take a husband\nfrom elsewhere, to defend my dominions.\"\n\nSo they came to the determination that it was better that she should\nhave permission to marry some one from elsewhere; and thereupon she\nsent for the bishops and archbishops, to celebrate her nuptials with\nOwain. And the men of the earldom did Owain homage.\n\nOwain defended the fountain with lance and sword. And this is the\nmanner in which he defended it. Whensoever a knight came there, he\noverthrew him, and sold him for his full worth. What he thus gained he\ndivided among his barons and his knights, and no man in the whole\nworld could be more beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was\nthus for the space of three years.\n\n\n\n\nGAWAIN'S ADVENTURE IN SEARCH OF OWAIN\n\nBy Lady Charlotte Guest\n\n\nIt befell that, as Gawain went forth one day with King Arthur, he\nperceived him to be very sad and sorrowful. And Gawain was much\ngrieved to see Arthur in this state, and he questioned him, saying, \"O\nmy lord, what has befallen thee?\" \"In sooth, Gawain,\" said Arthur, \"I\nam grieved concerning Owain, whom I have lost these three years; and I\nshall certainly die if the fourth year pass without my seeing him. Now\nI am sure that it is through the tale which Kynon, the son of Clydno,\nrelated, that I have lost Owain.\" \"There is no need for thee,\" said\nGawain, \"to summon to arms thy whole dominions on this account, for\nthou thyself, and the men of thy household, will be able to avenge\nOwain if he be slain, or to set him free if he be in prison and, if\nalive, to bring him back with thee.\" And it was settled according to\nwhat Gawain had said.\n\nThen Arthur and the men of his household prepared to go and seek\nOwain, and Kynon, the son of Clydno, acted as their guide. And Arthur\ncame to the castle where Kynon had been before, and when he came\nthere, the youths were shooting in the same place, and the yellow man\nwas standing hard by. When the yellow man saw Arthur, he greeted him,\nand invited him to the castle. Arthur accepted his invitation, and\nthey entered the castle together. Great as was the number of his\nretinue, their presence was scarcely observed in the castle, so vast\nwas its extent. And the maidens rose up to wait on them. The service\nof the maidens appeared to them all to excel any attendance they had\never met with; and even the pages, who had charge of the horses, were\nno worse served that night than Arthur himself would have been in his\nown palace.\n\nThe next morning Arthur set out thence, with Kynon for his guide, and\ncame to the place where the black man was. And the stature of the\nblack man was more surprising to Arthur than it had been represented\nto him. They came to the top of the wooded steep, and traversed the\nvalley, till they reached the green tree, where they saw the fountain\nand the bowl and the slab. And upon that Kay came to Arthur, and spoke\nto him. \"My lord,\" said he, \"I know the meaning of all this, and my\nrequest is that thou wilt permit me to throw the water on the slab,\nand to receive the first adventure that may befall.\" And Arthur gave\nhim leave.\n\nThen Kay threw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately there\ncame the thunder, and after the thunder the shower. And such a\nthunderstorm they had never known before. After the shower had ceased,\nthe sky became clear, and on looking at the tree, they beheld it\ncompletely leafless. Then the birds descended upon the tree. And the\nsong of the birds was far sweeter than any strain they had ever heard\nbefore. Then they beheld a knight, on a coal-black horse, clothed in\nsating coming rapidly towards them. Kay met him and encountered him,\nand it was not long before Kay was overthrown. The knight withdrew,\nand Arthur and his host encamped for the night.\n\nWhen they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat\nupon the lance of the knight. Then, one by one, all the household of\nArthur went forth to combat the knight, until there was not one that\nwas not overthrown by him, except Arthur and Gawain. And Arthur armed\nhimself to encounter the knight. \"O my lord,\" said Gawain, \"permit me\nto fight with him first.\" And Arthur permitted him. He went forth to\nmeet the knight, having over himself and his horse a satin robe of\nhonor, which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of Rhangyr,\nand in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they\ncharged each other, and fought all that day until the evening. And\nneither of them was able to unhorse the other. And so it was the next\nday; they broke their lances in the shock, but neither of them could\nobtain the mastery.\n\nThe third day they fought with exceeding strong lances. They were\nincensed with rage, and fought furiously, even until noon. They gave\neach other such a shock that the girths of their horses were broken,\nso that they fell over their horses' cruppers to the ground. And they\nrose up speedily and drew their swords, and resumed the combat. All\nthey that witnessed their encounter felt assured that they had never\nbefore seen two men so valiant or so powerful. Had it been midnight,\nit would have been light, from the fire that flashed from their\nweapons. And the knight gave Gawain a blow that turned his helmet from\noff his face, so that the knight saw that it was Gawain. Then Owain\nsaid, \"My lord Gawain, I did not know thee for my cousin, owing to the\nrobe of honor that enveloped thee; take my sword and my arms.\" Said\nGawain, \"Thou, Owain, art the victor; take thou my sword.\" And with\nthat Arthur saw that they were conversing, and advanced toward them.\n\"My lord Arthur,\" said Gawain, \"here is Owain, who has vanquished me,\nand will not take my arms.\" \"My lord,\" said Owain, \"it is he that has\nvanquished me, and he will not take my sword.\" \"Give me your swords,\"\nsaid Arthur, \"and then neither of you has vanquished the other.\" Then\nOwain put his arms round Arthur's neck, and they embraced. All the\nhost hurried forward to see Owain, and to embrace him. And there was\nnigh being a loss of life, so great was the press.\n\nThe next day Arthur prepared to depart. \"My lord,\" said Owain, \"this\nis not well of thee. For I have been absent from thee these three\nyears, and during all that time, up to this very day, I have been\npreparing a banquet for thee, knowing that thou wouldst come to seek\nme. Tarry with me, therefore, until thou and thy attendants have\nrecovered the fatigues of the journey, and have been anointed.\"\n\n[Illustration: AN AGED MAN ENTERED THE HALL FOLLOWED BY A YOUNG MAN.\nFrom the painting by Walter Crane.]\n\nAnd they all proceeded to the castle of the Countess of the Fountain,\nand the banquet which had been three years preparing was consumed in\nthree months. Never had they a more delicious or agreeable banquet.\nAnd Arthur prepared to depart. Then he sent an embassy to the countess\nto beseech her to permit Owain to go with him, for the space of three\nmonths, that he might show him to the nobles and the fair dames of the\nisland of Britain. And the countess gave her consent, although it was\nvery painful to her. So Owain came with Arthur to the island of\nBritain. And when he was once more amongst his kindred and friends, he\nremained three years, instead of three months, with them.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF THE LION\n\nBy Lady Charlotte Guest\n\n\nAs Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerleon upon Usk, a\ndamsel entered the hall upon a bay horse, with a curling mane, and\ncovered with foam; and the bridle, and as much as was seen of the\nsaddle, were of gold. The damsel was arrayed in a dress of yellow\nsatin. And she came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his\nhand. \"Thus,\" said she, \"shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor,\nthe faithless, the disgraced, and the beardless.\" And she turned her\nhorse's head and departed.\n\nThen his adventure came to Owain's remembrance, and he was sorrowful.\nHaving finished eating, he went to his own abode, and made\npreparations that night. The next day he arose, but did not go to the\ncourt, nor did he return to the Countess of the Fountain, but wandered\nto the distant parts of the earth and to uncultivated mountains. And\nhe remained there until all his apparel was worn out, and his body was\nwasted away, and his hair was grown long. And he went about with the\nwild beasts, and fed with them, until they became familiar with him.\nBut at length he became so weak that he could no longer bear them\ncompany. Then he descended from the mountains to the valley, and came\nto a park, that was the fairest in the world, and belonged to a\ncharitable lady.\n\nOne day the lady and her attendants went forth to walk by a lake that\nwas in the middle of the park. They saw the form of a man, lying as if\ndead, and were terrified. Nevertheless they went near him, and touched\nhim, and saw that there was life in him. And the lady returned to the\ncastle, and took a flask full of precious ointment and gave it to one\nof her maidens. \"Go with this,\" said she, \"and take with thee yonder\nhorse, and clothing, and place them near the man we saw just now; and\nanoint him with this balsam near his heart; and if there is life in\nhim, he will revive, through the efficiency of this balsam. Then watch\nwhat he will do.\"\n\nThe maiden departed from her, and went and poured of the balsam upon\nOwain, and left the horse and garments hard by, and went a little way\noff and hid herself to watch him. In a short time she saw him begin to\nmove. He rose up, looked at his person, and became ashamed of the\nunseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the\ngarments that were near him. He clothed himself, and with difficulty\nmounted the horse.\n\nThen the damsel discovered herself to him, and saluted him. And he and\nthe maiden proceeded to the castle, and the maiden conducted him to a\npleasant chamber, and kindled a fire, and left him.\n\nHe stayed at the castle three months, till he was restored to his\nformer guise, and became even more comely than he had ever been\nbefore. And Owain rendered signal service to the lady, in a\ncontroversy with a powerful neighbor, so that he made ample requital\nto her for her hospitality; and he took his departure.\n\nAs he journeyed he heard a loud yelling in a wood. It was repeated a\nsecond and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and beheld\na huge craggy mound, in the middle of the wood, on the side of which\nwas a gray rock. There was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent was\nwithin the cleft.\n\nNear the rock stood a black lion, and every time the lion sought to go\nthence the serpent darted towards him to attack him. And Owain\nunsheathed his sword, and drew near to the rock; and as the serpent\nsprung out he struck him with his sword and cut him in two; and he\ndried his sword, and went on his way as before. Behold the lion\nfollowed him, and played about him, as though it had been a greyhound\nthat he had reared.\n\nThey proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. When it was\ntime for Owain to take his rest he dismounted, and turned his horse\nloose in a flat and wooded meadow. He struck fire, and when the fire\nwas kindled, the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three\nnights. And the lion disappeared. Presently the lion returned, bearing\na fine large roebuck, and threw it down before Owain, who went towards\nthe fire with it.\n\nOwain took the roebuck, skinned it, and placed slices of its flesh\nupon skewers round the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the lion\nto devour. While he was so employed, he heard a deep groan near him,\nand a second, and a third. The place whence the groans proceeded was a\ncave in the rock; and Owain went near, and called out to know who it\nwas that groaned so piteously. And a voice answered, \"I am Luned, the\nhand-maiden of the Countess of the Fountain.\" \"And what dost thou\nhere?\" said he. \"I am imprisoned,\" said she, \"on account of the knight\nwho came from Arthur's court, and married the countess. And he staid a\nshort time with her, but he afterwards departed for the court of\nArthur, and has not returned since. And two of the countess's pages\ntraduced him, and called him a deceiver. And because I said I would\nvouch for it he would come before long and maintain his cause against\nboth of them, they imprisoned me in this cave, and said that I should\nbe put to death, unless he came to deliver me, by a certain day; and\nthat is no further off than to-morrow, and I have no one to send to\nseek him for me. His name is Owain, the son of Urien.\" \"And art thou\ncertain that if that knight knew all this, he would come to thy\nrescue?\" \"I am most certain of it,\" said she.\n\nWhen the slices of meat were cooked, Owain divided them into two\nparts, between himself and the maiden, and then Owain laid himself\ndown to sleep; and never did sentinel keep stricter watch over his\nlord than the lion that night over Owain.\n\nThe next day there came two pages with a great troop of attendants to\ntake Luned from her cell, and put her to death. Owain asked them what\ncharge they had against her. They told him of the compact that was\nbetween them; as the maiden had done the night before. \"And,\" said\nthey, \"Owain has failed her, therefore we are taking her to be burnt.\"\n\"Truly,\" said Owain, \"he is a good knight, and if he knew that the\nmaiden was in such peril, I marvel that he came not to her rescue. But\nif you will accept me in his stead, I will do battle with you.\" \"We\nwill,\" said the youths.\n\nAnd they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that,\nthe lion came to Owain's assistance, and they two got the better of\nthe young men. And they said to him, \"Chieftain, it was not agreed\nthat we should fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us\nto contend with yonder animal than with thee.\" And Owain put the lion\nin the place where Luned had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door\nwith stones. And he went to fight with the young men as before.\n\nBut Owain had not his usual strength, and the two youths pressed hard\nupon him. And the lion roared incessantly at seeing Owain in trouble.\nAnd he burst through the wall, until he found a way out, and rushed\nupon the young men and instantly slew them. So Luned was saved from\nbeing burnt.\n\nThen Owain returned with Luned to the castle of the Lady of the\nFountain. And when he went thence, he took the countess with him to\nArthur's court, and she was his wife as long as she lived.\n\n\n\n\nHOW PWYLL OUTWITTED GAWL\n\nBy Lady Charlotte Guest\n\n\nOnce upon a time Pwyll was at Narberth, his chief palace, where a\nfeast had been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of men.\nAnd after the first meal Pwyll arose to walk; and he went to the top\nof a mound that was above the palace, and was called Gorsedd Arberth.\n\"Lord,\" said one of the court, \"it is peculiar to the mound that\nwhosoever sits upon it cannot go thence without either receiving\nwounds or blows, or else seeing a wonder.\" \"I fear not to receive\nwounds or blows,\" said Pwyll; \"but as to the wonder, gladly would I\nsee it. I will therefore go and sit upon the mound.\"\n\nAnd upon the mound he sat. While he sat there they saw a lady, on a\npure white horse of large size, with a garment of shining gold around\nher, coming along the highway that led from the mound. \"My men,\" said\nPwyll, \"is there any among you who knows yonder lady?\" \"There is not,\nlord,\" said they. \"Go one of you and meet her, that we may know who\nshe is.\" And one of them arose, and as he came upon the road to meet\nher, she passed by; and he followed as fast as he could, being on\nfoot, and the greater was his speed, the further was she from him.\nWhen he saw that it profited him nothing to follow her, he returned to\nPwyll, and said, \"Lord, it is idle for any one in the world to follow\nher on foot.\" \"Verily,\" said Pwyll, \"go unto the palace, and take the\nfleetest horse that thou seest, and go after her.\"\n\nSo he took a horse and went forward. He came to an open, level plain,\nand put spurs to his horse; and the more he urged his horse, the\nfurther was she from him. And he returned to the place where Pwyll\nwas, and said, \"Lord, it will avail nothing for any one to follow\nyonder lady. I know of no horse in these realms swifter than this, and\nit availed me not to pursue her.\" \"Of a truth,\" said Pwyll, \"there\nmust be some illusion here; let us go toward the palace.\" So to the\npalace they went, and spent the day.\n\nAnd the next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to\nmeat. And when meat was ended, Pwyll said, \"Where are the hosts that\nwent yesterday to the top of the mound?\" \"Behold, lord, we are here,\"\nsaid they. \"Let us go,\" said he, \"to the mound, and sit there. And do\nthou,\" said he to the page who tended his horse, \"saddle my horse\nwell, and hasten with him to the road, and bring also my spurs with\nthee.\" And the youth did thus. They went and sat upon the mound and\nere they had been there but a short time they beheld the lady coming\nby the same road, \"Young man,\" said Pwyll, \"I see the lady coming;\ngive me my horse.\" Before he had mounted his horse she passed him. And\nhe turned after her and followed her. He let his horse go bounding\nplayfully, and thought that he should soon come up with her, but he\ncame no nearer to her than at first. Then he urged his horse to his\nutmost speed, yet he found that it availed not. Then said Pwyll, \"O\nmaiden, for the sake of him whom thou best lovest, stay for me.\" \"I\nwill stay gladly,\" said she; \"and it were better for thy horse hadst\nthou asked it long since.\" So the maiden stopped; and she threw back\nthat part of her head-dress which covered her face. Then he thought\nthat the beauty of all the maidens and all the ladies that he had ever\nseen was as nothing compared to her beauty. \"Lady,\" he said, \"wilt\nthou tell me aught concerning thy purpose?\" \"I will tell thee,\" said\nshe; \"my chief quest was to see thee.\" \"Truly,\" said Pwyll, \"this is\nto me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst have come; and\nwilt thou tell me who thou art?\" \"I will tell thee, lord,\" said\nshe. \"I am Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd, and they sought to give\nme a husband against my will. But no husband would I have, and that\nbecause of my love for thee; neither will I yet have one, unless thou\nreject me; and hither have I come to hear thy answer.\" \"By Heaven,\"\nsaid Pwyll, \"behold this is my answer. If I might choose among all\nthe ladies and damsels in the world, thee would I choose.\" \"Verily,\"\nsaid she, \"if thou art thus minded, make a pledge to meet me ere I am\ngiven to another.\" \"The sooner I may do so, the more pleasing will it\nbe to me,\" said Pwyll; \"and wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet\nwith thee.\" \"I will that thou meet me this day twelvemonth at the\npalace of Heveydd.\" \"Gladly,\" said he, \"will I keep this tryst.\" So\nthey parted, and he went back to his hosts, and to them of his\nhousehold. And whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the\ndamsel, he always turned the discourse upon other matters.\n\nWhen a year from that time was gone, he caused a hundred knights to\nequip themselves, and to go with him to the palace of Heveydd. And he\ncame to the palace, and there was great joy concerning him, with much\nconcourse of people, and great rejoicing, and vast preparations for\nhis coming. And the whole court was placed under his orders.\n\nAnd the hall was garnished, and they went to meat, and thus did they\nsit: Heveydd was on one side of Pwyll, and Rhiannon on the other; and\nall the rest according to their rank. And they ate and feasted, and\ntalked one with another. After the meat there entered a tall,\nauburn-haired youth, of royal bearing, clothed in a garment of satin,\nwho saluted Pwyll and his companions. \"The greeting of Heaven be unto\nthee,\" said Pwyll; \"come thou and sit down.\" \"Nay,\" said he, \"a suitor\nam I, and I will do my errand.\" \"Do so willingly,\" said Pwyll. \"Lord,\"\nsaid he, \"my errand is unto thee, and it is to crave a boon of thee\nthat I come.\" \"What boon soever thou mayest ask of me, so far as I am\nable, thou shalt have.\" \"Ah!\" said Rhiannon, \"wherefore didst thou\ngive that answer?\" \"Has he not given it before the presence of these\nnobles?\" asked the youth. \"My soul,\" said Pwyll, \"what is the boon\nthou askest?\" \"The lady whom best I love is to be thy bride this\nnight; I come to ask her of thee, with the feast and the banquet that\nare in this place,\" And Pwyll was silent, because of the promise which\nhe had given. \"Be silent as long as thou wilt,\" said Rhiannon, \"never\ndid man make worse use of his wits than thou hast done.\" \"Lady,\" said\nhe, \"I knew not who he was.\" \"Behold, this is the man to whom they\nwould have given me against my will,\" said she; \"and he is Gawl, the\nson of Clud, a man of great power and wealth, and because of the word\nthou hast spoken, bestow me upon him, lest shame befall thee.\" \"Lady,\"\nsaid he, \"I understand not thy answer; never can I do as thou sayest.\"\n\"Bestow me upon him,\" said she, \"and I will cause that I shall never\nbe his.\" \"By what means will that be?\" asked Pwyll. She told him the\nthought that was in her mind, and they talked long together. Then Gawl\nsaid, \"Lord, it is meet that I have an answer to my request.\" \"As much\nof that thou hast asked as it is in my power to give, thou shalt\nhave,\" replied Pwyll. \"My soul,\" said Rhiannon unto Gawl, \"as for the\nfeast and the banquet that are here, I have bestowed them upon the men\nof Dyved, and the household and the warriors that are with us. These\ncan I not suffer to be given to any. In a year from to-night, a\nbanquet shall be prepared for thee in this palace, that I may become\nthy bride.\"\n\nSo Gawl went forth to his possessions, and Pwyll went also back to\nDyved. And they both spent that year until it was the time for the\nfeast at the palace of Heveydd. Then Gawl, the son of Clud, set out to\nthe feast that was prepared for him; and he came to the palace, and\nwas received there with rejoicing. Pwyll, also, the chief of Dyved,\ncame to the orchard with a hundred knights, as Rhiannon had commanded\nhim. And Pwyll was clad in coarse and ragged garments, and wore large,\nclumsy old shoes upon his feet. And when he knew that the carousal\nafter the meat had begun, he went toward the hall; and when he came\ninto the hall he saluted Gawl, the son of Clud, and his company, both\nmen and women. \"Heaven prosper thee,\" said Gawl, \"and friendly\ngreeting be unto thee!\" \"Lord,\" said he, \"may Heaven reward thee! I\nhave an errand unto thee.\" \"Welcome be thine errand, and if thou ask\nof me that which is right, thou shalt have it gladly.\" \"It is\nfitting,\" answered he; \"I crave but from want, and the boon I ask is\nto have this small bag that thou seest filled with meat.\" \"A request\nwithin reason is this,\" said he, \"and gladly shalt thou have it. Bring\nhim food.\" A great number of attendants arose and began to fill the\nbag; but for all they put into it, it was no fuller than at first. \"My\nsoul,\" said Gawl, \"will thy bag ever be full?\" \"It will not, I declare\nto Heaven,\" said he, \"for all that may be put into it, unless one\npossessed of lands, and domains, and treasure, shall arise and tread\ndown with both his feet the food that is within the bag, and shall\nsay, 'Enough has been put therein.'\" Then said Rhiannon unto Gawl, the\nson of Clud, \"Rise up quickly.\" \"I will willingly arise,\" said he. So\nhe rose up, and put his two feet into the bag. And Pwyll turned up the\nsides of the bag, so that Gawl was over his head in it. And he shut it\nup quickly, and slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his horn. And\nthereupon, behold, his knights came down upon the palace. They seized\nall the host that had come with Gawl, and cast them into his own\nprison, and Pwyll threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his\ntattered array. As they came in, every one of Pwyll's knights struck a\nblow upon the bag, and asked, \"What is here?\" \"A badger,\" said they.\nAnd in this manner they played, each of them striking the bag, either\nwith his foot or with a staff. And then was the game of Badger in the\nBag first played.\n\n\"Lord,\" said the man in the bag, \"if thou wouldst but hear me, I merit\nnot to be slain in a bag.\" Said Heveydd, \"Lord, he speaks truth; it\nwere fitting that thou listen to him, for he deserves not this.\"\n\"Verily,\" said Pwyll, \"I will do thy counsel concerning him.\" \"Behold,\nthis is my counsel then,\" said Rhiannon. \"Thou art now in a position\nin which it behooves thee to satisfy suitors and minstrels. Let him\ngive unto them in thy stead, and take a pledge from him that he will\nnever seek to revenge that which has been done to him. And this will\nbe punishment enough.\" \"I will do this gladly,\" said the man in the\nbag. \"And gladly will I accept it,\" said Pwyll, \"since it is the\ncounsel of Heveydd and Rhiannon. Seek thyself sureties.\" \"We will be\nfor him,\" said Heveydd, \"until his men be free to answer for him.\" And\nupon this he was let out of the bag, and his liegemen were liberated.\n\"Verily, lord,\" said Gawl, \"I am greatly hurt, and I have many\nbruises. With thy leave, I will go forth. I will leave nobles in my\nstead to answer for me in all that thou shalt require.\" \"Willingly,\"\nsaid Pwyll, \"mayest thou do thus.\" So Gawl went to his own\npossessions.\n\nAnd the hall was set in order for Pwyll and the men of his host, and\nfor them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and sat\ndown. And as they had sat that time twelvemonth, so sat they that\nnight. They ate and feasted, and spent the night in mirth and\ntranquillity.\n\nNext morning at break of day, \"My lord,\" said Rhiannon, \"arise and\nbegin to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one to-day that\nmay claim thy bounty.\" \"Thus shall it be gladly,\" said Pwyll, \"both\nto-day and every day while the feast shall last.\" So Pwyll arose, and\nhe caused silence to be proclaimed, and desired all the suitors and\nminstrels to show and to point out what gifts they desired.\n\nAnd this being done, the feast went on, and he denied no one while it\nlasted. And when the feast was ended, Pwyll said unto Heveydd, \"My\nlord, with thy permission, I will set out for Dyved to-morrow.\"\n\"Certainly,\" said Heveydd; \"may Heaven prosper thee! Fix also a time\nwhen Rhiannon shall follow thee.\" \"By Heaven,\" said Pwyll, \"we will go\nhence together.\" \"Willest thou this, lord?\" said Heveydd. \"Yes, lord,\"\nanswered Pwyll.\n\nAnd the next day they set forward toward Dyved, and journeyed to the\npalace of Narberth, where a feast was made ready for them. And there\ncame to them great numbers of the chief men and the most noble ladies\nof the land, and of these there were none to whom Rhiannon did not\ngive some rich gift, either a bracelet, or a ring, or a precious\nstone. And they ruled the land prosperously that year and the next.\n\n\n\n\nHOW MANAWYDDAN CAUGHT A THIEF\n\nBy Lady Charlotte Guest\n\n\nPwyll and Rhiannon had a son, whom they named Pryderi. And when he was\ngrown up, Pwyll, his father, died. And Pryderi married Kieva, the\ndaughter of Gwynn Gloy.\n\nNow Manawyddan returned from the war in Ireland, and he found that his\ncousin had seized all his possessions, and much grief and heaviness\ncame upon him. \"Alas! woe is me!\" he exclaimed; \"there is none save\nmyself without a home and a resting-place.\" \"Lord,\" said Pryderi, \"be\nnot so sorrowful. Thy cousin is king of the Island of the Mighty, and\nthough he has done thee wrong, thou hast never been a claimant of land\nor possessions.\" \"Yea,\" answered he, \"but although this man is my\ncousin, it grieveth me to see any one in the place of my brother,\nBendigeid Vran; neither can I be happy in the same dwelling with him.\"\n\"Wilt thou follow the counsel of another?\" said Pryderi. \"I stand in\nneed of counsel,\" he answered, \"and what may that counsel be?\" \"Seven\ncantrevs belong unto me,\" said Pryderi, \"wherein Rhiannon, my mother,\ndwells. I will bestow her upon thee, and the seven cantrevs with her;\nand though thou hadst no possessions but those cantrevs only, thou\ncouldst not have any fairer than they. Do thou and Rhiannon enjoy\nthem, and if thou desire any possessions thou wilt not despise these.\"\n\"I do not, chieftain,\" said he, \"Heaven reward thee for the\nfriendship! I will go with thee to seek Rhiannon, and to look at thy\npossessions.\" \"Thou wilt do well,\" he answered; \"and I believe that\nthou didst never hear a lady discourse better than she, and when she\nwas in her prime, none was ever fairer. Even now her aspect is not\nuncomely.\"\n\nThey set forth, and, however long the journey, they came at last to\nDyved; and a feast was prepared for them by Rhiannon and Kieva. Then\nbegan Manawyddan and Rhiannon to sit and to talk together; and his\nmind and his thoughts became warmed towards her, and he thought in his\nheart he had never beheld any lady more fulfilled of grace and beauty\nthan she. \"Pryderi,\" said he, \"I will that it be as thou didst say.\"\n\"What saying was that?\" asked Rhiannon. \"Lady,\" said Pryderi, \"I did\noffer thee as a wife to Manawyddan.\" \"By that will I gladly abide,\"\nsaid Rhiannon. \"Right glad am I also,\" said Manawyddan; \"may Heaven\nreward him who hath shown unto me friendship so perfect as this!\" And\nbefore the feast was over she became his bride.\n\n\"Tarry ye here the rest of the feast, and I will go into England to\ntender my homage unto Caswallawn, the son of Beli,\" said Pryderi.\n\"Lord,\" said Rhiannon, \"Caswallawn is in Kent; thou mayest therefore\ntarry at the feast, and wait until he shall be nearer.\" \"We will\nwait,\" he answered. So they finished the feast. And they began to make\nthe circuit of Dyved, and to hunt, and to take their pleasure. And as\nthey went through the country, they had never seen lands more pleasant\nto live in, nor better hunting grounds, nor greater plenty of honey\nand fish. And such was the friendship between these four, that they\nwould not be parted from each other by night nor by day.\n\nIn the midst of all this he went to Caswallawn at Oxford, and tendered\nhis homage; and honorable was his reception there, and highly was he\npraised for offering his homage.\n\nAfter his return Pryderi and Manawyddan began a feast at Narberth, for\nit was the chief palace. When they had ended the first meal, while\nthose who served them ate, they arose and went to the Mound of\nNarberth, and their retinue with them. As they sat there, behold a\npeal of thunder, and, with the violence of the thunder-storm, lo!\nthere came a fall of mist, so thick that not one of them could see the\nother. And after the mist it became light all around. When they looked\ntowards the place where they were wont to see the cattle and herds and\ndwellings, they saw nothing now, neither house, nor beast, nor smoke,\nnor fire, nor man, nor dwelling, but the buildings of the court empty\nand uninhabited, without either man or beast within them.\n\n\"In the name of Heaven,\" said Manawyddan, \"where are they of the\ncourt, and all my host beside? Let us go and see.\"\n\nSo they came to the castle, and saw no man, and into the hall, and to\nthe sleeping-place, and there was none; and in the mead-cellar and in\nthe kitchen there was naught but desolation. Then they began to go\nthrough the land, and all the possessions that they had; and they\nvisited the houses and dwellings, and found nothing but wild\nbeasts. And when they had consumed their feast and all their\nprovisions, they fed upon the prey they killed in hunting.\n\nOne morning Pryderi and Manawyddan ranged their dogs and went forth to\nhunt. Some of the dogs ran before them, and came to a bush which was\nnear at hand; but as soon as they were come to the bush, they hastily\ndrew back, and returned to the men, their hair bristling up greatly.\n\"Let us go,\" said Pryderi, \"and see what is in it.\" As they came near,\nbehold, a wild boar of a pure white color rose up from the bush. Then\nthe dogs, being set on by the men, rushed towards him; but he left the\nbush, and fell back a little way from the men, and made a stand\nagainst the dogs, until the men had come near. When the men came up he\nfell back a second time, and betook him to flight. Then they pursued\nthe boar until they beheld a vast and lofty castle, all newly built,\nin a place where they had never before seen either stone or building.\nAnd the boar ran swiftly into the castle, the dogs after him. Then men\nbegan to wonder at finding a castle in a place where they had never\nbefore seen any building, and listened for the dogs. But they heard\nnot one of the dogs, nor aught concerning them.\n\n\"Lord,\" said Pryderi, \"I will go into the castle to get tidings of the\ndogs.\" \"Truly,\" he replied, \"if thou wouldst follow my counsel, thou\nwouldst not enter therein. Whosoever has cast a spell over this land,\nhas caused this castle to be here.\" \"Of a truth,\" answered Pryderi, \"I\ncannot thus give up my dogs,\" and to the castle he went.\n\nWhen he came within the castle he found neither man nor beast, nor\nboar, nor dogs, nor house, nor dwelling within it. In the centre of\nthe castle-floor he beheld a fountain with marble-work around it, and\non the margin of the fountain a golden bowl upon a marble slab, and\nchains hanging from the air, to which he saw no end.\n\nHe was greatly pleased with the beauty of the gold, and with the rich\nworkmanship of the bowl; and he went up to the bowl, and laid hold of\nit. And when he had taken hold of it, his hands stuck to the bowl,\nand his feet to the slab on which the bowl was placed; and all his\njoyousness forsook him, so that he could not utter a word. And thus he\nstood.\n\nManawyddan waited for him till near the close of the day. Late in the\nevening, being certain that he should have no tidings of Pryderi or\nthe dogs, he went back to the palace. As he entered, Rhiannon looked\nat him. \"Where,\" said she, \"are thy companion and thy dogs?\" \"Behold,\"\nhe answered, \"the adventure that has befallen me.\" And he related it\nall unto her. \"An evil companion hast thou been,\" said Rhiannon, \"and\na good companion hast thou lost.\" And with that word she went out, and\nproceeded towards the castle, according to the direction which he gave\nher. The gate of the castle she found open. She was nothing daunted,\nand went in. As she went in, she perceived Pryderi laying hold of the\nbowl, and she went towards him. \"O my lord,\" said she, \"what dost\nthou here?\" She took hold of the bowl with him; and as she did so her\nhands also became fast to the bowl, and her feet to the slab, and she\nwas not able to utter a word. And with that, as it became night, lo!\nthere came thunder upon them, and a fall of mist; and thereupon the\ncastle vanished, and they with it.\n\nWhen Kieva saw that there was no one in the palace but herself and\nManawyddan, she sorrowed so that she cared not whether she lived or\ndied. And Manawyddan saw this. \"Thou art in the wrong,\" said he, \"if\nthrough fear of me thou grievest thus. I call Heaven to witness that\nthou hast never seen friendship more pure than that which I will bear\nthee, but it is not fitting for us to stay here; we have lost our\ndogs, and cannot get food. Let us go into England; it is easiest for\nus to find support there.\" \"Gladly, lord,\" said she, \"we will do so.\"\nAnd they set forth together to England.\n\n\"Lord,\" said she, \"what craft wilt thou follow? Take up one that is\nseemly,\" \"None other will I take,\" answered he, \"but that of making\nshoes.\" \"Lord,\" said she, \"such a craft becomes not a man so nobly\nborn as thou.\" \"By that however will I abide,\" said he. \"I know\nnothing thereof,\" said Kieva. \"But I know,\" answered Manawyddan, \"and\nI will teach thee to stitch. We will not attempt to dress the leather,\nbut we will buy it ready dressed, and will make the shoes from it.\"\n\nSo they went into England, and went as far as Hereford; and they\nbetook themselves to making shoes. He began by buying the best\ncordwain that could be had in the town, and associated himself with\nthe best goldsmith in the town, and caused him to make clasps for the\nshoes, and to gild the clasps; and he marked how it was done until he\nlearned the method. When they could be had from him, not a shoe nor\nhose was bought of any of the cordwainers in the town. When the\ncordwainers perceived that their gains were failing they came together\nand took counsel, and agreed that they would slay them. And he had\nwarning thereof, and it was told him how the cordwainers had agreed\ntogether to slay him.\n\n\"Lord,\" said Kieva, \"wherefore should this be borne from these boors?\"\n\"Nay,\" said he, \"we will go back unto Dyved.\" So towards Dyved they\nset forth.\n\nNow Manawyddan, when he set out to return to Dyved, took with him a\nburden of wheat. And he proceeded towards Narberth, and there he\ndwelt. Never was he better pleased than when he saw Narberth again,\nand the lands where he had been wont to hunt with Pryderi and with\nRhiannon. And he accustomed himself to fish, and to hunt the deer in\ntheir covert. He began to prepare some ground, and he sowed a croft,\nand a second, and a third. And no wheat in the world ever sprung up\nbetter. The three crofts prospered with perfect growth, and no man\never saw fairer wheat.\n\nThus passed the seasons of the year until the harvest came. And he\nwent to look at one of his crofts, and, behold, it was ripe. \"I will\nreap this to-morrow,\" said he. On the morrow, when he came there, he\nfound nothing but the bare straw. Every one of the ears of the wheat\nwas cut off from the stalk, and all the ears carried entirely\naway. And at this he marvelled greatly.\n\nThen he went to look at another croft, and, behold, that also was\nripe. \"Verily,\" said he, \"this will I reap to-morrow.\" And on the\nmorrow he came with the intent to reap it; and when he came there, he\nfound nothing but the bare straw.\n\n \"O gracious Heaven!\" he exclaimed. \"I know that whosoever has begun\nmy ruin is completing it, and has also destroyed the country with me.\"\n\nThen he went to look at the third croft; and when he came there, finer\nwheat had there never been seen, and this also was ripe. \"Evil betide\nme,\" said he, \"if I watch not here to-night. Whoever carried off the\nother corn will come in like manner to take this, and I will know who\nit is.\" And he told Kieva all that had befallen. \"Verily,\" said she,\n\"what thinkest thou to do?\" \"I will watch the croft to-night,\" said\nhe. And he went to watch the croft.\n\nAt midnight he heard something stirring among the wheat; and he\nlooked, and behold, the mightiest host of mice in the world, which\ncould neither be numbered nor measured. He knew not what it was until\nthe mice had made their way into the croft, and each of them, climbing\nup the straw and bending it down with its weight, had cut off one of\nthe ears of wheat and had carried it away, leaving there the stalk;\nand he saw not a single straw there that had not a mouse to it. And\nthey all took their way, carrying the ears with them.\n\nIn wrath and anger did he rush upon the mice, but he could no more\ncome up with them than if they had been gnats or birds of the air,\nexcept one only, which, though it was but sluggish, went so fast that\na man on foot could scarce overtake it. After this one he went, and\nhe caught it and put it in his glove, and tied up the opening of the\nglove with a string, and kept it with him, and returned to the\npalace. Then he came to the hall where Kieva was, and he lighted a\nfire, and hung the glove by the string upon a peg. \"What hast thou\nthere, lord?\" said Kieva. \"A thief,\" said he, \"that I found robbing\nme.\" \"What kind of a thief may it be, lord, that thou couldst put into\nthy glove?\" said she. Then he told her how the mice came to the last\nof the fields in his sight. \"And one of them was less nimble than the\nrest, and is now in my glove; to-morrow I will hang it.\" \"My lord,\"\nsaid she, \"this is marvellous; but yet it would be unseemly for a man\nof dignity like thee to be hanging such a reptile as this.\" \"Woe\nbetide me,\" said he, \"if I would not hang them all, could I catch\nthem, and such as I have I will hang.\" \"Verily, lord,\" said she,\n\"there is no reason that I should succor this reptile, except to\nprevent discredit unto thee. Do therefore, lord, as thou wilt.\"\n\nThen he went to the Mound of Narberth, taking the mouse with him. He\nset up two forks on the highest part of the mound, and while he was\ndoing this he saw a scholar coming towards him, in old and tattered\ngarments. It was seven years since he had seen in that place either\nman or beast, except those four persons who had remained together\nuntil two of them were lost.\n\n\"My lord,\" said the scholar, \"good day to thee.\" \"Heaven prosper\nthee, and my greeting be unto thee! And whence dost thou come,\nscholar?\" asked he. \"I come, lord, from singing in England; and\nwherefore dost thou inquire?\" \"Because for the last seven years,\"\nanswered he, \"I have seen no man here save four secluded persons, and\nthyself this moment.\" \"Truly, lord,\" said he, \"I go through this land\nunto mine own. And what work art thou upon, lord?\" \"I am hanging a\nthief that I caught robbing me,\" said he. \"What manner of thief is\nthat?\" asked the scholar. \"I see a creature in thy hand like unto a\nmouse, and ill does it become a man of rank equal to thine to touch a\nreptile such as this. Let it go forth free.\" \"I will not let it go\nfree, by Heaven,\" said he; \"I caught it robbing me, and the doom of a\nthief will I inflict upon it, and I will hang it.\" \"Lord,\" said he,\n\"rather than see a man of rank equal to thine at such a work as this,\nI would give thee a pound, which I have received as alms, to let the\nreptile go forth free.\" \"I will not let it go free,\" said he, \"neither\nwill I sell it.\" \"As thou wilt, lord,\" he answered; \"I care naught.\"\nAnd the scholar went his way.\n\nAs he was placing the cross-beam upon the two forks, behold, a priest\ncame towards him, upon a horse covered with trappings. \"Good day to\nthee, lord,\" said he. \"Heaven prosper thee!\" said Manawyddan; \"thy\nblessing.\" \"The blessing of Heaven be upon thee! And what, lord, art\nThou doing?\" \"I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me,\" said\nhe. \"What manner of thief, lord?\" asked he. \"A creature,\" he\nanswered, \"in the form of a mouse. It has been robbing me, and I am\ninflicting upon it the doom of a thief.\" \"Lord,\" said he, \"rather than\nsee thee touch this reptile, I would purchase its freedom.\" \"By my\nconfession to Heaven, neither will I sell it nor set it free.\" \"It is\ntrue, lord, that it is worth nothing to buy; but rather than see thee\ndefile thyself by touching such a reptile as this, I will give thee\nthree pounds to let it go.\" \"I will not, by Heaven,\" said he, \"take\nany price for it. As it ought, so shall it be hanged.\" And the priest\nwent his way.\n\nThen he noosed the string around the mouse's neck, and as he was about\nto draw it up, behold, he saw a bishop's retinue, with his\nsumpter-horses and his attendants. The bishop himself came towards\nhim, and he stayed his work. \"Lord bishop,\" said he, \"thy blessing.\"\n\"Heaven's blessing be unto thee!\" said he. \"What work art thou upon?\"\n\"Hanging a thief that I caught robbing me,\" said he. \"Is not that a\nmouse that I see in thy hand?\" \"Yes,\" answered he, \"and she has\nrobbed me.\" \"Ay,\" said he, \"since I have come at the doom of this\nreptile, I will ransom it of thee. I will give thee seven pounds for\nit, and that rather than see a man of rank equal to thine destroying\nso vile a reptile as this. Let it loose, and thou shalt have the\nmoney.\" \"I declare to Heaven that I will not let it loose.\" \"If thou\nwilt not loose it for this, I will give thee four and twenty pounds of\nready money to set it free.\" \"I will not set it free, by Heaven, for\nas much again,\" said he. \"If thou wilt not set it free for this, I\nwill give thee all the horses that thou seest in this plain, and the\nseven loads of baggage, and the seven horses that they are upon.\" \"By\nHeaven, I will not,\" he replied. \"Since for this thou wilt not set it\nfree, do so at what price soever thou wilt.\" \"I will that Rhiannon and\nPryderi be free,\" said he. \"That thou shalt have,\" he answered. \"Not\nyet will I loose the mouse, by Heaven.\" \"What then wouldst thou?\"\n\"That the charm and the illusion be removed from the seven cantrevs of\nDyved.\" \"This shalt thou have also; set therefore the mouse free.\" \"I\nwill not set it free, by Heaven,\" said he, \"till I know who the mouse\nmay be.\" \"She is my wife.\" \"Wherefore came she to me?\" \"To despoil\nthee,\" he answered. \"I am Lloyd, the son of Kilwed, and I cast the\ncharm over the seven cantrevs of Dyved. And it was to avenge Gawl,\nthe son of Clud, from the friendship I had towards him, that I cast\nthe charm. And upon Pryderi did I avenge Gawl, the son of Clud, for\nthe game of Badger in the Bag, that Pwyll, the son of Auwyn, played\nupon him. And when it was known that thou wast come to dwell in the\nland, my household came and besought me to transform them into mice,\nthat they might destroy thy corn. They went the first and the second\nnight, and destroyed thy two crops. The third night my wife came unto\nme, and the ladies of the court, and besought me to transform\nthem. And I transformed them. Now my wife was not in her usual health,\nfor had she been in her usual health thou wouldst not have been able\nto overtake her; but since this has taken place, and she has been\ncaught, I will restore to thee Pryderi and Rhiannon, and I will take\nthe charm and illusion from off Dyved. Set her therefore free.\" \"I\nwill not set her free yet.\" \"What wilt thou more?\" he asked. \"I will\nthat there be no more charm upon the seven cantrevs of Dyved, and that\nnone shall be put upon it henceforth; moreover, that vengeance be\nnever taken for this, either upon Pryderi or Rhiannon, or upon me.\"\n\"All this shalt thou have. And truly thou hast done wisely in asking\nthis. Upon thy head would have lit all this trouble.\" \"Yea,\" said he,\n\"for fear thereof was it that I required this.\" \"Set now my wife at\nliberty.\" \"I will not,\" said he, \"until I see Pryderi and Rhiannon\nwith me free.\" \"Behold, here they come,\" he answered.\n\nAnd thereupon behold Pryderi and Rhiannon. He rose up to meet them,\nand greeted them, and sat down beside them. \"Ah, chieftain, set now my\nwife at liberty,\" said the bishop. \"Hast thou not received all thou\ndidst ask?\" \"I will release her, gladly,\" said he. And thereupon he\nset her free.\n\nThen he struck her with a magic wand, and she was changed back into a\nyoung woman, the fairest ever seen.\n\n\"Look round upon thy land,\" said he, \"and thou wilt see it all tilled\nand peopled as it was in its best estate.\" And he rose up and looked\nforth. And when he looked he saw all the lands tilled, and full of\nherds and dwellings.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF LLUDD LLEVELYS\n\nBy Lady Charlotte Guest\n\n\nBeli the Great, the son of Manogan, had three sons, Lludd and\nCaswallawn and Nynyaw; and according to the story he had a fourth son\ncalled Llevelys. And after the death of Beli, the kingdom of the\nisland of Britain fell into the hands of Lludd his eldest son; and\nLludd ruled prosperously, and rebuilt the city of London, and\nencompassed it about with numberless towers. And after that he bade\nthe citizens build houses therein, such as no houses in the kingdom\ncould equal. And moreover he was a mighty warrior, and generous and\nliberal in giving meat and drink to all that sought them. And though\nhe had many castles and cities, this one loved he more than any. And\nhe dwelt therein most part of the year, and therefore was it called\nCaer Lludd, and at last Caer London.\n\nAnd after the stranger race came there, it was called London, or\nLwndrys.\n\nLludd loved Llevelys best of all his brothers, because he was a wise\nand a discreet man. Having heard that the King of France had died,\nleaving no heir except a daughter, and that he had left all his\npossessions in her hands, he came to Lludd his brother, to beseech his\ncounsel and aid. And that not so much for his own welfare, as to seek\nto add to the glory and honour and dignity of his kindred, if he might\ngo to France to woo the maiden for his wife. And forthwith his brother\nconferred with him, and this counsel was pleasing unto him.\n\nSo he prepared ships and filled them with armed knights, and set forth\ntowards France. And as soon as they had landed, they sent messengers\nto show the nobles of France the cause of the embassy. And by the\njoint counsel of the nobles of France and of the princes, the maiden\nwas given to Llevelys, and the crown of the kingdom with her. And\nthenceforth he ruled the land discreetly and wisely and happily, as\nlong as his life lasted.\n\nAfter a space of time had passed, three plagues fell upon the island\nof Britain, such as none in the islands had ever seen the like. The\nfirst was a certain race that came, and was called the Coranians; and\nso great was their knowledge that there was no discourse upon the face\nof the island however low it might be spoken, but what, if the wind\nmet it, it was known to them. And through this they could not be\ninjured.\n\nThe second plague was a shriek which came on every May eve, over every\nhearth in the island of Britain. And this went through people's\nhearts, and so scared them that men lost their hue and their strength,\nand the women their children, and the young men and the maidens lost\ntheir senses, and all the animals and the waters were left barren.\n\nThe third plague was, that however much of provisions and food might\nbe prepared in the king's courts, were there even so much as a year's\nprovisions of meats and drink, none of it could ever be found, except\nwhat was consumed in the first night. And two of these plagues, no\none ever knew their cause; therefore was there better hope of being\nfreed from the first than from the second and third.\n\nAnd thereupon King Lludd felt great sorrow and care, because that he\nknew not how he might be freed from these plagues. And he called to\nhim all the nobles of his kingdom, and asked counsel of them what they\nshould do against these afflictions. And by the common counsel of the\nnobles, Lludd the son of Beli went to Llevelys his brother, King of\nFrance, for he was a man great of counsel and wisdom, to seek his\nadvice.\n\nAnd they made ready a fleet, and that in secret and in silence, lest\nthat race should know the cause of their errand, or any besides the\nking and his counsellors. And when they were made ready they went into\ntheir ships, Lludd and those whom he chose with him. And they began to\ncleave the seas towards France.\n\nAnd when these tidings came to Llevelys, seeing that he knew not the\ncause of his brother's ships, he came on the other side to meet him,\nand with him was a fleet vast of size. And when Lludd saw this, he\nleft all the ships out upon the sea except one only; and in that one\nhe came to meet his brother, and he likewise with a single ship came\nto meet him. And when they were come together, each put his arms\nabout the other's neck, and they welcomed each other with brotherly\nlove.\n\nAfter that Lludd had shown his brother the cause of his errand,\nLlevelys said that he himself knew the cause of the coming to those\nlands. And they took counsel together to discourse on the matter\notherwise than thus, in order that the wind might not catch their\nwords, nor the Coranians know what they might say. Then Llevelys\ncaused a long horn to be made of brass, and through this horn they\ndiscoursed. But whatsoever words they spoke through this horn, one to\nthe other, neither of them could hear any other but harsh and hostile\nwords. And when Llevelys saw this and that there was a demon\nthwarting them and disturbing through this horn, he caused wine to be\nput therein to wash it. And through the virtue of the wine the demon\nwas driven out of the horn. And when their discourse was unobstructed,\nLlevelys told his brother that he would give him some insects whereof\nhe should keep some to breed, lest by chance the like affliction might\ncome a second time. And other of these insects he should take and\nbruise in water. And he assured him that he would have power to\ndestroy the race of Coranians. That is to say, that when he came home\nto his kingdom he should call together all the people both of his own\nrace and of the race of the Coranians for a conference, as though with\nthe intent of making peace between them; and that when they were all\ntogether, he should take this charmed water, and cast it over all\nalike. And he assured him that the water would poison the race of the\nCoranians, but that it would not slay or harm those of his own race.\n\n\"And the second plague,\" said he, \"that is in thy dominion, behold it\nis a dragon. And another dragon of foreign race is fighting with it,\nand striving to overcome it. And therefore does your dragon make a\nfearful outcry. And on this wise mayest thou come to know this. After\nthou hast returned home, cause the island to be measured in its length\nand breadth, and in the place where thou dost find the exact central\npoint, there cause a pit to be dug, and cause a cauldron full of the\nbest mead that can be made to be put in the pit with a covering of\nsatin over the face of the cauldron. And then in thine own person do\nthou remain there watching, and thou wilt see the dragons fighting in\nthe form of terrific animals. And at length they will take the form of\ndragons in the air. And last of all, after wearying themselves with\nfierce and furious fighting, they will fall in the form of two pigs\nupon the covering, and they will sink in and the covering with them,\nand they will draw it down to the very bottom of the cauldron. And\nthey will drink up the whole of the mead; and after that they will\nsleep. Thereupon do thou immediately fold the covering round them, and\nbury them in a kistvaen, in the strongest place thou hast in thy\ndominions, and hide them in the earth. And as long as they shall bide\nin that strong place, no plague shall come to the island of Britain\nfrom elsewhere.\n\n\"The cause of the third plague,\" said he, \"is a mighty man of magic,\nwho takes thy meat and thy drink and thy stores. And he through\nillusions and charms causes every one to sleep. Therefore it is\nneedful for thee in thy own person to watch thy food and thy\nprovisions. And lest he should overcome thee with sleep, be there a\ncauldron of cold water by thy side, and when thou art oppressed with\nsleep, plunge into the cauldron.\"\n\nThen Lludd returned back into his land. And immediately he summoned to\nhim the whole of his own race and of the Coranians. And as Llevelys\nhad taught him, he bruised the insects in water, the which he cast\nover them altogether, and forthwith it destroyed the whole tribe of\nthe Coranians, without hurt to any of the Britons.\n\nAnd some time after this Lludd caused the island to be measured in its\nlength and breadth. And in Oxford he found the central point, and in\nthat place he caused the earth to be dug, and in that pit a cauldron\nto be set, full of the best mead that could be made, and a covering of\nsatin over the face of it. And he himself watched that night. And\nwhile he was there, he beheld the dragons fighting. And when they were\nweary they fell, and came down upon the top of the satin, and drew it\nwith them to the bottom of the cauldron. And when they had drunk the\nmead, they slept. And in their sleep, Lludd folded the covering around\nthem, and in the securest place he had in Snowdon, he hid them in a\nkistvaen. Now after that this spot was called Dinas Emreis, but before\nthat, Dinas Ffaraon. And thus the fierce outcry ceased in his\ndominions.\n\nAnd when this was ended, King Lludd caused an exceeding great banquet\nto be prepared. And when it was ready, he placed a vessel of cold\nwater by his side and he in his own proper person watched it. And as\nhe abode thus clad with arms, about the third watch of the night, lo!\nhe heard many surpassing fascinations and various songs. And\ndrowsiness urged him to sleep. Upon this, lest he should be hindered\nfrom his purpose and be overcome by sleep, he went often into the\nwater. And at last, behold! a man of vast size, clad in strong, heavy\narmour, came in, bearing a hamper. And, as he was wont, he put all the\nfood and provisions of meat and drink into the hamper and proceeded to\ngo with it forth. And nothing was ever more wonderful to Lludd than\nthat the hamper should hold so much.\n\nAnd thereupon King Lludd went after him and spoke unto him thus:\n\"Stop, stop,\" said he; \"though thou hast done many insults and much\nspoil erewhile, thou shalt not do so any more unless thy skill in arms\nand thy prowess be greater than mine.\"\n\nThen he instantly put down the hamper on the floor, and awaited\nhim. And a fierce encounter was between them, so that the glittering\nfire flew out from their arms. And at the last Lludd grappled with\nhim, and fate bestowed the victory on Lludd. And he threw the plague\nto the earth. And after he had overcome him by strength and might, he\nbesought his mercy. \"How can I grant thee mercy,\" said the king,\n\"after all the many injuries and wrongs thou hast done me?\" \"All the\nlosses that ever I have caused thee,\" said he, \"I will make thee\natonement for, equal to what I have taken. And I will never do the\nlike from this time forth. But thy faithful vassal will I be.\" And the\nking accepted this from him.\n\nAnd thus Lludd freed the island of Britain from the three plagues. And\nfrom thenceforth until the end of his life, in prosperous peace did\nLludd the son of Beli rule the island of Britain. And this tale is\ncalled the Story of Lludd and Llevelys. And thus it ends.\n\n\n\n\nTALES FROM EARLY ENGLISH CHRONICLES\n\n\nKing Horn, in the version here given, is a fine old English story,\nevidently very popular with the common people. Earlier versions were\nprobably familiar to the Norse in the tenth century, at which time\nDublin was the capital of a Norse kingdom. Suddenne was possibly the\nIsle of Man.\n\nThere seems to be some historical basis for the story of Havelok,\nsince the seal of the city of Grimsby today represents Grim with\n\"Habloc,\" or Havelok, on his right hand, and Goldborough on his left.\n\nThe Fair Unknown is one of the King Arthur stories that is not\nincluded in Sir Thomas Malory's Morte d'Arthur.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF KING HORN\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nMurray was King of Suddenne in the west country, a wise king whom all\nhis subjects honoured. Godhild was his queen, and no woman of that day\nwas lovelier than she. Their son was named Horn; and when Horn was\nfifteen years old, the sun shone and the rain fell on no fairer boy.\n\nTwelve squires, each one the son of a man of noble birth, were chosen\nto be Horn's companions. Athulf was the best and truest of them, and\ndearest to Horn's heart; and one Fikenhild was the basest among them.\n\nIt pleased King Murry, on a certain summer's day, to ride, as was his\nwont, by the seashore, with only two comrades. Suddenly, as they rode,\nthey came upon a strange sight. There before them on the edge of the\nwaves lay fifteen ships beached, full of fierce Saracens; and many\nother Saracens went busily to and fro upon the shore. \"What seek you\nhere, pagan men?\" cried Murry at that sight. \"What wares do you bring\nto this my land of Suddenne?\" For he thought them to be merchants from\na far land,\n\n\"We are come to slay all your folk who believe in Christ,\" answered\none of them; \"and that we do right soon. As for you, you go not hence\nalive. \"Thereat Murry was sorely troubled in heart. Nevertheless, he\nmade no sign of fear. He and his two companions, with bold mien, leapt\ndown from their horses, to fight more readily, and drew their swords,\nand fell upon the pagans. Many a stout blow they dealt; many a Saracen\nfelt the strength of their arms: but for all their might and valour,\nthey were but three against a host. From every side the enemy fell\nupon them unceasingly, and in a little time they lay there dead upon\nthe sand. Then the Saracens left their ships and spread over the whole\nof Suddenne, slaying and burning and laying waste wheresoever they\ncame. None might live, were he stranger or friend or native of the\nland, unless he forswore the Christian faith and became a pagan.\n\nOf all women in those days Godhild the queen was saddest. Her kingdom\nwas lost, her husband cruelly slain, and all her days were filled with\ngrief. But worse befell her, for on a certain day the Saracens came\nsuddenly and took Horn prisoner and carried him away. Godhild escaped,\nand in her dire distress fled alone to a distant cave, and there lay\nhid, worshipping her God in secret, and praying that He would save her\nson from harm.\n\nHorn and his companions--for all his twelve squires had been captured\nwith him--seemed in sorry case. The savage pagans were for killing all\nChristians. But their chief Emir wished to have no innocent blood on\nhis hands, and spoke out boldly. \"We might well slay you, Horn,\" he\nsaid; \"you are young and fair and strong, and will grow yet\nstronger. Perchance, if we spare you now, you will some day return and\nbe avenged upon us, when you have come to your full power. Yet we\nourselves will not put you to death; the guilt shall not be on us, but\non the sea. To the sea will we give you and your comrades; the sea\nshall be your judge, to save or drown you as it will.\"\n\nWeeping and wringing their hands, Horn and his comrades were led down\nto the seashore. There a boat was made ready for them, with oars, but\nno rudder or sail.\n\nAll their tears were vain: the Saracens forced them aboard, and turned\nthe little craft adrift into the wide ocean.\n\nThe boat drove fast and far through the water, and fear came down upon\nthose in it. Soon they were tossing haphazard upon the rushing waves,\nnow resting forlornly, now praying for help, now rowing wildly, as if\nfor their lives, if ever the violence of the sea abated for a\nmoment. All that afternoon, and through the long, dark night, they\nvoyaged in cold and terror, till in the morning, as the day dawned,\nHorn looked up and saw land at a little distance. \"Friends,\" said he,\n\"I have good tidings. Yonder I spy land; I hear the song of birds, and\nsee grass growing. Be merry once more; our ship has come into safety.\"\n\nThey took their oars and rowed lustily. Soon the keel touched the\nshore, and they sprang out eagerly on to dry land, leaving the boat\nempty. The waves drew the little craft gently back to themselves, and\nit began to glide away into the great sea. \"Go now from us, dear\nboat,\" cried Horn lovingly to it, as he saw it drawn away; \"farewell,\nsail softly, and may no wave do you harm.\"\n\nThe boat floated slowly away, and Horn wept sorely at parting from\nit. Then they all turned their faces inland, and left the sea behind\nthem, and set forth to seek whatsoever fortune might bring them.\n\n\n\n\nHORN IS DUBBED KNIGHT\n\nRetold by F.J.H. Darton\n\n\nThe country to which Horn and his comrades had come was called\nWesterness: Aylmer the Good was king of it. But of that the wanderers\nknew nought as yet.\n\nThey journeyed far over hill and dale, ignorant of the way, and seeing\nno living man, until, as the day drew to an end? there met them Aylmer\nthe king himself. \"Whence do you come, friends?\" asked he. \"Who are\nyou that are so fair and straight of body?\"\n\nHorn spoke up for them all, for he was wisest and most skilled in the\nuse of courteous words. \"We are from Suddenne, sire, of good lineage\nand Christian faith. The pagans came to our land, and slew my father\nand many others, and drove us from our homes. We thirteen whom you see\nwere set adrift in a boat, to be the sport of the sea; a day and a\nnight have we travelled without sail or rudder, and our boat brought\nus to this land. We are in your hands, sire: slay us, or keep us\nbound as prisoners; do with us as you will.\"\n\nThe good king was no ungentle boor: he spoke them fair and\ngraciously. \"Tell me, child,\" he said, \"what is your name? No harm\nshall come to you at my hands, whosoever you he.\"\n\n\"Horn am I called, sire.\"\n\n\"Horn, child, you are well and truly named: your fame shall ring like\na horn over dale and hill. Now, Horn, come with me. You and your\ncomrades shall abide at my court.\"\n\nThey set out for the king's palace. When they were come thither,\nAylmer entrusted them to his steward, Athelbrus, whom he charged to\nbring them up in knightly ways. They were added to Aylmer's household,\nand taught all that squires of kings should know. But Horn was to come\nto greater things than this. He learnt quickly, and became beloved by\nevery one; and most of all, Rimenhild, the king's daughter, loved him\nfrom the day when she first set eyes on him. Her love for him grew\ndaily stronger and stronger, though she dared speak no word of it to\nhim, for she was a princess, and he only a squire rescued by chance\nfrom the sea.\n\nAt length Rimenhild could hide her love no longer.\n\nShe sent for Athelbrus the steward, and bade him bring Horn to her\nbower. But he, guessing her secret from her wild looks, was unwilling\nto send Horn to her, fearing the king's displeasure; and he bade\nAthulf, Horn's dearest companion, go to the princess instead, hoping\neither that the princess would not know him from Horn (for she had as\nyet spoken to neither of them, and they were much alike in face and\nmien), or that by this plan she would see the folly of her desire.\n\nAthulf came to Rimenhild's bower, and she did not know that he was not\nHorn, and received him lovingly. But soon the trick was made plain,\nfor Athulf, as beseems a loyal heart, could not hear himself praised\nabove all other squires at Aylmer's court, and vowed that Horn was far\nfairer and better than he. Then Rimenhild in a rage sent him from her,\nand bade Athelbrus bring Horn to her without more ado. And thus at\nlast Horn came before the princess.\n\n\"King's daughter,\" said he with reverence and courtesy, \"Athelbrus,\nthe steward, bade me come to you here. Say what you would have me do.\"\n\nRimenhild rose, answering nothing till she had taken him by the hand,\nand made him sit by her, and embraced him lovingly. \"Welcome, Horn,\"\nshe said; \"you are so fair that I cannot but love you. Take me to\nwife; have pity on my love.\"\n\nHorn knew not what to say. \"Princess,\" he began at last, \"I am\ntoo lowly for such a wife as you. I am but a thrall [Footnote: A slave\nor bondsman.] and a foundling, and owe all that I have to the king\nyour sire. There is no meet wedding between a thrall and the king's\ndaughter.\" At those words Rimenhild fell into a swoon; and Horn was\nfilled with pity and love at the sight, and took her in his arms, and\nkissed her.\n\n\"Dear lady,\" he said, \"be brave. Help me to win knighthood at the\nhands of my lord the king; if I be dubbed knight my thraldom is ended,\nand I am free to love you, as I do in my heart already.\" For Horn had\nlong loved the princess secretly, but dared not hope that she would\ngive him her love in turn.\n\nRimenhild came to her senses as he spoke. \"Horn,\" she said, \"it shall\nbe as you wish. Ere fourteen days have passed you shall be made a\nknight.\"\n\nThereupon she sent for Athelbrus again, and bade him pray the king\nAylmer to dub Horn a knight; and, to be brief, Horn was speedily\nknighted, and, asking the king's leave, himself knighted in turn his\ntwelve companions.\n\nAs soon as he was knighted, Rimenhild called him to her; and Athulf,\nhis dear comrade, went with him into her presence. \"Sir Horn, my\nknight,\" she said, \"sit by me here. See, it is time to fulfil your\nword. Take me for your wife.\"\n\n\"Nay, Rimenhild,\" answered Horn; \"that may not be yet. It is not\nenough that I am knighted. I must prove my knighthood, as all men do,\nin combat with some other knight. I must do a deed of prowess in the\nfield for love of you: then if I win through with my life, I will\nreturn and take you to wife.\"\n\n\"Be it so, Horn. Now take from me this carven ring of gold. On it is\nwrought: 'Be true to Rimenhild.' Wear it always on your finger, for\nmy love's sake. The stone in it has such grace that never need you\nfear any wound nor shrink from any combat, if you do but wear this\nring, and look steadfastly upon it, and think of me. And you, Athulf,\nyou too, when you have proven your knighthood, shall have such another\nring also. Sir Horn, may Heaven bless and keep you, and bring you safe\nto me again.\"\n\nWith that Horn kissed her, and received her blessing, and went away to\nprove his knighthood in brave feats of arms.\n\n\n\n\nHORN THE KNIGHT ERRANT\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nWhen Horn had saddled his great black horse, and put on his armour, he\nrode forth to adventure, singing gaily. Scarce had he gone a mile when\nhe spied by the seashore a ship, beached, and filled with heathen\nSaracens. \"What do you bring hither?\" asked Horn. \"Whence do you\ncome?\" The pagans saw that he was but one man, and they were many, and\nanswered boldly, \"We are come to win this land, and slay all its\nfolk.\"\n\nAt that Horn gripped his sword, and his blood ran hot. He sprang upon\nthe Saracen chief and smote him with all his strength, so that he\ncleft the man's head from off his shoulders. Then he looked at the\nring which Rimenhild had given him; and immediately such might came\nupon him that in a trice he slew full five score of the pagans. They\nfled in terror before him, and few of those whom he did not slay at\nthe first onset escaped.\n\nHorn set the head of the Saracen leader on the point of his sword, and\nrode back to Aylmer's court. When he had come to the king's palace, he\nwent into the great hall, where the king and all his knights sat.\n\"King Aylmer,\" he cried, \"and you, his knights, hear me. To-day, after\nI was dubbed knight, I rode forth and found a ship by the shore,\nfilled with outlandish knaves, fierce Saracens, who were for slaying\nyou all. I set upon them; my sword failed not, and I smote them to the\nground. Lo, here is the head of their chief.\"\n\nMen marvelled at Horn's prowess, and the king gave him words of\npraise. But not yet did Horn dare speak of his love for Rimenhild. On\nthe morrow, at dawn, King Aylmer went a-hunting in the forest, and\nHorn's twelve companions rode with him. But Horn himself did not go to\nthe chase; he sought instead to tell his lady Rimenhild of his deeds,\nand went to her bower secretly, thinking to hear her joy in the feats\nhe had done. But he found her weeping bitterly. \"Dear love,\" he said,\n\"why do you weep?\"\n\n\"Alas, Horn, I have had an evil dream,\" she answered. \"I dreamed that\nI went fishing, and saw my net burst. A great fish was taken in it,\nand I thought to have drawn him out safely; but he broke from my\nhands, and rent the meshes of the net. It is in my mind that this\ndream is of ill omen for us, Horn, and that the great fish signifies\nyou yourself, whereby I know that I am to lose you.\"\n\n\"Heaven keep this ill hap from us, dear princess,\" said Horn. \"Nought\nshall harm you, I vow; I take you for my own for ever, and plight my\ntroth to you here and now.\" But though he seemed to be of good cheer,\nhe too was stirred by this strange dream, and had evil forebodings.\n\nMeanwhile Fikenhild, riding with King Aylmer by the river Stour, was\nfilled with envy of Horn's great deeds against the Saracens; and at\nlast he said to the king, \"King Aylmer, hear me. This Horn, whom you\nknighted yesterday for his valour in slaying the Saracens, would fain\nundo you. I have heard him plotting to kill you and take Rimenhild to\nwife. Even now, as we ride here by the river, he is in her bower--he,\nHorn, the foundling, is with your daughter, the Princess Rimenhild.\nGo now, and take him, and drive him out of your land for his\npresumption.\" For Fikenhild had set a watch on Horn, and found out the\nsecret of his love for Rimenhild.\n\nThereupon King Aylmer turned his horse, and rode home again, and found\nHorn with Rimenhild, even as Fikenhild had said. \"Get you hence,\nHorn,\" he cried in anger, \"you base foundling; forth out of my\ndaughter's bower, away with you altogether! See that you leave this\nland of Westerness right speedily; here is no place nor work for you.\nIf you flee not soon, your life is forfeit.\"\n\nHorn, flushed with rage, went to the stable, and set saddle on his\nsteed, and took his arms; so fierce was his mien that none dared\nwithstand him. When all was ready for his going, he sought out\nRimenhild. \"Your dream was true, dear love,\" he said. \"The fish has\ntorn your net, and I go from you. But I will put a new ending to the\ndream; fear not. Now fare you well; the king your father has cast me\nout of his realm, and I must needs seek adventure in other lands.\nSeven years will I wander, and it may be that I shall win such fortune\nas shall bring me back to sue honourably for you. But if at the end of\nseven years I have not come again to Westerness, nor sent word to you,\nthen do you, if you so will, take another man for husband in my stead,\nand put me out of your heart. Now for the last time hold me in your\narms and kiss me good-bye.\"\n\nSo Horn took his leave. But before he went away from Aylmer's court,\nhe charged Athulf his friend to watch over Rimenhild and guard her\nfrom harm. Then he set forth on his horse, and rode down to the sea,\nand took ship to sail away alone from Westerness.\n\n\n\n\nHORN IN EXILE\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Barton\n\n\nEre Horn had sailed long, the wind rose, and the ship drove blindly\nbefore it for many leagues, till at length it was cast up on land.\nHorn stepped out on to the beach, and there before him saw two\nprinces, whose names (for they greeted him kindly) were Harild and\nBerild.\n\n\"Whence are you?\" they asked, when they had told him who they were.\n\"What are you called?\"\n\nHorn thought it wise to hide his real name from them, lest it should\ncome to Aylmer's ears, and his anger reach Horn even in this distant\nland. \"I am called Cuthbert,\" he answered, \"and I am come far from the\nwest in this little ship, seeking adventure and honour.\"\n\n\"Well met, sir knight,\" said Harild. \"Come now to our father the king:\nyou shall do knightly deeds in his service.\" They led him to King\nThurston their father; and when Thurston saw that Horn was a man of\nmight, skilled in arms, and a true knight, he took him into his\nservice readily. So Horn--or Cuthbert, as they knew him--abode at\nThurston's court, and served the king in battle. But no great and\nnotable thing befell him until the coming of Christmas.\n\nIt was King Thurston's custom to make each Christmas a great feast,\nlasting many days. To this feast Horn was bidden, with all the other\nknights of the court. Great mirth and joy was there that Yule-tide;\nall men feasted with light hearts. Suddenly, about noon-day, the great\ndoors of the king's hall were flung open, and a monstrous giant strode\nin. He was fully armed, in pagan raiment, and his mien was proud and\nterrible.\n\n\"Sit still, sir king,\" he roared, as Thurston turned to him. \"Hearken\nto my tidings. I am come hither with a Saracen host, and my comrades\nare close at hand. From them I bring a challenge; and this is the\nchallenge. One of us alone will fight any three of your knights, in a\ncertain place. If your three slay our one, then we will depart and\nleave you and your land unscathed. But if our one champion slays your\nthree, then will we take your land for our own, and deal with it and\nyou as it pleases us. To-morrow at dawn we will make ready for the\ncombat; and if you take not up this challenge, and send your appointed\nknights to battle, then will we burn and lay waste and slay all over\nthis realm.\" Thereupon he turned, and stalked out of the hall, saying\nnever another word. \"This is a sorry hap,\" said King Thurston, when\nthe Saracen had gone and left them all aghast. \"Yet must we take up\nthis challenge. Cuthbert,\" he said, turning to Horn, \"you have heard\nthis pagan boast; will you be one of our three champions? Harild and\nBerild, my sons, shall be the other two, and may God prosper all\nthree! But alas! it is of little avail. We are all dead men!\"\n\nBut Horn felt no fear. He started up from the board when he heard the\nking's sorrowful words. \"Sir king,\" he cried, \"this is all amiss. It\nis not to our honour that three Christian knights should fight this\none pagan. I alone will lay the giant low, with my own sword,\nunaided.\"\n\nThurston hoped little of this plan, but none the less he agreed to it;\nand when the next day came, he arose betimes, and with his own hands\nhelped to arm Horn; and having made ready, he rode down to the field\nof battle with him. There, in a great open space, stood the Saracen\ngiant awaiting them, his friends standing by him to abide the issue of\nthe combat. They made little tarrying, but fell to right soon. Horn\ndealt mightily with the giant; he attacked him at once, and showered\nblows upon him, so that the pagan was hard pressed, and begged for a\nbreathing space.\n\n\"Let us rest awhile, sir knight,\" he said. \"Never suffered I such\nblows from any man's hand yet, except from King Murry, whom I slew in\nSuddenne.\"\n\nAt that dear name Horn's blood ran hot within him: before him he saw\nthe man who had slain his father and had driven himself from his\nkingdom. He fell to more furiously than ever, and drove hard at the\ngiant beneath the shield; and as he smote he cast his eye upon the\nring Rimenhild had given him.\n\nTherewith his strength was redoubled; so straight and strong was the\nblow, so true his arm, that he pierced the giant to the heart, and he\nfell dead upon the ground.\n\nWhen they saw their champion slain, the Saracens were stricken with\npanic. They turned and fled headlong to their ships, Thurston and his\nknights pursuing. A great battle was fought by the ships: Harild and\nBerild were slain, but Horn did such deeds of prowess that every pagan\nwas killed.\n\nThere was great lamentation over the two princes. Their bodies were\nbrought to the king's palace and laid in state, and lastly buried in a\ngreat church built for them.\n\n\n\n\nHORN'S RETURN\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nThere was now no heir to Thurston's kingdom, since Harild and Berild\nwere slain; and in a little time, when the king's grief abated, he\nbethought him of what should befall his people when his time came to\ndie.\n\n\"Cuthbert,\" he said to Horn one day, when he had pondered long over\nthese things, \"there is no heir to my kingdom. There is but my\ndaughter Reynild to come after me. Will you wed her, and he king and\nrule this land after my death?\"\n\nHorn was sorely tempted. But he looked on his ring, and remembered\nRimenhild. \"Sir king,\" he answered, \"you do me great honour, and I\ngive you thanks. But I am under a vow, and cannot wed the lady\nReynild.\" He would say no more, but was firm in his purpose; and King\nThurston had to be content with his loyal service only. For seven\nyears Horn abode at Thurston's court, serving in arms under him and\nwinning great fame by his knightly deeds. No word did he send to\nRimenhild, nor received tidings of any kind from Westerness.\n\nAbout the end of the seventh year Horn chanced to be riding in the\nforest, when he met a page journeying as if towards Thurston's\npalace. \"What do you here?\" he said. \"Whither do you go?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered the page, \"I have a message for one Sir Horn from Sir\nAthulf in Westerness, where Aylmer is king. The Lady Rimenhild is to\nbe wedded on Sunday to King Modi of Reynes, and I am sent to bring\ntidings thereof to Sir Horn. But I can find him nowhere, nor hear\neven so much as his name, though I have wandered far and wide.\"\n\nAt this heavy news Horn hid his name no longer. He told the page who\nhe was, and bade him go back with all speed, and say to Rimenhild that\nshe need no longer mourn: her lover would save her ere Sunday came.\n\nThe page returned blithely with this message. But he never delivered\nit, for as he went back he was by chance drowned; and Rimenhild,\nhearing no word of Horn, despaired. Athulf, too, watching long for\nHorn each day on a tower of Aylmer's palace, gave up hope.\n\nBut Horn was not idle or forgetful. When he had despatched the page,\nas he thought, safely back to Athulf and Rimenhild, he went straight\nto King Thurston, and without more pretence told him his true name and\nall the story of the adventures.\n\n\"Sire,\" he said, at the end, \"I have served you well. Grant me reward\nfor my service, and help me to win Rimenhild. See, you offered me the\nhand of your daughter Reynild; that I might not accept, for I was\npledged already; but perchance my comrade Athulf might be deemed an\nhonourable suitor. If you will but help me, Athulf shall be Reynild's\nhusband; that I vow. Sire, give me your aid.\"\n\n\"Be it so,\" said Thurston, loath to lose Horn, but glad to hear of a\nknight waiting to wed the lady Reynild. Straightway a levy of knights\nwas made, and Horn set forth in a ship with a brave body of fighting\nmen. The wind blew favourably, and ere long they came to Westerness.\nEven as they touched the shore, the bells ceased ringing for the\nmarriage of Rimenhild to King Modi.\n\nHorn saw how late they had arrived, and that he must needs act warily,\nif he would save Rimenhild in the midst of the rejoicings over her\nwedding. He left his men on board ship, and landed alone, setting out\nto walk to the palace, where the wedding-feast was about to be held.\nAs he walked thus, he met a palmer [Footnote: A pilgrim], clad in\npilgrim's weeds. \"Whither go you, sir palmer?\" he asked.\n\n\"I have just come from a wedding,\" he answered, \"from the wedding of\nRimenhild, the king's daughter; and sad and sorrowful she seemed to\nbe, in truth, on this wedding day.\"\n\n\"Now Heaven help me, palmer, but I will change clothes with you. Take\nyou my robe, and give me your long cloak. To-day I will drink at that\nwedding feast, and some shall rue the hour that I sit at the board\nwith them.\"\n\nWithout more ado he changed clothes with the palmer, taking also his\nstaff and scrip, and staining his face till it was like that of a\ntoil-worn traveller. Then he set out for the palace once more.\n\nHe came soon to the gates, where a porter strove to bar his\nentrance. But Horn broke in the wicket-gate, and entered, and threw\nthe man over the drawbridge, so that his ribs were broken. None other\nstood in Horn's way, and he went into the great hall, and took his\nplace in a lowly seat among the beggars and poor men.\n\nAs he looked about him, he saw, at a little distance, Rimenhild,\nweeping and lamenting sorely. Athulf he did not see, for he was still\nkeeping watch in the tower for Horn's return. Before long Rimenhild\nrose from her seat and began to minister to the guests, according to\ncustom, pouring them out wine and ale in horn beakers. When she came\nlow down among the guests, Horn spoke to her.\n\n\"Fair queen,\" he said, \"serve us also; we beggars are athirst.\"\n\nShe laid down the vessel she bore, and took a great gallon cup, and\nfilled it with brown ale, and offered it him, thinking him a\nglutton. \"Take this cup,\" she said, \"and drink your fill. Never saw I\nso forward a beggar.\"\n\n\"I will not drink your ale, lady,\" answered Horn, for he was minded to\nlet her know who he was, and yet to hide himself from all others at\nthe feast. \"Give me wine; I am no beggar. I am a fisherman, come\nhither to search my nets, and see what I have caught. Pledge me now\nyourself and drink to Horn of horn.\"\n\nThus by his strange words he thought to recall to her that dream she\nhad formerly dreamed, of a great fish that escaped from her net.\n\nRimenhild looked on him, and hope and fear sprang up in her heart\ntogether. She knew not what his saying about his nets and \"Horn of\nhorn\" might mean. With a steadfast look, she took her drinking-horn,\nand filled it with wine, and gave it to Horn.\n\n\"Drink your fill, friend,\" she said, \"and tell me if you have seen\naught of this Horn of whom you seem to speak.\"\n\nHorn drained the beaker, and as he put it down dropped into it the\nring that Rimenhild had given him so long ago. When Rimenhild saw the\nring she knew it at once. She made an excuse, and left the feast, and\nwent to her bower. In a little time she sent for the palmer secretly,\nand asked him where he got the ring.\n\n\"Queen,\" said Horn, \"in my travels I met one named Horn. He gave me\nthis ring to bring to you; it was on shipboard I met him, and he lay\ndying.\"\n\nHe said this to prove if her love were still constant to him. But\nRimenhild believed him, and when she heard him say that Horn was dead,\nbecame as one mad with grief. Then Horn, seeing how strong was her\nlove, threw off his palmer's cloak, and showed her the false stain on\nhis face, and told her that he was in very truth Horn, her lover.\n\nWhen their first joy at meeting again was over, Horn told the princess\nof the men he had brought with him in his ship. Secretly they sent for\nAthulf, and when he too had learnt all Horn's tidings, a message was\nsent to the men in the ship, who came to the palace speedily, and were\nadmitted by a private door. Then all the company of them broke\nsuddenly into the banquet-hall, and fell upon those there, and slew\nmany; but Modi and Fikenhild escaped and fled from Westerness.\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING OF SUDDENNE\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Barton\n\n\nWhen they had made an end of slaying, Horn revealed himself to Aylmer,\nand reproached him for giving his daughter in marriage to Modi, whom\nshe did not love; and Aylmer, when he heard of Horn's deeds--for the\nfame which Horn had won under the name of Cuthbert had gone into many\nlands--could not but feel sorrow that he had sent Horn away in anger\nseven years ago; and he begged Horn to stay at his court and wed\nRimenhild, for the marriage with Modi was not fully complete when Horn\nand his men broke up the feast.\n\n\"Nay, I am of royal blood,\" answered Horn. \"You thought me a\nfoundling and despised me. For that insult you formerly put upon me,\nI vow I will not take Rimenhild for my wife until I have won my\nkingdom of Suddenne back from the Saracens, and avenged my father King\nMurry, whom they slew. I am a king's son; I will be a king before my\nwife shall come to me.\"\n\nAylmer could not gainsay Horn in his purpose, and once more Horn set\nout on his wanderings. With him went Sir Athulf and a band of brave\nknights. They took ship and for five days sailed the sea with a\nfavouring wind, till at last, late at night on the fifth day, they\ncame to the shores of Suddenne.\n\nHorn and Athulf landed, to spy out the country. A little way inland\nthey came upon an old knight sleeping by the wayside; on his shield\nwas the device of a cross. Horn woke him gently. \"Tell me, sir knight,\nwho are you?\" he asked. \"Your shield shows that you are a Christian;\nbut this land is ruled by pagans.\"\n\n\"I am a Christian, truly,\" said the old knight. \"But I serve the\npagans perforce. They hold the power, and I must needs fight for them,\nagainst my will. This land is in a sorry case. If King Murry's son,\nHorn, were here, perchance we might drive the pagans out. But I know\nnot where to find him, nor where my own son is; for Athulf, my son,\nwas Horn's dearest companion.\"\n\nSuch changes had the long absence wrought in Horn and Athulf and the\nold knight that they did not recognise one another. But at these words\nHorn and Athulf knew for certain that they were indeed in\nSuddenne. They told the old knight who they were, and learnt that\nHorn's mother, the Queen Godhild, was still alive, and many knights in\nthe land besides, desirous of driving the Saracens out, but unable to\nfulfil their desire through lack of a leader and of men.\n\nHorn forthwith summoned his men from the ships, and blew his trumpet\nfor battle, and attacked the Saracens. There was a great fight, but\nbefore long the heathen were defeated, and those who were not slain\nwere driven altogether out of the land.\n\nThus Horn came into his kingdom again; but he had yet to punish\nFikenhild the traitor, who first separated him from Rimenhild (for\nthis Aylmer had told him), and King Modi, who had sought to wed her\nagainst her will.\n\nFikenhild, when Horn came back to Westerness in time to save Rimenhild\nfrom Modi, had fled; but he still plotted deep treachery in his\nheart. By bribes and favours he won many knights to follow him; and he\nbuilt himself a great castle of stone, set on a rock, surrounded on\nall sides with water, so that none could come at it easily. Then by\nstealth one night he carried off Rimenhild, and married her in this\ncastle, holding a great feast at sunrise to celebrate the marriage.\n\nHorn knew nought of this by word of mouth or letter. But in a dream he\nbeheld Rimenhild: she seemed to him as though shipwrecked, calling\nupon his name; but when she tried to swim to him, Fikenhild appeared\nand prevented her.\n\nWhen he awoke, Horn told Athulf this vision; and when they had thought\nupon the lore of dreams, they agreed that it meant that Rimenhild was\nin Fikenhild's sea-girt castle, the fame of which was known to all\nmen. Straightway they took a ship and sailed to the land hard by where\nthe castle lay.\n\nThere a certain knight named Arnoldin, cousin of Athulf, met them, and\ntold them that Fikenhild had just wedded Rimenhild, arid the\nwedding-feast was now beginning.\n\nThey could not come nigh the castle openly as enemies, for none could\napproach it across the water unless those within were willing to let\nhim enter. But Horn and some of his knights disguised themselves as\nharpers, hiding their swords under long cloaks.\n\nThey took a boat and rowed under the walls of the banqueting-hall, and\nthere they played and sang merrily, till Fikenhild heard them, and\ncalled them in to the feast.\n\nWhen they had come into the hall, they began to sing again, at\nFikenhild's bidding. But soon Horn looked once more upon his ring, and\nthen, with a shout, he and his companions fell upon Fikenhild and his\nmen and slew every one of them.\n\nThe tale is soon told. Horn made Arnoldin king in Fikenhild's\ncastle. Athulf he sent to Thurston's court, where in a little time he\nmarried the princess Reynild; and Horn went back to his kingdom of\nSuddenne, and there made Rimenhild his queen. Long and happily they\nreigned in true love and in fear of God.\n\n\n\n\nHAVELOK HID FROM THE TRAITOR\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nIn former days there was a King of England called Athelwold; the very\nflower of England was he, and he ruled justly and well. All things in\nhis realm he ordered strictly, and maintained truth and right\nthroughout the land. Under his rule robbers and traitors were put\ndown; men bought and sold freely, without fear, and wrongdoers were so\nhard pressed that they could but lurk and creep in secret corners.\nAthelwold set up justice in his kingdom. There was mercy for the\nfatherless in his day; his judgments could not be turned aside by\nbribes of silver and gold. If any man did evil, the king's arm reached\nhim to punish him, were he never so wary and strong.\n\nThis Athelwold had no heir, save only one daughter, very fair to look\nupon, named Goldborough. But ere she grew up, the king fell ill of a\ndire sickness. He knew well that his time was come, and that death was\nnigh him. \"What shall I do now?\" he said in his heart. \"How shall my\ndaughter fare when I am dead? My heart is troubled for her: I think\nnought of myself. She cannot yet speak or walk: if she were of age to\nride, she could rule England, and I would care nothing about dying.\"\n\nBut it was idle to lament. The king was sure in his mind that he must\ndie, and he sent messengers to all his vassals, to his earls, and his\nbarons, rich and poor, from Roxburgh to Dover, bidding them come to\nhim speedily where he lay sick.\n\nAll those who heard his message were sad at the tidings, and prayed\nthat he might be delivered from death. They came with all speed to the\nking at Winchester.\n\n\"Welcome,\" said he, when they entered the hall of his dwelling. \"Full\nglad am I that you are come. You see in what sorry case I lie. I have\nbidden you here that you may know that my daughter shall be your lady\nwhen I, your lord, am dead. But she is yet a child, and I am fain to\nmake some true man her guardian till she be a woman grown: I will that\nGodrich, Earl of Cornwall, do guard her and bring her up. He is a true\nman, wise in counsel and wise in deed, and men have him in awe.\"\n\nThey brought a holy book to the king. On it he made Earl Godrich swear\na solemn oath to keep Goldborough well and truly, till she was of age\nto rule and to order the realm of England wisely. Then the little\nmaid was given to the earl, her new guardian. Athelwold thanked the\nearl, and bade him to be true to his charge; and in a little while\ndeath took the good king.\n\nWhen King Athelwold was dead, Godrich ruled England. In every castle\nhe set some knight of his own, whom he could trust: all the English\nfolk he caused to take an oath to be faithful to him; and in a little\nwhile Athelwold's realm was altogether in his power.\n\nIn the meantime Goldborough was kept at Winchester, and brought up as\nbefitted a king's daughter. Every day she seemed to grow in wisdom and\nfairness, till when she was twenty years old there was none like her\nin the land. But Godrich, when he saw how good and how fair she was,\ngrew jealous of her. \"Shall she be queen over me?\" he thought. \"Must I\ngive up my kingdom and my power to her? She has waxed all too proud; I\nhave treated her with too great gentleness. She shall not be queen. I\nwill rule, and after me my son shall be king.\"\n\nAs that treason crept into his mind, he forgot his oath to Athelwold,\ncaring not a straw for it. Without more ado he sent for Goldborough\nfrom Winchester and took her to Dover. There he set her in a strong\ncastle, and clad her meanly, and guarded her so strictly that no man\ncould see her or come at her without his leave.\n\nNow it chanced that about this time the same thing came to pass in\nDenmark as in England. Birkabeyn, King of Denmark, died, and at his\ndeath gave to one Earl Godard the charge of his kingdom and of his son\nHavelok and his two daughters, Swanborough and Elfled. Godard stood by\nhis oath no better than Godrich, but cast all three children into\nprison, and well-nigh starved them to death. But when they had lain in\nprison for a little time, and were nearly dead of hunger, he went to\nsee them.\n\n\"How do you fare?\" he asked, for Havelok ran to him, and crept upon\nhis knees when he sat down, and looked up joyfully into his face. \"I\nhear that you moan and cry: why is this?\"\n\n\"We hunger sore,\" answered Havelok. \"We have nought to eat, and no man\nhas brought us meat or drink. We are nigh dead of hunger.\"\n\nGodard heard his words, but felt no pity; he cared not a straw for\ntheir misery. He took Swanborough and Elfled by the hand, and slew\nthem then and there. Then he turned to Havelok and would have slain\nhim also. But the boy in terror cried for mercy. \"Have pity,\" he said.\n\"Spare me and I will give you all Denmark, and will vow never to take\nup arms against you. Let me live, and I will flee from Denmark this\nvery day, and never more come back; I will take oath that Birkabeyn\nwas not my father.\"\n\nAt that some touch of doubt came into Godard's mind. He put up his\nknife, and looked at Havelok. \"If I let him go alive,\" he thought,\n\"he might work me much woe. He shall die, but not now; I will cast him\nin the sea and drown him.\"\n\nHe went thence, and sent for a fisherman named Grim. \"Grim,\" he said,\n\"you are my thrall; do my will and to-morrow I will give you your\nfreedom. Take the boy Havelok at night to the sea and cast him\ntherein.\"\n\nGrim took the boy, and bound him with strong cords, and bore him on\nhis back to his cottage, and showed him to his wife Leve. \"You see\nthis boy, wife,\" said he. \"I am to drown him in the sea; when I have\ndone it, I shall be made a free man, and much gold will be ours; so\nhas our Lord Godard promised.\"\n\nWhen Dame Leve heard that, she started up, and threw Havelok down so\nroughly that he hurt his head on a great stone that lay on the ground.\n\"Alas that ever I was a king's son!\" he moaned in his pain; and he lay\nthere where he fell till night-time.\n\nWhen night fell Grim made ready for his task. \"Rise up, wife, blow\nthe fire,\" said he. \"Light a candle. I must keep my word to my lord.\"\n\nLeve rose to tend the fire. Her eyes fell on Havelok, who still lay on\nthe ground. Round him, she marvelled to see, shone a bright light, and\nout of his mouth proceeded light as it were a sunbeam.\n\n\"What is that light?\" quoth Dame Leve. \"Grim, look what it means;\nwhat is this light?\"\n\nGrim went to Havelok, and unbound him. He rolled back the shirt from\nthe boy's shoulder. There he saw, bright and clear, a king's\nbirthmark.\n\n\"Heaven help us,\" said Grim, \"this is the heir to Denmark, who should\nbe king and lord of us all. He will work Godard great harm.\" Then he\nfell on his knees before Havelok. \"Lord king,\" he said, \"have mercy on\nme and on Leve here. We are both yours, lord, both your servants. We\nwill keep you and nurture you till you can ride and bear shield and\nspear; Godard shall know nought of it. Some day I will take my freedom\nat your hands, not at his.\"\n\nThen was Havelok blithe and glad. He sat up and asked for bread. \"I am\nwell-nigh dead,\" he said, \"with hunger and hardship.\"\n\nThey fed him and cared for him, and lastly put him to bed; and he\nslept soundly. On the morrow Grim went to the traitor Godard. \"I have\ndone your will on the boy, lord,\" he said. \"He is drowned in the\nsea. Now I pray you give me gold for a reward, and grant me my\nfreedom, as you vowed.\"\n\nGodard looked at him, fierce and cruel of mien. \"Will you not rather\nbe made an earl, proud knave?\" he asked. \"Go home, fool; go, and be\nevermore a thrall and churl, [Footnote: An Ignorant laborer of the\nlowest rank.] as you have ever been; no other reward shall be\nyours. For very little I would lead you to the gallows for your wicked\ndeed.\"\n\nGrim went away. \"What shall I do?\" he thought as he hurried home. \"He\nwill assuredly hang me on the gallows-tree. It were better to flee out\nof the land altogether.\"\n\nHe came home and told Leve all; and they took counsel together. Soon\nGrim sold all his possessions. Only his boat he kept; and that he\nmade ready for a voyage, till there was not so much as a nail wanting\nto make it better. Then he took on board his wife and his three sons,\nRobert the Red, William Wendat, and Hugh Raven, and his two fair\ndaughters, Gunnild and Levive, and Havelok; and they set sail.\n\nThe wind blew fair behind them, and drove them out to sea. Long did\nthey sail, and came at last to England, to Lindsey at the mouth of the\nHumber. They landed safely; and before long Grim began to make a\nlittle house of clay and turf for them to dwell in. He named the place\nafter himself, Grimsby; and so men call it now, and shall call it\nforever, from now even to doomsday.\n\n\n\n\nHAVELOK MARRIED AGAINST HIS WILL\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nGrim was a skilful fisherman, and caught many good fish. Great baskets\ndid he make, and others his sons made; and they carried the fish\ninland in these baskets, and sold them. All over the country did Grim\ngo with his fish, and came home always with store of bread, or corn,\nor beans, against their need. Much he sold in the fair town of\nLincoln, and counted many a coin after his sales there.\n\nThus Grim fared for many winters; and Havelok worked with the rest,\nthinking it no shame to toil like any thrall, though he was a king's\nson born.\n\nThere came at last a year of great dearth. Corn was so scarce that all\nmen were in poverty, and Grim did not know how to feed all his\nfamily. For Havelok he had great dread, for he was strong and lusty,\nand would eat more than he could earn. And soon the fish in the sea\nalso began to fail them, so that they were in sore straits. But Grim\ncared more for Havelok than for all his own family; all his thoughts\nran on Havelok.\n\n\"Dear son Havelok,\" he said at last, \"we shall die of hunger anon; all\nour food is gone. It is better for you to go hence, and strive for\nyourself only, and not try to help us here. You are stout and strong;\ngo to Lincoln; there is many a man of substance there, who might take\nyou in service. It were better for you to serve there than to see us\nstarve here and to starve along with us. Would that I could clothe you\nfitly! Alas I am too poor. Yet for your sake I will cut up the sail\nof my boat and make you a cloak of it to cover your rags.\"\n\nHe took the sail from his boat, and cut it up rudely into a cloak for\nHavelok. Then Havelok bade him God-speed, and set out, and came in\ntime to the city of Lincoln.\n\nHe had no friend in Lincoln, and knew no man. For two days he went to\nand fro, fasting; no man had work or food for him. But on the third\nday he heard a cry, \"Porters, porters, hither quickly!\" He sprang\nforward like a spark from coal, and thrust aside all who stood in his\npath; sixteen stout lads did he knock down, and came to where fish was\nbeing laden into carts for Earl Godrich of Cornwall. There stood the\nearl's cook, calling for men to load the carts; and Havelok fell to\nwork with a will at his bidding.\n\nWhen all was done, \"Will you take service with me?\" said the cook to\nHavelok. \"I will pay you good hire and feed you well.\"\n\n\"Give me enough to eat, good sir,\" answered Havelok, \"and I care not\nwhat you pay me. I will blow your fire, and fetch wood and water; I\ncan wash dishes, and cleave faggots, and clean eels, and do all that\nyou need.\"\n\n\"You shall be my man,\" answered the cook.\n\nSo Havelok took service in Earl Godrich's household, and drew water\nand cut wood. Strong and large was he of body, and fair to look on.\n\nEarl Godrich was lord of all England; it lay as it were in his\nhand. Many men were wont to come to him at Lincoln to talk of great\nthings; and they held a parliament there, and came thither with a\ngreat train of men-at-arms and followers, so that the town was always\nfull of folk coming and going.\n\nIt chanced one day that eight or ten young men began to play together\nnear where Havelok was at work; they fell to throwing a great stone,\nhuge and heavy. He must needs be a stout man who could so much as lift\nit to his knee. But those who threw it now were champions, and could\ncast it many a foot.\n\nHavelok looked on and longed to throw against them; and his master,\nseeing his looks, bade him go and try what he could do. He took the\nstone and poised it well; and at the first effort he threw it twelve\nfeet or more farther than any other man.\n\n\"We have been here too long,\" said the rest. \"This lad is mightier\nthan any of us; it is time for us to go hence.\"\n\nThey went away, and spread the news that there was at Lincoln a lad\nmightier than any man of that day; and Havelok's fame grew and was\nknown far and wide. It came at last to Earl Godrich's ears.\n\n\"This is a stout knave,\" thought the earl, when he heard of Havelok's\nstrength. \"I would that he were wedded to Goldborough; he is the\nfairest and strongest man in England, and if I gave Goldborough to\nhim, I should keep my word to Athelwold in some sort, for there is\nnone like Havelok: no better man could she desire. And if she were\nwedded to him, she would be out of my way, and I should be secure in\nmy rule, and my son should reign in England after me.\"\n\nThus he thought and planned secretly. Anon he sent for Goldborough,\nand brought her to Lincoln. At her coming he caused bells to be rung,\nand there was great rejoicing; but he was nevertheless full of\ncraft. \"You shall have the fairest man alive for husband,\" he said to\nGoldborough; \"therefore have I sent for you.\"\n\n\"I will wed no man but a king or a king's son, be he ever so fair,\"\nshe answered boldly.\n\n\"Would you gainsay me as if you were queen and lady over me?\" cried\nGodrich in great wrath. \"You shall have a churl for husband, and no\nother. My cook's knave shall wed you; he shall be your lord. To-morrow\nshall you be wedded to him.\"\n\nGoldborough wept and prayed his mercy, but it was of no avail. On the\nmorrow the church-bell was rung, and Godrich sent for Havelok. \"Master,\nare you minded to marry?\" he asked.\n\n\"Nay, by my life,\" quoth Havelok. \"What should I do with a wife? I\ncannot feed her or clothe her; I have no house and no possessions. The\nvery clothes I wear are the cook's, and I am his servant.\"\n\n\"If you do not take to wife her whom I will give you,\" said Godrich,\n\"I will hang you high aloft, or thrust out your eyes.\"\n\nAt that Havelok was sore afraid, and granted all that Godrich\nbade. Then Godrich sent for Goldborough. \"You will take this man for\nhusband,\" he said, \"or you go to the gallows, unless rather I burn you\nat the stake.\"\n\nShe was afraid at his threats, and dared not refuse, though she liked\nit ill. So they two were wedded perforce, and neither took joy in it.\n\n\n\n\nHAVELOK WINS BACK HIS KINGDOM\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nWhen they were married, Havelok knew not what to do. He had no home\nwhereto he might take Goldborough. Godrich had such hatred for\nAthelwold's daughter that he would do nought to aid them; and Havelok\nwas in sore straits till he bethought himself of Grimsby.\n\nStraightway he took Goldborough to Grimsby. But Grim himself was\ndead. Nevertheless his sons welcomed Havelok gladly.\n\n\"Welcome, dear lord, and welcome to your fair lady,\" they said. \"We\nhave here horses and nets and ships, gold and silver, and much else\nthat Grim our father bequeathed. But he bade us give them to you; take\nthem, dear lord; they are all yours. You shall be our lord, and we\nwill be your servants in all things.\"\n\nSo Havelok came back to Grimsby. But on the night of his coming\nGoldborough was sad and sorrowful as she lay beside him, and she could\nnot sleep. Her wakeful eyes fell on Havelok, and she was aware\nsuddenly of a wondrous sight. A bright light, clear and flaming,\nissued from his mouth, and lit up all the chamber. \"What may this\nmean?\" she said to herself in sore dread. \"Does it show me that some\nhigh fortune shall come upon Havelok?\"\n\nShe looked again, and saw a new wonder. On Havelok's shoulder a king's\nmark shone, a noble cross of red gold; and as she looked, an angel's\nvoice spoke to her:\n\n\"Goldborough, let your sorrow be; Havelok, your husband, is a king's\nson and a king's heir. The golden cross signifies that he shall\npossess all Denmark and England, and shall be king of both realms.\"\n\nWhen she heard the angel's voice Goldborough could not contain her\njoy, but turned and kissed Havelok as he slept. Havelok had not heard\nthe angel, but he started out of his sleep at Goldborough's kiss.\n\n\"Dear lady, are you awake?\" he said. \"A strange dream have I just\ndreamed. I thought I was in Denmark, on the highest hill that ever I\ncame to; it was so high that I could see, it seemed, all the world\nspread out. As I sat there, I began to possess Denmark, with all its\ntowns and strong castles; and my arms were so long that I surrounded\nin one grasp all Denmark, and drew it towards me till every man\ntherein cleaved to me. Another dream I dreamed also, that I flew over\nthe salt sea to England, and with me went all the folk of Denmark.\nWhen I came to England, I took it all into my hand, and, Goldborough,\nI gave it to you. Dear wife, what may this be?\"\n\n\"May these dreams turn to joy, Havelok, as I deem they will,\" answered\nGoldborough. \"I say to you that you shall wear the crown of England in\ntime to come, and Denmark shall kneel at your feet. Within a year this\nshall come to pass. Let us two go to Denmark speedily; and do you\npray Grim's sons that they go with you, all three.\"\n\nOn the morrow Havelok went to church and besought aid of God. Then he\nbetook himself to Grim's three sons, Robert, and William, and Hugh.\n\"Listen now to me,\" he said, \"and I will tell you a thing concerning\nmyself. My father was king of the Danish land, and I should have been\nhis heir; but a wicked man seized the kingdom when my father died, and\nslew my two sisters, and gave me to Grim to drown, but Grim spared me\nand brought me hither, as you know. Now I am come to an age when I can\nwield weapons and deal stout blows; and never will I take comfort till\nI see Denmark again. I pray you come thither with me; I will reward\nyou well and will give each of you ten castles, with the land and\ntowns and woods that belong thereto.\"\n\n\"We will follow you whithersoever you bid us, Havelok,\" they answered,\n\"and we will, if it please God, win back your kingdom for you.\"\n\nHavelok gave them due thanks, and began straightway to prepare all\nthings for his going to Denmark. Soon he had made ready, and they set\nsail.\n\nTheir voyage prospered, and they landed safely in Denmark, in the\ndominions of one Ubbe, a rich earl, who had been a friend of King\nBirkabeyn, Havelok's father.\n\nWhen Havelok heard who was lord of that part of Denmark, he was glad,\nand set out to go to Ubbe's castle in good hope. He dared not say yet\nthat he was Birkabeyn's son, for if Earl Godard heard of it, he would\ncome against him and slay him before he could win any followers. But\nhe went to Ubbe and spoke him fair and courteously, and gave him a\ngold ring, and asked leave to settle in that land to be a merchant;\nand Ubbe, seeing how strong and comely Havelok was, gladly gave him\nleave, and thereafter bade him to a great feast. Havelok went to the\nfeast, and Goldborough with him, and Grim's sons also; and Ubbe grew\nto love him so well that when the feast was ended, he sent him with\nten knights and sixty men-at-arms to the magistrate of those parts,\nBernard Brun, a man of might and substance.\n\nBernard was a trusty man, and entertained Havelok and Goldborough and\nall their company well.\n\nBut as they sat at meat, there came tidings that a band of sixty\nthieves, well armed and fierce, was at the gate, demanding entrance.\n\nAt that news Bernard started up and took a good axe in his hand, and\nwent to the gate; and Havelok followed him.\n\n\"What do you here, rascals?\" cried Bernard, \"If I open the door to\nyou, some of you will rue it.\"\n\n\"What say you?\" answered one of the thieves. \"Think you that we are\nafraid of you? We shall enter by this gate for all that you can do.\"\nThereupon he seized a great boulder, and cast it mightily against the\ngate, and broke it.\n\nHavelok saw what befell, and went to the gate. He drew therefrom the\ngreat cross-bar, and threw the gate wide open. \"I abide here,\" he\ncried. \"Flee, you dogs.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" quoth one, \"you shall pay for waiting;\" and he came running at\nHavelok, and the two others close behind with him. But Havelok lifted\nup the door-beam, and at one blow slew all three. Then he turned upon\nothers, and in a moment overthrew four more. But a host of them beset\nhim with swords, and all his skill could not prevent them from\nwounding him: full twenty wounds had he, from crown to toe. But he\nbegan so to mow with the beam that the robbers soon felt how hard he\ncould smite. There was none who could escape him, and in a little\nwhile he had felled twenty of them.\n\nThen a great din began to arise, for the rest of the thieves set upon\nHavelok and Bernard with all their might. But Hugh and his brothers\nheard the noise, and came running with many other men; and before long\nthere was not one of the thieves left alive.\n\nOn the morrow tidings came to Ubbe that Havelok had slain with a club\nmore than a score of stout rogues. He went down to Bernard and asked\nhim what had come to pass; and Bernard, sore wounded from the fight,\nshowed him his wounds, and told him how sixty robbers had attacked his\nhouse, and how Havelok had slain great plenty of them; but Havelok\nalso, he said, was grievously wounded.\n\nOthers also of Bernard's men told the like true tale; and Ubbe sent\nfor Havelok, and when he had seen his wounds, called for a skilful\nleech, and took Havelok into his house and cared for him.\n\nThe first night that Havelok lay in Ubbe's house, Ubbe slept nigh him\nin a great chamber, with places boarded off for each man. About\nmidnight he awoke, and saw a great light in the place where Havelok\nlay, as bright as if it were day. \"What may this be?\" he thought. \"I\nwill go myself and see. Perchance Havelok secretly holds revel with\nhis friends, and has lit many lights. I vow he shall do no such\nsottishness in my castle.\"\n\nHe stood up, and peeped in between the boards that shut Havelok from\nhim. He saw him sleeping fast, as still as any stone; and he was aware\nof a great light coming as it were from Havelok's mouth.\n\nHe was aghast at that sight, and called secretly to his knights and\nsergeants and men-at-arms, more than five score of them, and bade them\ncome and see the strange light; and the light continued to issue from\nHavelok's mouth, and to grow in strength till it was as bright as two\nhundred wax-candles.\n\nHavelok's right shoulder was towards Ubbe and his men.\n\nSuddenly, as they looked at the light, they saw the king's mark on the\nshoulder, a bright cross, brighter than gold, sparkling like a\ncarbuncle stone. Then Ubbe knew that Havelok was a king's son, and he\nguessed that he must be Birkaheyn's son, the rightful king.\n\nWhen Havelok awoke, he fell at his feet and did obeisance, he and all\nhis men. \"Dear lord,\" he said, \"I know you to be Birkabeyn's son. You\nshall be King of Denmark; right soon shall every lord and baron come\nand do you homage.\" Then was Havelok glad and blithe, and gave thanks\nto God for His goodness.\n\nBefore long Ubbe dubbed Havelok knight; and as soon as he was knighted\nall the barons and lords of those parts came to him and swore fealty;\nand anon they crowned him King of Denmark, and set themselves in array\nto attack the false Earl Godard.\n\nBut Godard's knights, being weary of his rule, had all gone over to\nHavelok; and Grim's son, Robert, sufficed to meet him in combat.\nRobert wounded him in the right arm, and they bound him and brought\nhim before Havelok.\n\nSorry now was Godard's lot; all his greatness was gone from him. He\ncame before Havelok and his nobles, and they gave sentence upon him,\nthat he should be flayed alive, and then hanged. And so he came to his\nend in great misery and torment.\n\nWhen Godrich in England heard that Havelok was king of all Denmark,\nand purposed (for Havelok had given out that this was his intent) to\ncome to England and set Goldborough on her throne, he set to work to\ngather a great host to meet Havelok when he should come; and he spread\nlying tales to make the English hate and fear Havelok, saying that he\nwould burn and destroy, and oppress them; and by these means he got\ntogether many and led them to Grimsby.\n\nAfron came Havelok and his men, and landed at Grimsby; and they fought\na great battle. All that day Havelok's men fought with Godrich's men;\nand on the morrow they fought again, and Godrich came face to face\nwith Havelok himself.\n\n\"Godrich,\" Havelok cried, \"you have taken Athelwold's kingdom for\nyourself; I claim it for his daughter Goldborough. Yield it up, and I\nwill forgive you, for you are a doughty knight.\"\n\n\"Never will I yield,\" answered Godrich: \"I will slay you here.\"\n\nHe gripped his sword, and smote at Havelok, and clove his shield in\ntwain. But Havelok drew his own good sword, and with one blow felled\nhim to the earth. Yet Godrich started up again, and dealt him such a\nstroke on the shoulder that his armour was broken, and the blade bit\ninto the flesh. Then Havelok heaved up his sword in turn, and struck\nfiercely, and shore off Godrich's hand, so that he could smite no\nmore, but yielded as best he might.\n\nThey seized Godrich and fettered him; and all the English took the\noath of fealty to Goldborough, and swore to be her men. Then they\npassed judgment on Godrich, and sentenced him to be burnt to death.\n\nSo Havelok and Goldborough came again into their kingdoms; and Havelok\nrewarded Grim's sons and made them barons. Havelok was crowned King of\nEngland as well as of Denmark; and full sixty winters did he reign\nwith Goldborough in great joy and prosperity.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIR UNKNOWN\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nSir Gawain had a son, and he was fair to look on, bright of face and\nwell-favoured in body. He was named Geynleyn. But for love of his fair\nface his mother called him Beau-fys, and no other name; and he never\nasked her what he was truly called, for Sir Gawain had wedded this\nlady secretly, and none knew that he was Geynleyn's father. On a\ncertain day Geynleyn went to the woods to hunt the deer, and there he\nfound a knight in gay armour, lying slain. Geynleyn wondered thereat;\nbut in a little time he took off the knight's garments, and clad\nhimself in the rich armour; and when he had done this, he went to\nGlastonbury, where King Arthur lay at that time. He came into the hall\nbefore the knights and greeted them.\n\n\"King Arthur, my lord,\" he said, \"grant that I may speak a word, I\npray you. I would fain be made a knight.\"\n\n\"Tell me your name,\" answered King Arthur, \"for since I was born I\nnever saw before me one so fair to look on.\"\n\n\"I know not what is my true name,\" answered the lad. \"While I was at\nhome, my mother, jesting, called me Beau-fys, and nought else.\"\n\nThen said Arthur the king, \"This is a wondrous thing, that the boy\nshould know not his name when he would become a knight; and yet he is\nfull fair of face. Now will I give him a name before you all. Let him\nbe called Le Beau Disconus, which is to say, 'The fair unknown': so is\nhe to be named.\" Thereupon King Arthur made him a knight, and gave\nhim bright arms, and girt him with a sword, and hung round him a\nshield wrought with the design of a griffin. Sir Gawain took charge of\nhim to teach him knightly ways.\n\nWhen Le Beau Disconus had been made a knight, he asked yet another\nboon of the king. \"My lord,\" he said, \"I should be right glad in heart\nif I might have the first fight that is asked of you.\"\n\n\"I grant your asking,\" answered Arthur the king, \"whatsoever the\ncombat be. But you seem too young to do well in a great fight.\"\n\nThen they sat down to feast. Not long had they feasted ere there came\na maiden riding, and a dwarf beside her, in a great heat as though\nwith haste. This maid was called Elene the bright and gentle; no\ncountess or queen could be her equal in loveliness. She was richly\nclad, and the saddle and bridle of her milk-white steed were full of\ndiamonds. Her dwarf wore silk of India; a stout and bold man was he,\nand his beard, yellow as wax, hanged down to his girdle. His shoes\nwere decked with gold, and truly seemed a knight that felt no poverty.\nHis name was Teondelayn; he was skilled in playing all musical\ninstruments.\n\nThe dwarf spoke to the maiden, and bade her tell her errand, and lose\nno time. She knelt in the hall before all the knights, and greeted\nthem with honour, and said, \"Never was sadder tidings than I bring. My\nlady of Synadown is brought into a strong prison; she prays King\nArthur to send her a knight of stout courage, to win her out of\nprison.\"\n\nUp started the young knight Le Beau Disconus; his courage was stout\nand high. \"Arthur, my lord,\" he said, \"I shall take up this combat,\nand win the lady bright, if you are true to your word.\"\n\n\"Certain it is that I have promised even so,\" said King Arthur. \"God\ngrant you grace and might.\"\n\nThen Elene began to complain, and said, \"Alas that I was ever sent\nhither! Now will the word go forth that Arthur's manhood is lost, if\nyou send a witless and wild child to deal doughty blows, when there\nare here knights of proved valour, Launcelot, Percevale, and Gawain.\"\nLe Beau Disconus answered, \"Never yet was I afraid of any man; I have\nlearned to fight with spear and sword. I will take the battle, and\nnever forsake it, as is Arthur's law.\"\n\nThen said Arthur, \"Maiden, you get no other knight of me. If you think\nhim not man enough, go get another of greater might where you can.\"\nThe maid said no more; but for wrath she would neither drink nor eat\nat their feast, but sat down with her dwarf till the tables were taken\naway.\n\nKing Arthur bade four of the best knights of the Round Table arm Le\nBeau Disconus straightway in arms true and perfect. \"Through the help\nof Christ, he shall hold to his word, and be a good champion to the\nlady of Synadown, and uphold all her rights,\" he said.\n\nWhen he was armed Sir Le Beau Disconus sprang on his horse and\nreceived the king's blessing, and set forth a-riding with the maiden\nand the dwarf. Till the third day she railed at the young knight\ncontinually; and on the third day, when they came to a certain place,\nshe said, \"Caitiff, now is your pride undone. This vale before us is\nkept by a knight who will fight every man that comes; and his fame is\ngone far abroad. William Selebranche is he named, and he is a mighty\nwarrior. Through heart or thigh of all those who come against him he\nthrusts his spear.\"\n\n\"Does he fight so mightily then?\" asked Le Beau Disconus. \"Has he\nnever been hit? Whatsoever betides me, against him will I ride and\nprove how he fights.\"\n\nOn they rode all three till they came to a castle in a vale. There\nthey saw a knight in bright armour. He bore a shield of green, with a\ndevice of three lions: and he was that William Selebranche of whom\nmaid Elene had spoken. When the knight had sight of them he rode\ntowards them, and said, \"Welcome, fair brother. He that rides here,\nday or night, must fight with me, or leave his arms here shamefully.\"\n\n\"Now let us pass,\" said Sir Le Beau Disconus, \"We have far to go to\nour friends, I and this maid; we must needs speed on our way.\"\n\n\"You shall not escape so,\" answered William. \"Ere you go we will\nfight.\"\n\nThen said Le Beau Disconus, \"Now I see that it must be so. Make ready\nquickly and do your best. Take a course with the spear, if you are a\nknight of skill, for I am in haste.\"\n\nNo longer did they wait, but rode together in arms. Le Beau Disconus\nsmote William in the side with his spear; but William sat firm in his\nsaddle. Nevertheless so mightily was he struck that his stirrup\nleathers were broken, and he swayed over the horse's crupper and fell\nto the ground. His steed galloped away, but William started up\nspeedily. \"By my faith, never met I so stout a man,\" he said. \"Now\nthat my steed is gone, let us fight on foot.\" They fell to on foot\nwith falchions. [Footnote: Broad, short swords.] So hard they struck\nthat sparks flew from their helmets. But William drove his sword\nthrough Le Beau Disconus's shield, and a piece of it fell to the\nground; and thereat Le Beau Disconus was wroth. He smote with his\nsword downwards from the crest of William's helmet even to his\nhawberk, and shaved off with the point of his blade the knight's\nbeard, and well-nigh cut the flesh also. Then William smote back so\ngreat a blow that his sword brake in two.\n\n\"Let me go alive,\" cried William at that, seeing himself reft of his\narms. \"It were great villainy to do to death an unarmed knight.\"\n\n\"I will spare you,\" said Le Beau Disconus, \"if you swear a vow ere we\ngo from one another. Kneel down, and swear on my sword to go to King\nArthur, and say to him, 'Lord of renown, a knight sent me hither,\ndefeated and a prisoner: his name is Le Beau Disconus, of unknown kith\nand kin.'\"\n\nWilliam went upon his knees and took a vow as Le Beau Disconus bade\nhim, and thus they departed each on his way. William took the road to\nArthur's court; and it chanced that as he went, he met, on that\nself-same day, three proud knights, his own sister's sons. \"William\nour uncle,\" said they when they saw his wounds and his sorry array,\n\"who has done you this shame?\"\n\n\"The man is not to blame,\" answered William. \"He was a knight stout\nand stern. One thing only grieves me sorely, that I must at his\nbidding go to King Arthur's court.\" And he told them of his vow.\n\n\"You shall be full well avenged,\" said they. \"He alone against us\nthree is not worth a straw. Go your way, uncle, and fulfil your vow;\nand we will assail the traitor ere he be out of this forest.\" Then\nWilliam went on his way to the court of King Arthur.\n\nBut the three knights his nephews armed themselves, and leapt on their\nsteeds, and without more tarrying went after Le Beau Disconus.\n\nLe Beau Disconus knew nought of this, but rode on with the fair maid,\nand made great mirth with her, for she had seen that he was a true and\ndoughty knight. She asked pardon for the ill things she had said\nagainst him at the king's court, and he forgave her this trespass; and\nthe dwarf was their squire, and served them in all their needs.\n\nAt morning when it was day, as they rode on towards Synadown, they saw\nthree knights in bright mail. They cried to him straightway, \"Thief,\nturn again and fight.\"\n\n\"I am ready to ride against you all,\" quoth Le Beau Disconus. He\npricked his horse towards them. The eldest brother (Sir Gower was his\nname) ran against him with a spear; but Le Beau Disconus smote him\nsuch a blow that he broke his thigh, and ever thereafter was lame. The\nknight groaned for pain, but Le Beau Disconus with might and main\nfelled him altogether.\n\nThe next brother came riding fierce as a lion, as if to cast Le Beau\nDisconus down. Like a warrior out of his wits he smote Le Beau\nDisconus on his helmet with his sword; he struck so hard that the\nblade drove through the helmet and touched the young knight's head.\n\nThen Le Beau Disconus, when he felt the sword touch him, swung his\nsword as a madman, and all that he struck he clove through. Though two\nwere against him--for the third brother also came riding to the\nfray--they saw that they had no might to withstand him in his\nfury. They yielded up their spears and shields to Le Beau Disconus,\nand cried mercy.\n\n\"Nay,\" answered Le Beau Disconus, \"you escape not, unless you plight\nme your faith to go to King Arthur, and tell him that I overcame you\nand sent you to him. If you do not so, I will slay you all three.\" The\nknights swore to go to King Arthur, and plighted their troth upon\nit. Then they departed, and Le Beau Disconus and the fair maid rode on\ntowards Synadown. All that day they rode, and at night they made their\nlodges in the wood out of green leaves and boughs, for they came nigh\nno town or castle; and thus for three days they pricked ever\nwestwards.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIGHT WITH THE TWO GIANTS\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nAs they slept at night the dwarf woke, fearing that thieves might\nsteal their horses. Suddenly his heart began to quake, for less than\nhalf a mile away he saw a great fire. \"Arise, young knight,\" he\ncried. \"Arm yourself, and to horse! I doubt there is danger here: I\nhear a great sound, and smell burning afar off.\"\n\nLe Beau Disconus leapt on his war-horse and took his arms, and rode\ntowards the fire. When he drew nigh he saw there two giants, one red\nand loathly to look upon, the other swarthy as pitch. The black giant\nheld in his arms a maiden as bright as a flower, while the red giant\nwas burning a wild boar on a spit before the flaming fire.\n\nThe maiden cried aloud for help. \"Alas,\" she said, \"that ever I saw\nthis day!\"\n\nThen said Le Beau Disconus, \"It were a fair venture to save this\nmaiden from shame. To fight with giants so grim is no child's game.\"\n\nHe rode against them with his spear, and at the first course smote the\nblack giant clean through the body and overthrew him, so that never\ncould he rise again. The maiden his prisoner fled from his grasp, and\nbetook herself to maid Elene; and they went to the lodge of leaves in\nthe wood, and prayed for victory for Le Beau Disconus.\n\nBut the red giant, seeing his brother fall, smote at Le Beau Disconus\nwith the half-roasted boar, like a madman; and he laid on so sore that\nLe Beau Disconus's horse was slain. But Le Beau Disconus leapt out of\nthe saddle, like a spark from a torch, and drove at him with his\nfalchion, fierce as a lion. The giant fought with his spit till it\nbroke in two; then he caught up a tree by the roots, and smote Le Beau\nDisconus so mightily that his shield was broken into three pieces. But\nbefore the giant could heave up the tree again, Le Beau Disconus\nstruck off his right arm; and at that sore wound he fell to the\nground, and Le Beau Disconus cut off his head.\n\nThen Le Beau Disconus turned to the two maidens; and he learned that\nshe whom he had saved was called Violette, and her father was Sir\nAutore, an earl in that country. Long had the two giants sought to\ntake her; and the day before at eventide they had sprung out upon her\nsuddenly and carried her off.\n\nLe Beau Disconus took the giants' heads, and when he had escorted the\nmaidens to the castle of Sir Autore, he sent the heads to King Arthur.\nSir Autore wished to give him Violette to wife; but Le Beau Disconus\nrefused, saying that he was upon a quest with fair Elene. And with\nthat they set forth once more on their journey.\n\nPresently they came to the fair city of Kardevyle, and saw there in a\npark a castle stout and stark, royally built: never such a castle had\nthey seen. \"Oh,\" said Le Beau Disconus, \"here were a worthy thing for\na man to win.\"\n\nThen laughed maid Elene. \"The best knight in all the country round\nowns that castle, one Giffroun,\" she said. \"He that will fight with\nhim, be it day or night, is bowed down and laid low. For love of his\nlady, who is wondrous fair, he has proclaimed that he will bestow a\ngerfalcon, white as a swan, on him who brings a fairer lady. But if\nshe be not so bright and fair as his lady, he must fight this knight\nGiffroun, who is a mighty warrior. Giffroun slays him, and sets his\nhead on a spear, that it may be seen afar abroad; and you may see on\nthe castle walls a head or two set thus.\"\n\n\"I will fight this Giffroun,\" said Sir Le Beau Disconus, \"and try for\nthe gerfalcon; I will say that I have in this town a lady fairer than\nhis; and if he would see her I will show him you.\"\n\n\"That were a great peril,\" said the dwarf. \"Sir Giffroun beguiles many\na knight in combat.\"\n\n\"Heed not that,\" answered Le Beau Disconus. \"I will see his face ere\nI go westward from this city.\"\n\nWithout more ado they went to the town, and dwelt there in the inn for\nthe night. In the morn Le Beau Disconus rose and armed himself, and\nrode with the dwarf towards Giffroun's palace.\n\nSir Giffroun, when he came out of his house, saw Le Beau Disconus\nadvancing as proudly as a prince. He rode out to him, and cried in a\nloud voice, \"Come you for good or for ill?\"\n\n\"I should have a great delight in fighting you,\" answered Le Beau\nDisconus, \"for you say a grievous thing, that there is no woman so\nfair as your lady. I have in this town one fairer, and therefore I\nshall take your gerfalcon and give it to Arthur the king.\"\n\n\"Gentle knight,\" said Giffroun, \"how shall we prove which of the two be\nfairer?\"\n\n\"Here in Kardevyle city,\" said Le Beau Disconus, \"they shall both be\nset in the market-place where all men may look on them. If my lady be\nnot esteemed so fair as yours, I will fight with you to win the\ngerfalcon.\"\n\n\"All this I grant,\" said Sir Giffroun. \"This day shall it be done.\"\nAnd he held up his glove for a proof.\n\nSir Le Beau Disconus rode to his lodging, and bade maid Elene put on\nher seemliest robes. Then he set her on a dappled palfrey, and they\nrode forth to the market-place. Presently came also Sir Giffroun\nriding, with his lady and two squires. And the lady was so lovely\nthat no man could describe her. All, young and old, judged that she\nwas fairer than Elene; she was as sweet as a rose in an arbour, and\nElene seemed but a laundry-maid beside her.\n\nThen said Sir Giffroun, \"Sir Le Beau Disconus, you have lost the\ngerfalcon.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Le Beau Disconus, \"we will joust for it. If you bear me\ndown, take my head and the falcon; and if I bear you down, the falcon\nshall go with me.\"\n\nThey rode to the lists, and many people with them. At the first course\neach smote the other on the shield, so that their lances were broken;\nand the sound of their onset was as thunder. Sir Giffroun called for a\nlance that would not break. \"This young knight is as firm in his\nsaddle as a stone in the castle wall,\" quoth he. \"But were he as bold\na warrior as Alexander or Arthur, Launcelot or Percevale, I will shake\nhim out over his horse's crupper.\"\n\nTogether they charged again. Le Beau Disconus smote Giffroun's shield\nfrom his arm at the shock: never yet had man been seen to joust so\nstoutly. Giffroun, like a madman, struck furiously back at him, but Le\nBeau Disconus sat so firm that Giffroun was thrown, horse and all, and\nbroke his leg.\n\nAll men said that Giffroun had lost the white gerfalcon; and they bore\nhim into the town upon his shield. But Le Beau Disconus sent the white\ngerfalcon to King Arthur for a gift, and the king sent him a hundred\npounds' weight of florins. And thereafter he feasted forty days in\nKardevyle.\n\nAt the end of this feasting, Le Beau Disconus and maid Elene took\ntheir leave of Kardevyle, and rode towards Synadown. As they were\nriding, they heard horns blowing hard under a hill, and the noise of\nhounds giving tongue in the vale. \"To tell truth,\" said the dwarf\nTeondelayn, \"I know that horn well. One Sir Otes de Lyle blows it; he\nserved my lady some while, but in great peril fled into Wirral.\"\n\nAs they rode talking, a little hound came running across their way;\nnever man saw hound so gay; it was of all colours of flowers that\nbloom between May and midsummer.\n\n\"Never saw I jewel,\" said maid Elene, \"that so pleased me. Would I had\nhim!\"\n\nLe Beau Disconus caught the hound, and gave him to her. And they went\non their way. They had scarce ridden a mile before they saw a hind\nfleeing, and two greyhounds close upon it. They stopped and waited\nunder a linden tree to watch; and they saw riding behind the hounds a\nknight clad in silk of India, upon a bay horse. He began to blow his\nbugle, so that his men should know where he was. But when he saw Le\nBeau Disconus, and the dog in maid Elene's arms, he drew rein and\nsaid. \"Sir, that hound is mine; I have had him these seven years\npast. Friends, let him go.\"\n\n\"That shall never be,\" said Le Beau Disconus, \"for with my two hands I\ngave him to this maiden.\"\n\nStraightway answered Sir Otes de Lyle (for it was he), \"Then you are\nin peril.\"\n\n\"Churl,\" said Le Beau Disconus, \"I care not for whatever you say.\"\n\n\"Those are evil words, sir,\" said Sir Otes. \"Churl was never my name.\nMy father was an earl and the Countess of Karlyle my mother. Were I\narmed now, even as you are, we would fight. If you give me not the\nhound, you shall play a strange game ere evening.\"\n\n\"Whatsoever you do,\" answered Le Beau Disconus, \"this hound shall go\nwith me.\"\n\nThen they took their way westward once more. But Sir Otes rode home to\nhis castle, and sent for his friends, and told them that one of\nArthur's knights had used him shamefully and taken his little hound.\nThey armed themselves, and when all was ready, rode out after Le Beau\nDisconus. Upon a high hill they saw him riding slowly. \"Traitor, you\nshall die for your trespass,\" they cried to him, when they came a\nlittle distance from him.\n\nSir Le Beau Disconus beheld how full of knights the vale was. \"Maid\nElene,\" he said, \"we are come into a sorry case for the sake of this\nlittle hound. It were best that you go into the greenshaws and hide\nyour heads. For though I be slain, yet will I abide combat with these\nknights.\"\n\nInto the woods they rode; but Le Beau Disconus stayed without, as\nbeseems an adventurous knight. They shot at him with bows and\narbalists, [Footnote: A crossbow] but he charged with his horse, and\nbore down horse and man and spared none; whosoever Le Beau Disconus\nstruck, after the first blow that man slept for evermore.\n\nBut soon Le Beau Disconus was beset as in a net. Twelve knights came\nriding through the forest, in arms clear and bright: all day they had\nrested, and thought thereby to slay Le Beau Disconus. One of them was\nSir Otes himself and they smote at Le Beau Disconus all at once, and\nthought to fell him.\n\nFierce was the fight; sword rang on steel, sparks sprang from shield\nand helmet. Le Beau Disconus slew three, and four flew. But Sir Otes\nand his four sons stayed to sell their lives there.\n\nLe Beau Disconus against those five fought like a madman. His sword\nbrake, and he took a great blow on his helmet that bore him down. Then\nthe foeman thought to slay him outright; but Le Beau Disconus was\nminded suddenly of his axe that was at his hinder saddle-bow. He\nquitted himself like a true knight: three steeds he hewed down in\nthree strokes.\n\nSir Otes saw that sight, and turned his horse and fled. Le Beau\nDisconus stood no longer on defence, but pursued him, and caught him\nunder a chestnut tree and made him yield.\n\nLe Beau Disconus sent this knight also to King Arthur for a sign of\nhis powers; and himself and maid Elene went to Sir Otes's castle, and\nthere rested and were refreshed.\n\n\n\n\nIN THE CASTLE OF THE SORCERERS\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nWhen they had tarried at this castle a certain time, they rode forth\nagain. It was the month of June, when the days are long and birds'\nsongs are merry. Sir Le Beau Disconus and maid Elene and the dwarf\nTeondelayn came riding by a river-side, and saw a great and proud\ncity, with high strong castles and many gates. Le Beau Disconus asked\nthe name of this city.\n\n\"They call it Golden Isle,\" answered maid Elene. \"Here hath been more\nfighting than in any country, for a lady of price, fair as a rose, has\nput this land in peril. A giant named Maugis, whose like is nowhere on\nearth, has laid siege to her. He is as black as pitch, stern and stout\nindeed. He that would pass the bridge into her castle must lay down\nhis arms and do a reverence to the giant.\"\n\nThen said Le Beau Disconus, \"I shall not turn aside for him. If God\ngive me grace, ere this day's end I will overthrow him.\"\n\nThey rode all three towards the fair city. On a wooden bridge they saw\nMaugis, as bold as a wild boar. His shield was black, and all his\narmour black also. When he saw Le Beau Disconus, he cried, \"Tell me,\nfellow in white, what are you? Turn home again for your own profit.\"\n\n\"Arthur made me a knight,\" said Le Beau Disconus, \"and to him I made a\nvow that I would never turn back. Therefore, friend in black, make\nready.\"\n\nThey rode forthright at one another. Their lances brake at the first\nblows. But they drew swords in a fury and rushed at one another. Le\nBeau Disconus smote the giant's shield so that it fell from him; but\nMaugis in turn slew Le Beau Disconus's steed with a great blow on its\nhead. Le Beau Disconus said nought, but started up from his dead\ncharger and took his axe: a great blow he struck, that shore the head\nof Maugis's horse clean from its body.\n\nThen they fell to on foot, and no man can tell of the blows that\npassed from one to the other; and they fought till evening drew nigh.\n\nSir Le Beau Disconus thirsted sore, and said, \"Maugis, let me go to\ndrink. I will grant you what boon you ask of me in like case. Great\nshame would it be to slay a knight by thirst.\"\n\nMaugis granted it, but when Le Beau Disconus went to the river and\ndrank, Maugis struck him unawares such a blow that he fell into the\nriver. \"Now am I truly refreshed,\" cried Le Beau Disconus, as he\nclimbed out. \"I will repay you for this.\"\n\nThen a new fight was begun, and they continued till darkness grew\napace. At length Le Beau Disconus struck such a blow that the giant's\nright arm was shorn off. Thereupon Maugis fled, but Le Beau Disconus\nran swiftly after him and with three stern strokes clove his backbone.\nThen Le Beau Disconus smote off the giant's head, and went into the\ntown; and all the folk welcomed him.\n\nA fair lady came down to meet him, called Le Dame d'Amour; and she\nthanked him for his aid against the giant, and led him to her\npalace. There he was clad in clean raiment, and feasted, and the lady\nwould have had him be lord of her city and castle.\n\nLe Beau Disconus granted her prayer, and gave her his love, for she\nwas indeed fair and bright. Alas that he did not refrain! Twelve\nmonths and more he dwelt there; and fair Elene was afraid lest he\nmight never go thence, for the lady of the castle knew much of\nsorcery, and put a charm upon Le Beau Disconus so that he wished never\nto leave her.\n\nBut it fell on a day that Le Beau Disconus met maid Elene by chance\nwithin the castle. \"Sir knight,\" she said, \"you are false of faith to\nKing Arthur. For love of a sorceress you do great dishonour. The lady\nof Synadown lies in prison yet!\"\n\nAt her words Le Beau Disconus thought his heart would break for sorrow\nand shame. By a postern-gate he crept away from the lady of the\ncastle, and took with him his horse and his armour and rode forth with\nmaid Elene and the dwarf and a squire named Gyfflet. Fast they rode\nwithout ceasing till on the third day they came in sight of the strong\ncity of Synadown.\n\nBut Le Beau Disconus wondered at a custom he saw as he descried the\ntown. For all the waste and refuse that was cast outside the town was\ngathered again by the folk and kept.\n\n\"What means this?\" asked Sir Le Beau Disconus.\n\n\"This it is,\" said maid Elene. \"No knight may abide here without leave\nof a steward called Sir Lambard. Ride to that eastern gate yonder, and\nask his leave to enter fairly and well; ere he grants it, he will\njoust with you. And if he bears you down, he will blow his trumpets,\nand all through Synadown, at the sound thereof, the maidens and boys\nwill throw on you this filth and mud that they have gathered; and so\nto your life's end will you be known as a coward, and King Arthur\nshall lose his honour through you.\"\n\n\"That were great shame for any man living,\" said Sir Le Beau Disconus.\n\"I will meet this man. Gyfflet, make me ready.\" Then they made ready\nand rode to the castle gate, and asked where knights might find\nlodging. The porter let them in and asked, \"Who is your overlord?\"\n\n\"King Arthur, the well of courtesy and flower of chivalry, is my\nlord,\" answered Le Beau Disconus.\n\nThe porter went and told Sir Lambard of the knight, and Sir Lambard\nwas glad, and vowed to joust with him. Thereupon the porter came again\nto Le Beau Disconus, and said, \"Adventurous knight, ride to the field\nwithout the castle gate, and arm you speedily, for my lord would joust\nwith you.\"\n\nSir Le Beau Disconus rode to the field and made ready. Presently there\ncame the steward all armed for the fight, and they fell to. Long and\nfierce was the fray, but at the last Le Beau Disconus struck Sir\nLambard so fiercely that he was borne clean out of his saddle\nbackwards.\n\n\"Will you have more?\" asked Sir Le Beau Disconus.\n\n\"Nay,\" answered Sir Lambard. \"Never since I was born came I against\nsuch a knight. If you will fight for my lady, you are welcome, sir\nknight.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Sir Le Beau Disconus, \"but I fight for a lady even now.\"\nThen they went into Sir Lambard's castle and feasted and were right\nmerry. Sir Lambard and Sir Le Beau Disconus spoke much of adventures,\nand at last Sir Le Beau Disconus asked him concerning his quest. \"What\nis the knight's name who holds in prison the gentle lady of Synadown?\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, knight is he none. Two magicians are her foes, false in\nflesh and bone: Mabon and Irayn are their names, and they have made\nthis town a place of strange magic arts. They hold this noble lady in\nprison, and often we hear her cry, but have no power to come to\nher. They have sworn to slay her if she will not do their will, and\ngive up to them all her rights in this fair dukedom which is hers.\"\n\nThey took their rest. On the morrow Le Beau Disconus clad himself in\nhis best armour, and rode forth to the gate of the great palace of\nSynadown; and with him for escort came Lambard and his knights.\n\nThey found the gate open, but no further durst any man go save Le Beau\nDisconus and his squire Gyfflet; and Le Beau Disconus made Gyfflet\nalso turn back with the rest.\n\nThen he rode alone into the palace, and alighted at the great hall. He\nsaw minstrels before the dais, and a fire burning brightly, but no\nlord of the palace was there. Le Beau Disconus paced through all the\nchambers, and saw no one but minstrels who made merry. Le Beau\nDisconus went further, seeking those whom he should fight. He peered\ninto all the corners, and looked on wondrous pillars of jasper and\nfine crystal; but never a foe did he see.\n\nAt last he sat him down at the dais in the great hall. As he sat, the\nminstrels ceased their music and vanished, and the torches were\nextinguished; doors and windows shook like thunder, and the very\nstones of the walls fell round him. The dais began to quake, and the\nroof above opened.\n\nAs he sat thus dismayed, believing that he was betrayed by magic, he\nheard horses neigh. \"Yet may I hope to joust,\" he said, better\npleased. He looked out into a field, and there he saw two knights come\nriding with spear and shield; their armour was of rich purple, with\ngolden garlands. One of the knights rode into the hall. \"Sir knight,\"\nhe cried, \"proud though you be, you must fight with us.\"\n\n\"I am ready to fight,\" answered Le Beau Disconus, and he leapt into\nhis saddle, and rode against the knight. His might bore Mabon (for it\nwas he) over his horse's tail: the hinder saddle-bow broke, and he\nfell. With that rode in Irayn fully armed, fresh for the fight, and\nmeaning with main and might to assail Sir Le Beau Disconus. But Le\nBeau Disconus was aware of him, and bore down on him with his spear,\nleaving Mabon where he had fallen. They broke their lances at the\nfirst stroke, and fell to with swords. As they fought, Mabon rose up\nfrom the ground, and ran to aid Irayn. But Le Beau Disconus fought\nboth, and kept himself back warily.\n\nWhen Irayn saw Mabon, he smote fiercely at Le Beau Disconus and struck\nhis steed. But Sir Le Beau Disconus returned his blow, and shore off\nhis thigh, skin and bone and all: of no avail were his arms or his\nenchantments then!\n\nThen Le Beau Disconus turned swiftly again to Mabon; and Mabon with a\ngreat blow broke the knight's sword. But Le Beau Disconus ran to\nIrayn, where he lay dying, and drew from him his sword, and rushed\nfiercely upon Mabon once more, and smote off his left arm with the\nshield.\n\n\"Hold, gentle knight,\" said Mabon, \"and I will yield that to your\nwill, and will take you to the fair lady. Through the wound from that\nsword I am undone, for I poisoned both it and mine, to make certain of\nslaying you.\"\n\n\"I will have none of your gifts, were I to win all this world by\nthem,\" said Le Beau Disconus. \"Lay on. One of us shall die.\"\n\nThen they fell to again, and so fiercely did Le Beau Disconus fight\nthat in a little while he cleft Mabon's head and helmet in twain.\n\nWhen Mabon was slain, he ran to where he had left Irayn, meaning to\ncleave his head also. But Irayn was not there; he had been borne away,\nwhither Le Beau Disconus did not know. He sought him everywhere, and\nwhen he found him not, he believed that he was caught in a snare, and\nfell on his knees and prayed. As he prayed a marvel came to pass. In\nthe stone wall a window opened, and a great dragon issued therefrom.\nIt had the face of a woman, fair and young, her body and wings shone\nlike gold; her tail was loathly, and her paws grim and great.\n\nLe Beau Disconus's heart sank within him, and he trembled. Ere he\ncould think, the dragon clasped him by the neck and kissed him; and\nlo! as it kissed him, the tail and wings fell from it, and he saw\nbefore him the fairest lady that ever he looked upon.\n\n\"Gentle knight,\" she said, \"you have slain the two magicians, my\nfoes. They changed me into a dragon, and bade me keep that shape till\nI had kissed Sir Gawain or some other knight of kin to Sir Gawain. You\nhave saved my life: I will give you fifteen castles and myself for\nwife, if it be King Arthur's will.\"\n\nThen was Le Beau Disconus glad and blithe, and leapt on his horse and\nrode back to Sir Lambard to bring him these good tidings; and\npresently there came to him from the palace the lady herself, richly\nclad, and all the people of the town made a fair procession in her\ntrain. Every knight in Synadown did her homage and fealty as was due\nto her. Seven nights did they abide in the castle with Lambard, and\nthen Sir Le Beau Disconus returned with the fair lady to King Arthur,\nand at his court gave thanks to God for their adventures. King Arthur\ngave the lady to Le Beau Disconus for wife; and the joy of that bridal\ncan be told in no tale or song.\n\n\n\n\nTALES TOLD BY CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS\n\n\nGeoffrey Chaucer, born about 1340, was the first great English poet.\nThe immense popularity of the Canterbury Tales is shown by the number\nof manuscript copies still in existence. It was one of the first books\nprinted in England.\n\nThe vividness with which the author describes scenes and events and\npeople, as if he had them before his eyes, is one of his greatest\ncharms as a writer. Those who know him best place him second only to\nShakespeare as a writer of delightful English.\n\nThe spelling of Chaucer's time differs so much from ours that the\ndifficulty of reading it discourages a great many people. The few\nstories here given are retold in the language of to-day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD WOMAN AND THE KNIGHT\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nIn the old days of King Arthur all the land was filled with fairies,\nand the elf queen and her merry company held many a dance in the green\nmeadows where now you will see never one of them. But that was many\nhundred years ago.\n\nIt happened that there was at King Arthur's court a young knight, in\nthe full vigour and pride of his strength, who one day, as he was\nriding out, came upon a maiden walking all alone. She was very\nbeautiful, and the sight of her made him forget his knighthood.\n\nHe went up to her, and tried to carry her off with him by force; but\nbefore he could succeed help came, and he was seized and taken before\nthe king.\n\nThe king sentenced him to die, according to the law at that time, and\nhe would surely have been put to death if the queen and her ladies had\nnot long and earnestly prayed for mercy. The king at last relented and\ngranted him his life, and left it to the queen to say what punishment\nshould be given him.\n\nWhen the queen had thanked King Arthur she sent for the knight. She\ndid not wish to let him go wholly free.\n\n\"You are still in danger of losing your life,\" she said to him; \"but I\nwill give you your freedom on one condition: you must find me the\nanswer to the question--'What is it that women most desire?' If you\ncannot now give me the answer that I have in my mind you shall have a\nyear and a day in which to learn it. Do your best, and take great\ncare, for if at the end of that time you still cannot answer, you must\ndie.\"\n\nThe knight pondered awhile, but he could not guess the answer at once.\n\nSo he pledged himself to return to the court at the end of a year and\na day, and went away very sorrowfully.\n\nHow was he to find the answer to the riddle? He thought for a long\ntime by himself, and then asked every one he met what it was that\nwomen loved best. But nowhere could he discover two people who agreed\nin saying the same thing. Some told him the answer was honour; some,\nriches; others, fine clothing; others, again, flattery. But none of\nthese replies pleased the knight, and he could not guess anyhow what\nit was that the queen had in her mind as the right answer.\n\nHe wandered far and wide in his mournful search for some one wise\nenough to help him. At length the time came when he had to turn\nhomewards again, in order to return to the queen by the appointed\nday. His way lay through a forest, and he was riding along sadly\nenough when suddenly he saw a strange sight. In a little glade just in\nfront of him was a ring of fair ladies dancing, four-and-twenty or\nmore of them; but as he drew nigh eagerly to look at them more\nclosely, and see if by chance lie might gain an answer from them, they\nall vanished.\n\nIn the place where they had been not a living thing remained except an\nold woman sitting on the grass. When he came near to her he saw that\nshe was withered and ugly, and as horrible a sight as could be\nimagined,\n\n\"Sir knight,\" she said to him, standing up, \"this road leads to no\nplace. Whither are you going? Tell me your errand, and perchance I\ncan help you. We old folk have knowledge of many things.\"\n\n\"Old mother,\" he said, \"my trouble is this: I am as good as dead if I\ncannot discover what it is that women love best. If you could help me\nI would reward you well.\" And he told her the conditions on which his\nlife was spared.\n\n\"Give me your word here and now that you will do the next thing that I\nask of you, whatever it is, if it is in your power,\" said the hag when\nshe heard the story, \"and I will tell you the answer.\"\n\n\"I give my word,\" the knight replied.\n\n\"Then your life is safe. I promise you that my answer will be that\nwhich the queen wishes to have, and the proudest lady of all her court\nwill not dare gainsay it. Let us go on our journey without any more\ntalking.\"\n\nShe whispered a word or two in his ear, and bade him pluck up heart;\nand together they rode to the court.\n\nThe knight came before the queen, and said that he was ready to give\nhis answer, and a great company of noble ladies gathered to hear what\nhe would reply to the riddle. Silence was proclaimed, and he was\ncalled upon to speak.\n\n\"I have kept my word faithfully,\" he said in a manly voice that was\nheard all over the hall, \"and I am here on the day appointed, prepared\nto answer the queen's question. The answer she desired was that women\nlove power best, whether it be over husband or lover. If that is not\nthe right answer do with me as you wish. I am here ready to die if you\nso will it.\"\n\nThey all agreed that he had saved his life by his reply. But when\ntheir verdict was made known up started the old hag who had told the\nknight the answer.\n\n\"Give me justice, lady queen, before your court departs,\" she\ncried. \"I told the knight that answer, and he gave me his word that he\nwould do the first thing that I asked of him if it lay in his\npower. Now, before all this court, I ask you, sir knight, to take me\nto be your wife; and remember it is I who have saved your life.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said the knight; \"truly I gave my word, but will you not ask\nsome other thing of me? Take all my riches, and let me go.\"\n\n\"No,\" insisted the old woman. \"Though I be old and poor and ugly I\nwould not let you go for all the gold on earth. I will be your wife\nand your love.\"\n\n\"My love!\" he cried; \"nay, rather my death! Alas that any of my race\nshould suffer such dishonour.\"\n\n\nAll the knight's prayers and entreaties were of no avail. He had to\nkeep his word and marry the hideous old hag; and a mournful wedding he\nmade of it. He took his new bride home to his house, feeling not at\nall like a happy lover; and his woe was increased by her first words\nto him.\n\n\"Dear husband, will you not kiss me? Is it the custom of the king's\ncourt for every knight to neglect his wife? I am your own love, who\nsaved you from death, and I have done you no wrong. Yet you act\ntowards me like a madman who has lost his senses, with your groans and\nyour glum looks. Tell me what I have done amiss, and I will set it\nright.\"\n\n\"You cannot set it right,\" said the knight sorrowfully. \"Do you\nwonder that I am ashamed to have married one of such mean birth, so\npoor and old and ugly?\"\n\n\"Is that the cause of your grief?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered he.\n\n\"I could set it right,\" said his wife. \"But you speak so proudly of\nyour high birth and old family. Such pride is worth nothing, for\npoverty and low birth are no sin. Look rather at him who leads the\nbest life both in secret and in the open, who strives always to do\ngentle and honourable deeds; take him for the truest gentleman, and be\nsure that a noble nature like his is not made only by high birth or\nthe wealth of his fathers. But you say that I am low-born, old, and\nugly. Well, choose now which you would desire me to be--as I am, poor,\nold, and ugly, but a true and faithful wife who will obey you always;\nor young and fair, but fickle and fond of vain pleasures, always\nemptying your purse and wounding your love?\"\n\nThe knight did not know which to choose. He was moved to shame by his\nwife's words, and after long thought he said: \"My lady, my dear wife,\nI put myself in your hands. Choose for yourself; that will do honour\nto you, and what you wish is enough for me.\"\n\n\"Then I have gained the mastery! I have power over you,\" said she, \"if\nI may choose as I please.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear wife,\" he answered, \"I think that best.\"\n\n\"Kiss me,\" she said, \"and let us quarrel no longer. I will be both to\nyou--both fair and true. I will be as good a wife as ever there was\nsince the beginning of the world; and if I am not as beautiful as any\nlady, queen, or empress in the whole earth, from east to west, then\nslay me or do with my life as you wish.\"\n\nThe knight looked up at her again. But instead of the withered old\ncrone he expected to see, his eyes fell upon the most beautiful wife\nthat could be imagined; for the old woman was a fairy, and had wished\nto give him a lesson before he knew her as she really was. No longer\nnow was he ashamed of her, and they lived together happily to their\nlives' end.\n\n\n\n\nDEATH AND THE THREE REVELLERS\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nThere was once in Flanders a company of young men who spent much time\nin drinking and rioting among the taverns, wasting their lives in\ngambling and dancing day and night.\n\nEarly one morning a certain three of these revellers were sitting in a\ntavern drinking, and making a great noise with their horrible talk. As\nthey jested idly with one another they heard a bell tolling outside\nfor a dead man who was about to be buried.\n\n\"Run quickly,\" one of them called to his servant-boy, \"and ask the\nname of the man whose body is being carried out to burial. Take care\nto tell it us aright.\"\n\n\"I need not go, sirs,\" answered the boy. \"I heard two hours before you\ncame here that this man who is now dead was an old comrade of yours,\nslain last night as he lay in a drunken sleep. There came to him a\nstealthy old thief named Death, who kills many folk in this country;\nhe pierced your comrade's heart with a spear, and went his way without\na word. He has slain a thousand or more in the pestilence here. I\nthink it would be well for you; my masters, to beware of coming into\nthe presence of such a foe, and to be ready to meet him.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the keeper of the tavern, \"the boy speaks truly. Death has\nthis year slain men, women, and children, pages and peasants,\nthroughout the whole of a great village a mile from here. I think he\ndwells in that place. It would be wise to be prepared before he does\none any evil.\"\n\n\"Is it so great a danger to meet him, then?\" cried one of the\nrevellers with an oath. \"I will go myself, and seek him high and low\nin the streets and lanes. Listen, comrades: there are three of us; let\nus join together and slay this false traitor Death. We will swear to\nbe true to one another, and before night-time we will slay him who\nkills so many others.\"\n\nThe other two agreed, and the three swore to be to one another as\nbrothers. Up they started, and went forth towards the village where\nDeath was said by the innkeeper to live.\n\n\"Death shall die,\" they cried, with many a boastful oath, \"if we once\nlay hold of him!\"\n\nThey had not gone half a mile on their way when they met an old,\npoor-looking man, who greeted them meekly and bade them God-speed.\n\n\"Who are you, you ragged old beggar?\" cried the proudest of the\nrioters to him. \"Why are you so well wrapped up, except for your face?\nWhy is an old man like you allowed to live so long?\"\n\nThe old man looked him in the face, and said: \"I must needs keep my\nold age myself. I can find no man anywhere--no, not even if I walked\nto India--who would exchange his youth for my age. Death himself\nrefuses to take my life; so I walk restlessly up and down the world,\nold and weary, tapping the ground with my staff early and late, and\nbegging Mother Earth to take me to her again. 'Look how I am slowly\nvanishing,' I cry to her; 'I feel myself wasting, flesh and skin and\nblood and all. Receive me into the dust again, Mother Earth, for my\nbones are tired.' But the earth will not hear my prayer yet, and I\nmust wander on. I beseech you, therefore, do not harm an old man, good\nsirs, and may the blessing of Heaven be upon you!\"\n\n\"Nay, old churl,\" said one of the revellers, \"you shall not get off so\nlightly. You spoke just now of the traitor Death, who slays all our\nfriends in this district. Tell us where he is to be seen, or you shall\nrue it. I believe that you must be one of his friends yourself, and\nanxious to slay us young folk, since you talk so lovingly of him.\"\n\n\"Sirs,\" answered the old man, \"if you are so eager to find Death, turn\nup this crooked path. In that grove yonder, upon my faith, I left him,\nunder a tree. There he will await you. He will not hide himself from\nyou for all your boasts. Do you see the oak? You shall find Death\nthere. God save you and make you better men!\"\n\nThus spoke the old stranger. They paid no more heed to him, but ran\noff straightway to search for Death by the oak tree. There they found,\nnot Death himself, but a great heap of fine golden florins piled up,\nwell-nigh eight bushels of them. No longer had they any thought about\nDeath, but were so glad at the sight of the fair bright florins that\nthey sat down there by the precious heap to think what should be done.\n\nThe worst of the three was the first to speak. \"Listen to me,\nbrethren. I am no fool, for all that I spend my life in folly. Fortune\nhas given us this great treasure, so that we can live the rest of our\nlives in mirth and jollity. It has come to us easily, and easily we\nwill spend it. But there is one thing which we must do to make our\nhappiness sure: we must get the gold away from this place to my house,\nor else to one of yours--for, of course, the treasure is ours. But we\ncannot do this by day; men would say that we were thieves, and we\nshould be hanged for stealing our own treasure. It must be done by\nnight, as secretly and carefully as we can, and we must wait here all\nday. Let us therefore draw lots to see which of us shall go to the\ntown and bring food and drink hither as quickly as he can for the\nother two. The others must stay by the treasure, for we cannot leave\nit unguarded. Then, when night comes, we will carry it all away\nsafely.\"\n\nThey agreed to this, and drew lots. The lot fell on the youngest of\nthem, who left them at once and went towards the town.\n\nAs soon as he was gone, one of those who remained with the gold said\nto the other: \"You know that we have sworn to be true to one another\nlike brothers. Hear, then, how can we win profit for ourselves: our\ncomrade is gone, and has left us here with this gold, of which there\nis great plenty. We are to divide it among the three of us, by our\nagreement. But if I can contrive that we divide it between us two\nalone, will not that be doing you a friendly turn?\"\n\n\"How can it be?\" asked the other. \"He knows that the gold is with us;\nwhat could we say to him?\"\n\n\"Will you keep a secret?\" said his comrade. \"If so, I will tell you in\na few words what we must do.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the other; \"trust me not to betray you.\"\n\n\"Look you, then, there are two of us, and two are stronger than one.\nWhen he comes back and sits down, do you rise and go to him as if for\na friendly wrestling bout. I will stab him in the side as you struggle\nin play; see that you also do the like with your dagger. Thus shall\nthe treasure be divided between us two, dear friend, and we shall live\nin ease and plenty for the rest of our lives.\"\n\nThe two rogues agreed on this plan for getting rid of their comrade;\nbut he, as he went on his way to the town, could not take his mind\naway from the bright golden florins.\n\n\"If only I could have this treasure all for myself,\" he thought, \"no\nman on earth would live so merrily as I.\" And at last the idea of\npoisoning his comrades came into his head.\n\nWhen he reached the town, he went without hesitating any more to an\napothecary, and asked him to sell him some poison to kill the rats in\nhis house; and there was a polecat also, he said, which ate his\nchickens.\n\n\"You shall have a poison,\" answered the apothecary, \"the like of which\nis not to be found on earth. It is so strong that if a man does but\ntaste a little piece of it, the size of a grain of wheat, he shall die\nat once; before you can walk a mile he will be dead, so strong and\nviolent is this poison.\"\n\nThe man took the poison in a box and went into the next street. There\nhe borrowed three large bottles, and into two he put the poison; the\nthird he kept clean for his own drink, thinking that he would be\nworking hard that night, carrying the gold all by himself to his own\nhouse. Then he filled all the bottles up with wine, and went back to\nhis comrades.\n\nWhy should a long tale be made of it? When he came back the other two\nset upon him, and killed him as they had planned.\n\n\"Now let us eat and drink,\" said one to the other. \"When we have made\nmerry we will bury him.\"\n\nWith that word, he took one of the bottles; it happened to be one of\nthose containing the poisoned wine. He drank, and gave it to his\nfellow; and in a little while they both fell dead beside the body of\ntheir comrade.\n\nThus the three revellers met Death, whom they set out to kill.\n\n\n\n\nPATIENT GRISELDA\n\nRetold by F. J. H. Darton\n\n\nThere is on the western side of Italy a large and fertile plain,\nwherein lie a tower and town founded long ago by the men of the olden\ndays. The name of this noble country is Saluzzo. A worthy marquis\ncalled Walter was once lord of it, as his fathers had been before\nhim. He was young, strong, and handsome, but he had several faults for\nwhich he was to blame; he took no thought for the future, but in his\nyouth liked to do nothing but hawk and hunt all day, and let all other\ncares go unheeded. And the thing which seemed to the people of Saluzzo\nto be worst of all was that he would not marry.\n\nAt length his subjects came to him in a body to urge him to take a\nwife. The wisest of them spoke on behalf of the rest.\n\n\"Noble marquis,\" he said, \"you are ever kind to us, and so we now dare\nto come to you and tell you our grief. Of your grace, my lord, listen\nto our complaint. Bethink you how quickly our lives pass, and that no\nman can stop the swift course of time. You are in your youth now, but\nage will creep upon you in a day which you cannot foresee. We pray\nyou therefore to marry, that you may leave an heir to rule over us\nwhen you are gone. If you will do this, lord marquis, we will choose\nyou a wife from among the noblest in the land. Grant our boon, and\ndeliver us from our fears, for we could not live under a lord of a\nstrange race.\"\n\nTheir distress and grief filled the marquis with pity. \"My own dear\npeople,\" he answered, \"you are asking of me that which I thought never\nto do. I rejoice to be free, and like not to have my freedom cut short\nby marriage. But I see that your prayer is just and truly meant, and\nthat it is my duty to take a wife. Therefore I consent to marry as\nsoon as I may. But as for your offer to choose a wife for me, of that\ntask I acquit you. The will of God must ordain what sort of an heir I\nshall have, and be your choice of a wife never so wise, the child may\nyet be amiss, for goodness is of God's gift alone. To Him, therefore,\nI trust to guide my choice. You must promise also to obey and\nreverence my wife, and not to rebel against her so long as she lives,\nwhosoever she may be.\"\n\nWith hearty goodwill they promised to do as he bade them, and to obey\nhis wife, but before they went away they begged him to fix a day for\nthe wedding.\n\nWalter appointed a day for his marriage, saying that this, too, he did\nbecause they wished it; and they fell on their knees and thanked him,\nand went away to their homes again, while he gave orders to his\nknights and officers to prepare a great wedding-feast, with every kind\nof splendour and magnificence. But he told no one who was to be his\nbride.\n\nNear the great palace of the marquis there stood a small village,\nwhere a number of poor folk dwelt. Among them lived a man called\nJanicola, the poorest of them all. Janicola had a daughter named\nGriselda, the fairest maiden under the sun, and the best. She had been\nbrought up simply, knowing more of labour than of ease, and she worked\nhard to keep her father's old age in comfort. All day long she sat\nspinning and watching sheep in the fields; when she came home to their\npoor cottage in the evening she would bring with her a few herbs,\nwhich she would cut up and cook, to make herself a meal before she lay\ndown to rest on her hard bed; and she had not a moment idle till she\nwas asleep.\n\nWalter had often seen this maiden as he rode out a-hunting, and he was\nfilled with pleasure at the sight of her loveliness and her gentle,\nkindly life. In his heart he had vowed to marry none other than her,\nif ever he did marry.\n\nThe day appointed for the wedding came, but still no one knew who\nwould be the bride. Men wondered and murmured and gossiped secretly,\nBut the marquis had ordered all kinds of costly gems, brooches, and\nrings to be made ready, and rich dresses were prepared for the bride\n(for there was a maid in his service about Griselda's stature, so that\nthey knew how to measure the cloth and silks and fine linen for the\nwedding garments). Yet still, when the very hour for the marriage\narrived, no one but Walter knew who would be the bride.\n\nAll the palace was put in array, and the board set for the feast. The\nbridal procession started as if to fetch the bride, the marquis at its\nhead, dressed in gay attire, and attended by all his lords and ladies.\n\nThey set out in all their pomp and magnificence, to the sound of\njoyful music, and rode until they came to the little village where\nGriselda lived.\n\nGriselda, all ignorant of what was to happen, went that morning to the\nwell to draw water, according to her wont, for she had heard of the\nprocession which would take place in honour of the wedding.\n\n\"I will do my work as soon as I can, and go and stand at the door as\nthe other maidens do,\" she thought, \"to watch the marquis and his\nbride pass, if they come this way to the castle.\"\n\nJust as she went to the door the procession reached the cottage, and\nthe marquis called her. She set down her waterpot by the threshold of\nthe ox's stall (for they were so poor that their one ox lived in the\nhut with them), and fell on her knees to hear what the marquis wished\nto say to her.\n\n\"Where is your father, Griselda?\" he asked soberly and gravely.\n\n\"My lord, he is within,\" she answered humbly, and went in and brought\nJanicola before him.\n\nWalter took the old man by the hand, and led him aside. \"Janicola,\" he\nsaid, \"I can no longer hide the desire of my heart. If you will grant\nme your daughter, I will take her with me to be my wife to my life's\nend. You are my faithful liege subject, and I know that you love and\nobey me. Will you, then, consent to have me for your son-in-law?\"\n\nThe sudden question so amazed the old man that he turned red and\nconfused, and stood trembling before the marquis. All he could say\nwas: \"My lord, my will is as your will, and you are my sovereign. Let\nit be as you wish.\"\n\n\"Let us talk privately a little,\" said the marquis, \"and afterwards I\nwill ask Griselda herself to be my wife, and we three will speak of\nthe matter together.\" So they went apart to confer privately about\nit. Meanwhile the courtiers were in the yard of the mean little\ncottage, marvelling at the care and kindness which Griselda showed in\ntending her old father. But their wonder was not so great as hers, for\nshe had never before seen so splendid a sight as these richly-dressed\nlords and ladies, nor received such noble guests; and she stood in\ntheir presence pale with astonishment.\n\nBut her father and the marquis called her. \"Griselda,\" said Walter,\n\"your father and I desire that you shall become my wife. I wish to ask\nyou whether you give your consent now, or whether you would like to\nthink further of it. If you marry me, will you be ready to love and\nobey me, and never to act against my will, even so much as by a word\nor a frown?\"\n\n\"My lord,\" Griselda answered, fearing and wondering at his words, \"I\nam all unworthy of so great an honour; but as you wish, so will I do.\nHere and now I promise that I will never willingly disobey you in deed\nor thought--no, not if I die for it.\"\n\n\"That is enough, my Griselda,\" said the marquis; and with that he went\ngravely to the door, with Griselda following him.\n\n\"This is my bride,\" he cried to all the people. \"Honour and love her,\nI pray you, if you love me.\"\n\nThen, that she might not enter his palace poorly dressed in her old\nclothes, he bade the women robe her fitly and honourably; and though\nthese ladies did not like even to touch the old rags which Griselda\nwore, still, at his orders, they took them off her, and clad her\nafresh from head to foot. They combed her hair, and set a crown on her\nhead, and decked her with precious stones and jewelled clasps, so that\nthey hardly knew her again; and in this rich array she seemed more\nlovely than ever. The marquis put a ring on her finger, she was set on\na snow-white horse, and they all rode to the palace, where they\nfeasted and revelled till the sun set.\n\nThus Griselda was married to Walter. By her marriage her gentleness\nand beauty seemed only to increase, so that folk who had known her\nmany a year would not believe that she was the same Griselda, the\ndaughter of Janicola, who had lived in a mean hut in a poor\nvillage. Every one who looked on her loved her, and her fame spread\nall over Walter's realm, so that young and old used to come to Saluzzo\nmerely to see her.\n\nThus for a time Walter and Griselda lived together in great\nhappiness. At length Griselda had a daughter, and though they would\nhave liked a son better, Walter and Griselda were very glad and joyful\nat the event, and so were all their subjects.\n\nBut when the child was still quite young a strange desire came upon\nthe marquis to try his wife's goodness and obedience, though he had\ntested it in many ways times enough already, and had discovered no\nfaults in her. It was cruel to put her to such pains for no need, but\nhe could not rid himself of the wish, and he set about carrying it\nout.\n\nOne night, as she lay alone, he came to her with a stern, grave\nface. \"Griselda,\" he said, \"I think you have not forgotten the day\nwhen I took you from your poor home and set you high in rank and\nnobility. This present dignity which you now enjoy must not make you\nunmindful of your former low estate. Take heed to my words, therefore,\nnow that we are alone, with none to hear what I am going to say. You\nmust know that you are very dear to me, but not to my people. They say\nthat it is shameful to be subjects of one of such mean birth; and\nsince your daughter was born their grumbling has not grown less. Now,\nI wish to live my life with them in peace, as I have always done, and\nI cannot but give ear to their words. I must deal with your child as\nseems best, not for my own sake, but for my people's. Yet I am very\nloth to do what must be done, and I will not do it unless you\nconsent. Show me, therefore, the obedience and patience which you\npromised at our marriage.\"\n\nGriselda never moved when she heard of all this false tale. She did\nnot reveal her grief in look or word, but simply answered: \"My lord,\nit is in your power to do as you please; my child and I are yours. Do\nwith us as you wish. Whatever you do cannot displease me, for all my\ndesire is to obey you, and no length of time can change it--no, not\neven death itself--nor move my heart from you.\"\n\nWalter was filled with gladness at this gentle answer, but he hid his\njoy, and went mournfully out of her room. A little while after this he\ntold his plan to a faithful servant, a harsh and fierce-looking\nofficer, whom he had often before trusted greatly; and when this man\nunderstood what was to be done he went to Griselda, and stalked into\nher chamber, silent and grim.\n\n\"My lady,\" he said bluntly, \"I must obey my lord, and you must forgive\nme for doing that which I am ordered to do. I am commanded to take\naway your daughter.\"\n\nNot a word more did he say, but seized the child and made as if to\nslay it there and then. Griselda sat obedient to the commands which\nshe thought to be those of her lord, and uttered no sound. At last she\nspoke, and gently prayed him to let her kiss her child before it was\nslain; and he granted her prayer. She clasped her little daughter to\nher bosom, kissing it and lulling it to rest, and saying softly,\n\"Farewell, my child; never again shall I see you. May the kind Father\nabove receive your soul!\"\n\nThen she spoke again to the officer, so meekly and humbly that it\nwould have stirred any mother's heart to see her. \"Take the little\nchild and go and do whatever my lord has bidden you. Only one thing\nmore I ask you--that, unless my lord forbid it, you bury the babe so\nthat no birds of prey can reach her little body.\" But he would promise\nnothing. He took the child, and went his way again to Walter, and\ntold him all that Griselda had said and done.\n\nThe marquis was touched a little by remorse when he heard of his\nwife's gentle obedience, but none the less he held to his cruel\npurpose like a man who is resolved to have his own way. He bade the\nofficer take the babe with all care and secrecy to his sister, who was\nCountess of Bologna, and tell her the whole story, asking her to bring\nthe child up honourably, without saying whose it was.\n\nBut Walter's mind was not yet softened from his wicked intent. He\nlooked eagerly to see if what he had done would make his wife show in\nher face any signs of grief or anger. But Griselda did not seem to be\nchanged in the least. She was always gentle and kind, and still as\nglad, as humble, as ready to obey him as she had ever been; and not a\nword either in jest or in earnest did she say of her little daughter.\n\nThus there passed four years or so more, until Griselda had a little\nson, at which Walter and all his subjects were overjoyed, giving\nthanks to God because now there was an heir to the kingdom.\n\nBut when the boy was some two years old Walter's heart again became\ncruel and perverse, and he made up his mind to test his wife's\npatience once more. Her gentle obedience seemed only to make him wish\nto torment her still further.\n\n\"Wife,\" he said to her. \"I have told you that my subjects did not like\nour marriage, but now, since our son was born, their murmuring has\nbeen worse than ever before, so that I am greatly afraid of what they\nmay do. They speak openly of the matter. 'When Walter dies,' they say,\n'we shall be ruled by Janicola's grandson.' I cannot but hear their\nwords, and I fear them. So, in order to live in peace, I am resolved\nto serve our son as I did his sister before; and I warn you now, so\nthat you may have patience to bear his loss when the time comes.\"\n\n\"I have always said, and always will say,\" answered Griselda, \"that I\nwill do nothing but what you wish. I am not grieved that both my son\nand my daughter are slain, if it is you who order it. You are my\nlord, and can do with me as you will. When I left my home and my poor\nrags I left there my freedom also, and took your clothing, and became\nobedient to your commands. Therefore do as you will; if I knew\nbeforehand what you wished I would do it, and if my death would please\nyou I would gladly die.\"\n\nWhen Walter heard these words he cast down his eyes, wondering at the\npatience of his wife. Yet he went away from her with a stern and\ncruel face, though his heart was full of joy at her goodness.\n\nThe fierce officer came to her again in a little while, and seized her\nson. Again she prayed him to give the babe proper burial, and kissed\nits little face, and blessed it, without a word of complaint or\nbitterness. Again the child was taken to Bologna, to be brought up\nthere. The marquis watched for signs of grief in his wife, but found\nnone, and the more he regarded her the more he wondered.\n\nMeanwhile rumours crept about among the people that Walter had\nmurdered his two children secretly because their mother was nothing\nbut a poor village maiden of low birth. The report spread far and\nwide, so that the marquis began to be hated by the subjects who had\nformerly loved him so well. Nevertheless, he did not change his\npurpose. He sent a secret message to Rome, asking that a decree from\nthe Pope should be forged which would allow him, for the good of his\nsubjects to put away his wife Griselda and wed another.\n\nIn due time the false decree arrived. It said that, since great strife\nhad arisen between the Marquis of Saluzzo and his people because he\nhad married a poor wife of humble birth, he was to put away this wife,\nand be free to marry another if he pleased. The common people believed\nthese lying orders, but when the news came to Griselda her heart was\nfull of woe. Yet she resolved to endure patiently whatever was done by\nthe husband whom she loved so dearly.\n\nWalter now sent a letter secretly to Bologna to the count who had\nmarried his sister asking him to bring to Saluzzo Griselda's son and\ndaughter, openly and in state, but without saying to any man whose\nchildren they really were, and to proclaim that the young maiden was\nsoon to be married to the Marquis of Saluzzo.\n\nThe count did as he was asked. He set out with a great train of lords\nand ladies in rich array, bringing the girl with her brother riding\nbeside her.\n\nShe was decked in bright jewelled robes, as if for marriage, and the\nboy, too, was nobly and fittingly dressed.\n\nWhen all this plan was being carried out, the marquis, according to\nhis wicked design, put yet another trial upon Griselda's patience by\nsaying to her boisterously, before all his court: \"Griselda, I was\nonce glad to marry you for your goodness and obedience--not for your\nbirth or your wealth. But now I know that great rulers have duties\nand hardships of many kinds; I am not free to do as every ploughman\nmay, and marry whom I please. Every day my people urge me to take\nanother wife, and now I have got leave to do so to stop the strife\nbetween me and them. I must tell you that even now my new wife is on\nher way hither. Be brave then, and give place to her, and I will\nrestore to you again the dowry you brought me when I married\nyou. Return again to your father's house; remember that no one is\nalways happy, and bear steadfastly the buffeting of misfortune.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" answered Griselda patiently, \"I knew always how great was\nthe distance between your high rank and my poverty. I never deemed\nmyself worthy to be your wife, nor even to be your servant. May Heaven\nbe my witness that in this house whither you led me as your wife I\nhave always tried to serve you faithfully, and ever will while my life\nlasts. I thank God and you that of your kindness you have so long held\nme in honour and dignity when I was so unworthy. I will go to my\nfather gladly, and dwell with him to my life's end. May God of His\ngrace grant you and your new wife happiness and prosperity! As for the\ndowry which you say I brought with me, I remember well what it was; it\nwas my poor clothes that I wore in my father's house. Let me, then, go\nin my old smock back to him. Though I have lost your love, I will\nnever in word or deed repent that I gave you my heart.\"\n\n\"You may take the old smock and go,\" said Walter. Scarcely another\nword could he speak, but went away with great pity in his heart.\n\nBefore them all Griselda stripped off her fine clothes, and went forth\nclad only in her smock, barefoot and bareheaded. The people followed\nher weeping and railing at her hard lot, but she made no complaint,\nand spoke never a word. Her father met her at his door, lamenting the\nday that he saw her cast off thus. So Griselda went home and lived for\na while with Janicola as though she had never left him.\n\nAt length the count drew near from Bologna with Griselda's son and\ndaughter. The news spread among the people, and every one talked of\nthe grand wife who was coming to be married to the marquis with such\nsplendour as had never been seen in all West Lombardy.\n\nWhen Walter heard of their approach he sent for Griselda. She came\nhumbly and reverently, and knelt before him.\n\n\"Griselda,\" said he, \"I desire that the lady whom I am to wed shall be\nreceived to-morrow as royally as may be. I have no woman who can make\nall the preparations for this, and arrange that every one shall be\nplaced according to his proper rank, and I have sent for you to do it,\nsince you know my ways of old. Your garments are poor and mean, but\nyou will do your duty as well as you can.\"\n\n\"I am glad always to do your will, my lord,\" she answered. With that\nshe turned to her task of setting the house in order for the guests of\nthe marquis.\n\nThe next morning the Count of Bologna arrived with Griselda's son and\ndaughter. All the people ran out to see the fine sight. She was\nyounger and even fairer than Griselda, and the fickle people, ever\nchangeable, as a weathercock, were full of praises for the choice of\nthe marquis.\n\nGriselda had made everything ready, and went into the courtyard of the\npalace with the other folk to greet the marquis and his bride. When\nthe procession reached the banquet-hall, she took no shame in her torn\nold clothes, but went busily about her work with a cheerful face,\nshowing the guests each to his appointed place.\n\nAt length, when they were all sitting down to the feast, Walter called\nout to her as she busied herself in the great hall. \"Griselda,\" he\ncried, as if in jest, \"what think you of my wife?\"\n\n\"Never have I looked upon a fairer maiden, my lord,\" she answered. \"I\npray that you may have all prosperity to your lives' end. One thing\nonly I ask of you--that you do not torment her as you did me; for she\nis tenderly brought up, and could not bear hardship as well as I, who\nwas poorly bred.\"\n\nWhen Walter heard her gentle answer, and saw that even now she had no\ndiscontent or malice for all the wrong he had done her, he relented at\nlast, and blamed himself sorely for his cruelty.\n\n\"Enough, Griselda,\" he said; \"be not ill at ease any longer. I have\ntried and tested your faithfulness and goodness, and I know your true\nheart, dear wife.\"\n\nHe took her in his arms and kissed her, but she was so filled with\nwonder that she hardly heard what he said till he spoke again.\n\n\"Griselda, you are my wife, and I will have no other. This is your\ndaughter, who you thought was my new bride, and this your son, who\nshall be my heir; they have been kept and brought up secretly at\nBologna. Take them again, and see for yourself that your children are\nsafe. Let no one think evil of me for my cruelty; I did it but to make\ntrial of my wife's goodness and show it the more brightly.\"\n\nGriselda swooned for joy at his words. When she came to her senses\nagain she thanked Heaven for restoring her children to her. \"And I\nthank you, too, my lord. Now I fear nothing, not even death itself,\nsince I have truly won your love. Dear children, God of His mercy has\nbrought you back to me.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"This is my bride\" he cried to all the people. From\nthe drawing by Hugh Thomson.]\n\nSuddenly she swooned again. Walter raised her up and comforted her\ntill every one wept at the sight. Then the ladies of the court took\nher into a chamber apart, and dressed her in splendid robes again, and\nset a golden crown on her head, and brought her back into the\nbanquet-hall, where she was honoured as she deserved with feasting and\nrejoicing that lasted all that day.\n\nFull many a year Walter and Griselda lived together in happiness and\npeace. Janicola, too, was brought to the court, and dwelt there with\nthem. Their daughter was married to one of the greatest lords in all\nItaly, and their son succeeded Walter at his death, and ruled well and\nprosperously.\n\n\n\n\nTALES FROM FRENCH AND ITALIAN CHRONICLES\n\n\nAs many stories gather round the great name of the French King\nCharlemagne as about that of the English King Arthur. Some versions\nare in French and some in Italian. The four stories beginning with\n\"The Treason of Ganelon\" make up the great epic song of France, the\n\"Chanson de Roland\" and the battle they celebrate was fought in\n788. Roncesvalles is in Spain.\n\nWhen William the Conqueror fought the battle of Hastings in 1066,\nTaillefer, his minstrel, rode ahead of the army and sang of Roland and\nOliver, and of the rear guard which fell at Roncesvalles.\n\n\"How the Child of the Sea Was Made Knight\" is from Amadis of Gaul,\nwhich is described in Don Quixote as one of the earliest and best of\nthe Spanish romances. Some critics give it a Portuguese and some a\nFrench origin. Lobeira, its author, died in 1405.\n\n\n\n\nOGIER THE DANE\n\nBy Thomas Bulfinch\n\n\nOgier the Dane was the son of Geoffroy, who wrested Denmark from the\nPagans, and reigned the first Christian king of that country. In his\neducation nothing was neglected to elevate him to the standard of a\nperfect knight, and render him accomplished in all the arts necessary\nto make him a hero.\n\nHe had hardly reached the age of sixteen years, when Charlemagne,\nwhose power was established over all the sovereigns of his time,\nrecollected that Geoffroy, Ogier's father, had omitted to render the\nhomage due to him as emperor, and sovereign lord of Denmark. He\naccordingly sent an embassy to demand of the King of Denmark this\nhomage, and on receiving a refusal, sent an army to enforce the\ndemand. Geoffroy, after an unsuccessful resistance, was forced to\ncomply, and as a pledge of his sincerity, delivered Ogier, his eldest\nson, a hostage to Charles, to be brought up at his court.\n\nOgier grew up more and more handsome and amiable every day. He\nsurpassed in form, strength, and address all the noble youths his\ncompanions; he failed not to be present at all tourneys; he was\nattentive to the elder knights, and burned with impatience to imitate\nthem.\n\nYet his heart rose sometimes in secret against his condition as a\nhostage, and as one apparently forgotten by his father.\n\nOgier's mother having died, the king had married a second wife, and\nhad a son named Guyon. The new queen had absolute power over her\nhusband, and fearing that, if he should see Ogier again, he would give\nhim the preference over Guyon, she had adroitly persuaded him to delay\nrendering his homage to Charlemagne, till now four years had passed\naway since the last renewal of that ceremony. Charlemagne, irritated\nat this delinquency, drew closer the bonds of Ogier's captivity until\nhe should receive a response from the King of Denmark to a fresh\nsummons which he caused to be sent to him.\n\nThe answer of Geoffroy was insulting and defiant, and the rage of\nCharlemagne was roused in the highest degree. He was at first disposed\nto wreak his vengeance upon Ogier, his hostage; but consented to spare\nhis life, if Ogier would swear fidelity to him as his liege-lord, and\npromise not to quit his court without his permission. Ogier accepted\nthese terms, and was allowed to retain all the freedom he had before\nenjoyed.\n\nThe emperor would have immediately taken arms to reduce his\ndisobedient vassal, if he had not been called off in another direction\nby a message from Pope Leo, imploring his assistance. The Saracens had\nlanded in the neighborhood of Rome, and prepared to carry fire and\nsword to the capital of the Christian world. Charlemagne speedily\nassembled an army, crossed the Alps, traversed Italy, and arrived at\nSpoleto, a strong place to which the Pope had retired. He stopped but\ntwo days at Spoleto, and learning that the Infidels were besieging the\nCapitol, marched promptly to attack them.\n\nThe advanced posts of the army were commanded by Duke Namo, on whom\nOgier waited as his squire. He did not yet bear arms, not having\nreceived the order of knighthood. The Oriflamme, the royal standard,\nwas borne by a knight named Alory, who showed himself unworthy of the\nhonor.\n\nDuke Namo, seeing a strong body of the Infidels advancing to attack\nhim, gave the word to charge them. Ogier remained in the rear, with\nthe other youths, grieving much that he was not permitted to fight.\nVery soon he saw Alory lower the Oriflamme, and turn his horse in\nflight. Ogier pointed him out to the young men, and, seizing a club,\nrushed upon Alory and struck him from his horse. Then, with his\ncompanions, he disarmed him, clothed himself in his armor, raised the\nOriflamme, and, mounting the horse of the unworthy knight, flew to the\nfront rank, where he joined Duke Namo, drove back the Infidels, and\ncarried the Oriflamme quite through their broken ranks. The duke,\nthinking it was Alory, whom he had not held in high esteem, was\nastonished at his strength and valor. Ogier's young companions\nimitated him, supplying themselves with armor from the bodies of the\nslain; they followed Ogier and carried death into the ranks of the\nSaracens, who fell back in confusion upon their main body.\n\nDuke Namo now ordered a retreat, and Ogier obeyed with reluctance,\nwhen they perceived Charlemagne advancing to their assistance. The\ncombat now became general, and was more terrible than ever.\nCharlemagne had overthrown Corsuble, the commander of the Saracens,\nand had drawn his famous sword, Joyeuse, to cut off his head, when two\nSaracen knights set upon him at once, one of whom slew his horse, and\nthe other overthrew the emperor on the sand. Perceiving by the eagle\non his casque who he was, they dismounted in haste to give him his\ndeath-blow. Never was the life of the emperor in such peril. But\nOgier, who saw him fall, flew to his rescue. Though embarrassed with\nthe Oriflamme, he pushed his horse against one of the Saracens and\nknocked him down; and with his sword dealt the other so vigorous a\nblow that he fell stunned to the earth. Then helping the emperor to\nrise, he remounted him on the horse of one of the fallen knights.\n\"Brave and generous Alory!\" Charles exclaimed, \"I owe to you my honor\nand my life!\" Ogier made no answer; but, leaving Charlemagne\nsurrounded by a great many of the knights who had flown to his succor,\nhe plunged into the thickest ranks of the enemy, and carried the\nOriflamme, followed by a gallant train of youthful warriors, till the\nstandard of Mahomet turned in retreat and the Infidels sought safety\nin their intrenchments.\n\nAs the good Archbishop Turpin took his mitre and his crosier, and\nintoned Te Deum, Ogier, covered with blood and dust, came to lay the\nOriflamme at the feet of the emperor. He knelt at the feet of\nCharlemagne, who embraced him, calling him Alory, while Turpin, from\nthe height of the altar, blessed him with all his might. Then young\nOrlando, son of the Count Milone and nephew of Charlemagne, no longer\nable to endure this misapprehension, threw down his helmet, and ran to\nunlace Ogier's, while the other young men laid aside theirs. It would\nbe difficult to express the surprise, the admiration, and the\ntenderness of the emperor and his peers. Charlemagne folded Ogier in\nhis arms, and the happy fathers of those brave youths embraced them\nwith tears of joy. \"My dear Ogier! I owe you my life! My sword leaps\nto touch your shoulder, and those of your brave young friends.\" At\nthese words he drew that famous sword, Joyeuse, and, while Ogier and\nthe rest knelt before him, conferred on them the order of knighthood.\nThe young Orlando and his cousin Oliver could not refrain from falling\nupon Ogier's neck and pledging with him that brotherhood in arms, so\ndear and so sacred to the knights of old times; but Charlot, the\nemperor's son, at the sight of the glory with which Ogier had covered\nhimself, conceived the blackest jealousy and hate.\n\nThe rest of the day and the next were spent in the rejoicings of the\narmy. Duke Namo presented them with golden spurs, Charlemagne himself\ngirded on their swords. But what was his astonishment when he examined\nthat intended for Ogier! The loving fairy, Morgana, had had the art\nto change it, and to substitute one of her own procuring, and when\nCharlemagne drew it out of the scabbard, these words appeared written\non the steel: \"My name is Cortana, of the same steel and temper as\nJoyeuse and Durindana.\" The emperor saw that a superior power watched\nover the destiny of Ogier; he vowed to love him as a father would, and\nOgier promised him the devotion of a son.\n\nThe Saracen army had hardly recovered from its dismay when Carahue,\nKing of Mauritania, who was one of the knights overthrown by Ogier,\ndetermined to challenge him to single combat. With that view, he\nassumed the dress of a herald, resolved to carry his own message. He\nbegan by passing the warmest eulogium upon the knight who bore the\nOriflamme on the day of the battle, and concluded by saying that\nCarahue, King of Mauritania, respected that knight so much that he\nchallenged him to the combat.\n\nOgier had risen to reply, when he was interrupted by Charlot, who said\nthat the gage of the King of Mauritania could not fitly be received by\na vassal, living in captivity; by which he meant Ogier, who was at\nthat time serving as hostage for his father. Fire flashed from the\neyes of Ogier, but the presence of the emperor restrained his speech,\nand he was calmed by the kind looks of Charlemagne, who said, with an\nangry voice, \"Silence, Charlot! By the life of Bertha, my queen, he\nwho has saved my life is as dear to me as yourself. Ogier,\" he\ncontinued, \"you are no longer a hostage. Herald! report my answer to\nyour master, that never does knight of my court refuse a challenge on\nequal terms. Ogier the Dane accepts of his, and I myself am his\nsecurity.\"\n\nCarahue, profoundly bowing, replied, \"My lord, I was sure that the\nsentiments of so great a sovereign as yourself would be worthy of your\nhigh and brilliant fame; I shall report your answer to my master, who\nI know admires you, and unwillingly takes arms against you.\" Then,\nturning to Charlot, whom he did not know as the son of the emperor, he\ncontinued, \"As for you, sir knight, if the desire of battle inflames\nyou, I have it in charge from Sadon, cousin of the King of Mauritania,\nto give the like defiance to any French knights who will grant him the\nhonor of the combat.\"\n\nChariot, inflamed with rage and vexation at the public reproof which\nhe had just received, hesitated not to deliver his gage. Carahue\nreceived it with Ogier's, and it was agreed that the combat should be\non the next day, in a meadow environed by woods and equally distant\nfrom both armies.\n\nDuring the night Charlot collected some knights unworthy of the name;\nhe made them swear to avenge his injuries, armed them in black armor,\nand sent them to lie in ambush in the wood, with orders to make a\npretended attack upon the whole party, but in fact to lay heavy hands\nupon Ogier and the two Saracens.\n\nAt the dawn of day Sadon and Carahue, attended only by two pages to\ncarry their spears, took their way to the appointed meadow; and\nCharlot and Ogier repaired thither also, but by different paths. Ogier\nadvanced with a calm air, saluted courteously the two Saracen knights,\nand joined them in arranging the terms of combat.\n\nWhile this was going on, the perfidious Charlot remained behind and\ngave his men the signal to advance. That cowardly troop issued from\nthe wood and encompassed the three knights. All three were equally\nsurprised at the attack, but neither of them suspected the other to\nhave any hand in the treason. Seeing the attack made equally upon them\nall, they united their efforts to resist it, and made the most forward\nof the assailants bite the dust. Cortana fell on no one without\ninflicting a mortal wound, but the sword of Carahue was not of equal\ntemper and broke in his hands. At the same instant his horse was\nslain, and Carahue fell, without a weapon and entangled with his\nprostrate horse. Ogier, who saw it, ran to his defence, and, leaping\nto the ground, covered the prince with his shield, supplied him with\nthe sword of one of the fallen ruffians, and would have had him mount\nhis own horse. At that moment Charlot, inflamed with rage, pushed his\nhorse upon Ogier, knocked him down, and would have run him through\nwith his lance if Sadon, who saw the treason, had not sprung upon him\nand thrust him back. Carahue leapt lightly upon the horse which Ogier\npresented him, and had time only to exclaim, \"Brave Ogier, I am no\nlonger your enemy, I pledge to you an eternal friendship,\" when\nnumerous Saracen knights were seen approaching, having discovered the\ntreachery, and Charlot with his followers took refuge in the wood.\n\nThe troop which advanced was commanded by Dannemont, the exiled King\nof Denmark, whom Geoffroy, Ogier's father, had driven from his throne\nand compelled to take refuge with the Saracens. Learning who Ogier\nwas he instantly declared him his prisoner, in spite of the urgent\nremonstrances and even threats of Carahue and Sadon, and carried him,\nunder a strong guard, to the Saracen camp. Here he was at first\nsubjected to the most rigorous captivity, but Carahue and Sadon\ninsisted so vehemently on his release, threatening to turn their arms\nagainst their own party if it was not granted, while Dannemont as\neagerly opposed the measure, that Corsuble, the Saracen commander,\nconsented to a middle course, and allowed Ogier the freedom of his\ncamp, upon his promise not to leave it without permission.\n\nCarahue was not satisfied with this partial concession. He left the\ncity next morning, proceeded to the camp of Charlemagne, and demanded\nto be led to the emperor. When he reached his presence he dismounted\nfrom his horse, took off his helmet, drew his sword, and, holding it\nby the blade, presented it to Charlemagne as he knelt before him.\n\n\"Illustrious prince,\" he said, \"behold before you the herald who\nbrought the challenge to your knights from the King of Mauritania. The\ncowardly old King Dannemont has made the brave Ogier prisoner, and has\nprevailed on our general to refuse to give him up. I come to make\namends for this ungenerous conduct by yielding myself, Carahue, King\nof Mauritania, your prisoner.\"\n\nCharlemagne, with all his peers, admired the magnanimity of Carahue;\nhe raised him, embraced him, and restored to him his sword. \"Prince,\"\nsaid he, \"your presence and the bright example you afford my knights\nconsoles me for the loss of Ogier. Would to God you might receive our\nholy faith, and be wholly united with us.\" All the lords of the court,\nled by Duke Namo, paid their respects to the King of Mauritania.\nCharlot only failed to appear, fearing to be recognized as a traitor;\nbut the heart of Carahue was too noble to pierce that of Charlemagne\nby telling him the treachery of his son.\n\nMeanwhile the Saracen army was rent by discord. The troops of Carahue\nclamored against the commander-in-chief because their king was left in\ncaptivity. They even threatened to desert the cause, and turn their\narms against their allies. Charlemagne pressed the siege vigorously,\ntill at length the Saracen leaders found themselves compelled to\nabandon the city and betake themselves to their ships. A truce was\nmade; Ogier was exchanged for Carahue, and the two friends embraced\none another with vows of perpetual brotherhood. The Pope was\nreestablished in his dominions, and Italy being tranquil, Charlemagne\nreturned, with his peers and their followers, to France.\n\n\n\n\nA ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER\n\nBy Thomas Bulfinch\n\n\nGuerin de Montglave held the lordship of Vienne, subject to\nCharlemagne. He had quarrelled with his sovereign, and Charles laid\nsiege to his city, having ravaged the neighboring country. Guerin was\nan aged warrior, but relied for his defence upon his four sons and two\ngrandsons, who were among the bravest knights of the age. After the\nsiege had continued two months, Charlemagne received tidings that\nMarsilius, King of Spain, had invaded France, and, finding himself\nunopposed, was advancing rapidly in the Southern provinces. At this\nintelligence, Charles listened to the counsel of his peers, and\nconsented to put the quarrel with Guerin to the decision of Heaven, by\nsingle combat between two knights, one of each party, selected by\nlot. The proposal was acceptable to Guerin and his sons. The names of\nthe four, together with Guerin's own, who would not be excused, and of\nthe two grandsons, who claimed their lot, being put into a helmet,\nOliver's was drawn forth, and to him, the youngest of the grandsons,\nwas assigned the honor and the peril of the combat. He accepted the\naward with delight, exulting in being thought worthy to maintain the\ncause of his family. On Charlemagne's side Roland was the designated\nchampion, and neither he nor Oliver knew who his antagonist was to be.\n\nThey met on an island in the river Rhone, and the warriors of both\ncamps were ranged on either shore, spectators of the battle. At the\nfirst encounter both lances were shivered, but both riders kept their\nseats, immovable. They dismounted, and drew their swords. Then ensued\na combat which seemed so equal, that the spectators could not form an\nopinion as to the probable result. Two hours and more the knights\ncontinued to strike and parry, to thrust and ward, neither showing any\nsign of weariness, nor ever being taken at unawares. At length Roland\nstruck furiously upon Oliver's shield, burying Durindana in its edge\nso deeply that he could not draw it back, and Oliver, almost at the\nsame moment, thrust so vigorously upon Roland's breastplate that his\nsword snapped off at the handle. Thus were the two warriors left\nweaponless. Scarcely pausing a moment, they rushed upon one another,\neach striving to throw his adversary to the ground, and failing in\nthat, each snatched at the other's helmet to tear it away. Both\nsucceeded, and at the same moment they stood bareheaded face to face,\nand Roland recognized Oliver, and Oliver, Roland. For a moment they\nstood still; and the next, with open arms, rushed into one another's\nembrace. \"I am conquered,\" said Roland. \"I yield me,\" said Oliver.\n\nThe people on the shore knew not what to make of all this. Presently\nthey saw the two late antagonists standing hand in hand, and it was\nevident the battle was at an end. The knights crowded round them, and\nwith one voice hailed them as equals in glory. If there were any who\nfelt disposed to murmur that the battle was left undecided, they were\nsilenced by the voice of Ogier the Dane, who proclaimed aloud that all\nhad been done that honor required, and declared that he would maintain\nthat award against all gainsayers.\n\nThe quarrel with Guerin and his sons being left undecided, a truce was\nmade for four days, and in that time, by the efforts of Duke Namo on\nthe one side, and of Oliver on the other, a reconciliation was\neffected. Charlemagne, accompanied by Guerin and his valiant family,\nmarched to meet Marsilius, who hastened to retreat across the\nfrontier.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TREASON OF GANELON\n\nBy Sir George W. Cox\n\n\nCharles the great king had tarried with his host seven years in Spain,\nuntil he conquered all the land down to the sea, and his banners were\nriddled through with battle-marks. There remained neither burg nor\ncastle the walls whereof he brake not down, save only Zaragoz, a\nfortress on a rugged mountain top, so steep and strong that he could\nnot take it. There dwelt the pagan King Marsilius, who feared not God.\n\nKing Marsilius caused his throne to be set in his garden beneath an\nolive-tree, and thither he summoned his lords and nobles to\ncouncil. Twenty thousand of his warriors being gathered about him, he\nspake to his dukes and counts saying, \"What shall we do? Lo! these\nseven years the great Charles has been winning all our lands till only\nZaragoz remains to us. We are too few to give him battle, and, were it\nnot so, man for man we are no match for his warriors. What shall we do\nto save our lands?\"\n\nThen up and spake Blancandrin, wily counsellor--\"It is plain we must\nbe rid of this proud Charles; Spain must be rid of him. And since he\nis too strong to drive out with the sword, let us try what promises\nwill do. Send an ambassage and say we will give him great treasure in\ngold and cattle, hawk and hound; say we will be his vassals, do him\nservice at his call; say we will be baptized, forsake our gods and\ncall upon his God: say anything, so long as it will persuade him to\nrise up with his host and quit our land.\"\n\nAnd all the pagans said, \"It is well spoken.\"\n\nCharles the emperor held festival before Cordova, and rejoiced, he and\nhis host, because they had taken the city. They had overthrown its\nwalls; they had gotten much booty, both of gold and silver and rich\nraiment; they had put cables round about its towers and dragged them\ndown. Not a pagan remained in the city; for they were all either slain\nor turned Christian. The emperor sat among his knights in a green\npleasance. Round about him were Roland his nephew, captain of his\nhost, and Oliver, and Duke Sampson; proud Anseis, Geoffrey of Anjou\nthe king's standard-bearer, and fifteen thousand of the noblest born\nof gentle France. Beneath a pine-tree where a rose-briar twined, sat\nCharles the Great, ruler of France, upon a chair of gold. White and\nlong was his beard; huge of limb and hale of body was the king, and of\nnoble countenance. It needed not that any man should ask his fellow,\nsaying, \"Which is the king?\" for all might plainly know him for the\nruler of his people.\n\nWhen the messengers of King Marsilius came into his presence, they\nknew him straightway, and lighted quickly down from their mules and\ncame meekly bending at his feet. Then said Blancandrin, \"God save the\nking, the glorious king whom all men ought to worship. My master King\nMarsilius sends greeting to the great Charles, whose power no man can\nwithstand, and he prays thee make peace with him. Marsilius offers\ngifts of bears and lions and leashed hounds, seven hundred camels and\na thousand moulted falcons, of gold and silver so much as four hundred\nmules harnessed to fifty chariots can draw, with all his treasure of\njewels. Only make the peace and get thee to Aachen, and my master will\nmeet thee there at the feast of St. Michael; and he will be thy man\nhenceforth in service and worship, and hold Spain of thee; thou shalt\nbe his lord, and thy God shall be his God.\"\n\nThe emperor bowed his head the while he thought upon the purport of\nthe message; for he never spake a hasty word, and never went back from\na word once spoken. Having mused awhile he raised his head and\nanswered, \"The King Marsilius is greatly my enemy. In what manner\nshall I be assured that he will keep his covenant?\" The messengers\nsaid, \"Great king, we offer hostages of good faith, the children of our\nnoblest. Take ten or twenty as it seemeth good to thee; but treat them\ntenderly, for verily at the feast of St. Michael our king will redeem\nhis pledge, and come to Aachen to be baptized and pay his homage and\nhis tribute.\"\n\nThen the king commanded a pavilion to be spread wherein to lodge them\nfor the night. On the morrow, after they had taken their journey home,\nhe called his barons to him and showed them after what manner the\nmessengers had spoken, and asked their counsel.\n\nWith one voice the Franks answered, \"Beware of King Marsilius.\"\n\nThen spake Roland and said, \"Parley not with him, trust him not.\nRemember how he took and slew Count Basant and Count Basil, the\nmessengers whom we sent to him aforetime on a peaceful errand. Seven\nyears have we been in Spain, and now only Zaragoz holds out against\nus. Finish what has been so long a-doing and is well nigh done. Gather\nthe host; lay siege to Zaragoz with all thy might, and conquer the\nlast stronghold of the pagans; so win Spain, and end this long and\nweary war.\"\n\nBut Ganelon drew near to the king and spake: \"Heed not the counsel of\nany babbler, unless it be to thine own profit. What has Marsilius\npromised? Will he not give up his gods, himself, his service and his\ntreasure? Could man ask more? Could we get more by fighting him? How\nglorious would it be to go to war with a beaten man who offers thee\nhis all! How wise to wage a war to win what one can get without!\nRoland is wholly puffed up with the pride of fools. He counsels battle\nfor his glory's sake. What careth he how many of us be slain in a\ncauseless fight, if he can win renown? Roland is a brave man; brave\nenough and strong enough to save his skin, and so is reckless of our\nlives.\"\n\nThen said Duke Naymes (a better vassal never stood before a king),\n\"Ganelon has spoken well, albeit bitterly. Marsilius is altogether\nvanquished, and there is no more glory in fighting him. Spurn not him\nwho sues at thy feet for pity. Make peace, and let this long war end.\"\nAnd all the Franks answered, \"The counsel is good.\"\n\nSo Charles said, \"Who will go up to Zaragoz to King Marsilius, and\nbear my glove and staff and make the covenant with him?\"\n\nDuke Naymes said straightway, \"I will go;\" but the king answered,\n\"Nay, thou shalt not go. Thou art my right hand in counsel and I\ncannot spare thee.\" Then said Roland, \"Send me.\" But Count Oliver, his\ndear companion, said, \"What! send thee upon a peaceful errand?\nHot-blooded as thou art, impatient of all parleying? Nay, good Roland,\nthou wouldst spoil any truce. Let the king send me.\"\n\nCharles stroked his long white beard and said, \"Hold your peace, both\nof you; neither shall go.\"\n\nThen arose Archbishop Turpin and said, \"Let me go. I am eager to see\nthis pagan Marsilius and his heathen band. I long to baptize them all,\nand make their everlasting peace.\"\n\nThe king answered, \"All in good time, zealous Turpin; but first let\nthem make their peace with me: take thy seat. Noble Franks, choose me\na right worthy man to bear my message to Marsilius.\"\n\nRoland answered, \"Send Ganelon, my stepfather.\" And the Franks said,\n\"Ganelon is the man, for there is none more cunning of speech than\nhe.\"\n\nNow when the coward Ganelon heard these words, he feared greatly, well\nknowing the fate of them which had gone aforetime as messengers to\nMarsilius; and his anger was kindled against Roland insomuch that the\nexpression of his countenance changed in sight of all. He arose from\nthe ground and throwing the mantle of sable fur from his neck, said\nfiercely to Roland, \"Men know full well that I am thy step-father, and\nthat there is no love between us; but thou art a fool thus openly to\nshow thy malice. If God but give me to return alive, I will requite\nthee.\"\n\nThen he came bending to King Charles, \"Rightful emperor, I am ready to\ngo up to Zaragoz, albeit no messenger ever returned thence alive. But\nI pray thee for my boy Baldwin, who is yet young, that thou wilt care\nfor him. Is he not the son of thy sister whom I wedded? Let him have\nmy lands and honors, and train him up among thy knights if I return no\nmore.\"\n\nCharles answered, \"Be not so faint-hearted; take the glove and baton,\nsince the Franks have awarded it to thee, and go, do my bidding.\"\nGanelon said, \"Sire, this is Roland's doing. All my life have I hated\nhim; and I like no better his companion, Oliver. And as for the twelve\nchampion peers of France, who stand by him in all he does, and in\nwhose eyes Roland can do no wrong, I defy them all, here and now.\"\n\nCharles smoothed his snowy beard and said, \"Verily Count Ganelon thou\nhast an ill humor. Wert thou as valiant of fight as thou art of\nspeech, the twelve peers perchance might tremble. But they laugh. Let\nthem. Thy tongue may prove of better service to us upon this mission\nthan their swords.\" Then the king drew off the glove from his right\nhand, and held it forth; but Ganelon, when he went to take it, let it\nfall upon the ground. Thereat the Franks murmured, and said one to\nanother, \"This is an evil omen, and bodes ill for the message.\" But\nGanelon picked it up quickly, saying, \"Fear not: you shall all hear\ntidings of it.\" And Ganelon said to the king, \"Dismiss me, I pray\nthee.\" So the king gave him a letter signed with his hand and seal,\nand delivered to him the staff, saying, \"Go, in God's name and mine.\"\n\nMany of his good vassals would fain have accompanied him upon his\njourney, but Ganelon answered, \"Nay. 'Tis better one should die than\nmany.\" Then Ganelon leaped to horse, and rode on until he overtook the\npagan messengers who had halted beneath an olive-tree to rest. There\nBlancandrin talked with Ganelon of the great Charles, and of the\ncountries he had conquered, and of his riches and the splendor of his\ncourt. Ganelon also spake bitterly of Roland and his eagerness for\nwar, and how he continually drove the king to battle, and was the\nfiercest of all the Franks against the pagans. And Blancandrin said to\nGanelon, \"Shall we have peace?\" Ganelon said, \"He that sueth for peace\noften seeketh opportunity for war.\" Blancandrin answered, \"He that\nbeareth peace to his master's enemies often desireth to be avenged of\nhis own.\" Then each of the two men knew the other to be a rogue; and\nthey made friends, and opened their hearts to each other, and each\nspake of what was in his mind, and they laid their plans. So it befell\nthat when they came to Zaragoz, Blancandrin took Ganelon by the hand,\nand led him to King Marsilius, saying, \"O king! we have borne thy\nmessage to the haughty Charles, but he answered never a word. He only\nraised his hands on high to his God, and held his peace; but he has\nsent the noble Count Ganelon, at whose mouth we shall hear whether we\nmay have peace or no.\"\n\nThen Ganelon, who had well considered beforehand what he should say,\nbegan, \"God save the worthy King Marsilius. Thus saith the mighty\nCharles through me his messenger: 'So thou wilt become a Christian, I\nwill give thee the half of Spain to hold of me, and thou shalt pay me\ntribute and be my servant. Otherwise I will come suddenly and take the\nland away by force, and will bring thee to Aachen, to my court, and\nwill there put thee to death.'\"\n\nWhen King Marsilius heard this, the color went from his face, and he\nsnatched a javelin by the shaft, and poised it in his hand. Ganelon\nwatched him, his fingers playing the while with the sword-hilt\nunderneath his mantle, and he said, \"Great king, I have given my\nmessage and have freed me of my burden. Let the bearer of such a\nmessage die if so it seemeth good to thee. What shall it profit thee\nto slay the messenger? Will that wipe out the message, or bring a\ngentler one? Or thinkest thou Charles careth not for his barons? Read\nnow the writing of King Charles the Great.\" Therewith he gave into\nthe king's hand a parchment he had made ready in the likeness of his\nmaster's writing. And Marsilius brake the seal, and read: \"Before I\nwill make the peace, I command thee send hither to me thine uncle, the\ncaliph, that sitteth next thee on the throne, that I may do with him\nas I will.\" Then the king's son drew his scimitar and ran on Ganelon,\nsaying, \"Give him to me; it is not fit this man should live!\" But\nGanelon turned, brandished his sword and set his back against a\npine-trunk. Then cried Blancandrin, \"Do the Frank no harm; for he has\npledged himself to be our spy, and work for our profit.\" So\nBlancandrin went and fetched Ganelon, and led him by the hand and\nbrought him against the king. And the king said, \"Good Sir Ganelon, I\nwas wrong to be angry; but I will make amends. I will give thee five\nhundred pieces of gold in token of my favor.\" Ganelon answered, \"He\nthat taketh not counsel to his own profit is a fool. God forbid I\nshould so ill requite thy bounty as to say thee nay.\"\n\nMarsilius said, \"Charles is very old. For years and years he has\nfought and conquered, and put down kings and taken their lands, and\nheaped up riches more than can be counted. Is he not yet weary of war,\nnor tired of conquest, nor satisfied with his riches?\" Ganelon\nanswered, \"Charles has long been tired of war; but Roland, his\ncaptain, is a covetous man, and greedy of possession. He and his\ncompanion Oliver, and the twelve peers of France, continually do stir\nup the king to war. Were these but slain, the world would be at\npeace. But they have under them full twenty thousand men, the pick of\nall the host of France, and they are very terrible in war.\"\n\nMarsilius spake to him again, saying, \"Tell me; I have four hundred\nthousand warriors, better men were never seen: would not these suffice\nto fight with Charles?\"\n\nGanelon answered, \"Nay; what folly is this! Heed wiser counsel. Send\nback the hostages to Charles with me. Then will Charles gather his\nhost together, and depart out of Spain, and go to Aachen, there to\nawait the fulfilment of thy covenant. But he will leave his rear-guard\nof twenty thousand, together with Roland and Oliver and the Twelve, to\nfollow after him. Fall thou on these with all thy warriors; let not\none escape. Destroy them, and thou mayest choose thy terms of peace,\nfor Charles will fight no more. The rear-guard will take their journey\nby the pass of Siza, along the narrow Valley of Roncesvalles.\nWherefore surround the valley with thy host, and lie in wait for them.\nThey will fight hard, but in vain.\"\n\nThen Marsilius made him swear upon the book of the law of Mohammed,\nand upon his sword handle, that all should happen as he had said. Thus\nGanelon did the treason. And Marsilius gave Ganelon rich presents of\ngold and precious stones, and bracelets of great worth. He gave him\nalso the keys of his city of Zaragoz, that he should rule it after\nthese things were come to pass, and promised him ten mules' burden of\nfine gold of Arabia. So he sent Ganelon again to Charles, and with\nhim twenty hostages of good faith.\n\nWhen Ganelon came before Charles, he told him King Marsilius would\nperform all the oath which he sware, and was even now set out upon his\njourney to do his fealty, and pay the price of peace, and be baptized.\nThen Charles lifted up his hands toward Heaven, and thanked God for\nthe prosperous ending of the war in Spain.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREAT BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES\n\nBy Sir George W. Cox\n\n\nIn the morning the king arose and gathered to him his host to go away\nto keep the feast of Saint Michael at Aachen, and to meet Marsilius\nthere.\n\nAnd Ogier the Dane made he captain of the vanguard of his army which\nshould go with him. Then said the king to Ganelon, \"Whom shall I make\ncaptain of the rear-guard which I leave behind?\" Ganelon answered,\n\"Roland; for there is none like him in all the host.\" So Charles made\nRoland captain of the rear-guard. With Roland there remained behind,\nOliver, his dear comrade, and the twelve peers, and Turpin the\narchbishop, who for love of Roland would fain go with him, and twenty\nthousand proven warriors. Then said the king to his nephew, \"Good\nRoland, behold, the half of my army have I given thee in charge. See\nthou keep them safely.\" Roland answered, \"Fear nothing. I shall\nrender good account of them,\"\n\nSo they took leave of one another, and the king and his host marched\nforward till they reached the borders of Spain. And ever as the king\nthought upon his nephew whom he left behind, his heart grew heavy with\nan ill foreboding. So they came into Gascoigny and saw their own lands\nagain. But Charles would not be comforted, for being come into France\nhe would sit with his face wrapped in his mantle, and he often spake\nto Duke Naymes, saying he feared that Ganelon had wrought some\ntreason.\n\nNow Marsilius had sent in haste to all his emirs and his barons to\nassemble a mighty army, and in three days he gathered four hundred\nthousand men to Roncesvalles, and there lay in wait for the rearguard\nof King Charles.\n\nNow when the rear-guard had toiled up the rocky pass and climbed the\nmountain ridge, way-wearied, they looked down on Roncesvalles, whither\ntheir journey lay. And behold! all the valley bristled with spears,\nand the valley sides were overspread with them, for multitude like\nblades of grass upon a pasture; and the murmur of the pagan host rose\nto them on the mountain as the murmur of a sea. Then when they saw\nthat Ganelon had played them false, Oliver spake to Roland, \"What\nshall we now do because of this treason? For this is a greater\nmultitude of pagans than has ever been gathered together in the world\nbefore. And they will certainly give us battle.\" Roland answered, \"God\ngrant it; for sweet it is to do our duty for our king. This will we\ndo: when we have rested we, will go forward.\" Then said Oliver, \"We\nare but a handful. These are in number as the sands of the sea. Be\nwise; take now your horn, good comrade, and sound it; peradventure\nCharles may hear, and come back with his host to succor us.\" But\nRoland answered, \"The greater the number the more glory. God forbid I\nshould sound my horn and bring Charles back with his barons, and lose\nmy good name, and bring disgrace upon us all. Fear not the numbers of\nthe host; I promise you they shall repent of coming here; they are as\ngood as dead already in my mind.\" Three times Oliver urged him to\nsound his horn, but Roland would not, for he said, \"God and His angels\nare on our side.\" Yet again Oliver pleaded, for he had mounted up\ninto a pine tree and seen more of the multitude that came against\nthem; far as the eye could see they reached; and he prayed Roland to\ncome and see also. But he would not; \"Time enough,\" he said, \"to know\ntheir numbers when we come to count the slain. We will make ready for\nbattle.\"\n\nThen Archbishop Turpin gathered the band of warriors about him, and\nsaid, \"It is a right good thing to die for king and faith; and verily\nthis day we all shall do it. But have no fear of death. For we shall\nmeet to-night in Paradise, and wear the martyr's crown. Kneel now,\nconfess your sins, and pray God's mercy.\" Then the Franks kneeled on\nthe ground while the archbishop shrived them clean and blessed them in\nthe name of God. And after that he bade them rise, and, for penance,\ngo scourge the pagans.\n\nRoland ranged his trusty warriors and went to and fro among them\nriding upon his battle-horse Veillantif; by his side his good sword\nDurendal. Small need had he to exhort them in extremity; there was\nnot a man but loved him unto death and cheerfully would follow where\nhe led. He looked upon the pagan host, and his countenance waxed\nfierce and terrible; he looked upon his band, and his face was mild\nand gentle. He said, \"Good comrades, lords, and barons, let no man\ngrudge his life to-day; but only see he sells it dear. A score of\npagans is a poor price for one of us. I have promised to render good\naccount of you. I have no fear. The battlefield will tell, if we\ncannot.\" Then he gave the word, \"Go forward!\" and with his golden spurs\npricked Veillantif. So, foremost, he led the rear-guard down the\nmountain-side, down through the pass of Siza into the Valley of Death\ncalled Roncesvalles. Close following came Oliver, Archbishop Turpin,\nand the valiant Twelve; the guard pressing forward with the shout\n\"Montjoy!\" and bearing the snow-white banner of their king aloft.\n\nMarvellous and fierce was the battle. That was a good spear Roland\nbare; for it crashed through fifteen pagan bodies, through brass and\nhide and bone, before the trusty ash brake in its hand, or ever he was\nfain to draw Durendal from his sheath. The Twelve did wondrously; nay,\nevery man of the twenty thousand fought with lionlike courage; neither\ncounted any man his life dear to him. Archbishop Turpin, resting for\na moment to get fresh breath, cried out, \"Thank God to see the\nrear-guard fight to-day!\" then spurred in again among them. Roland saw\nOliver still fighting with the truncheon of his spear and said,\n\"Comrade, draw thy sword,\" but he answered, \"Not while a handful of\nthe stump remains. Weapons are precious to-day.\"\n\nFor hours they fought, and not a Frank gave way. Wheresoever a man\nplanted his foot, he kept the ground or died. The guard hewed down the\npagans by crowds, till the earth was heaped with full two hundred\nthousand heathen dead. Of those kings which banded together by oath to\nfight him, Roland gave good account, for he laid them all dead about\nhim in a ring. But many thousands of the Franks were slain, and of the\nTwelve there now remained but two.\n\nMarsilius looked upon his shattered host and saw them fall back in\npanic, for they were dismayed because of the Franks. But Marsilius\nheard the sound of trumpets from the mountain top and a glad man was\nhe; for twenty strong battalions of Saracens were come to his help,\nand these poured down the valley-side. Seeing this, the rest of the\npagans took heart again, and they all massed about the remnant of the\nguard, and shut them in on every hand. Nevertheless Roland and his\nfast lessening band were not dismayed. So marvellously they fought, so\nmany thousand pagans hurled they down, making grim jests the while as\nthough they played at war for sport, that their enemies were in mortal\nfear and doubted greatly if numbers would suffice to overwhelm these\nmen, for it misgave them whether God's angels were not come down to\nthe battle. But the brave rear-guard dwindled away, and Roland scarce\ndared turn his eyes to see the handful that remained.\n\nThen Roland spake to Oliver, \"Comrade, I will sound my horn, if\nperadventure Charles may hear and come to us.\" But Oliver was angry,\nand answered, \"It is now too late. Hadst thou but heeded me in time,\nmuch weeping might have been spared the women of France, Charles\nshould not have lost his guard, nor France her valiant Roland.\" \"Talk\nnot of what might have been,\" said Archbishop Turpin, \"but blow thy\nhorn. Charles cannot come in time to save our lives, but he will\ncertainly come and avenge them.\"\n\nThen Roland put the horn to his mouth and blew a great blast. Far up\nthe valley went the sound and smote against the mountain tops; these\nflapped it on from ridge to ridge for thirty leagues. Charles heard it\nin his hall, and said, \"Listen! what is that? Surely our men do fight\nto-day.\" But Ganelon answered the king: \"What folly is this! It is\nonly the sighing of the wind among the trees.\"\n\nWeary with battle Roland took the horn again and winded it with all\nhis strength. So long and mighty was the blast, the veins stood out\nupon his forehead in great cords; he blew on till with the strain his\nbrain-pan brake asunder at the temples. Charles heard it in his\npalace and cried, \"Hark! I hear Roland's horn. He is in battle or he\nwould not sound it.\" Ganelon answered, \"Too proud is he to sound it in\nbattle. My lord the king groweth old and childish in his fears. What\nif it be Roland's horn? He hunteth perchance in the woods.\"\n\nIn sore pain and heaviness Roland lifted the horn to his mouth and\nfeebly winded it again. Charles heard it in his palace, and started\nfrom his seat; the salt tears gathered in his eyes and dropped upon\nhis snowy beard; and he said, \"O Roland, my brave captain, too long\nhave I delayed! Thou art in evil need. I know it by the wailing of the\nhorn!' Quick, now, to arms! Make ready, every man! For straightway\nwe will go and help him.\" Then he thrust Ganelon away, and said to his\nservants, \"Take this man, and bind him fast with chains; keep him in\nward till I return in peace and know if he have wrought us treason.\"\nSo they bound Ganelon and flung him into a dungeon; and Charles the\nGreat and his host set out with all speed.\n\nFierce with the cruel throbbing of his brain, and well nigh blinded,\nRoland fought on, and with his good sword Durendal slew the pagan\nprince Faldrun and three and twenty redoubtable champions.\n\nThe little company that was left of the brave rear-guard cut down\ngreat masses of the pagans, and reaped among them as the reapers reap\nat harvest time; but one by one the reapers fell ere yet the harvest\ncould be gathered in. Yet where each Frank lay, beside him there lay\nfor a sheaf his pile of slain, so any man might see how dear he had\nsold his life. Marganices, the pagan king, espied where Oliver was\nfighting seven abreast, and spurred his horse and rode and smote him\nthrough the back a mortal wound. But Oliver turned and swung his sword\nHautclere, and before he could triumph clove him through the helmet to\nhis teeth. Yet even when the pains of death gat hold on Oliver so\nthat his eyes grew dim and he knew no man, he never ceased striking\nout on every side with his sword and calling \"Montjoy!\" Then Roland\nhasted to his help, and cutting the pagans down for a wide space\nabout, came to his old companion to lift him from his horse. But\nOliver struck him a blow that brake the helm to shivers on his\nthrobbing head.\n\nNevertheless Roland for all his pain took him tenderly down and spake\nwith much gentleness, saying, \"Dear comrade, I fear me thou art in an\nevil case.\" Oliver said, \"Thy voice is like Roland's voice; but I\ncannot see thee.\" Roland answered, \"It is I, thy comrade.\" Then he\nsaid \"Forgive me, that I smote thee. It is so dark I cannot see thy\nface; give me thy hand; God bless thee, Roland; God bless Charles, and\nFrance!\" So saying he fell upon his face and died.\n\nA heavy-hearted man was Roland; little recked he for his life since\nOliver his good comrade was parted from him. Then he turned and looked\nfor the famous rear-guard of King Charles the Great.\n\nOnly two men were left beside himself.\n\nTurpin the archbishop, Count Gaulter, and Roland set themselves\ntogether with the fixed intent to sell their lives as dearly as they\nmight; and when the pagans ran upon them in a multitude with shouts\nand cries, Roland slew twenty, Count Gaulter six, and Turpin five.\nThen the pagans drew back and gathered together all the remnant of\ntheir army, forty thousand horsemen and a thousand footmen with spears\nand javelins, and charged upon the three. Count Gaulter fell at the\nfirst shock. The archbishop's horse was killed, and he being brought\nto earth, lay there a-dying, with four wounds in his forehead, and\nfour in his breast. Yet gat Roland never a wound in all that fight,\nalbeit the pain in his temples was very sore.\n\nThen Roland took the horn and sought to wind it yet again. Very feeble\nwas the sound, yet Charles heard it away beyond the mountains, where\nhe marched fast to help his guard. And the king said, \"Good barons,\ngreat is Roland's distress; I know it by the sighing of the horn.\nSpare neither spur nor steed for Roland's sake.\" Then he commanded to\nsound all the clarions long and loud; and the mountains tossed the\nsound from peak to peak, so that it was plainly heard down in the\nValley of Roncesvalles.\n\nThe pagans heard the clarions ringing behind the mountains, and they\nsaid, \"These are the clarions of Charles the Great. Behold Charles\ncometh upon us with his host, and we shall have to fight the battle\nagain if we remain. Let us rise up and depart quickly. There is but\none man more to slay.\" Then four hundred of the bravest rode at\nRoland; and he, spurring his weary horse against them, strove still to\nshout \"Montjoy!\" but could not, for voice failed him. And when he was\ncome within spear-cast, every pagan flung a spear at him, for they\nfeared to go nigh him, and said, \"There is none born of woman can slay\nthis man.\" Stricken with twenty spears, the faithful steed,\nVeillantif, dropped down dead. Roland fell under him, his armor\npierced everywhere with spear-points, yet not so much as a scratch\nupon his body. Stunned with the fall he lay there in a swoon. The\npagans came and looked on him, and gave him up for dead. Then they\nleft him and made all speed to flee before Charles should come.\n\nRoland lifted his eyes and beheld the pagans filing up the mountain\npasses; and he was left alone among the dead. In great pain he drew\nhis limbs from underneath his horse, and gat upon his feet, but scarce\ncould stand for the anguish of his brain beating against his\ntemples. He dragged himself about the valley, and looked upon his dead\nfriends and comrades, and Roland said, \"Charles will see that the\nguard has done its duty.\" He came to where Oliver lay, and lifted the\nbody tenderly in his arms, saying, \"Dear comrade, thou wast ever a\ngood and gentle friend to me; better warrior brake never a spear, nor\nwielded sword; wise wert thou of counsel, and I repent me that once\nonly I hearkened not to thy voice. God rest thy soul! A sweeter friend\nand truer comrade no man ever had than thou.\" Then Roland heard a\nfeeble voice, and turned and was ware of Archbishop Turpin. Upon the\nground he lay a-dying, a piteous sight to see; howbeit, he raised his\ntrembling hands and blessed the brave dead about him in the dear name\nof God.\n\nAnd when Turpin beheld Roland, his eyes were satisfied. He said, \"Dear\nRoland, thank God the field is thine and mine. We have fought a good\nfight.\" Then joined he his hands as though he fain would pray, and\nRoland, seeing the archbishop like to faint for the sharpness of his\ndistress, took and dragged himself to a running stream that he espied\npass through the valley; and he dipped up water in his horn to bring\nto him, but could not, for he fell upon the bank and swooned. And\nwhen he came to himself, and crawled to where the archbishop lay, he\nfound him with his hands still clasped, but having neither thirst nor\nany pain, for he was at rest. A lonesome man in the Valley of Death,\nRoland wept for the last of his friends.\n\nAnd Roland, when he found death coming on him, took his sword Durendal\nin one hand, and his horn in the other, and crawled away about a\nbowshot to a green hillock whereupon four diverse marble steps were\nbuilt beneath the trees.\n\nThen he took Durendal into his hands, and prayed that it might not\nfall into the power of his enemies. He said, \"O Durendal, how keen of\nedge, how bright of blade thou art! God sent thee by his angel to King\nCharles, to be his captain's sword. Charles girt thee at my side. How\nmany countries thou hast conquered for him in my hands! O Durendal,\nthough it grieves me sore, I had rather break thee than that pagan\nhands should wield thee against France.\" Then he besought that God\nwould now eke out his strength to break the sword; and lifting it in\nhis hands he smote mightily upon the topmost marble step. The gray\nstone chipped and splintered, but the good blade brake not, neither\nwas its edge turned. He smote the second step, which was of sardonyx;\nthe blade bit it, and leaped back, but blunted not, nor brake. The\nthird step was of gray adamant; he smote it with all his might; the\nadamant powdered where he struck, but the sword brake not, nor lost\nits edge. And when he could no more lift the sword, his heart smote\nhim that he had tried to break the holy blade; and he said, \"O\nDurendal, I am to blame; the angels gave thee; they will keep thee\nsafe for Charles and France!\"\n\nThen Roland lay down and set his face toward Spain and toward his\nenemies, that men should plainly see he fell a conqueror. Beneath him\nhe put the sword and horn; then having made his peace with God, he lay\na-thinking. He thought of his master Charles. He thought of France and\nhis home that was so dear. He thought of his dear maid, Hilda, who\nwould weep and cry for him. Then lifted he his weary hands to Heaven\nand closed his eyes in death.\n\nGloom fell; the mists went up, and there was only death and silence in\nthe valley. The low red sun was setting in the west.\n\n\n\n\nCHARLEMAGNE REVENGES ROLAND\n\nBy Sir George W. Cox\n\n\nCharles and his host rode hard, and drew not rein until they reached\nthe mountain top, and looked down on the Valley of Roncesvalles. They\nblew the clarions, but there was no sound, neither any that answered\nsave the ringing mountain sides. Then down through gloom and mist they\nrode, and saw the field; saw Roland dead, and Oliver; the archbishop\nand the twelve valiant peers, and every man of the twenty thousand\nchosen guard; saw how fiercely they had fought, how hard they died.\n\nThere was not one in all the king's host but lifted up his voice and\nwept for pity at the sight they saw.\n\nBut Charles the king is fallen on his face on Roland's body, with a\ngreat and exceeding bitter cry. No word lie spake, but only lay and\nmoaned upon the dead that was so passing dear to him.\n\nCharles was an old man when he took the babe Roland from his mother's\narms. He had brought him up and nourished him, had taught him war, and\nwatched him grow the bravest knight, the stanchest captain of his\nhost. Right gladly would he have given Spain and the fruits of all the\nseven years' war to have Roland back again. Tears came, but brought no\nwords; and God sent sleep to comfort him for his heaviness.\n\nThen having watered and pastured their horses, the king left four good\nknights in Roncesvalles to guard the dead and set out in chase of the\npagans.\n\nIn the Vale of Tenebrus the Franks overtook them, hard by the broad,\nswift river Ebro. There being hemmed in, the river in front and the\nfierce Franks behind, the pagans were cut to pieces; Not one escaped,\nsave Marsilius and a little band who had taken another way and got\nsafe to Zaragoz. Thence Marsilius sent letters to Baligant, King of\nBabylon, who ruled forty kingdoms, praying him to come over and help\nhim. And Baligant gathered a mighty great army and put off to sea to\ncome to Marsilius.\n\nBut King Charles went straightway back to Roncesvalles to bury the\ndead. He summoned thither his bishops and abbots and canons to say\nmass for the souls of his guard and to burn incense of myrrh and\nantimony round about. But he would by no means lay Roland and Oliver\nand Turpin in the earth. Wherefore he caused their bodies to be\nembalmed, that he might have them ever before his eyes; and he arrayed\nthem in stuffs of great price and laid them in three coffins of white\nmarble, and chose out the three richest chariots that he had and\nplaced the coffins in them, that they might go with him whithersoever\nhe went.\n\nNow after this Marsilius and Baligant came out to battle with King\nCharles before the walls of Zaragoz. But the king utterly destroyed\nthe pagans there and slew King Baligant and King Marsilius, and brake\ndown the gates of Zaragoz and took the city. So he conquered Spain and\navenged himself for Roland and his guard.\n\nBut when King Charles would go back again to France his heart grew\nexceeding heavy. He said, \"O Roland, my good friend, I have no more\npleasure in this land which we have conquered. When I come again to\nLaon, to my palace, and men ask tidings, they will hear how many\ncities and kingdoms we have taken; but no man will rejoice. They will\nsay, Count Roland our good captain is dead, and great sadness will\nfall on all the realm. O Roland, my friend, when I come again to\nAachen, to my chapel, and men ask tidings, they will hear that we have\nwon a land and lost the best captain in all France; and they will weep\nand mourn, and say the war has been in vain. O Roland, my friend,\nwould God that I had died for thee!\"\n\nNow when the people of France heard how King Charles the Great\nreturned victorious, they gathered together in great multitudes to\nwelcome him. And when Hilda, the fair maid whom Roland loved, heard\nit, she arrayed herself in her richest apparel and proudly decked\nherself with her jewels. For she said, \"I would be pleasing in the\neyes of my brave true captain who comes home to wed with me. There is\nno gladder heart in France than mine.\" Then she hasted to the palace.\nThe king's guards all drew back for fear and let her pass, for they\ndared not speak to her. Right proudly walked she through them, and\nproudly came she to the king, saying,--\"Roland, the captain of the\nhost, where is he?\"\n\nAnd Charles feared exceedingly and scarce could see for tears. He\nsaid, \"Dear sister, sweet friend, am I God that I can bring back the\ndead? Roland my nephew is dead; Roland my captain and my friend is\ndead. Nay, take time and mourn with us all, and when thy heart is\nhealed I will give thee Louis mine own son, who will sit after me upon\nthe throne. Take Louis in his stead.\"\n\nHilda cried not, nor uttered sound. The color faded from her face, and\nstraightway she fell dead at the king's feet.\n\n\n\n\nHOW THIERRY VANQUISHED GANELON\n\nBy Sir George W. Cox\n\n\nIt is written in the old chronicle, that after these things Charles\nsent and summoned many men from many lands to come and try if Ganelon\nhad done him a treason or no; for the twenty thousand who were\nbetrayed being dead and the pagans utterly destroyed, there was none\nleft to bear witness against him. So the king sent and fetched Ganelon\nup out of prison and set him on his trial. Howbeit Ganelon contrived\nto get thirty of his kinsfolk chosen among his judges, and chief of\nthem Pinabel, a man of great stature and strength of limb. Moreover,\nPinabel was a ready man to pick a quarrel with any; a man cunning of\ntongue and very rich and powerful, so that people feared him greatly.\nThese thirty Ganelon bribed, with part of the price he took from King\nMarsilius for the treason, to give judgment for him. Then Pinabel and\nthe others went to and fro among the judges and persuaded them,\nsaying: \"We have no witnesses, only Ganelon himself, and what saith\nhe? He owns he hated Roland, and for that cause he challenged Roland,\nin the presence of the king and all his court, to fight when he\nreturned from his mission. The open challenger is not the betrayer in\nsecret. Moreover, had he done this thing, would Ganelon have come back\nagain to King Charles? Besides, would any man betray an army of his\nfriends to rid himself of a single enemy? Blood enough has been shed.\nSlaying Ganelon will not bring Roland back. The Franks are angry since\nthey have lost their captain, and blindly clamor for a victim. Heed\nnot their foolish cry, for Ganelon has done no treason.\" To this the\nothers all agreed, save Thierry, the son of Duke Geoffrey; and he\nwould not.\n\nThe judges came to King Charles and said, \"We find that Ganelon has\ndone nothing worthy of death. Let him live and take anew the oath of\nfealty to France and the king.\" Then the king was grieved, and said,\n\"It misgives me you have played me false. In my esteem the judgment is\nnot just. Nevertheless, it is judgment: only God can alter it.\"\n\nThen stepped forth the youth Thierry, Geoffrey's son. He was but a\nlad, very little and slender of body, and slight of limb. And he said,\n\"Let not the king be sad. I Thierry do impeach Ganelon as a felon and\na traitor who betrayed Roland and the rear-guard to the pagans, and I\nalso say that thirty of Ganelon's kinsfolk have wrought treason and\ncorrupted judgment. And this will I maintain with my sword, and prove\nupon the body of any man who will come to defend him or them.\" Thereto\nto pledge himself he drew off his right glove and gave it to the king\nfor a gage.\n\nPinabel strode forward, a giant among the throng. He looked down upon\nthe lad Thierry and despised him; he came to the king and gave his\nglove, saying, \"I will fight this battle to the death.\" The Franks\npitied Thierry and feared for him, for they had hoped Naymes or Olger\nor some mighty champion would have undertaken the cause, and not a\nstripling. But Charles the king said, \"God will show the right.\" So\nthey made ready the lists; and the king commanded Ganelon and his\nthirty kinsmen to be held in pledge against the issue.\n\nThe battle was done in a green meadow near to Aachen in presence of\nthe king and his barons and a great multitude of people. First the men\nrode together and tilted till their spears brake and the saddle-girths\ngave way; then they left their steeds and fought on foot. Thierry was\nwondrous quick and agile, and wearied Pinabel at the outset by his\nswift sword-play; but Thierry's hand was weak against his sturdy\nadversary, and his sword point pierced not mail nor shield. Pinabel\nclave his helm and hewed great pieces off his mail, but could not slay\nhim. Then said Pinabel, \"Fool, why should I kill thee? Give up the\nbattle and the cause, and I will be thy man henceforth in faith and\nfealty. It shall prove greatly for thy profit to reconcile Ganelon and\nthe king.\"\n\nThierry answered, \"I will not parley; God will surely show whether of\nus twain be right! Guard thyself.\" So they fell to again, and all men\nsaw that nothing would now part them till one was dead; and\nstraightway they gave the lad Thierry up for lost. Pinabel's sword was\nheavy, and great the strength of his arm. He smote Thierry a blow upon\nthe helm that sliced off visor and ventailles. But Thierry lifted up\nhis sword and struck the brown steel helm of Pinabel. God put His\nmight into the young man's arm, for the blade cleft steel and skull,\nand entered Pinabel's brain, so that he reeled and dropped down\ndead. Then all the people shouted, \"God hath spoken! Away with Ganelon\nand his fellows.\"\n\nThen King Charles raised up his hands to heaven and gave thanks, and\ntaking Thierry in his arms embraced him for joy, and with his own\nhands took off his armor, and he set the noblest in the land to tend\nhis wounds.\n\nKing Charles sat in judgment in his palace at Aachen.\n\nHe said, \"Take the thirty kinsmen of Ganelon, perverters of justice,\nlet not one escape, and hang them.\" Blithely the Franks obeyed his\nword.\n\nBut Ganelon he caused to be drawn and quartered; and thus did Charles\nthe king make an end of his vengeance for his guard.\n\nThis is the song which Turold used to sing.\n\n\n\n\nRINALDO AND BAYARD\n\nBy Thomas Bulfinch\n\n\nCharlemagne was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of so many of his\nbravest warriors at the disaster of Roncesvalles, and bitterly\nreproached himself for his credulity in resigning himself so\ncompletely to the counsels of the treacherous Count Ganelon. Yet he\nsoon fell into a similar snare when he suffered his unworthy son\nCharlot to acquire such an influence over him, that he constantly led\nhim into acts of cruelty and injustice that in his right mind he would\nhave scorned to commit. Rinaldo and his brothers, for some slight\noffence to the imperious young prince, were forced to fly from Paris,\nand to take shelter in their castle of Montalban; for Charles had\npublicly said, if he could take them, he would hang them all. He sent\nnumbers of his bravest knights to arrest them, but all without\nsuccess. Either Rinaldo foiled their efforts and sent them back,\nstripped of their armor and of their glory, or, after meeting and\nconferring with him, they came back and told the king they could not\nbe his instruments for such a work.\n\nAt last Charles himself raised a great army, and went in person to\ncompel the paladin to submit. He ravaged all the country round about\nMontalban, so that supplies of food should be cut off, and he\nthreatened death to any who should attempt to issue forth, hoping to\ncompel the garrison to submit for want of food.\n\nRinaldo's resources had been brought so low that it seemed useless to\ncontend any longer. His brothers had been taken prisoners in a\nskirmish, and his only hope of saving their lives was in making terms\nwith the king.\n\nSo he sent a messenger, offering to yield himself and his castle if\nthe king would spare his and his brothers' lives. While the messenger\nwas gone, Rinaldo, impatient to learn what tidings he might bring,\nrode out to meet him. When he had ridden as far as he thought prudent\nhe stopped in a wood, and, alighting, tied Bayard to a tree. Then he\nsat down, and, as he waited, he fell asleep. Bayard meanwhile got\nloose, and strayed away where the grass tempted him. Just then came\nalong some country people, who said to one another, \"Look, is not that\nthe great horse Bayard that Rinaldo rides? Let us take him, and carry\nhim to King Charles, who will pay us well for our trouble.\" They did\nso, and the king was delighted with his prize, and gave them a present\nthat made them rich to their dying day.\n\nWhen Rinaldo woke he looked round for his horse, and, finding him not,\nhe groaned, and said, \"O unlucky hour that I was born! how fortune\npersecutes me!\" So desperate was he, that he took off his armor and\nhis spurs, saying, \"What need have I of these, since Bayard is lost?\"\nWhile he stood thus lamenting, a man came from the thicket, seemingly\nbent with age. He had a long beard hanging over his breast, and\neyebrows that almost covered his eyes. He bade Rinaldo good\nday. Rinaldo thanked him, and said, \"A good day I have hardly had\nsince I was born.\" Then said the old man, \"Signor Rinaldo, you must\nnot despair, for God will make all things turn to the best.\" Rinaldo\nanswered, \"My trouble is too heavy for me to hope relief. The king has\ntaken my brothers, and means to put them to death. I thought to rescue\nthem by means of my horse Bayard, but while I slept some thief has\nstolen him.\" The old man replied, \"I will remember you and your\nbrothers in my prayers. I am a poor man, have you not something to\ngive me?\" Rinaldo said, \"I have nothing to give,\" but then he\nrecollected his spurs. He gave them to the beggar, and said, \"Here,\ntake my spurs. They are the first present my mother gave me when my\nfather, Count Aymon, dubbed me knight. They ought to bring you ten\npounds.\"\n\nThe old man took the spurs, and put them into his sack, and said,\n\"Noble sir, have you nothing else you can give me?\" Rinaldo replied,\n\"Are you making sport of me? I tell you truly if it were not for shame\nto beat one so helpless, I would teach you better manners.\" The old\nman said, \"Of a truth, sir, if you did so, you would do a great sin.\nIf all had beaten me of whom I have begged, I should have been killed\nlong ago, for I ask alms in churches and convents, and wherever I\ncan.\" \"You say true,\" replied Rinaldo, \"if you did not ask, none would\nrelieve you.\" The old man said, \"True, noble sir, therefore I pray if\nyou have anything more to spare, give it me.\" Rinaldo gave him his\nmantle, and said, \"Take it, pilgrim. I give it you for the love of\nChrist, that God would save my brothers from a shameful death, and\nhelp me to escape out of King Charles's power.\"\n\nThe pilgrim took the mantle, folded it up, and put it into his\nbag. Then a third time he said to Rinaldo, \"Sir, have you nothing left\nto give me that I may remember you in my prayers?\" \"Wretch!\"\nexclaimed Rinaldo, \"do you make me your sport?\" and he drew his sword,\nand struck at him; but the old man warded off the blow with his staff,\nand said, \"Rinaldo, would you slay your cousin, Malagigi?\" When\nRinaldo heard that he stayed his hand, and gazed doubtingly on the old\nman, who now threw aside his disguise, and appeared to be indeed\nMalagigi. \"Dear cousin,\" said Rinaldo, \"pray forgive me. I did not\nknow you. Next to God, my trust is in you. Help my brothers to escape\nout of prison, I entreat you. I have lost my horse, and therefore\ncannot render them any assistance.\" Malagigi answered, \"Cousin\nRinaldo, I will enable you to recover your horse. Meanwhile, you must\ndo as I say.\"\n\nThen Malagigi took from his sack a gown, and gave it to Rinaldo to put\non over his armor, and a hat that was full of holes, and an old pair\nof shoes to put on. They looked like two pilgrims, very old and\npoor. Then they went forth from the wood, and, after a little while,\nsaw four monks riding along the road. Malagigi said to Rinaldo, \"I\nwill go meet the monks, and see what news I can learn.\"\n\nMalagigi learned from the monks that on the approaching festival there\nwould be a great crowd of people at court, for the prince was going to\nshow the ladies the famous horse Bayard that used to belong to\nRinaldo. \"What!\" said the pilgrim; \"is Bayard there?\" \"Yes,\" answered\nthe monks; \"the king has given him to Charlot, and, after the prince\nhas ridden him, the king means to pass sentence on the brothers of\nRinaldo, and have them hanged.\" Then Malagigi asked alms of the\nmonks, but they would give him none, till he threw aside his pilgrim\ngarb, and let them see his armor, when, partly for charity and partly\nfor terror, they gave him a golden cup, adorned with precious stones\nthat sparkled in the sunshine.\n\nMalagigi then hastened back to Rinaldo, and told him what he had\nlearned.\n\nThe morning of the feast-day Rinaldo and Malagigi came to the place\nwhere the sports were to be held. Malagigi gave Rinaldo his spurs back\nagain, and said, \"Cousin, put on your spurs, for you will need them.\"\n\"How shall I need them,\" said Rinaldo, \"since I have lost my horse?\"\nYet he did as Malagigi directed him.\n\nWhen the two had taken their stand on the border of the field among\nthe crowd, the princes and ladies of the court began to assemble. When\nthey were all assembled, the king came also, and Charlot with him,\nnear whom the horse Bayard was led, in the charge of grooms, who were\nexpressly enjoined to guard him safely. The king, looking round on the\ncircle of spectators, saw Malagigi and Rinaldo, and observed the\nsplendid cup that they had, and said to Chariot, \"See, my son, what a\nbrilliant cup those two pilgrims have got. It seems to be worth a\nhundred ducats.\" \"That is true,\" said Chariot; \"let us go and ask\nwhere they got it.\" So they rode to the place where the pilgrims\nstood, and Chariot stopped Bayard close to them.\n\nThe horse snuffed at the pilgrims, knew Rinaldo, and caressed his\nmaster. The king said to Malagigi, \"Friend, where did you get that\nbeautiful cup?\" Malagigi replied, \"Honorable sir, I paid for it all\nthe money I have saved from eleven years' begging in churches and\nconvents. The Pope himself has blessed it.\" Then said the king to\nChariot, \"My son, these are right holy men; see how the dumb beast\nworships them.\"\n\nThen the king said to Malagigi, \"Give me a morsel from your cup, that\nI may be cleared of my sins.\" Malagigi answered, \"Illustrious lord, I\ndare not do it, unless you will forgive all who have at any time\noffended you. You know that Christ forgave all those who had betrayed\nand crucified him.\" The king replied, \"Friend, that is true; but\nRinaldo has so grievously offended me, that I cannot forgive him, nor\nthat other man, Malagigi, the magician. These two shall never live in\nmy kingdom again. If I catch them, I will certainly have them\nhanged. But tell me, pilgrim, who is that man who stands beside you?\"\n\"He is deaf, dumb, and blind,\" said Malagigi. Then the king said\nagain, \"Give me to drink of your cup, to take away my sins.\" Malagigi\nanswered, \"My lord king, here is my poor brother, who for fifty days\nhas not heard, spoken, nor seen. This misfortune befell him in a house\nwhere we found shelter, and the day before yesterday we met with a\nwise woman, who told him the only hope of a cure for him was to come\nto some place where Bayard was to be ridden, and to mount and ride\nhim; that would do him more good than anything else.\" Then said the\nking, \"Friend, you have come to the right place, for Bayard is to be\nridden here to-day. Give me a draught from your cup, and your\ncompanion shall ride upon Bayard.\" Malagigi, hearing these words,\nsaid, \"Be it so.\" Then the king, with great devotion, took a spoon,\nand dipped a portion from the pilgrim's cup, believing that his sins\nshould be thereby forgiven.\n\nWhen this was done, the king said to Chariot, \"Son, I request that you\nwill let this sick pilgrim sit on your horse, and ride if he can, for\nby so doing he will be healed of all his infirmities.\" Chariot\nreplied, \"That will I gladly do.\" So saying, he dismounted, and the\nservants took the pilgrim in their arms, and helped him on the horse.\n\nWhen Rinaldo was mounted, he put his feet in the stirrups, and said,\n\"I would like to ride a little.\" Malagigi, hearing him speak, seemed\ndelighted, and asked him whether he could see and hear also. \"Yes,\"\nsaid Rinaldo, \"I am healed of all my infirmities.\" When the king heard\nit, he said to Bishop Turpin, \"My lord bishop, we must celebrate this\nwith a procession, with crosses and banners, for it is a great\nmiracle.\"\n\nWhen Rinaldo remarked that he was not carefully watched, he spoke to\nthe horse, and touched him with the spurs. Bayard knew that his master\nwas upon him, and he started off upon a rapid pace, and in a few\nmoments was a good way off. Malagigi pretended to be in great\nalarm. \"O noble king and master,\" he cried, \"my poor companion is run\naway with; he will fall and break his neck.\" The king ordered his\nknights to ride after the pilgrim, and bring him back, or help him if\nneed were. They did so, but it was in vain. Rinaldo left them all\nbehind him, and kept on his way till he reached Montalban. Malagigi\nwas suffered to depart, unsuspected, and he went his way, making sad\nlamentation for the fate of his comrade, who he pretended to think\nmust surely be dashed to pieces.\n\nMalagigi did not go far, but, having changed his disguise, returned to\nwhere the king was, and employed his best art in getting the brothers\nof Rinaldo out of prison. He succeeded; and all three got safely to\nMontalban, where Rinaldo's joy at the rescue of his brothers and the\nrecovery of Bayard was more than tongue can tell.\n\n\n\n\nHOW THE CHILD OF THE SEA WAS MADE KNIGHT\n\n[Footnote: The young Amadis, son of King Perion of Gaul, was called by\nhis father the Child of the Sea because he was born on the sea.]\n\nBy Robert Southey\n\n\nKing Falangiez reigned in Great Britain, and died without children. He\nleft a brother Lisuarte, of great goodness in arms, and much\ndiscretion, who had married Brisena, daughter of the King of Denmark;\nand she was the fairest lady that was to be found in all the islands\nof the sea. After the death of the king the chief men of his land sent\nfor Lisuarte to be their king.\n\nWhen King Lisuarte heard this embassage he set sail with a great\nfleet, and on their way they put into Scotland, where he was honorably\nreceived by King Languines. Brisena, his wife, was with him, and their\ndaughter Oriana, born in Denmark and then about ten years old, the\nfairest creature that ever was seen, wherefore she was called the one\nwithout a peer. And because she suffered much at sea it was determined\nto leave her there. Right gladly did King Languines accept this\ncharge, and his queen said: \"Believe me, I will take care of her like\nher own mother.\" So Lisuarte proceeded. * * *\n\nThe Child of the Sea was now twelve years old, but in stature and size\nhe seemed fifteen, and he served the queen; but now that Oriana was\nthere the queen gave her the Child of the Sea that he should serve\nher, and Oriana said that it pleased her; and that word which she said\nthe child kept in his heart, so that he never lost it from his memory,\nand in all his life he was never weary of serving her, and his heart\nwas surrendered to her, and his love lasted as long as they lasted,\nfor as well as he loved her did she also love him. But the Child of\nthe Sea, who knew nothing of her love, thought himself presumptuous to\nhave placed his thoughts on her, and dared not speak to her; and she\nwho loved him in her heart was careful riot to speak more with him\nthan with another; but their eyes delighted to reveal to the heart\nwhat was the thing on earth that they loved best. And now the time\ncame that he thought he could take arms if he were knighted, and this\nhe greatly desired, thinking that he could do such things that, if he\nlived, his mistress would esteem him. With this desire he went to the\nking, who was at that time in the garden, and fell upon his knees\nbefore him, and said, \"Sire, if it please you, it is time for me to\nreceive knighthood.\" \"How, Child of the Sea?\" said Languines, \"are\nyou strong enough to maintain knighthood? it is easy to receive, but\ndifficult to maintain; and he who would keep it well, so many and so\ndifficult are the things he must achieve, that his heart will often be\ntroubled; and if, through fear, he forsakes what he ought to do,\nbetter is death to him than life with shame.\" \"Not for this,\" replied\nhe, \"will I fail to be a knight; my heart would not require it, if it\nwere not in my will to accomplish what you say. And since you have\nbred me up, complete what you ought to do in this; if not, I will seek\nsome other who will do it.\" The king, who feared lest he should do\nthis, replied, \"Child of the Sea, I know when this is fitting better\nthan you can know, and I promise you to do it, and your arms shall be\ngot ready; but to whom did you think to go?\" \"To King Perion, who they\nsay is a good knight, and has married the sister of your queen. I\nwould tell him how I was brought up by her, and then he would\nwillingly fulfil my desire.\" \"Now,\" said the king, \"be satisfied, it\nshall be honourably done.\" And he gave orders that the arms should be\nmade, and sent to acquaint Gandales thereof.\n\nWhen Gandales heard this, he greatly rejoiced; and sent a damsel with\nthe sword and the ring and the letter in the wax, which he had found\nin the ark. The Child of the Sea was with Oriana and the ladies of\nthe palace, discoursing, when a page entered and told him there was a\nstrange damsel without who brought presents for him, and would speak\nwith him. When she who loved him heard this her heart trembled, and if\nany one had been looking at her he might have seen how she changed;\nand she told the Child of the Sea to let the damsel come in, that they\nmight see the presents. Accordingly she entered, and said, \"Sir Child\nof the Sea, your good friend Gandales salutes you as the man who loves\nyou much, and sends you this sword and this ring and this wax, and he\nbegs you will wear this sword while you live for his sake.\" He took\nthe presents, and laid the ring and the wax in his lap, while he\nunrolled the sword from a linen cloth in which it was wrapt, wondering\nthat it should be without a scabbard. Meantime Oriana took up the wax,\nand said, \"I will have this,\" not thinking that it contained anything:\nit would have better pleased him if she had taken the ring, which was\none of the finest in the world. While he was looking at the sword, the\nking came in and asked him what he thought of it. \"It seems a goodly\none, sir,\" said he, \"but I marvel wherefore it hath no scabbard.\" \"It\nis fifteen years,\" said the king, \"since it had one\"; and, taking him\nby the hand, he led him apart, and said, \"You would be a knight, and\nyou know not whether of right you should be one. I therefore tell you\nall that I know concerning you.\" And with that he told him all that\nGandales had communicated. The Child of the Sea answered, \"I believe\nthis; for the damsel said my good friend Gandales had sent her, and I\nthought she had mistaken, and should have called him my father; but am\nnothing displeased herewith, except that I know not my parents, nor\nthey me, for my breast tells me I am well born; and now, sir, it\nbehoves me more to obtain knighthood, that I may win honour and the\npraise of prowess, since I know not my lineage, and am like one whose\nkindred are all dead.\" When the king heard him speak thus, he believed\nthat he would prove a hardy and good knight.\n\nAs they were thus conversing, a knight came to inform the king that\nKing Perion was arrived. Languines went to welcome him, as one who\nknew how to do honour to all, and, after they had saluted, he asked\nhow it was that he came so unexpectedly. \"I come to seek for\nfriends,\" replied Perion, \"of whom I have more need than ever; for\nKing Abies of Ireland wars upon me, and is now, with all his power, in\nmy country; and Daganel, his half-brother, is with him; and both\ntogether have collected such a multitude against me that I stand in\nneed of all my friends and kinsmen; for I have lost many of my people\nin battle already, and others whom I trusted have failed me.\"\n\"Brother,\" replied Languines, \"your misfortunes grieve me not a\nlittle, and I shall aid you the best I can.\" Agrayes, who was already\nknighted, now came and knelt before his father, saying, \"Sir, I beg a\nboon.\" The which being granted,--for King Languines loved him as\nhimself,--he pursued, \"I request that I may go to defend the queen, my\naunt.\" \"And I grant it,\" answered Languines; \"and you shall be as\nhonourably and well accompanied as may be.\"\n\nThis while had the Child of the Sea been looking earnestly at Perion,\nnot as his father, for of that he knew nothing, but because of his\ngreat goodness in arms, of which he had heard the fame; and he desired\nto be made a knight by his hand, rather than by any man in the world.\nTo attain this purpose, he thought best to entreat the queen; but her\nhe found so sad that he would not speak to her, and going to where\nOriana was, he knelt before her, and said, \"Lady Oriana, could I know\nby you the cause of the queen's sadness?\" Oriana's heart leaped at\nseeing him whom she most loved before her, and said to him, \"Child of\nthe Sea, this is the first thing ye ever asked of me, and I shall do\nit with a good will.\"--\"Ah, lady! I am neither so bold nor worthy as\nto ask anything from one like you, but rather to obey what it pleases\nyou to command.\" \"What!\" said she. \"Is your heart so feeble?\"--\"So\nfeeble, that in all things towards you it would fail me, except in\nserving you like one who is not his own, but yours.\" \"Mine!\" said she.\n\"Since when?\"--\"Since _it pleased you_.\" \"How _since it pleased\nme_?\"--\"Remember, lady, the day whereon your father departed, the\nqueen took me by the hand, and leading me before you, said, 'I give\nyou this child to be your servant'; and you said _it pleased you._ And\nfrom that time I have held and hold myself yours to do your service:\nyours only, that neither I nor any other, while I live, can have\ncommand over me.\" \"That word,\" said she, \"you took with a meaning that\nit did not bear; but _I am well pleased_ that it is so.\" Then was he\novercome with such pleasure that he had no power to answer; and\nOriana, who now saw the whole power that she had over him, went to the\nqueen, and learnt the cause of her sadness, and, returning to the\nChild of the Sea, told him that it was for the queen, her sister, who\nnow was so distressed. He answered, \"If it please you that I were a\nknight, with your aid, I would go and aid the queen, her sister.\"\n\"With my leave! And what without it? Would you not then go?\"--\"No,\"\nsaid he; \"for without the favour of her whose it is, my heart could\nnot sustain itself in danger.\" Then Oriana smiled, and said, \"Since I\nhave gained you, you shall be my knight, and you shall aid the sister\nof the queen.\" The Child of the Sea kissed her hand--\"The king, my\nmaster, has not yet knighted me; and I had rather it should be done by\nKing Perion at your entreaty.\" \"In that,\" said she, \"I will do what I\ncan; but we must speak to the Princess Mabilia, for her request will\navail with her uncle.\"\n\nMabilia, who loved the Child of the Sea with pure love, readily\nagreed. \"Let him go,\" said she, \"to the chapel of my mother, armed at\nall points, and we and the other damsel will accompany him; and when\nKing Perion is setting off, which will be before daybreak, I will ask\nto see him; and then will he grant our request, for he is a courteous\nknight.\" When the Child of the Sea heard this, he called Gandalin, and\nsaid to him, \"My brother, take all my arms secretly to the queen's\nchapel, for this night I think to be knighted; and, because it behoves\nme to depart right soon, I would know if you wish to bear me company.\"\n\"Believe me,\" quoth Gandalin, \"never, with my will, shall I depart\nfrom ye.\" The tears came in the eyes of the Child at this, and he\nkissed him on the face, and said, \"Do, now, what I told you.\" Gandalin\nlaid the arms in the chapel, while the queen was at supper; and, when\nthe cloths were removed, the Child of the Sea went there, and armed\nhimself, all save his head and his hands, and made his prayer before\nthe altar, beseeching God to grant him success in arms, and in the\nlove which he bore his lady.\n\nWhen the queen had retired, Oriana and Mabilia went with the other\ndamsels to accompany him, and Mabilia sent for Perion as he was\ndeparting; and, when he came, she besought him to do what Oriana, the\ndaughter of King Lisuarte, should request. \"Willingly,\" said King\nPerion, \"for her father's sake.\" Then Oriana came before him; and when\nhe saw her how fair she was, he thought there could not be her equal\nin the world. She begged a boon, and it was granted. \"Then,\" said she,\n\"make this my gentleman knight.\" And she showed him to Perion kneeling\nbefore the altar. The king saw him how fair he was, and approaching\nhim, said, \"Would you receive the order of knighthood?\"--\"I would.\"--\n\"In the name of God, then! And may He order it that it be well\nbestowed on you, and that you may grow in honour as you have in\nperson.\" Then, putting on the right spur, he said, \"Now are you a\nknight, and may receive the sword.\" The king took the sword, and gave\nit to him, and the Child girded it on. \"Then,\" said Perion, \"according\nto your manner and appearance, I would have performed this ceremony\nwith more honours; and I trust in God that your fame will prove that\nso it ought to have been done.\" Mabilia and Oriana then joyfully\nkissed the king's hands, and he, commending the Child of the Sea to\nGod, went his way.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPANISH CHRONICLE OF THE CID\n\n\nThe Cid, who was as actual individual, is the Arthur and Roland of the\nSpaniards, the great hero of mediaeval Spain. The Chronicles, based on\nheroic songs and national traditions of the struggle with the Moors,\npictures for us the life of an old and haughty nation, proud in arms.\nIt was compiled in the reign of King Alfonso the Wise, who reigned\nbetween 1252 and 1284, and was translated into English by Robert\nSouthey in 1808.\n\nIn the stories here given, Southey's rich and descriptive English has\nbeen retained, the condensation being secured by omitting long,\ntedious passages.\n\n\n\n\nWHY DON SANCHO ATTACKED HIS NEIGHBORS\n\nBy Robert Southey\n\n\nHistory relates that after the death of King Don Ferrando of Spain,\nthe three kings, his sons, Don Sancho, Don Alfonso and Don Garcia,\nreigned each in his kingdom, according to the division made by their\nfather. Don Ferrando had divided into five portions (one for each of\nthe sons and one for each of the two daughters, Donya Urraca and Donya\nElvira) that which should all by right have descended to Don Sancho as\nthe eldest son.\n\nNow, the kings of Spain were of the blood of the Goths, which was a\nfierce blood, for it had many times come to pass among the Gothic\nkings, that brother had slain brother. From this blood was King Don\nSancho descended, and he thought that it would be a reproach to him if\nhe did not join together the three kingdoms under his own dominion,\nfor he was not pleased with what his father had given him, holding\nthat the whole ought to have been his. And he went through the land\nsetting it in order, and what thing soever his people asked, that did\nhe grant them freely, to the end that he might win their hearts.\n\nWhen King Don Sancho of Navarre, nephew of Don Ferrando, saw that\nthere was a new king in Castille, he thought to recover the lands\nwhich had been lost when the king, his father, was defeated and slain\nin the mountains of Oca. And now seeing that the kingdom of Ferrando\nwas divided, he asked help of his uncle Don Ramiro, King of Aragon;\nand the men of Aragon and of Navarre entered Castille together. But\nKing Don Sancho gathered together his host, and put the Cid at their\nhead; and such account did he give of his enemies, that he of Navarre\nwas glad to lay no farther claim to what his father had lost. The King\nof Castille was wroth against the King of Aragon, that he should thus\nhave joined against him without cause; and in despite of him he\nmarched against the Moors of Zaragoza, and laying waste their country\nwith fire and sword, he came before their city, gave orders to assault\nit, and began to set up his engines. The Moors seeing that they could\nnot help themselves, made such terms with him as it pleased him to\ngrant, and gave him hostages that they might not be able to prove\nfalse. They gave him gold and silver and precious stones in abundance,\nso that with great riches and full honourably did he and all his men\ndepart from the siege.\n\nGreatly was the King of Aragon displeased at this which King Don\nSancho had done. He required he should yield unto him all the spoil\nwhich the King of Zaragoza had given him, else should he not pass\nwithout battle. King Don Sancho, being a man of great heart, made\nanswer that he was the head of the kingdoms of Castille and Leon, and\nall the conquests in Spain were his. Wherefore he counselled him to\nwaive his demand, and let him pass in peace. But the King of Aragon\ndrew up his host for battle, and the onset was made, and heavy blows\nwere dealt on both sides, and many horses were left without a\nmaster. And while the battle was yet undecided, King Don Sancho riding\nright bravely through the battle, began to call out Castille!\nCastille! and charged the main body so fiercely that by fine force he\nbroke them; and when they were thus broken, the Castillians began\ncruelly to slay them, so that King Don Sancho had pity, and called to\nhis people not to kill them, for they were Christians. Then King Don\nRamiro being discomfited, retired to a mountain, and King Don Sancho\nbeset the mountain round about, and made a covenant with him that he\nshould depart, and that the King of Zaragoza should remain tributary\nto Castille; and but for this covenant the King of Aragon would then\nhave been slain, or made prisoner.\n\nIn all these wars did my Cid demean himself after his wonted manner;\nand because of the great feats which he performed the king loved him\nwell, and made him his Alfarez, [Footnote: A standard bearer] so that\nin the whole army he was second only to the king. And because when the\nhost was in the field it was his office to choose the place for\nencampment, therefore was my Cid called the Campeador. [Footnote: One\nwho is remarkable for his exploits]\n\n\n\n\nDON GARCIA DEFIES DON SANCHO\n\nBy Robert Southey\n\n\nWhile King Don Sancho was busied in these wars, King Don Garcia of\nGalicia took by force from Donya Urraca his sister a great part of the\nlands which the king their father had given her. When King Don Sancho\nheard what his brother had done he was well pleased thereat, thinking\nthat he might now bring to pass that which he so greatly desired; and\nhe assembled together his Ricos-omes [Footnote: Noblemen, grandees.] and\nhis knights, and said unto them, The king my father divided the\nkingdoms which should have been mine, and therein he did unjustly; now\nKing Don Garcia my brother hath broken the oath and disherited Donya\nUrraca my sister; I beseech ye therefore counsel me what I shall do,\nand in what manner to proceed against him, for I will take his kingdom\naway from him. Upon this Count Don Garcia Ordonez arose and said,\nThere is not a man in the world, sir, who would counsel you to break\nthe command of your father, and the vow which you made unto him. And\nthe king was greatly incensed at him and said, Go from before me, for\nI shall never receive good counsel from thee. The king then took the\nCid by the hand and led him apart, and said unto him, Thou well\nknowest, my Cid, that when the king my father commended thee unto me,\nhe charged me upon pain of his curse that I should take you for my\nadviser, and whatever I did that I should do it with your counsel, and\nI have done so even until this day; and thou hast always counselled me\nfor the best, and for this I have given thee a county in my kingdom,\nholding it well bestowed. Now then I beseech you advise me how best to\nrecover these kingdoms, for if I have not counsel from you I do not\nexpect to have it from any man in the world.\n\nGreatly troubled at this was the Cid, and he answered and said, Ill,\nsir, would it behove me to counsel you that you should go against the\nwill of your father. You well know that when I went to him, after he\nhad divided his kingdoms, how he made me swear to him that I would\nalways counsel his sons the best I could, and never give them ill\ncounsel; and while I can, thus must I continue to do. But the king\nanswered, My Cid, I do not hold that in this I am breaking the oath\nmade to my father, for I ever said that the partition should not be,\nand the oath which I made was forced upon me. Now King Don Garcia my\nbrother hath broken the oath, and all these kingdoms by right are\nmine: and therefore I will that you counsel me how I may unite them,\nfor from so doing there is nothing in this world which shall prevent\nme, except it be death.\n\nThen when the Cid saw that he could by no means turn him from that\ncourse, he advised him to obtain the love of his brother King Don\nAlfonso, that he might grant him passage through his kingdom to go\nagainst Don Garcia: and if this should be refused he counselled him\nnot to make the attempt. And the king saw that his counsel was good,\nand sent his letters to King Don Alfonso beseeching him to meet him at\nSahagun. When King Don Alfonso received the letters he marvelled to\nwhat end this might be: howbeit he sent to say that he would meet\nhim. And the two kings met in Sahagun. And King Don Sancho said,\nBrother, you well know that King Don Garcia our brother hath broken\nthe oath made unto our father, and disherited our sister Donya Urraca:\nfor this I will take his kingdom away from him, and I beseech you join\nwith me. But Don Alfonso answered that he would not go against the\nwill of his father, and the oath which he had sworn. Then King Don\nSancho said, that if he would let him pass through his kingdom he\nwould give him part of what he should gain: and King Don Alfonso\nagreed to this. And upon this matter they fixed another day to meet;\nand then forty knights were named, twenty for Castille and twenty for\nLeon, as vouchers that this which they covenanted should be faithfully\nfulfilled on both sides.\n\nThen King Don Sancho gathered together a great host. He sent Alvar\nFanez, the cousin of the Cid, to King Don Garcia, to bid him yield up\nhis kingdom, and if he refused to do this to defy him on his part.\nWhen King Don Garcia heard this he was greatly troubled, and he said\nto Alvar Fanez, Say to my brother that I beseech him not to break the\noath which he made to our father; but if he will persist to do this\nthing I must defend myself as I can. He called his chief captains\ntogether and they advised him that he should recall Don Rodrigo\nFrojaz, for having him the realm would be secure, and without him it\nwas in danger to be lost. So two hidalgos [Footnote: A man belonging\nto the lower nobility, a gentleman by birth] were sent after him, and\nthey found him in Navarre, on the eve of passing into France. But when\nhe saw the king's letters, and knew the peril in which he then stood,\nsetting aside the remembrance of his own wrongs, like a good and true\nPortuguese, he turned back, and went to the king. In good time did he\narrive, for the captains of King Don Sancho had now gained many lands\nin Galicia and in the province of Beira, finding none to resist them.\nWhen Don Rodrigo heard this and knew that the Castillians were\napproaching he promised the king either to maintain his cause, or die\nfor it. He ordered the trumpets to be sounded, and the Portugueze\nsallied, and a little below the city the two squadrons met. The\nPortugueze fought so well, and especially Don Rodrigo, and his\nbrothers, that at length they discomfited the Castillians, killing of\nthem five hundred and forty, of whom three hundred were knights, and\nwinning their pennons and banners. Howbeit this victory was not\nobtained without great loss to themselves; for two hundred and twenty\nof their people were left upon the field, and many were sorely\nwounded, among whom, even to the great peril of his life, was Don\nRodrigo Frojaz, being wounded with many and grievous wounds.\n\n\n\n\nDON GARCIA TAKES DON SANCHO PRISONER\n\nBy Robert Southey\n\n\nA sorrowful defeat was that for King Don Sancho, and he put himself at\nthe head of his army and hastened through Portugal to besiege his\nbrother in Santarem.\n\nThe Portugueze and Galegos took counsel together what they should do.\nDon Rodrigo Frojaz said unto the king that it behoved him above all\nthings to put his kingdom upon the hazard of a battle; for his brother\nbeing a greater lord of lands than he, and richer in money and more\npowerful in vassals, could maintain the war longer than he could, who\nperadventure would find it difficult another year to gather together\nso good an army as he had now ready. For this cause he advised him to\nput his trust in God first, and then in the hidalgos who were with\nhim, and without fear give battle to the king his brother, over whom\nGod and his good cause would give him glorious victory. Now when the\ntwo hosts were ready to join battle, Alvar Fanez came to King Don\nSancho and said to him, Sir, I have played away my horse and arms; I\nbeseech you give me others for this battle, and I will be a right good\none for you this day; if I do not for you the service of six knights,\nhold me for a traitor. And the king ordered that horse and arms should\nbe given him. So the armies joined battle bravely on both sides, and\nit was a sharp onset; many were the heavy blows which were given on\nboth sides, and many were the horses that were slain at that\nencounter, and many the men. Now my Cid had not yet come up into the\nfield.\n\nNow Don Rodrigo Frojaz and his brethren and the knights who were with\nthem had resolved to make straight for the banner of the King of\nCastille. And they broke through the ranks of the Castillians, and\nmade their way into the middle of the enemy's host, doing marvellous\nfeats of arms. Then was the fight at the hottest, for they did their\nbest to win the banner, and the others to defend it; the remembrance\nof what they had formerly done, and the hope of gaining more honours,\nheartened them; and with the Castillians there was their king, giving\nthem brave example as well as brave words. The press of the battle was\nhere, and the banner of King Don Sancho was beaten down, and the king\nhimself also, and Don Rodrigo made way through the press and laid\nhands on him and took him. But in the struggle he lost much blood, and\nperceiving that his strength was failing, he sent to call the King Don\nGarcia with all speed. And as the king came, the Count Don Pedro\nFrojaz met him and said, An honourable gift, sir, hath my brother Don\nRodrigo to give you, but you lose him in gaining it. And tears fell\nfrom the eyes of the king, and he made answer and said, It may indeed\nbe that Don Rodrigo may lose his life in serving me, but the good name\nwhich he hath gained, and the honour which he leaveth to his\ndescendants, death cannot take away. Saying this, he came to the place\nwhere Don Rodrigo was, and Don Rodrigo gave into his hands the King\nDon Sancho his brother, and asked him three times if he was discharged\nof his prisoner; and when the king had answered Yes, Don Rodrigo said,\nFor me, sir, the joy which I have in your victory is enough; give the\nrewards to these good Portugueze, who with so good a will have put\ntheir lives upon the hazard to serve you, and in all things follow\ntheir counsel, and you will not err therein. Having said this he\nkissed the king's hand, and lying upon his shield, for he felt his\nbreath fail him, with his helmet for a pillow, he kissed the cross of\nhis sword in remembrance of that on which the Son of God had died for\nhim, and rendered up his soul into the hands of his Creator. This was\nthe death of one of the worthy knights of the world, Don Rodrigo\nFrojaz. In all the conquests which King Don Ferrando had made from the\nMoors of Portugal, great part had he borne, insomuch that that king\nwas wont to say that other princes might have more dominions than he,\nbut two such knights as his two Rodrigos, meaning my Cid and this good\nknight, there was none but himself who had for vassals.\n\nKing Don Garcia being desirous to be in the pursuit himself, delivered\nhis brother into the hands of six knights that they should guard him,\nwhich he ought not to have done. And when he was gone King Don Sancho\nsaid unto the knights, Let me go and I will depart out of your country\nand never enter it again; and I will reward ye well as long as ye\nlive; but they answered him, that for no reward would they commit such\ndisloyalty, but would guard him well, not offering him any injury,\ntill they had delivered him to his brother the King Don Garcia. While\nthey were parleying Alvar Fanez came up, he to whom the king had given\nhorse and arms before the battle; and he seeing the king held\nprisoner, cried out with a loud voice, Let loose my lord the king: and\nhe spurred his horse and made at them; and before his lance was broken\nhe overthrew two of them, and so bestirred himself that he put the\nothers to flight; and he took the horses of the two whom he had smote\ndown, and gave one to the king, and mounted upon the other himself,\nfor his own was hurt in the rescue; and they went together to a little\nrising ground where there was yet a small body of the knights of their\nparty, and Alvar Fanez cried out to them aloud, Ye see here the king\nour lord, who is free; now then remember the good name of the\nCastillians, and let us not lose it this day. And about four hundred\nknights gathered about him. And while they stood there they saw the\nCid Ruydiez coming up with three hundred knights, for he had not been\nin the battle, and they knew his green pennon. And when King Don\nSancho beheld it his heart rejoiced, and he said, Now let us descend\ninto the plain, for he of good fortune cometh: and he said, Be of good\nheart, for it is the will of God that I should recover my kingdom, for\nI have escaped from captivity, and seen the death of Don Rodrigo\nFrojaz who took me, and Ruydiez the fortunate one cometh. And the king\nwent down to him and welcomed him right joyfully, saying, In happy\ntime are you come, my fortunate Cid; never vassal succoured his lord\nin such season as you now succour me, for the king my brother had\novercome me. And the Cid answered, Sir, be sure that you shall recover\nthe day, or I will die; for wheresoever you go, either you shall be\nvictorious or I will meet my death.\n\nBy this time King Don Garcia returned from the pursuit, singing as he\ncame full joyfully, for he thought that the king his brother was a\nprisoner, and his great power overthrown. But there came one and told\nhim that Don Sancho was rescued and in the field again, ready to give\nhim battle a second time. Bravely was that second battle fought on\nboth sides; and if it had not been for the great prowess of the Cid,\nthe end would not have been as it was: in the end the Galegos and\nPortugueze were discomfited, and the King Don Garcia taken in his\nturn. And the King Don Sancho put his brother in better ward than his\nbrother three hours before had put him, for he put him in chains and\nsent him to the strong castle of Luna.\n\nWhen King Don Sancho had done this he took unto himself the kingdom of\nGalicia and of Portugal, and without delay sent to his brother King\nDon Alfonso, commanding him to yield up to him the kingdom of Leon,\nfor it was his by right. At this was the King of Leon troubled at\nheart; howbeit he answered that he would not yield up his kingdom, but\ndo his utmost to defend it. Then King Don Sancho entered Leon, slaying\nand laying waste before him, as an army of infidels would have done;\nand King Don Alfonso sent to him to bid him cease from this, for it\nwas inhuman work to kill and plunder the innocent: and he defied him\nto a pitched battle, saying that to whichsoever God should give the\nvictory, to him also would he give the kingdom of Leon: and the King\nof Castille accepted the defiance, and a day was fixed for the battle.\nBoth kings were in the field that day, and full hardily was the battle\ncontested, and great was the mortality on either side, for the hatred\nwhich used to be between Moors and Christians was then between\nbrethren.\n\nNevertheless the power of King Don Alfonso was not yet destroyed, and\nhe would not yield up his kingdom: and he sent to his brother a second\ntime to bid him battle, saying that whosoever conquered should then\ncertainly remain King of Leon. The two armies met and joined battle,\nand they of Leon had the victory, for my Cid was not in the field. And\nKing Don Alfonso had pity upon the Castillians because they were\nChristians, and gave orders not to slay them; and his brother King Don\nSancho fled. Now as he was flying, my Cid came up with his green\npennon; and when he saw that the king his lord had been conquered it\ngrieved him sorely: howbeit he encouraged him saying, This is nothing,\nsir! to fail or to prosper is as God pleases. But do you gather\ntogether your people who are discomfited, and bid them take heart. The\nLeonese and Galegos are with the king your brother, secure as they\nthink themselves in their lodging, and taking no thought of you; for\nit is their custom to extol themselves when their fortune is fair, and\nto mock at others, and in this boastfulness will they spend the night,\nso that we shall find them sleeping at break of day, and will fall\nupon them. And it came to pass as he had said. The Leonese lodged\nthemselves in Vulpegera, taking no thought of their enemies, and\nsetting no watch; and Ruydiez arose betimes in the morning and fell\nupon them, and subdued them before they could take their arms. King\nDon Alfonso fled to the town of Carrion, which was three leagues\ndistant, and would have fortified himself there in the Church of St.\nMary, but he was surrounded and constrained to yield.\n\nNow the knights of Leon gathered together in their flight, and when\nthey could not find their king they were greatly ashamed, and they\nturned back and smote the Castillians; and as it befell, they\nencountered King Don Sancho alone and took him prisoner, for his\npeople considered the victory as their own, and all was in confusion.\nAnd thirteen knights took him in their ward and were leading him\naway,--but my Cid beheld them and galloped after them: he was alone,\nand had no lance, having broken his in the battle. And he came up to\nthem and said, Knights, give me my lord and I will give unto you\nyours. They knew him by his arms, and they made answer, Ruydiez,\nreturn in peace and seek not to contend with us, otherwise we will\ncarry you away prisoner with him. And he waxed wroth and said, Give me\nbut a lance and I will, single as I am, rescue my lord from all of ye:\nby God's help I will do it. And they held him as nothing because he\nwas but one, and gave him a lance. But he attacked them therewith so\nbravely that he slew eleven of the thirteen, leaving two only alive,\non whom he had mercy; and thus did he rescue the king. And the\nCastillians rejoiced greatly at the king's deliverance: and King Don\nSancho went to Burgos, and took with him his brother prisoner.\n\nGreat was the love which the Infanta Donya Urraca bore to her brother\nKing Don Alfonso, and when she heard that he was made prisoner, she\nfeared lest he should be put to death: and she took with her the Count\nDon Peransures, and went to Burgos. And they spake with the Cid, and\nbesought him that he would join with them and intercede with the king\nthat he should release his brother from prison, and let him become a\nmonk. Full willing was the Cid to serve in any thing the Infanta Donya\nUrraca, and he went with her before the king. And she knelt down\nbefore the king her brother, and besought him that he would let their\nbrother Don Alfonso take the habit of St. Benedict, in the royal\nMonastery of Sahagun. And the king took my Cid aside, and asked\ncounsel of him what he should do; and the Cid said, that if Don\nAlfonso were willing to become a monk, he would do well to set him\nfree upon that condition, and he besought him so to do. Then King Don\nSancho, at my Cid's request, granted to Donya Urraca what she had\nasked. And Don Alfonso became a monk in the Monastery at Sahagun, more\nby force than of free will. And being in the monastery he spake with\nDon Peransures, and took counsel with him, and fled away by night from\nthe monks, and went among the Moors to King Alimaymon of Toledo. And\nthe Moorish king welcomed him with a good will, and did great honour\nto him, and gave him great possessions and many gifts.\n\nBut when King Don Sancho heard how his brother had fled from the\nmonastery, he drew out his host and went against the city of Leon. The\nLeonese would fain have maintained the city against him, but they\ncould not, and he took the city of Leon, and all the towns and castles\nwhich had been under the dominion of his brother King Don Alfonso. And\nthen he put the crown upon his head, and called himself king of the\nthree kingdoms. He was a fair knight and of marvellous courage, so\nthat both Moors and Christians were dismayed at what they saw him do,\nfor they saw that nothing which he willed to take by force could stand\nagainst him. And he went forth with his army, and took from the\nInfanta Donya Elvira the half of the Infantazgo [Footnote: Inherited\nland] which she possessed, and also from Donya Urraca the other half.\nAnd he went against Toro, the city of Donya Elvira, and took it, and\nthen he went to Zamora to Donya Urraca, bidding her yield him up the\ncity, and saying that he would give her lands as much as she required\nin the plain country. But she returned for answer, that she would in\nno manner yield unto him that which the king her father had given her;\nand she besought him that he would suffer her to continue to dwell\npeaceably therein, saying that no disservice should ever be done\nagainst him on her part.\n\nThen King Don Sancho went to Burgos, because it was the season for\nbesieging a town, being winter. And he sent his letters through all\nthe land, calling upon his vassals to assemble together upon the first\nday of March in Sahagun, upon pain of forfeiting his favour. And they\nassembled together in Sahagun on the day appointed; and when the king\nheard in what readiness they were, it gladdened him, and he lifted up\nhis hands to God and said, Blessed be thy name, O Lord, because thou\nhast given me all the kingdoms of my father. And when he had said this\nhe ordered proclamation to be made through the streets of Burgos, that\nall should go forth to protect the host and the body of the king their\nlord. They made such speed that in five days they arrived before\nZamora, and pitched their tents upon the banks of the Douro. And he\nmounted on horseback with his bidalgos and rode round the town, and\nbeheld how strongly it was situated upon a rock, with strong walls,\nand many and strong towers, and the river Douro running at the foot\nthereof; and he said unto his knights, Ye see how strong it is,\nneither Moor nor Christian can prevail against it; if I could have it\nfrom my sister either for money or exchange, I should be Lord of\nSpain.\n\nThen the king returned to his tents, and sent for the Cid, and said\nunto him, Cid, you well know how manifoldly you are bound unto me. I\nhave ever shown favour unto you, and you have ever served me as the\nloyalest vassal that ever did service to his lord. Now therefore I\nbeseech you as my friend and true vassal, that you go to Zamora to my\nsister Donya Urraca, and say unto her again, that I beseech her to\ngive me the town either for a price, or in exchange, and I will give\nto her Medina de Rioseco, with the whole Infantazgo, from Villalpando\nto Valladolid, and Tiedra also, which is a good Castle; and I will\nswear unto her, with twelve knights of my vassals, never to break this\ncovenant between us; but if she refuseth to do this I will take away\nthe town from her by force. And my Cid kissed the hand of the king and\nsaid unto him, This bidding, sir, should be for other messenger, for\nit is a heavy thing for me to deliver it; for I was brought up in\nZamora by your father's command, with Donya Urraca and with his sons,\nand it is not fitting that I should be the bearer of such bidding. And\nthe king persisted in requiring of him that he should go, insomuch\nthat he was constrained to obey his will. And he took with him fifteen\nof his knights and rode towards Zamora, and when he drew nigh he\ncalled unto those who kept guard in the towers not to shoot their\narrows at him, for he was Ruydiez of Bivar, who came to Donya Urraca\nwith the bidding of her brother King Don Sancho. With that there came\ndown a knight who had the keeping of the gate, and he bade the Cid\nenter. It pleased the Infanta well that he should be the messenger,\nand she bade him come before her that she might know what was his\nbidding. When the Cid entered the palace Donya Urraca advanced to meet\nhim, and greeted him full well, and they seated themselves both upon\nthe Estrado. And Donya Urraca said unto him, Cid, you well know that\nyou were brought up with me here in Zamora, and when my father was at\nthe point of death he charged you that you should always counsel his\nsons the best you could. Now tell me I beseech you what is it which my\nbrother goes about to do, now that he has called up all Spain in arms,\nand to what lands he thinks to go, whether against Moors or\nChristians. Then the Cid answered and said, Lady, give me safe\nassurance and I will tell unto you that which the king your brother\nhath sent me to say. And she said she would do as Don Arias Gonzalo\nshould advise her. And Don Arias answered that it was well to hear\nwhat the king her brother had sent to say. Donya Urraca then said to\nthe Cid, that he might speak his bidding safely. Then said my Cid, The\nking your brother sends to greet you, and beseeches you to give him\nthis town of Zamora, either for a price or in exchange; and he will\ngive to you Medina de Rio-seco, with the whole Infantazgo, from\nVillalpando to Valladolid, and the good castle of Tiedra, and he will\nswear unto you, with twelve knights his vassals, never to do you hurt\nor harm; but if you will not give him the town, he will take it\nagainst your will.\n\nWhen Donya Urraca heard this she lamented aloud, saying, Wretch that I\nam, many are the evil messages which I have heard since my father's\ndeath! He hath disherited my brother King Don Garcia of his kingdom,\nand taken him, and now holds him in irons as if he were a thief or a\nMoor: and he hath taken his lands from my brother King Don Alfonso,\nand forced him to go among the Moors, and live there exiled as if he\nhad been a traitor; and he hath taken her lands from my sister Donya\nElvira against her will, and now would he take Zamora from me also!\nNow then let the earth open and swallow me, that I may not see so many\ntroubles! I am a woman, and well know that I cannot strive with him in\nbattle; but I will have him slain either secretly or openly. Then Don\nArias Gonzalo stood up and said, Lady, give order that all the men of\nZamora assemble in St. Salvador's and know of them whether they will\nhold with you, seeing that your father gave them to you to be your\nvassals. If they will hold with you, then give not up the town,\nneither for a price, nor in exchange; but if they will not, let us\nthen go to Toledo among the Moors, where your brother King Don Alfonso\nabideth.\n\nAnd she did as her foster-father had advised, and it was proclaimed\nthrough the streets that the men of Zamora should meet in council at\nSt. Salvador's. When they were all assembled, Donya Urraca arose and\nsaid, Don Sancho bids me give him Zamora, either for a price or in\nexchange. Now concerning this I would know whereunto ye advise\nme. Then by command of the Council there rose up a knight who was\ncalled Don Nuno, a man of worth, aged, and of fair speech; and he\nsaid, We beseech you give not up Zamora, neither for price nor for\nexchange, for he who besieges you upon the rock would soon drive you\nfrom the plain. The Council of Zamora will do your bidding, and will\nnot desert you. Sooner, lady, will we expend all our possessions, and\neat our mules and horses, than give up Zamora, unless by your command.\nAnd they all with one accord confirmed what Don Nuno had said. When\nthe Infanta Donya Urraca heard this she was well pleased, and praised\nthem greatly; and she turned to the Cid and said unto him, I beseech\nyou help me now against my brother, and intreat him that he will not\nseek to disherit me; but if he will go on with what he hath begun, say\nto him that I will rather die with the men of Zamora and they with me,\nthan give him up the town, either for price or exchange. And with this\nanswer did the Cid return unto the king.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SIEGE OF ZAMORA\n\nBy Robert Southey\n\n\nWhen King Don Sancho heard what the Cid said, his anger kindled\nagainst him, and he said, You have given this counsel to my sister\nbecause you were bred with her. And my Cid answered and said,\nFaithfully have I discharged your bidding, and as a true vassal.\nHowbeit, O king, I will not bear arms against the Infanta your sister,\nnor against Zamora, because of the days which are passed;--and I\nbeseech you do not persist in doing this wrong. But then King Don\nSancho was more greatly incensed, and he said unto him, If it were not\nthat my father left you commended to me, I would order you this\ninstant to be hanged. But for this which you have said I command you\nto quit my kingdom within nine days. The Cid went to his tent in\nanger, and called for his kinsmen and his friends, and bade them make\nready on the instant to depart with him. He set forth with all the\nknights and esquires of his table, and with all their retainers horse\nand foot, twelve hundred persons, all men of approved worth, a goodly\ncompany;--and they took the road to Toledo, meaning to join King Don\nAlfonso among the Moors. That night they slept at Castro Nuno. But\nwhen the counts and Ricos-omes, and the other good men of the host saw\nthis, they understood the great evil, which might arise to the king\nfrom the departure of the Cid. They went to the king and said unto\nhim, Sir, wherefore would you lose so good a vassal, who has done you\nsuch great service? If he should go unto your brother Don Alfonso\namong the Moors, he would not let you besiege this city thus in peace.\nAnd the king perceived that they spake rightly, and he called for Don\nDiego Ordonez and bade him follow the Cid, and beseech him in his name\nto return; and whatever covenant he should make it should be confirmed\nunto him; and of this he ordered his letters of credence to be made\nout. And Don Diego Ordonez rode after the Cid, and delivered the\nking's bidding, and said that the king besought him not to bear in\nmind the words which he had spoken unto him in anger. Then the Cid\ncalled together his kinsmen and friends, and they counselled him that\nhe should return to the king, for it was better to remain in his land\nand serve God, than to go among the Moors. He held their counsel good,\nand called for Don Diego, and said that he would do the will of the\nking. And when the Cid drew nigh unto the host, the king went out with\nfive hundred knights to meet him, and received him gladly, and did him\ngreat honour. And the Cid kissed his hand and asked him if he\nconfirmed what Don Diego had said; and the king confirmed it before\nall the knights who were there present, promising to give him great\npossessions. And when they came to the army great was the joy because\nof the Cid's return, and great were the rejoicings which were made:\nbut as great was the sorrow in Zamora, for they who were in the town\nheld that the siege was broken up by his departure. Nevertheless my\nCid would not bear arms against the Infanta, nor against the town of\nZamora, because of the days which were past.\n\nThe king ordered proclamation to be made throughout the host that the\npeople should make ready to attack the town. They fought against it\nthree days and three nights so bravely that all the ditches were\nfilled up, and the barbicans thrown down, and they who were within\nfought sword in hand with those without, and the waters of the Douro,\nas they past below the town, were all discoloured with blood. And when\nCount Don Garcia de Cabra saw the great loss which they were\nsuffering, it grieved him; and he went unto the king and told him that\nmany men were slain, and advised him to call off the host that they\nshould no longer fight against the town, but hold it besieged, for by\nfamine it might soon be taken. Then the king ordered them to draw\nback, and he sent to each camp to know how many men had died in the\nattack, and the number was found to be a thousand and thirty. And when\nthe king knew this he was greatly troubled for the great loss which he\nhad received, and he ordered the town to be beleaguered round about,\nthat none could enter into it, neither go out therefrom; and there was\na great famine within the town. And when Don Arias Gonzalo saw the\nmisery, and the hunger, and the mortality which were there, he said to\nthe Infanta Donya Urraca, You see, lady, the great wretchedness which\nthe people of Zamora have suffered, and do every day suffer to\nmaintain their loyalty; now then call together the Council, and thank\nthem truly for what they have done for you, and bid them give up the\ntown within nine days to the king your brother. And we, lady, will go\nto Toledo to your brother King Don Alfonso, for we cannot defend\nZamora; King Don Sancho is of so great heart and so resolute, that he\nwill never break up the siege, and I do not hold it good that you\nshould abide here longer. And Donya Urraca gave orders that the good\nmen of Zamora should meet together in council; and she said unto them,\nFriends, ye well see the resoluteness of King Don Sancho my brother.\nYe have done enough, and I do not hold it good that ye should perish,\nI command ye therefore give up the town to him within nine days, and I\nwill go to Toledo to my brother King Don Alfonso. The men of Zamora\nwhen they heard this had great sorrow, because they had endured the\nsiege so long, and must now give up the town at last; and they\ndetermined all to go with the Infanta, and not remain in the town.\n\nWhen Vellido Dolfos heard this, he went to Donya Urraca and said,\nLady, I came here to Zamora to do you service with thirty knights, all\nwell accoutred, as you know; and I have served you long time, and\nnever have I had from you guerdon for my service, though I have\ndemanded it: but now if you will grant my demand I will relieve\nZamora, and make King Don Sancho break up the siege. Then said Donya\nUrraca, Vellido, I do not bid thee commit any evil thing, if such thou\nhast in thy thought; but I say unto you, that there is not a man in\nthe world to whom if he should relieve Zamora, and make the king my\nbrother raise the siege, I would not grant whatsoever he might\nrequire. And when Vellido heard this he kissed her hand, and went to a\nporter who kept one of the gates of the town, saying, that he should\nopen the gate unto him when he saw him flying toward it, and he gave\nhim his cloak. Then he armed himself, and mounted his horse, and rode\nto the house of Don Arias Gonzalo, and cried with a loud voice, We all\nknow the reason, Don Arias Gonzalo, why you will not let Donya Urraca\nexchange Zamora with her brother; it is because you deal with her like\nan old traitor. When Arias Gonzalo heard this, it grieved him to the\nheart. Then his sons arose and armed themselves hastily, and went\nafter Vellido, who fled before them toward the gate of the town. The\nporter when he saw him coming opened the gate, and he rode out and\ngalloped into the camp of the King Don Sancho, and the others followed\nhim till they were nigh the camp, but farther they did not venture.\nAnd Vellido went to the king and kissed his hand, and said unto him\nthese false words with a lying tongue: Sir, because I said to the\nCouncil of Zamora that they should yield the town unto you, the sons\nof Arias Gonzalo would have slain me, even as you have seen. And\ntherefore come I to you, sir, and will be your vassal, if I may find\nfavour at your hands. And I will show you how in a few days you may\nhave Zamora, if God pleases; and if I do not as I have said, then let\nme be slain. And the king believed all that he said, and received him\nfor his vassal, and did him great honour. And all that night they\ntalked together of his secrets, and he made the king believe that he\nknew a postern by means of which he would put Zamora into his hands.\n\nOn the morrow in the morning, one of the knights who were in the town\nwent upon the wall, and cried out with a loud voice, King Don Sancho,\ngive ear to what I say; I am a knight, and they from whom I spring\nwere true men and delighted in their loyalty, and I also will live and\ndie in my truth. I say unto you, that from this town of Zamora there\nis gone forth a traitor to kill you; his name is Vellido Dolfos. Look\nto yourself therefore and take heed of him. I say this to you, that if\nevil should befall you by this traitor, it may not be said in Spain\nthat you were not warned against him. And the men of Zamora sent also\nto the king to bid him beware of Vellido; nevertheless he gave no heed\nto the warning. And Vellido, when he heard this went to the king, and\nsaid, Sir, the old Arias Gonzalo is full crafty, and hath sent to say\nthis unto you, because he knows that by my means you would have won\nthe town. And he called for his horse, feigning that he would depart\nbecause of what had been said. But the king took him by the hand and\nsaid, Friend and vassal, take no thought for this; I say unto you,\nthat if I may have Zamora, I will make you chief therein, even as\nArias Gonzalo is now. Then Vellido kissed his hand and said, God\ngrant you life, sir, for many and happy years, and let you fulfil what\nyou desire. But the traitor had other thoughts in his heart.\n\nAfter this Vellido took the king apart and said to him, If it please\nyou, sir, let us ride out together alone; we will go round Zamora, and\nsee the trenches which you have ordered to be made; and I will show\nunto you the postern which is called the queen's, by which we may\nenter the town, for it is never closed. When it is night you shall\ngive me a hundred knights who are hidalgos, well armed, and we will go\non foot, and the Zamorans because they are weak with famine and\nmisery, will let us conquer them, and we will enter and open the gate,\nand keep it open till all your host shall have entered in. The king\nbelieved what he said, and they took horse and went riding round the\ntown, and the king looked at the trenches, and that traitor showed him\nthe postern. And after they had ridden round the town the king had\nneed to alight; now he carried in his hand a light hunting spear which\nwas gilded over, such as the kings from whom he was descended were\nwont to bear; and he gave this to Vellido to hold it while he went\naside, to cover his feet. And Vellido Dolfos, when he saw him in that\nguise, took the hunting spear and thrust it between his shoulders, so\nthat it went through him and came out at his breast. And when he had\nstricken him he turned the reins and rode as fast as he could toward\nthe postern. Now it chanced that the Cid saw him riding thus, and\nasked him wherefore he fled, and he would not answer; and then the Cid\nunderstood that he had done some treason, and his heart misgave him\nand he called in haste for his horse, but while they were bringing it,\nVellido had ridden far away; and the Cid being eager to follow him,\ntook only his lance and did not wait to have his spurs buckled on. And\nhe followed him to the postern and had well nigh overtaken him, but\nVellido got in; and then the Cid said in his anger, Cursed be the\nknight who ever gets on horseback without his spurs. Now in all the\nfeats of the Cid never was fault found in him save only in this,\nthat he did not enter after Vellido into the town; but he did not\nfail to do this for cowardice, neither for fear of death, or of\nimprisonment; but because he thought that this was a device between\nhim and the king, and that he fled by the king's command; for certes,\nif he had known that the king was slain, there was nothing which would\nhave prevented him from entering the town, and slaying the traitor in\nthe streets, thereright.\n\nNow the history saith, that when Vellido Dolfos had got within the\npostern, he was in such fear both of those who were in the town and of\nthose who were without, that he went and placed himself under the\nmantle of the Infanta Donya Urraca. And when Don Arias Gonzalo knew\nthis, he went unto the Infanta and said, Lady, I beseech you that you\ngive up this traitor to the Castillians, otherwise the Castillians\nwill impeach all who are in Zamora, and that will be greater dishonour\nfor you and for us. And Donya Urraca made answer, Counsel me then so\nthat he may not die for this which he hath done. Don Arias Gonzalo\nthen answered, Give him unto me, and I will keep him in custody for\nthree days, and if the Castillians impeach us we will deliver him into\ntheir hands; and if they do not impeach us within that time, we will\nthrust him out of the town so that he shall not be seen among us. And\nDon Arias Gonzalo took him from thence, and secured him with double\nfetters, and guarded him well.\n\nMeantime the Castillians went to seek their king, and they found him\nby the side of the Douro, where he lay sorely wounded, even unto\ndeath; but he had not yet lost his speech, and the hunting spear was\nin his body, through and through, and they did not dare to take it out\nlest he should die immediately. And a master of Burgos came up who was\nwell skilled in these things, and he sawed off the ends of the spear,\nthat he might not lose his speech, and said that he should be\nconfessed, for he had death within him. Then Count Don Garcia de Cabra\nsaid unto him, Sir, think of your soul, for you have a desperate\nwound. And the king made answer, The traitor Vellido has killed me,\nand I well know that this was for my sins, because I broke the oath\nwhich I made unto the king my father. As the king was saying this the\nCid came up and knelt before him and said, I, sir, remain more\ndesolate than any other of your vassals, for for your sake have I made\nyour brethren mine enemies, and all in the world who were against you,\nand against whom it pleased you to go. The king your father commended\nme to them as well as to you, when he divided his kingdoms, and I have\nlost their love for your sake, having done them great evil. And now\nneither can I go before King Don Alfonso, your brother, nor remain\namong the Christians before Donya Urraca your sister, because they\nhold that whatsoever you have done against them was by my counsel. Now\nthen, sir, remember me before you depart. And the king said, I beseech\nall ye who are here present, that if my brother King Don Alfonso\nshould come from the land of the Moors, ye beseech him to show favour\nunto you, my Cid, and that he always be bountiful unto you, and\nreceive you to be his vassal. Then the Cid arose and kissed his hand,\nand all the chief persons who were there present did the like. And the\nking said unto them, I beseech ye intreat my brother King Don Alfonso\nto forgive me whatever wrong I have done him, and to pray to God to\nhave mercy upon my soul. And when he had said this he asked for the\ncandle, and presently his soul departed. And all who were there\npresent made great lamentation for the king.\n\nNow when the king was dead, the townsmen who were in the camp forsook\ntheir tents and fled, but the noble Castillians would not depart from\nZamora, nor break up the siege thereof, but remained bravely before\nit, though they had lost their lord. And they took counsel together\nhow they should proceed against the men of Zamora for this great\ntreason which had been committed. Then Count Don Garcia de Cabra arose\nand said, Friends, if there be one here who will impeach them for this\nthing, we will do whatever may be needful that he may come off with\nhonour, and the impeachment be carried through. Then Don Diego Ordonez\narose, and he said unto them, If ye will all assent to this which ye\nhave heard, I will impeach the men of Zamora for the death of the king\nour lord: and they all assented. Now my Cid did not make this\nimpeachment against the people of Zamora, because of the oath which he\nhad sworn.\n\nThen Don Diego Ordonez went to his lodging and armed himself well and\nrode toward Zamora. And when he drew nigh unto the town he began to\ncry aloud, asking if Don Arias Gonzalo were there, for he would speak\nwith him. And Don Arias Gonzalo went with his sons upon the wall to\nsee who called for him, and he spake to the knight, saying, Friend,\nwhat wouldest thou? And Don Diego Ordonez answered, The Castillians\nhave lost their lord; the traitor Vellido slew him, being his vassal,\nand ye of Zamora have received Vellido and harboured him within your\nwalls. Now therefore I say that he is a traitor who hath a traitor\nwith him, if he knoweth and consenteth unto the treason. And for this\nI impeach the people of Zamora, the great as well as the little, the\nliving and the dead. If there be any one in Zamora to gainsay what I\nhave said, I will do battle with him, and with God's pleasure conquer\nhim, so that the infamy shall remain upon you. Don Arias Gonzalo\nreplied, If I were what thou sayest I am, it had been better for me\nnever to have been born; but in what thou sayest thou liest, and I\nwill do battle with thee upon this quarrel, or give thee one in my\nstead. But know that you have been ill advised in making this\nimpeachment, for the manner is, that whosoever impeacheth a council\nmust do battle with five, one after another, and if he conquer the\nfive he shall be held a true man, but if either of the five conquer\nhim, the council is held acquitted and he a liar. When Don Diego heard\nthis it troubled him; howbeit he dissembled this right well, and said\nunto Don Arias Gonzalo, I will bring twelve Castillians, and do you\nbring twelve men of Zamora, and they shall swear upon the Holy Gospel\nto judge justly between us, and if they find that I am bound to do\nbattle with five, I will perform it. And Don Arias made answer that he\nsaid well, and it should be so. And truce was made for three times\nnine days, till this should have been determined and the combat\nfought.\n\nThen when the truce was made they chose out twelve alcades on the one\npart, and twelve on the other, who should decide in what manner he was\nbound to perform combat who impeached a council. Two of them who were\nheld the most learned in these things arose, the one being a\nCastillian and the other of Zamora, and said that they had found the\nlaw as it was written to be this: That whosoever impeacheth the\ncouncil of a town which was a bishop's seat, must do battle with five\nin the field, one after another; and that after every combat there\nshould be given unto him fresh arms and horse, and three sops of\nbread, and a draught either of wine or of water, as he chose. And in\nthis sentence which the twain pronounced, the other twenty and two\naccorded.\n\nOn the morrow the four and twenty alcades marked out the lists upon\nthe sand beside the river, and in the middle of the lists they placed\na bar, and ordained that he who won the battle should lay hand on the\nbar, and say that he had conquered: and then they appointed a term of\nnine days for the combatants to come to those lists which had been\nassigned. And when all was appointed the Infanta Donya Urraca ordered\na meeting to be called, at which all the men of the town assembled.\nAnd when they were gathered together, Don Arias Gonzalo said unto\nthem, Friends, I beseech ye, if there be any here among ye who took\ncounsel for the death of King Don Sancho, or were privy thereunto,\nthat ye now tell me, and deny it not; for rather would I go with my\nsons to the land of the Moors, than be overcome in the field, and held\nfor a traitor. Then they all replied, that there was none there who\nknew of the treason, nor had consented unto it. At this was Don Arias\nGonzalo well pleased, and he went to his house with his sons, and\nchose out four of them to do combat, and said that he would be the\nfifth himself.\n\n\n\n\nHOW DON DIEGO FOUGHT THE THREE BROTHERS\n\nBy Robert Southey\n\n\nWhen the day appointed was come, Don Arias Gonzalo early in the\nmorning armed his sons, and they armed him. As they rode through the\ngates of their house, Donya Urraca with a company of dames met them,\nand said to Don Arias, weeping, Remember now how my father, King Don\nFerrando, left me to your care, and you swore between his hands that\nyou would never forsake me; and lo! now you are forsaking me. I\nbeseech you remain with me. And she took hold on him, and would not\nlet him go, and made him be disarmed. Then came many knights around\nhim, to demand arms of him, and request that they might do battle in\nhis stead; nevertheless he would give them to none. And he called for\nhis son Pedro Arias, who was a right brave knight, though but of green\nyears, and Don Arias armed him completely with his own hands, and\ninstructed him how to demean himself, and gave him his blessing with\nhis right hand. Then went they into the field, where Don Diego Ordonez\nwas awaiting them, and Pedro Arias entered the lists, and the judges\nplaced them each in his place, and divided the sun between them, and\nwent out, leaving them in the lists.\n\nThen they turned their horses one against the other, and ran at each\nother full bravely, like good knights. Five times they encountered,\nand at the sixth encounter their spears brake, and they laid hand upon\ntheir swords, and dealt each other such heavy blows that the helmets\nfailed; and in this manner the combat between them continued till\nnoon. And when Don Diego Ordonez saw that it lasted so long, and he\ncould not yet conquer him, he called to mind that he was there\nfighting to revenge his lord, who had been slain by a foul treason,\nand he collected together all his strength. And he lifted up his sword\nand smote Pedro Arias upon the helmet, so that he cut through it, and\nthrough the hood of the mail also, and made a wound in the head. And\nPedro Arias with the agony of death bowed down to the neck of the\nhorse; yet with all this he neither lost his stirrups, nor let go his\nsword. And Don Diego Ordonez seeing him thus, thought that he was\ndead, and would not strike him again; and he called aloud, saying, Don\nArias, send me another son, for this one will never fulfil your\nbidding. When Pedro Arias heard this, grievously wounded as he was, he\nwent fiercely against him: and he took the sword in both hands, and\nthought to give it him upon his head; but the blow missed, and fell\nupon the horse, and the horse immediately ran away because of the\ngreat wound which he had received. And Don Diego had no reins\nwherewith to stop him, and perceiving that he should else be carried\nout of the lists, he threw himself off. And while he did this, Pedro\nArias fell down dead, just without the mark. And Don Diego Ordonez\nlaid hand on the bar, and said, Praised be the name of God, one is\nconquered. And incontinently the judges came and took him by the hand,\nand led him to a tent and disarmed him, and gave him three sops, and\nhe drank of the wine and rested awhile. And afterwards they gave him\nother arms, and a horse that was a right good one, and went with him\nto the lists.\n\nThen Don Arias Gonzalo called for another son, whose name was Diego\nArias, gave him his blessing and went with him to the lists. And the\njudges took the reins of the two champions and led them each to his\nplace, and went out and left them in the lists. And they ran against\neach other with such force that both shields failed, and in another\ncareer they brake their lances. Then laid they hand on their good\nswords, and delivered such blows that their helmets were cut away, and\nthe sleeves of the mail. And at length Diego Arias received such a\nblow near the heart that he fell dead. And Don Diego Ordonez went to\nthe bar and laid hold on it, and cried out to Don Arias Gonzalo, Send\nme another son, for I have conquered two, thanks be to God. Then the\njudges came and said that the dead knight was not yet out of the\nlists, and that he must alight and cast him out. Don Diego Ordonez did\nas they had directed him, and then went and laid hand upon the bar\nagain. And then the judges came to him, and led him to the tent, and\ndisarmed him, and gave him the three sops and the wine, as they had\ndone before.\n\nThen Don Arias Gonzalo, in great rage called for his son Rodrigo\nArias, who was a good knight, right hardy and valiant, the elder of\nall the brethren. And Don Arias said unto him, Son, go now and do\nbattle with Diego Ordonez, to save Donya Urraca your lady, and\nyourself, and the Council of Zamora; and if you do this, in happy hour\nwere you born. Then Rodrigo Arias kissed his hand and answered,\nFather, I thank you much for what you have said, and be sure that I\nwill save them, or take my death. And he took his arms and mounted,\nand his father gave him his blessing, and went with him to the lists;\nand the judges took his reins and led him in. And when the judges were\ngone out, they twain ran at each other, and Don Diego missed his blow,\nbut Rodrigo Arias, did not miss, for he gave him so great a stroke\nwith the lance that it pierced through the shield, and broke the\nsaddle-bow behind, and made him lose his stirrups, and he embraced the\nneck of his horse. But albeit that Don Diego was sorely bested with\nthat stroke, he took heart presently, and went bravely against him,\nand dealt him so great a blow that he broke the lance in him; for it\nwent through the shield and all his other arms, and great part of the\nlance remained in his flesh. After this they laid hand to sword, and\ngave each to the other great blows, and great wounds with them. And\nRodrigo Arias gave so great a wound to Diego Ordonez, that he cut his\nleft arm through to the bone. And Don Diego Ordonez, when he felt\nhimself so sorely wounded, went against Rodrigo Arias and delivered\nhim a blow upon the head which cut through the helmet and the hood of\nthe mail, and entered into his head. When Rodrigo Arias felt himself\nwounded to death, he let go the reins and took his sword in both\nhands, and gave so great a blow to the horse of Don Diego that the\nhorse ran out of the lists, and carried Don Diego out also, and there\ndied. And Rodrigo Arias fell dead as he was following him. Then Don\nDiego Ordonez would have returned into the field to do battle with the\nother two, but the judges would not permit this, neither did they\nthink good to decide whether they of Zamora were overcome in this\nthird duel or not. And in this manner the thing was left undecided.\nNevertheless, though no sentence was given, there remained no infamy\nupon the people of Zamora. Better had it been for Don Arias Gonzalo if\nhe had given up Vellido to the Castillians, that he might have died\nthe death of a traitor; he would not then have lost these three sons,\nwho died like good men, in their duty. Now what was the end of Vellido\nthe history sayeth not, but it is to be believed, that because the\nimpeachment was not made within three days, Don Arias Gonzalo thrust\nhim out of the town as Donya Urraca had requested, and that he fled\ninto other lands, peradventure among the Moors.\n\nIn the meantime the Infanta Donya Urraca wrote letters secretly and\nsent messengers with them to Toledo to King Don Alfonso, telling him\nthat King Don Sancho his brother was dead, and had left no heir, and\nthat he should come as speedily as he could to receive the kingdoms.\n\nAs soon as King Don Alfonso arrived at Zamora, he took counsel with\nhis sister. And the Infanta Donya Urraca, who was a right prudent lady\nand a wise, sent letters throughout the land, that a cortes should\nassemble and receive him for their lord. And when the Leonese and the\nGallegos knew that their lord King Don Alfonso was come, they were\nfull joyful, and they came to Zamora and received him for their lord\nand king. And afterwards the Castillians arrived, and they of\nNavarre, and they also received him for their lord and king, but upon\nthis condition, that he should swear that he had not taken counsel for\nthe death of his brother King Don Sancho. Howbeit they did not come\nforward to receive the oath, and they kissed his hands in homage, all,\nsave only Ruydiez, my Cid. And when King Don Alfonso saw that the Cid\ndid not do homage and kiss his hand, he said, Since now ye have all\nreceived me for your lord, and given me authority over ye, I would\nknow of the Cid Ruydiez why he will not kiss my hand and acknowledge\nme. And the Cid arose and said, Sir, all whom you see here present,\nsuspect that by your counsel the King Don Sancho your brother came to\nhis death; and therefore, I say unto you that, unless you clear\nyourself of this, as by right you should do, I will never kiss your\nhand, nor receive you for my lord. Then said the king, Cid, what you\nsay pleases me well; and here I swear to God and to St. Mary, that I\nnever slew him, nor took counsel for his death, neither did it please\nme, though he had taken my kingdom from me. And I beseech ye therefore\nall, as friends and true vassals, that ye tell me how I may clear\nmyself. And the chiefs who were present said, that he and twelve of\nthe knights who came with him from Toledo, should make this oath in\nthe church at St. Gadea at Burgos, and that so he should be cleared.\n\nSo the king and all his company took horse and went to Burgos. And\nwhen the day appointed for the oath was come, the king went to hear\nmass in the church of Gadea. And the king came forward upon a high\nstage that all the people might see him, and my Cid came to him to\nreceive the oath; and my Cid took the book of the Gospels and opened\nit, and laid it upon the altar, and the king laid his hands upon it,\nand the Cid said unto him, King Don Alfonso, you come here to swear\nconcerning the death of King Don Sancho your brother, that you neither\nslew him nor took counsel for his death; say now you and these\nhidalgos, if ye swear this. And the king and the hidalgos answered and\nsaid, Yea, we swear it. And the Cid said, If ye knew of this thing, or\ngave command that it should be done, may you die even such a death as\nyour brother the King Don Sancho, by the hand of a villain whom you\ntrust; one who is not a hidalgo, from another land, not a Castillian;\nand the king and the knights who were with him said Amen. And the\nking's colour changed; and the Cid repeated the oath unto him a second\ntime, and the king and the twelve knights said Amen to it in like\nmanner, and in like manner the countenance of the king was changed\nagain. And my Cid repeated the oath unto him a third time, and the\nking and the knights said Amen; but the wrath of the king was\nexceeding great, and he said to the Cid, Ruydiez, why dost thou thus\npress me, man? To-day thou swearest me, and to-morrow thou wilt kiss\nmy hand. And from that day forward there was no love towards my Cid in\nthe heart of the king.\n\nAfter this was King Don Alfonso crowned King of Castille, and Leon,\nand Galicia, and Portugal; and he called himself King and Emperor of\nall Spain, even as his father had done before him.\n\n\n\n\nTALES OF ROBIN HOOD\n\n\nRobin Hood is said to have been born at Locksley in the County of\nNottingham, in the reign of Henry II, about 1160. Some claim that he\ncame of good family, and was in reality the Earl of Huntingdon.\n\nPublic performances of plays based on the tales became so common by\n1550 that they had to be forbidden, \"but the people would not be\nforbidden,\" said John Knox, the preacher. Bishop Latimer complained\nbitterly how, when he was one day ready to preach in a country church,\nhe was told it was Robin Hood's day, a busy day with them, and they\ncould not hear him.\n\nYou will find a lot about Robin Hood in Scott's Ivanhoe, some of which\nis in the volume \"The Stories that never Grow Old.\"\n\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nIn the days of Richard I there lived a famous outlaw who was known by\nthe name of Robin Hood. He was born at Locksley in the county of\nNottingham, and was of noble origin, for he is often spoken of as\n\"Earl of Huntingdon.\" Robin was very wild and daring, and having\nplaced his life in danger by some reckless act, or possibly through\nsome political offence, he fled for refuge to the greenwood. His chief\nhaunts were Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire, and Barnsdale in\nYorkshire. Round him soon flocked a band of trusty followers. An old\nchronicler states that Robin Hood \"entertained an hundred tall men and\ngood archers.\" They robbed none but the rich, and killed no man except\nin self-defence. Robin \"suffered no woman to be oppressed or otherwise\nmolested; poor men's goods he spared, abundantly relieving them\" with\nspoils got from abbeys or the houses of rich people.\n\nRobin Hood's exploits were widely known, and although the poorer\nclasses were all on his side, those in authority were naturally\nincensed against him. Many attempts were made to seize him, and large\nrewards were offered for his capture. He was often in danger of his\nlife, and had many narrow escapes, but so daring was his courage, and\nso quick and clever his wit and resource that he always contrived to\nget clear away.\n\nAn old tradition says that the father of Robin was a forester, a\nrenowned archer. On one occasion he shot for a wager against the three\ngallant yeomen of the north country--Adam Bell, Clym-of-the-Clough,\nand William of Cloudesly, and the forester beat all three of them.\n\nThe mother of Robin Hood was a niece of the famous Guy, Earl of\nWarwick, who slew the blue boar; her brother was Gamwel of Great\nGamwel Hall, a squire of famous degree, and the owner of one of the\nfinest houses in Nottinghamshire.\n\nWhen the other outlaws flocked to Robin Hood they begged him to tell\nthem what sort of life they were to lead, and where they were to go,\nwhat they were to take and what to leave, what sort of people they\nwere to rob, and whom they were to beat and to bind--in short, how\nthey were to act in every circumstance.\n\n\"Have no fear, we shall do very well,\" answered Robin. \"But look you\ndo no harm to any husbandman that tilleth with his plough, nor to any\ngood yeoman that walketh in the greenwood, nor to any knight or squire\nwho is a good fellow. And harm no folk in whose company is any woman.\n\n\"But fat rascals, and all who have got rich by pilfering, canting, and\ncheating, those you may beat and bind, and hold captive for ransom.\nAnd chiefly the Sheriff of Nottingham--look you, bear him well in\nmind.\"\n\nAnd his followers promised to pay heed to his words, and carry them\nout carefully.\n\nChief among the band of outlaws known as \"Robin Hood's merry men\" was\n\"Little John,\" so called because his name was John Little, and he was\nseven feet high. Robin Hood was about twenty years old when he first\ncame to know Little John, and they got acquainted in this way. Robin\nwas walking one day in the forest when coming near a brook he chanced\nto spy a stranger, a strong lusty lad like himself. The two met in the\nmiddle of a long narrow bridge, and neither would give way. They\nquarrelled as to which should be the master, and finally agreed to\nfight with stout staves on the bridge, and whichever fell into the\nwater the other was to be declared to have won. The encounter was a\nstiff one, but finally the stranger knocked down Robin Hood, and\ntumbled him into the brook. Robin bore no malice, but owned at once\nthe other had got the best of it, and seeing what a stout nimble\nfellow he was, persuaded him to join his band of archers, and go and\nlive with them in the greenwood.\n\nNext to Little John the chief man was Will Scarlet, who in reality was\nRobin's own cousin or nephew, young Gamwel of Gamwel Hall. Having\nslain his father's steward either by accident or in some brawl, young\nWill fled to his kinsman, Robin Hood, in Sherwood Forest, where, as in\nthe case of Little John, he first made his acquaintance by fighting\nwith him. As young Will on this occasion happened to be dressed very\nsmartly in silken doublet and scarlet stockings Robin Hood dubbed him\n\"Will Scarlet,\" by which name he was always afterwards known.\n\nBesides these two famous outlaws there were many others of lesser note\nwho from time to time joined the band. Among them may be mentioned\n\"Gilbert of the white hand\" who was almost as good an archer as Robin\nhimself; Allen-a-Dale, whose bride Robin Hood helped him to secure;\nMuch, the son of a miller; George-a-Green; Friar Tuck; Will Stutely,\nwho was taken prisoner by the Sheriff of Nottingham and nearly hanged,\nbut was rescued from the gallows by the gallant yeomen;\nArthur-a-Bland, the sturdy tanner of Nottingham, who beat Robin when\nthey fought with staves; the jolly tinker of Banbury who went out to\narrest Robin, but ended by joining his band, and the chief ranger of\nSherwood Forest, who did the same.\n\nLastly, there was the bonny maid of noble degree, who was known in the\nnorth country as Maid Marian. She had loved Robin Hood when they were\nyoung together, in the days when he was still the Earl of Huntingdon,\nbut spiteful fortune forced them to part. Robin had to fly for refuge\nto the greenwood, and Maid Marian, unable to live without him, dressed\nherself like a page, with quiver and bow, sword and buckler, and went\nin search of him. Long and wearily she ranged the forest, and when the\nlovers met they did not know each other, for Robin, too, had been\nobliged to disguise himself. They fought as foes, and so sore was the\nfray that both were wounded, but Robin so much admired the valour of\nthe stranger lad that he bade him stay his hand, and asked him to join\nhis company. When Marian knew the voice of her lover she quickly made\nherself known to him, and great was the rejoicing. A stately banquet\nwas quickly prepared, which was served in a shady bower, and they\nfeasted merrily, while all the tall and comely yeomen drank to the\nhealth of Robin Hood's bride. So for many years they dwelt together\nwith great content in the greenwood.\n\nIt happened one day as Robin Hood stood under a tree in Barnsdale that\nLittle John went up to him, and said:\n\n\"Master, if you would dine soon, would it not be well?\"\n\n\"I do not care to dine,\" answered Robin, \"until I have some bold baron\nor stranger guest to eat with us, or else some rich rascal who will\npay for the feast, or else some knight or squire who dwells in these\nparts.\"\n\n\"It is already far on in the day; now heaven send us a guest soon, so\nthat we may get to dinner,\" said Little John.\n\n\"Take thy good bow in thy hand,\" said Robin, \"and let Will Scarlet and\nMuch go with thee, and walk up to the Sayles and so to Watling Street.\nThere wait for some strange guest whom it may very well chance you\nwill meet. Be it earl or baron, or abbot or knight, bring him here to\nlodge; his dinner shall be ready for him.\"\n\nSo these three good yeomen, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Much went\noff to the great high-road which is known as Watling Street, and there\nthey looked east and they looked west, but not a man could they see.\nBut as they looked in Barnsdale, by a little private path there came a\nknight riding, whom they soon met. Very dreary and woebegone seemed\nthis traveller; one foot was in the stirrup, the other dangled\noutside; his hood hung down over his eyes; his attire was poor and\nshabby; no sorrier man than he ever rode on a summer's day.\n\nLittle John bent low in courtesy before him.\n\n\"Welcome, sir knight! Welcome to greenwood! I am right glad to see\nyou. My master hath awaited you fasting these three hours.\"\n\n\"Who is your master?\" asked the knight.\n\n\"Robin Hood, sir,\" answered Little John.\n\n\"He is a brave yeoman; I have heard much good of him,\" said the\nknight. \"I will go in company with you, my comrades. My purpose was to\nhave dined to-day at Blyth or Doncaster.\"\n\nSo the knight went with the yeomen, but his face was still sad and\ncareworn, and tears often fell from his eyes. Little John and Will\nScarlet brought him to the door of the lodge in Barnsdale, where the\noutlaws were staying at that time, and as soon as Robin saw him he\nlifted his hood courteously, and bent low in token of respect.\n\n\"Welcome, sir knight, welcome. I am right glad to see you. I have\nawaited you fasting, sir, for the last three hours.\"\n\n\"God save thee, good Robin, and all thy fair company,\" returned the\nknight pleasantly.\n\nRobin brought clear water from the well for the guest to wash himself\nfrom the dust of travel, and then they sat down to dinner. The meal\nwas spread under the trees in the greenwood, and rarely had the\nstranger seen a repast so amply furnished. Bread and wine they had in\nplenty, and dainty portions of deer, swans and pheasants, plump and\ntender, and all kinds of water-fowl from the river, and every sort of\nwoodland bird that was good for eating.\n\nRobin heaped his guest's plate with choice morsels, and bade him fall\nto merrily.\n\n\"Eat well, sir knight, eat well,\" he urged him.\n\n\"Thanks, thanks,\" said the knight. \"I have not had such a dinner as\nthis for three weeks. If I come again into this country, Robin, I will\nmake as good a dinner for you as you have made for me.\"\n\n\"Thanks for my dinner, good knight, when I have it,\" returned the\noutlaw. \"I was never so greedy as to crave for dinner. But before you\ngo, would it not be seemly for you to pay for what you have eaten? It\nwas never the custom for a yeoman to pay for a knight.\"\n\n\"I have nothing in my coffers that I can proffer, for shame,\" said the\nknight.\n\n\"Go, Little John, and look,\" said Robin. \"Now swear to me that you are\ntelling the truth,\" he added to his guest.\n\n\"I swear to you, by heaven, I have no more than ten shillings,\" said\nthe knight.\n\n\"If you have no more than that I will not take one penny,\" said\nRobin. \"And if you have need of any more I will lend it you. Go now,\nLittle John, and tell me the truth. If there be no more than ten\nshillings, not one penny of that will I touch.\"\n\nLittle John spread out his mantle on the ground ready to hold any\ntreasure he might find, but when lie looked in the knight's coifer he\nsaw nothing but one piece of money of the value of half a pound. He\nleft it lying where it was, and went to tell his master.\n\n\"What tidings, John?\" asked Robin.\n\n\"Sir, the knight is true enough.\"\n\n\"Fill a cup with the best wine, and hand it first to the knight,\" said\nRobin. \"Sir, I much wonder that your clothing is so thin. Tell me one\nthing, I pray. I trow you must have been made a knight by force, or\nelse you have squandered your means by reckless or riotous living?\nPerhaps you have been foolish and thriftless, or else have lost all\nyour money in brawling and strife? Or possibly you have been a usurer\nor a drunkard, or wasted your life in wickedness and wrong-doing?\"\n\n\"I am none of those things, by heaven that made me,\" declared the\nknight. \"For a hundred years my ancestors have been knights. It has\noften befallen, Robin, that a man may be disgraced, but God who waits\nin heaven above can amend his state. Within two or three years, my\nneighbours knew it well, I could spend with ease four hundred pounds\nof good money. Now I have no goods left but my wife and my\nchildren. God has ordained this until He see fit to better my\ncondition.\"\n\n\"In what manner did you lose your riches?\" asked Robin.\n\n\"By my great folly and kindness,\" was the answer. \"I had a son, who\nshould have been my heir. At twenty years old he could joust right\nwell in the field. Unhappily the luckless boy slew a knight of\nLancashire, and to pay the heavy penalty exacted from him to save his\nrights I was forced to sell all my goods. Besides this, Robin, my\nlands are pledged until a certain day to a rich abbot living close by\nhere at St. Mary's Abbey.\"\n\n\"What is the sum?\" asked Robin.\n\n\"Sir, four hundred pounds, which the abbot lent me.\"\n\n\"Now, if you lose your land what will become of you?\" asked Robin.\n\n\"I will depart in haste over the salt sea to Palestine. Farewell,\nfriend, there is no better way.\" Tears filled the knight's eyes, and\nhe made a movement to go. \"Farewell, friends, farewell! I have no more\nthat I can pay you.\"\n\nBut Robin stopped him as he would have gone.\n\n\"Where are your friends?\" he asked.\n\n\"Sir, there are none who will know me now. When I was rich enough at\nhome they were glad to come and flatter me, but now they all run from\nme. They take no more heed of me than if they had never seen me.\"\n\nThe knight's sorrowful story so touched the hearts of Little John and\nWill Scarlet that they wept for pity.\n\n\"Come, fill of the best wine,\" cried Robin. \"Come, sir, courage!\nNever be downcast! Have you any friends from whom you can borrow?\"\n\n\"None,\" replied the knight.\n\n\"Come forth, Little John, and go to my treasury,\" said Robin. \"Bring\nme four hundred pounds, and look that you count it out carefully.\"\n\nThen forth went Little John, and with him went Will Scarlet, and he\ncounted out four hundred pounds. But Much, the miller's son, did not\nlook very well pleased to see all this money going into the hands of a\nstranger.\n\n\"Is this wisely done?\" he muttered.\n\n\"What grieves you?\" said Little John. \"It is alms to help a noble\nknight who has fallen into poverty. Master,\" he went on to Robin Hood,\n\"his clothing is full thin; you must give the knight a suit of raiment\nto wrap himself in. For you have scarlet and green cloth, master, and\nplenty of rich apparel. I dare well say there is no merchant in\nEngland who has a finer store.\"\n\n\"Give him three yards of cloth of every colour,\" said Robin Hood, \"and\nsee that it be well meted out.\"\n\nLittle John took no other measure than his bow, and every handful he\nmeasured he leapt over three feet.\n\n\"What devilkin's draper do you think you are?\" asked little Much in\nhalf-angry astonishment.\n\nWill Scarlet stood still and laughed.\n\n\"John may well give him good measure,\" he said. \"It cost _him_ but\nlight.\"\n\nLittle John paid no heed to their scoffing, but quietly went on with\nhis task.\n\n\"Master,\" he said to Robin Hood, when he had put aside a bountiful\nstore for their guest, \"you must give the knight a horse to carry home\nall these goods.\"\n\n\"Give him a grey courser, and put a new saddle on it,\" said Robin.\n\n\"And a good palfrey as befits his rank,\" added little Much.\n\n\"And a pair of boots, for he is a noble knight,\" said Will Scarlet.\n\n\"And what will you give him, Little John?\" asked Robin.\n\n\"Sir, a pair of shining gilt spurs to pray for all this company. God\nbring him safely out of all his trouble.\"\n\nThe poor knight scarcely knew how to thank them for all their\ngoodness.\n\n\"When shall the day be for me to pay back the money you have lent me?\"\nhe said. \"What is your will?\"\n\n\"This day twelve-month under this greenwood tree,\" said Robin. \"It\nwere a great shame,\" he added, \"for a knight to ride alone without\nsquire, yeomen, or page to walk by his side. I will lend you my man,\nLittle John, to be your lad. He may stand you in yeoman stead if ever\nyou are in need.\"\n\nAs the knight went on his way he thought how well matters had happened\nfor him, and when he looked on Barnsdale be blessed Robin Hood. And\nwhen he thought of Will Scarlet, Much, and Little John he blessed them\nfor the best company he had ever been in.\n\n\"To-morrow I must go to York town to St. Mary's Abbey,\" he said to\nLittle John, \"and to the abbot of that place I have to pay four\nhundred pounds. If I am not there by to-morrow night my lands will be\nlost for ever.\"\n\nThe next day he strode out of the abbot's hall, all his care gone; he\nflung off his worn raiment, put on his good clothing, and left the\nother lying where it fell. He went forth singing merrily, back to his\nown home at Wierysdale, and his lady met him at the gate.\n\n\"Welcome, my lord,\" said his wife. \"Sir, are all your possessions\nlost?\"\n\n\"Be merry, dame,\" said the knight, \"and pray for Robin Hood that his\nsoul may always dwell in bliss. He helped me out of my distress; had\nit not been for his kindness we should have been beggars. The abbot\nand I are in accord; he is served with his money; the good yeoman lent\nit me as I came by the way.\"\n\n* * * * * *\n\nThe good knight, whose name was Sir Richard Lee, dwelt in prosperity\nat home till he had four hundred pounds all ready to pay back Robin\nHood. He provided himself with a hundred bows made with the best\nstring, and a hundred sheaves of good arrows with brightly burnished\nheads. Every arrow was an ell long, well dressed with peacock's\nfeathers, and they were all inlaid with silver so that it was a goodly\nsight to see. The knight provided himself also with a hundred men,\nwell armed, and clothed in white and red, and in the same fashion he\nattired himself. He bore a lance in his hand, and a man led the horse\nwhich carried his change of apparel. And thus he rode with a light\nheart to Barnsdale.\n\nAs he drew near a bridge he was forced to tarry awhile, for there was\na great wrestling, and all the best yeomen of the West Country had\nflocked to it. A good game had been arranged, and valuable prizes\nwere offered. A white bull had been put up, and a great courser, with\nsaddle and bridle all burnished with gold, a pair of gloves, a red\ngold ring, and a pipe of wine in prime condition. The man who bore\nhimself the best would carry off the prize.\n\nNow there was a certain worthy yeoman there who ought by rights to\nhave been awarded the prize, but because he was a stranger the other\nwrestlers were jealous, and all set on him unfairly. As he was far\nfrom home and had no friends there, he would certainly have been slain\nif it had not been for the knight who, from the place where he stood,\nsaw what was going on. He took pity on the yeoman, and swore no harm\nshould be done to him, for the love he bore to Robin Hood. He pressed\nforward into the place, and his hundred archers followed him, with\nbows bent and sharp arrows to attack the crowd. They shouldered every\none aside, and made room for Sir Richard Lee to make known what he had\nto say.\n\nThen the knight took the yeoman by the hand, and declared he had\nfairly won the prize. He bought the wine from him for five marks, and\nbade that it should be broached at once, and that every one who wished\nshould have a draught. Thus good humour and jollity were restored, and\nthe rest of the sports went on merrily.\n\nThe knight tarried till the games were done, and in the meanwhile it\ncame to be three hours after noon. And all this time Robin had waited\nfasting for the coming of the knight to whom twelve months before he\nhad lent the four hundred pounds.\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE JOHN AND THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nIt will be remembered that when the poor knight left Robin Hood in the\nforest Little John went with him to act as his yeoman. He stayed for\nsome time in Sir Richard's service, and a light and pleasant post he\nfound it, for he was free to do pretty much as he liked.\n\nIt happened one fine day that the young men of Nottingham were eager\nto go shooting, so Little John fetched his bow, and said he would meet\nthem in a trial of skill. While the match was going on, the Sheriff of\nNottingham chanced to pass, and he stood for a while near the marks to\nwatch the sport.\n\nThree times Little John shot, and each time he cleft the wand.\n\n\"By my faith, this man is the best archer that ever I saw,\" cried the\nsheriff. \"Tell me now, my fine lad, what is your name? In what county\nwere you born, and where do you dwell?\"\n\n\"I was born at Holderness,\" said Little John, \"and when I am at home\nmen call me Reynold Greenleaf.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Reynold Greenleaf, will you come and live with me? I will\ngive you twenty marks a year as wages.\"\n\n\"I have a master already, a noble knight,\" answered Little John. \"It\nwould be better if you would get leave of him.\"\n\nThe sheriff was so pleased with the prowess of Little John that he\nwanted to get him into his own service, so he went to the knight, and\nit was agreed the sheriff should have him for twelve months. Little\nJohn was therefore given at once a strong horse, well equipped, and\nnow behold him the sheriff's man.\n\nBut Little John had not forgotten Robin Hood's words of warning about\nthe sheriff; he knew him to be a false and greedy man, and a ruthless\nenemy to the outlaws, and Little John was always thinking how he could\npay him out for his treachery.\n\n\"By my loyalty and truth,\" said Little John to himself, \"I will be the\nworst servant to him that ever he had.\"\n\nLittle John soon found that his new place was little to his liking.\nThe other servants were not well pleased to see the newcomer; they\nwere jealous of the favour shown to him at first by his master, and\ntreated him with rudeness and contempt. The sheriff himself was very\nmean; he wished to secure Little John for his service, for he knew\nsuch a comely lad and fine archer would do him credit, but once he was\nsure of him he paid no heed to seeing that he was properly lodged and\nfed.\n\nIt happened one day the sheriff went out hunting, and Little John was\nleft at home forgotten. No meal was served to him, and he was left\nfasting till noon. As he was by this time very hungry he went to the\nsteward, and asked civilly for something to eat.\n\n\"Good sir steward, I pray thee give me to dine,\" he said. \"It is too\nlong for Greenleaf to be so long fasting, therefore I pray thee,\nsteward, give me my dinner.\"\n\n\"I've had no orders,\" said the steward rudely. \"Thou shalt have\nnothing to eat or to drink till my lord comes back to town.\"\n\n\"Rather than that I'll crack thy head,\" said Little John.\n\nThe steward started forward to the buttery, and shut fast the door,\nbut Little John gave him such a rap on his back it almost broke in\ntwo--as long as he lived he would be the worse for the blow. Then\nLittle John put his foot to the door, and burst it open, and Little\nJohn went in and helped himself plentifully to both ale and wine.\n\n\"Since you will not dine, I will give you to drink,\" he said to the\nsteward; \"though you live for a hundred years you shall remember\nLittle John.\"\n\nHe ate and drank for as long as he chose, and the steward dared say\nnothing, for he was still smarting from the blow. But the sheriff had\nin his employ a cook, a bold, sturdy man, and he was no coward either.\n\n\"A fine sort of fellow you are to dwell in a house and ask for dinner\nthus,\" he cried, and he dealt Little John three good blows.\n\n\"I vow I am very well pleased with those strokes of yours,\" said\nLittle John, \"and before I leave this place you shall be tested\nbetter.\"\n\nHe drew his good sword, and the cook seized another, and they went for\neach other then and there. Neither had any thought of giving in, but\nboth meant to resist stoutly. There they fought sorely for a whole\nhour, and neither could in any way harm the other.\n\n\"Thou art truly one of the very best swordsmen that ever I saw,\" said\nLittle John. \"Couldst thou shoot as well with a bow thou shouldst go\nwith me to the greenwood. Thou wouldst have from Robin Hood twenty\nmarks a year as wages, and a change of clothing twice a year.\"\n\n\"Put up thy sword, and we will be comrades,\" said the cook.\n\nHe fetched at once for Little John a right good meal--dainty venison,\ngood bread, and excellent wine--and they both ate and drank heartily.\nWhen they had well feasted they plighted their troth together that\nthey would be with Robin that self-same night. Then they ran as fast\nas they could to the sheriff's treasury, and though the locks were of\ngood steel they broke them every one. They carried off all the silver\nplate--vessels, dishes, gold pieces, cups, and spoons, nothing was\nforgotten.\n\nThey took also the money--three hundred and three pounds--and then\nthey went off straight to Robin Hood in the forest.\n\n\"God save thee, my dear master,\" cried Little John.\n\n\"Welcome art thou, and also that fair yeoman whom thou bringest with\nthee,\" said Robin Hood. \"What tidings from Nottingham, Little John?\"\n\n\"The proud sheriff greeteth thee well, and sendeth you here by me his\ncook and his silver vessels and three hundred and three pounds,\" said\nLittle John.\n\n\"I dare take my oath it was never by his good will these goods come to\nme,\" laughed Robin.\n\nThus they all made merry in the greenwood, and said the sheriff had\nbeen rightly paid for the greed and tyranny with which he performed\nthe duties of his office, for by bribery and oppression he had got his\nill-earned wealth.\n\nPresently Little John bethought him of a shrewd device by which they\ncould still further get the better of him. He ran into the forest here\nand there, and when he had gone about five miles it fell out as he\nwished; he came across the sheriff himself hunting with hound and\nhorn. Little John was mindful of his manners, and went and knelt on\nhis knee before him, and saluted him courteously.\n\n\"Why, Reynold Greenleaf, where hast thou been now?\" cried the sheriff.\n\n\"I have been in the forest,\" said Little John, \"and there I have seen\na wondrous sight, one of the finest I ever yet saw. Yonder I saw a\nright gallant hart; his colour is green. Seven score of deer in a herd\naltogether are with him. His antlers are so sharp, master, I durst not\nshoot, for dread lest they should slay me.\"\n\n\"By heaven, I would fain see that sight,\" said the sheriff.\n\n\"Turn thy steps thither, then, at once, dear master,\" said Little\nJohn. \"Come with me; I will show you where he lies.\"\n\nThe sheriff rode off, and Little John ran beside him, for he was full\nsmart of foot. Through the forest they went, and by-and-by they came\nto Robin Hood in the midst of his band of yeomen.\n\n\"Lo, there is the master hart,\" said Little John. The sheriff stood\nstill in dismay, and he was a sorry man.\n\n\"Woe worth thee, Reynold Greenleaf, thou hast betrayed me.\"\n\n\"Ye are to blame, master, I swear,\" said Little John. \"When I was at\nhome with you I was misserved of my dinner.\"\n\nThen the outlaws made their guest sit down to supper with them, which\nhe did with no good will, for he would fain have departed to his home\nat Nottingham. He was served on his own silver dishes, and when he saw\nhis beautiful cups and vessels the sheriff for sorrow could not eat.\n\n\"Cheer up, sheriff,\" urged Robin Hood. \"For the sake of Little John\nthy life is granted thee. What, man, eat and be merry! Here is fine\nfat venison served in a goodly vessel.\"\n\nBy the time they had well supped, the day was done. Robin then bade\nhis men strip the sheriff of his fine clothes, his hose and his shoes,\nhis kirtle, and the large handsome coat all trimmed with fur--and to\ngive him in their place a green mantle to wrap himself in. He further\nbade his sturdy lads all to lie round the sheriff in a circle under\nthe greenwood tree, so that he might see them, and know there was no\nchance of escape.\n\nIt was a sorry night the sheriff passed, cold and shivering, in his\nshirt and breeches, on the hard ground; small wonder that his bones\nached, and that he sighed piteously for his soft warm bed at home.\n\n\"Come, come, sheriff, cheer up!\" said Robin; \"for this is our order,\nyou know, under the greenwood tree.\"\n\n\"This is a harder order than any anchorite or friar!\" groaned the\nsheriff. \"For all the gold in merry England I would not dwell here\nlong.\"\n\n\"Thou wilt dwell here with me for the next twelve months,\" said\nRobin. \"I shall teach thee, proud sheriff, to be an outlaw.\"\n\n\"Before I lie here another night, Robin, smite off my head rather, and\nI'll forgive it thee,\" said the sheriff. \"Let me go, for pity's sake!\"\nhe begged, \"and I will be the best friend that ever thou hadst.\"\n\n\"Before I let thee go, thou shalt swear me here an oath,\" said the\noutlaw. \"Swear on my sword that thou wilt never seek to do me harm by\nwater or by land. And if thou find any of my men, by night or by day,\nthou shalt swear on thy oath to help them all thou canst.\"\n\nThere was no other way to get back his freedom, so the sheriff was\ncompelled to take the oath demanded by Robin. Then he was allowed to\ndepart, and he went back to Nottingham a sad and sorry man, feeling\nthat he had had more than enough of the greenwood to last him a very\nlong time.\n\n\n\n\nHOW ROBIN HOOD WAS PAID HIS LOAN\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nTwelve months had come and gone since Robin Hood lent four hundred\npounds to the poor knight to redeem his land, and now the day had\narrived when he had promised to pay back the money.\n\nThe sheriff had returned to Nottingham, and Robin Hood and his merry\nmen were left in the greenwood.\n\n\"Let us go to dinner,\" said Little John.\n\n\"Nay, not yet,\" said Robin. \"Now I fear our friend the knight is\nlikely to prove false, for he comes not to pay back the money,\naccording to his word.\"\n\n\"Have no doubt, master,\" said Little John, \"for the sun has not yet\ngone to rest.\"\n\n\"Take thy bow,\" said Robin, \"and let Much and Will Scarlet go with\nyou, and walk up into the Sayles, and to Watling Street, and wait\nthere for some stranger guest, for you may well chance upon one\nthere. Whether he be messenger or mountebank, rich man or poor man, he\nshall share dinner with me.\"\n\nForth then started Little John, half-angry and half-troubled, and\nunder his green mantle he girded on a good sword.\n\nThe three yeomen went up to the Sayles; they looked east and they\nlooked west, and not a man could they see.\n\nBut all the time Robin kept thinking of the knight who had promised to\nreturn that day with the borrowed money.\n\n\"I marvel much he does not come,\" he said. \"I fear he does not mean to\nkeep faith.\"\n\n\"Have no doubt, master,\" said Little John. \"You have no need, I say.\"\n\nSir Richard Lee, meanwhile, who had tarried to see the wrestling, came\nwhile it was still daylight to fulfil his promise. He went straight to\nBarnsdale, and there he found Robin Hood and his band under the\ngreenwood tree. Directly the knight saw Robin, he dismounted from his\npalfrey, and saluted him courteously on one knee.\n\n\"God save thee, good Robin Hood, and all this company.\"\n\n\"Welcome, welcome, noble knight,\" said Robin. \"I pray thee tell me\nwhat need driveth thee to greenwood? I am right glad to see thee. Why\nhast thou been so long in coming?\"\n\n\"The abbot and the high justice have been trying to get hold of my\nland,\" said the knight.\n\n\"Hast thou thy land again?\"\n\n\"Yea, and for that I thank God and thee. But take not offence that I\nhave come so late in the day. On my journey hither I passed by some\nwrestling, and there I helped a poor yeoman who was being wrongly put\nbehind by the others.\"\n\n\"Nay, by my faith, for that I thank thee,\" said Robin. \"The man that\nhelpeth a good yeoman, his friend will I be.\"\n\n\"Have here the four hundred pounds you lent me,\" said the knight, \"and\nhere is also twenty marks for your courtesy.\"\n\n\"Nay, keep it and use it well yourself,\" said Robin, \"and thou art\nright welcome under my trysting-tree. But what are all those bows for,\nand those finely feathered arrows?\"\n\n\"They are a poor present to thee,\" said the knight.\n\nThen Robin Hood bade Little John go to his treasury and fetch four\nhundred pounds, and he insisted on the knight's accepting this money\nas a gift.\n\n\"Buy thyself a good horse and harness, and gild thy spurs anew,\" he\nsaid laughingly. \"And if thou lack enough to spend come to Robin Hood,\nand by my truth thou shalt never lack while I have any goods of my\nown. Keep the four hundred pounds I lent thee, and I counsel thee\nnever leave thyself so bare another time.\"\n\nSo good Robin Hood relieved the gentle knight of all his care, and\nthey feasted and made merry under the greenwood tree.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOLDEN ARROW\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nThe knight took his leave and went on his way, and Robin Hood and his\nmerry men lived on for many a day in Barnsdale.\n\nNow the Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a grand sport to be\nheld--that all the best archers of the north country should come one\nday and shoot at the butts, and that a prize should be given to the\nbest archer.\n\nThe butts were to be set in a glade in the forest and he who shot the\nbest of all should receive an arrow, the like of which had never been\nseen in England, for the shaft was to be of silver, and the head and\nfeathers of red gold.\n\nNow all this was a device of the sheriff's to try to enthral the\noutlaws, for he imagined that when such matches took place Robin\nHood's men without any doubt would be the bowmen there.\n\nTidings of this came to Robin Hood in the forest, and he said: \"Come,\nmake ready, my lads, we will go and see that sport. Ye shall go with\nme, and I will test the sheriff's faith, and see if he be true.\"\n\nWith that a brave young man, called David of Doncaster, stepped\nforward.\n\n\"Master,\" he said, \"be ruled by me, and do not stir from the\ngreenwood. To tell the truth I am well informed yonder match is a\nwile. The sheriff has devised it to entrap us.\"\n\n\"That sounds like a coward,\" said Robin; \"thy words do not please\nme. Come what will of it, I'll try my skill at yonder brave archery.\"\n\nThen up spoke brave Little John.\n\n\"Let us go thither, but come, listen to me, and I will tell you how we\ncan manage it without being known. We will leave behind us our mantles\nof Lincoln green, and we will all dress differently so that they will\nnever notice us. One shall wear white, another red, a third one\nyellow, another blue. Thus in disguise we will go to the sport,\nwhatever may come of it.\"\n\nWhen they had their bows in order and their arrows well feathered\nthere gathered round Robin seven score of stalwart young men.\n\nWhen they came to Nottingham they saw the butts set out fair and long,\nand many were the bold archers who came to shoot. The outlaws mixed\nwith the rest to prevent all suspicion, for they thought it more\ndiscreet not to keep together.\n\n\"Only six of you shall shoot with me,\" said Robin to his men. \"The\nrest must stand on guard with bows bent so that I be not betrayed.\"\n\nThe sheriff looked all round, but amidst eight hundred men he could\nnot see what he suspected.\n\nThe outlaws shot in turn, and they all did so well that the people\nsaid that if Robin Hood had been there, and all his men to boot, none\nof them could have surpassed these men.\n\n\"Ay,\" quoth the sheriff ruefully, rubbing his head. \"I thought he\nwould have been here; I certainly thought he would, but though he is\nbold he doesn't dare to appear.\"\n\nHis speech vexed Robin Hood to the heart. \"Very soon,\" he thought\nangrily, \"thou shalt well see that Robin Hood _was_ here.\"\n\nSome cried blue jacket, another cried brown, and a third cried brave\nyellow, but a fourth man said: \"Yonder man in red hath no match in the\nplace.\"\n\nNow that was Robin Hood himself, for he was clothed in red. Three\ntimes he shot, and each time he split the wand. To him, therefore, was\ndelivered the golden arrow as being the most worthy. He took the gift\ncourteously, and would have departed back to the greenwood; but the\nSheriff of Nottingham had by this time marked him, and had no mind to\nlet him go so easily. The alarm was raised; they cried out on Robin\nHood, and great horns were blown to summon help to capture him.\n\n\"Treachery! treason!\" cried Robin. \"Full evil art thou to know! And\nwoe to thee, proud sheriff, thus to entertain thy guest! It was\notherwise thou promised me yonder in the forest. But had I thee in the\ngreenwood again, under my trysting-tree, thou shouldst leave me a\nbetter pledge than thy loyalty and truth.\"\n\nThen on all sides bows were bent, and arrows flew like hail; kirtles\nwere rent, and many a stout knave pricked in the side. The outlaws\nshot so strong that no one could drive them back, and the sheriff's\nmen fled in haste.\n\nRobin saw the ambush was broken, and would fain have been back in the\ngreenwood, but many an arrow still rained on his company. Little John\nwas hurt full sorely, with an arrow in his knee, and could neither\nride nor walk.\n\n\"Master,\" he cried, \"if ever thou loved me, and for the meed of my\nservice that I have served thee, let never that proud sheriff find me\nalive! But take thy sword and smite off my head, and give me deep and\ndeadly wounds, so that no life be left in me.\"\n\n\"I would not that, John--I would not thou wert slain for all the gold\nin merry England!\" cried Robin.\n\n\"God forbid that thou shouldst part our company, Little John,\" said\nMuch.\n\nHe took Little John up on his back, and carried him a good mile, and\nmore. Often he laid him down on the ground, and turned to shoot those\nwho came after, and then he took him up and carried him on again. So\nthe outlaws fought their way, step by step, back to the forest.\n\nA little within the wood there was a fair castle, with a double moat,\nand surrounded by stout walls. Here dwelt that noble knight, Sir\nRichard Lee, to whom Robin Hood had lent the four hundred pounds to\nredeem his land.\n\nHe saw the little company of outlaws fighting their way along, so he\nhastened to call them to come and take shelter in his castle.\n\n\"Welcome art thou, Robin Hood! Welcome!\" he cried, as he led them\nin. \"Much I thank thee for thy comfort and courtesy and great kindness\nto me in the forest. There is no man in the world I love so much as\nthee. For all the proud Sheriff of Nottingham, here thou shalt be\nsafe!--Shut the gates, and draw the bridge, and let no man come in!\"\nhe shouted to his retainers. \"Arm you well; make ready; guard the\nwalls! One thing, Robin, I promise thee: here shalt thou stay for\ntwelve days as my guest, to sup, and eat, and dine.\"\n\nSwiftly and readily tables were laid and cloths spread, and Robin Hood\nand his merry men sat down to a good meal.\n\n\n\n\nHOW THE SHERIFF TOOK SIR RICHARD PRISONER\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nThe Sheriff of Nottingham was wroth when he heard that Robin Hood and\nhis band of outlaws had taken refuge in the knight's castle. All the\ncountry was up in rout, and they came and besieged the castle. From\nhis post outside the walls the sheriff loudly proclaimed that the\nknight was a traitor, and was shielding the king's enemy against the\nlaws and right.\n\n\"I am ready to answer for the deeds I have done here by all the lands\nI possess, as I am a true knight,\" was Sir Richard's answer. \"Go on\nyour way, sirs, and leave me alone in peace until ye know our king's\nwill, what he will say to you.\"\n\nThe sheriff, having had his answer, curt and to the point, rode forth\nat once to London to carry the tale to the king.\n\nHe told him of the knight, and of Robin Hood, and of the band of bold\narchers which the latter kept up.\n\n\"The knight boasts of what he has done to aid these outlaws,\" said the\nsheriff. \"He would be lord, and set you at nought through all the\nnorth country.\"\n\n\"I will be at Nottingham within the fortnight,\" said the king, \"and I\nwill seize Robin Hood, and also that knight. Go home, sheriff, and do\nas I bid thee. Get ready enough good archers from all the country\nround about.\"\n\nSo the sheriff took his leave, and went home to Nottingham to do as\nthe king commanded.\n\nRobin meanwhile had left the castle, and had gone back to the\ngreenwood, and Little John, as soon as he was whole from the\narrow-shot in his knee, went and joined him there. It caused great\nvexation to the sheriff to know that Robin Hood once more walked free\nin the forest, and that he had failed of his prey; but all the more he\nwas resolved to be revenged on Sir Richard Lee. Night and day he kept\nwatch for that noble knight; at last, one morning when Sir Richard\nwent out hawking by the riverside, the sheriff's men-at-arms seized\nhim, and he was led bound hand and foot to Nottingham.\n\nWhen Sir Richard's wife heard that her husband had been taken\nprisoner, she lost no time in seeking help. Mounting a good palfrey,\nshe rode off at once to the greenwood, and there she found Robin Hood\nand all his men.\n\n\"God save thee, Robin Hood, and all thy company! For the love of\nheaven, grant me a boon! Let not my wedded lord be shamefully\nslain. He is taken fast bound to Nottingham, all for the love of\nthee!\"\n\n\"What man hath taken him?\" asked Robin.\n\n\"The proud sheriff,\" said the lady. \"He has not yet passed on his way\nthree miles.\"\n\nUp then started Robin as if he were mad.\n\n\"Arm, lads! Arm and make ready! By heaven, he that fails me now shall\nnever more be man of mine!\"\n\nSpeedily good bows were bent, seven score and more, and away went the\noutlaws, full speed over hedge and ditch, in chase of the sheriff's\nmen, When they came to Nottingham, there in the street they overtook\nthe sheriff.\n\n\"Stay, thou proud sheriff--stay and speak with me!\" said Robin. \"I\nwould fain hear from thee some tidings of our king. By heaven, these\nseven years have I never gone so fast on foot, and I swear it bodeth\nno good for thee.\"\n\nHe bent his bow, and sent an arrow with all the might he could; it hit\nthe sheriff so that he fell to the ground, and lay there stunned, and\nbefore he could rise to his feet Robin drew his sword and smote off\nhis head.\n\n\"Lie thou there, proud sheriff, traitor and evildoer!\" said\nRobin. \"No man might ever trust to thee whilst thou wert still alive!\"\n\nNow they fought hand to hand. Robin Hood's men drew their shining\nswords, and laid on so heavily that they drove down the sheriff's men\none after another.\n\nRobin Hood ran to Sir Richard Lee, and cut his bonds in two, and,\nthrusting a bow into his hand, bid him stand by him.\n\n\"Leave thy horse behind thee, and learn to run on foot,\" he counselled\nhim. \"Thou shalt go with me to the greenwood through mire and moss and\nfen. Thou shalt go with me to the forest, and dwell with me there,\nuntil I have got our pardon from Edward, our king.\"\n\n\n\nHOW THE KING CAME TO SHERWOOD FOREST\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nTidings of the sheriff's death were sent to King Edward in London, and\nhe came to Nottingham with a great array of knights to lay hold of Sir\nRichard Lee and Robin Hood, if that were possible. He asked\ninformation from men of all the country round, and when he had heard\ntheir tale and understood the case he seized all the lands belonging\nto Sir Richard Lee. He went all through Lancashire, searching far and\nwide, till he came to Plumpton Park, and everywhere he missed many of\nhis deer. There he had always been wont to see herds in large numbers,\nbut now he could scarcely find one deer that bore any good horn.\n\nThe king was furiously wroth at this.\n\n\"By heaven I would that I had Robin Hood here before me to see him\nwith my own eyes,\" he exclaimed. \"And he that shall smite off the\nknight's head and bring it here to me shall have all the lands\nbelonging to Sir Richard Lee. I will give them him with my charter,\nand seal it with my hand for him to have and to hold, for evermore.\"\n\nThen up spoke a good old knight who was very faithful and loyal.\n\n\"Ay, my liege lord the king, but I will say one word to you,\" he\nsaid. \"There is no man in this country who will have the knight's\nlands as long as Robin can go or ride and carry bow in hand. If any\none try to possess them he will assuredly lose his head. Give them to\nno man, my lord, to whom you wish any good.\"\n\nThe king dwelt for many months in Nottingham, but no man came to claim\nthe knight's lands, nor could he ever hear of Robin Hood in what part\nof the country he might be. But always Robin went freely here and\nthere, roving wherever he chose over hill and valley, slaying the\nking's deer, and disposing of it at his will.\n\nThen a head forester, who was in close attendance on the king, spoke\nup, and said:\n\n\"If you would see good Robin you must do as I tell you. Take five of\nthe best knights that are in your train, and go down to yonder abbey,\nand get you monks' habits. I will be your guide to show you the way,\nand before you get back to Nottingham I dare wager my head that you\nwill meet with Robin if he be still alive. Before you come to\nNottingham you shall see him with your own eyes.\"\n\nThe king hastened to follow the forester's counsel; he and his five\nmonks went to the abbey, and speedily disguised themselves in the garb\nof monks, and then blithely returned home through the greenwood.\nTheir habits were grey; the king was a head taller than all the rest,\nand he wore a broad hat, just as if he were an abbot, and behind him\nfollowed his baggage-horse, and well-laden sumpters, and in this\nfashion they rode back to the town.\n\nThey had gone about a mile through the forest under the linden trees\nwhen they met with Robin Hood standing in the path with many of his\nbold archers.\n\n\"Sir abbot, by your leave, ye must bide awhile with us,\" said Robin,\nseizing the king's horse. \"We are yeomen of this forest, we live by\nthe king's deer, and we have no other means. But you have both\nchurches and rents, and full great plenty of gold; give us some of\nyour store for charity's sake.\"\n\n\"I brought no more than forty pounds with me to the greenwood,\" said\nthe pretended abbot. \"I have been staying at Nottingham for a\nfortnight with the king, and I have spent a great deal on many of the\nfine lords there. I have only forty pounds left, but if I had a\nhundred I would give it thee.\"\n\nRobin took the forty pounds, and divided it into two parts; half he\ngave to his men, and bade them be merry with it, and the other half he\nreturned to the king.\n\n\"Sir, have this for your spending,\" he said courteously. \"We shall\nmeet another day.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" said the king. \"But Edward our king greeteth you well; he\nsends thee here his seal, and bids thee come to Nottingham to dine and\nsup there.\"\n\nHe took out the broad seal, and let him see it, and Robin at the sight\nof it, knowing what was right and courteous, set him on his knee.\n\n\"I love no man in all the world so well as I do my king,\" he\nsaid. \"Welcome is my lord's seal, and welcome art thou, monk, because\nof thy tidings. Sir abbot, for love of my king thou shalt dine with\nme to-day under my trysting-tree.\"\n\nForth he led the king with all gentle courtesy, and many a deer was\nslain and hastily dressed for the feast. Then Robin took a great horn\nand blew a loud blast and seven score of stalwart young men came ready\nin a row, and knelt on their knee before Robin in sign of salutation.\n\n\"Here is a brave sight,\" said the king to himself. \"In good faith his\nmen are more at his bidding than mine are at mine.\"\n\nDinner was speedily prepared, and they went to it at once, and both\nRobin and Little John served the king with all their might. Good\nviands were quickly set before him--fat venison, fish out of the\nriver, good white bread, good red wine, and fine brown ale. The king\nswore he had never feasted better in his life.\n\nThen Robin took a can of ale, and bade every man drink a health to the\nking. The king himself drank to the king, and so the toast went round,\nand two barrels of strong old ale were spent in pledging that health.\n\n\"Make good cheer, abbot,\" said Robin, \"and for these same tidings thou\nhast brought thou art doubly welcome. Now before thou go hence thou\nshalt see what life we lead here in the greenwood, so that thou mayest\ninform the king when ye meet together.\"\n\nThe meal was scarcely over when up started all the outlaws in haste,\nand bows were smartly bent. For a moment the king was sorely aghast,\nfor he thought he would certainly be hurt. But no man intended ill to\nhim. Two rods were set up, and to them all the yeomen flocked to try\ntheir skill at archery. The king said the marks were too far away by\nfifty paces, but he had never seen shooting such as this. On each side\nof the rods was a rose garland, and all the yeomen had to shoot within\nthis circle. Whoever failed of the rose garland had as penalty to lose\nhis shooting gear, and to hand it to his master, however fine it might\nbe, and in addition to this he had to stand a good buffet on the\nhead. All that came in Robin's way he smote therewith right good will.\n\nWhen his own turn came Robin shot twice, and each time cleft the wand,\nso also did the good yeoman Gilbert. Little John and Will Scarlet did\nnot come off so well, and when they failed to hit within the garland\nthey each got a good buffet from Robin.\n\nBut at his last shot, in spite of the way in which his friends had\nfared, Robin, too, failed of the garland by three fingers or more.\n\n\"Master, your tackle is lost,\" said Gilbert. \"Stand forth and take\nyour pay.\"\n\n\"If it be so there is no help for it,\" said Robin. \"Sir abbot, I\ndeliver thee mine arrow; I pray thee, sir, serve thou me.\"\n\n\"It falleth not within my order, by thy leave, Robin, to smite any\ngood yeoman, for fear lest I grieve him,\" said the king.\n\n\"Smite on boldly; I give thee full leave,\" said Robin.\n\nThe king at these words at once folded back his sleeves, and gave\nRobin such a buffet that it nearly knocked him to the ground.\n\n\"By heaven, thou art a stalwart friar,\" cried Robin. \"There is pith in\nthine arm; I trow thou canst shoot well.\"\n\nThen King Edward and Robin Hood looked each other full in the face,\nand Robin Hood gazed wistfully at the king. So also did Sir Richard\nLee, and then he knelt down before him on his knee. And all the wild\noutlaws, when they saw Sir Richard Lee and Robin Hood kneeling before\nthe king, also knelt down.\n\n\"My lord the King of England, now I know you well,\" said Robin.\n\"Mercy, of thy goodness and thy grace, for my men and me! Yes, before\nheaven, I crave mercy, my lord the king, for me and for my men.\"\n\n\"Yes, I grant thee thy petition,\" said the king, \"if thou wilt leave\nthe greenwood, thou and all thy company, and come home with me, sir,\nto my court, and dwell with me there.\"\n\n\"I will swear a solemn vow that so it shall be,\" said Robin. \"I will\ncome to your court to see your service and bring with me seven score\nand three of my men. But unless I like well your service, I shall soon\ncome back to the forest, and shoot again at the dun deer, as I am wont\nto do.\"\n\n\n\n\nHOW ROBIN HOOD WENT BACK TO THE GREENWOOD\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\n\"Hast thou any good cloth that thou wilt sell to me now?\" said the\nking.\n\n\"Yes, three and thirty yards,\" said Robin.\n\n\"Then I pray thee, Robin, sell me some of it for me and my company.\"\n\n\"Yes, I will,\" said Robin. \"I should be a fool if I did not, for I\ntrow another day you will clothe me against Christmas.\"\n\nSo the king speedily cast off his coat, and donned a garment of green,\nand so did all his knights. When they were all clad in Lincoln green\nand had thrown aside their monks' grey habits, \"Now we will go to\nNottingham,\" said the king.\n\nThey bent their bows, and away they went, shooting in the same band,\nas if they were all outlaws. The king and Robin Hood rode together,\nand they shot \"pluck-buffet\" as they went by the way--that is to say,\nwhoever missed the mark at which he aimed was to receive a buffet from\nthe other; many a buffet the king won from Robin Hood, and good Robin\nspared nothing of his pay.\n\n\"Faith,\" said the king, \"thy game is not easy to learn; I should not\nget a shot at thee though I tried all this year.\"\n\nWhen they drew near Nottingham, all the people stood to behold them.\nThey saw nothing but mantles of green covering all the field; then\nevery man began saying to another: \"I dread our king is slain; if\nRobin Hood comes to the town, he will never leave one of us alive.\n\"They all hastened to make their escape, both men and lads, yeomen and\npeasants; the ploughman left the plough in the fields, the smith left\nhis shop, and old wives who could scarcely walk hobbled along on their\nstaves.\n\nThe king laughed loud and long to see the townsfolk scurry off in this\nfashion, and he commanded them to come back. He soon let them\nunderstand that he had been in the forest, and that from that day for\nevermore he had pardoned Robin Hood. When they found out the tall\noutlaw in the Lincoln green was really the king, they were overjoyed;\nthey danced and sang, and made great feasting and revelry for gladness\nat his safe return.\n\nThen King Edward called Sir Richard Lee, and there he gave him his\nlands again, and bade him be a good man. Sir Richard thanked the king,\nand paid homage to him as the true and loyal knight he had always\nbeen.\n\nSo Robin Hood went back to London with the king, and dwelt at court.\nBut before many months had gone he found all his money had melted\naway, and that he had nothing left. He had spent over a hundred pounds\nand now had not enough to pay the fees of his followers. For\neverywhere he went he had always been laying down money both for\nknights and squires, in order to win renown. When he could no longer\nafford to pay their fee, all the new retainers left him, and by the\nend of the year he had none but two still with him, and those were his\nown faithful old comrades, Little John and Will Scarlet.\n\nIt happened one day some young men of the court went out to shoot, and\nas Robin Hood stood with a sad heart to watch them, a sudden great\nlonging for his old life in the greenwood came over him.\n\n\"Alas!\" he sighed, \"my wealth has gone! Once on a time I too was a\nfamous archer, sure of eye and strong of hand; I was accounted the\nbest archer in merry England. Oh, to be back once more in the heart of\nthe greenwood, where the merry does are skipping, and the wind blows\nthrough the leaves of the linden, and little birds sit singing on\nevery bough! If I stay longer with the king, I shall die of sorrow!\"\n\nSo Robin Hood went and begged a boon of the king.\n\n\"My lord the King of England, grant me what I ask! I built a little\nchapel in Barnsdale, which is full seemly to see, and I would fain be\nthere once again. For seven nights past I have neither slept nor\nclosed my eyes, nor for all these seven days have I eaten or drunk. I\nhave a sore longing after Barnsdale; I cannot stay away. Barefoot and\ndoing penance will I go thither.\"\n\n\"If it be so, there is nothing better to be done,\" said the\nking. \"Seven nights--no longer--I give thee leave to dwell away from\nme.\"\n\nThanking the king, Robin Hood saluted him and took his leave full\ncourteously, and away he went to the greenwood.\n\nIt was a fair morning when he came to the forest. The sun shone, the\nsoft green turf was strewn with flowers that twinkled like stars, and\nall the air rang with the song of birds. The cloud of care and sorrow\nrolled away from Robin's spirit, and his heart danced as light as a\nleaf on the tree.\n\n\"It is long since I was here last,\" he said, as he looked around\nhim. \"I think I should like to shoot once more at the deer.\"\n\nHe fitted an arrow to his bow, and away it sped to its mark, and down\ndropped a fine fat hart. Then Robin blew his horn. And as the blast\nrang out, shrill and sweet and piercing, all the outlaws of the forest\nknew that Robin Hood had come again. Through the woodland they\ngathered together, and fast they came trooping, till in a little space\nof time seven score stalwart lads stood ready in order before Robin.\nThey took off their caps, and fell on their knee in salutation.\n\n\"Welcome, our master! Welcome, welcome back to the greenwood!\" they\nshouted.\n\n\n\n\nROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nIt happened one day when Robin Hood was in the forest that he saw a\njolly butcher with a fine mare, who was going to market to sell his\nmeat.\n\n\"Good morrow, good fellow, what food have you there?\" said Robin.\n\"Tell me what is your trade, and where you live, for I like the look\nof you.\"\n\n\"No matter where I live,\" answered the man. \"I am a butcher, and I am\ngoing to Nottingham to sell my flesh.\"\n\n\"What's the price of your flesh?\" said Robin. \"And tell me, too, the\nprice of your mare, however dear she may be, for I would fain be a\nbutcher.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'll soon tell you the price of my flesh,\" replied the butcher.\n\"For that, with my bonny mare, and they are not at all dear, you must\ngive me four marks.\"\n\nRobin Hood agreed at once to the bargain.\n\n\"I will give you four marks. Here is the money; come, count it, and\nhand me over the goods at once, for I want to be a butcher.\"\n\nSo the man took the money, and Robin took the mare and the cart of\nmeat, and went on to Nottingham to begin his new trade. He had a plan\nin his mind, and in order to carry it out he went to the sheriff's\nhouse, which was an inn, and took up his lodging there.\n\nWhen the butchers opened their shops Robin boldly opened his, but he\ndid not in the least know how to sell, for he had never done anything\nof the kind before. In spite of this, however, or rather because of\nit, while all the other butchers could sell no meat Robin had plenty\nof customers, and money came in quickly. The reason of this was that\nRobin gave more meat for one penny than others could do for\nthree. Robin therefore sold off his meat very fast, but none of the\nbutchers near could thrive.\n\nThis made them notice the stranger who was taking away all their\ncustom, and they began to wonder who he was, and where he came from.\n\"This must be surely some prodigal, who has sold his father's land,\nand is squandering away his money,\" they said to each other. They went\nup to Robin to get acquainted with him. \"Come, brother, we are all of\none trade,\" said one of them; \"will you go dine with us?\"\n\n\"By all means,\" answered Robin, \"I will go with you as fast as I can,\nmy brave comrades.\" So off they hastened to the sheriff's house, where\ndinner was served at once, and Robin was chosen to sit at the head of\nthe table and say grace.\n\n\"Come, fill us more wine; let us be merry while we are here,\" he\ncried. \"I'll pay the reckoning for the wine and good cheer however\ndear it may be. Come, brothers, be merry. I'll pay the score, I vow,\nbefore I go, if it costs me five pounds or more.\"\n\n\"This is a mad blade,\" said the butchers, but they laughed and made\nhaste to eat and drink well at Robin's expense.\n\nNow the sheriff, who was of a very shrewd and grasping nature, had not\nfailed to remark this handsome young butcher lad who was so very\nlavish of his money, and who sold his meat in the market so much\ncheaper than any one else. If there were good bargains to be made he\ndetermined to make his own profit out of them. \"He is some prodigal,\"\nhe said to himself, \"who has sold land, and now means to spend all the\nmoney he has got for it.\" If Robin were able to sell his meat so cheap\nit occurred to the sheriff that probably he possessed a great deal of\ncattle, and would most likely be ready to part with them for a very\nlow price. \"Hark'ee, good fellow, have you any horned beasts you can\nsell me?\" he asked in a lordly way.\n\n\"Yes, that I have, good master sheriff, two or three hundred,\"\nanswered Robin. \"And I have a hundred acres of good free land, if it\nwould please you to see it. I'll hand it over to you as securely as\never my father did to me.\"\n\nThe sheriff, quite pleased to think of the fine bargain he was likely\nto make, saddled his palfrey, and taking three hundred pounds in gold\nin his portmanteau, went off with Robin Hood to see his horned beasts.\nAway they rode till they came to the forest of Sherwood, and then the\nsheriff began to look about him in some alarm.\n\n\"God preserve us this day from a man they call Robin Hood,\" he said\nearnestly.\n\nWhen they had gone a little further Robin Hood chanced to spy a\nhundred head of good fat deer, who came tripping quite close.\n\n\"How like you my horned beasts, good master sheriff? They are fat and\nfair to see, are they not?\"\n\n\"I tell you, good fellow, I would I were gone, for I like not your\ncompany,\" said the sheriff, now very ill at ease.\n\nRobin set his horn to his mouth, and blew three blasts, and\nimmediately Little John and all his company came flocking up.\n\n\"What is your will, master?\" asked Little John.\n\n\"I have brought hither the Sheriff of Nottingham to dine with thee\nto-day.\"\n\n\"He is welcome,\" said Little John; \"I hope he will pay honestly. I\nknow he has gold enough, if it is properly reckoned, to serve us with\nwine for a whole day.\"\n\nRobin took off his mantle and laid it on the ground and from the\nsheriff's portmanteau he counted out three hundred pounds in gold.\nThen he led him through the forest, set him on his dapple-grey\npalfrey, and sent him back to his own home.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JOLLY TANNER\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nAbout this time there was living in Nottingham a jolly tanner whose\nname was Arthur-a-Bland. Never a squire in Nottingham could beat\nArthur, or bid him stand if he chose to go on. With a long pike-staff\non his shoulder he could clear his way so well he made every one fly\nbefore him.\n\nOne summer's morning Arthur-a-Bland went forth into Sherwood Forest to\nsee the deer, and there he met Robin Hood. As soon as Robin saw him he\nthought he would have some sport, so he called to him to stand.\n\n\"Why, who art thou, fellow, who rangest here so boldly?\" he said. \"In\nsooth, to be brief, thou lookst like a thief who comes to steal the\nking's venison. I am a keeper in the forest; the king puts me in trust\nto look after the deer. Therefore I must bid thee stand.\"\n\n\"If you be a keeper in this forest, and have so great authority,\"\nanswered the tanner, \"yet you must have plenty of helpers in store\nbefore you can make me stop.\"\n\n\"I have no helpers in store, nor do I need any. But I have good\nweapons which I know will do the deed.\"\n\n\"I don't care a straw for your sword or your bow, nor all your arrows\nto boot,\" said Arthur-a-Bland. \"If you get a knock on your pate, your\nweapons will be no good.\"\n\n\"Speak civilly, good fellow,\" said Robin, \"or else I will correct thee\nfor thy rudeness, and make thee more mannerly.\"\n\n\"Marry, see how you'll look with a knock on your head!\" quoth the\ntanner. \"Are you such a goodly man? I care not a rush for your looking\nso big. Look out for yourself, if you can.\"\n\nThen Robin Hood unbuckled his belt, and laid down his bow, and took up\na staff of oak, very stiff and strong.\n\n\"I yield to your weapons, since you will not yield to mine,\" said\nRobin. \"I, too, have a staff, not half a foot longer than yours. But\nlet me measure before we begin, for I would not have mine to be longer\nthan yours, for that would be counted foul play.\"\n\n\"The length of your staff is nothing to me,\" said the tanner. \"Mine is\nof good stout oak; it is eight feet and a half long, and it will knock\ndown a calf--and I hope it will knock down you.\"\n\nAt these rude and mocking words, Robin could not longer forbear, but\ngave the tanner such a crack on the head that the blood began to flow.\nArthur quickly recovered, and gave Robin in return such a knock that\nin a few minutes blood ran trickling down the side of his face. As\nsoon as he felt himself so badly hurt, Robin raged like a wild boar,\nwhile Arthur-a-Bland laid on so fast it was almost as if he were\ncleaving wood. Round about they went, like wild boars at bay, striving\nto maim each other in leg or arm or any place. Knock for knock they\ndealt lustily, so that the wood rang at every blow, and this they kept\nup for two hours or more.\n\nBut at last Robin was forced to own that he had met his match, and he\ncalled to the sturdy stranger to stay.\n\n\"Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, and let our quarrel drop!\" he cried.\n\"For we may thrash our bones all to smash here, and get no good out of\nit. Hold thy hand, and hereafter thou shalt be free in the merry\nforest of Sherwood.\"\n\n\"Thank you for nothing!\" retorted Arthur. \"I have bought my own\nfreedom. I may thank my good staff for this, and not you.\"\n\n\"What tradesman are you, good fellow, and where do you dwell?\"\n\n\"I am a tanner, and in Nottingham I have worked for many years. If you\nwill come there, I vow and protest I will tan your hide for nothing.\"\n\n\"Heaven have mercy, good fellow, since you are so kind and obliging,\"\nsaid Robin. \"If you will tan my hide for nothing, I'll do as much for\nyou. But come, if you will forsake your tanner's trade, to live here\nwith me in the greenwood, my name is Robin Hood, and I swear\nfaithfully to give you good gold and wages.\"\n\n\"If you are Robin Hood, as I think very well you are, then here's my\nhand,\" said the tanner. \"My name is Arthur-a-Bland. We two will never\npart. But tell me, where is Little John? I would fain hear of him,\nfor we are allied, through our mother's family, and he is my dear\nkinsman.\"\n\nThen Robin blew a loud, shrill blast on his bugle, and instantly\nLittle John came quickly tripping over the hill.\n\n\"Oh, what is the matter? Master, I pray you tell me!\" cried Little\nJohn. \"Why do you stand there with your staff in your hand? I fear all\nis not well.\"\n\n\"Yes, man, I do stand here, and this tanner beside me has made me\nstand,\" said Robin. \"He is a fine fellow, and master of his trade, for\nhe has soundly tanned my hide.\"\n\n\"He is to be commended if he can do such a feat,\" said Little\nJohn. \"If he is so sturdy, we will have a bout together, and he shall\ntan my hide too.\"\n\n\"Hold your hand,\" said Robin; \"for, as I understand he is a good\nyeoman of your own blood; his name is Arthur-a-Bland.\"\n\nThen Little John flung away his staff as far as he could, and running\nup to Arthur-a-Bland, threw his arms around his neck. Both were ready\nand eager to be friends, and made no attempt to hide their delight at\nthe meeting, but wept for joy. Then Robin Hood took a hand of each,\nand they danced all round the oak-tree, singing:\n\n  \"For three merry men, and three merry men,\n    And three merry men we be!\n\n  \"And ever hereafter, as long as we live,\n    We three will be as one;\n  The wood it shall ring, and the old wife sing,\n    Of Robin Hood, Arthur, and John.\"\n\n\n\n\nHOW ROBIN HOOD DREW HIS BOW FOR THE LAST TIME\n\nRetold by Mary Macleod\n\n\nBut there came a day at last when Robin Hood had to bid farewell to\nthe greenwood where he and his merry men had spent so many happy\nyears. Word was sent to the king that the outlaws waxed more and more\ninsolent to his nobles and all those in authority, and that unless\ntheir pride was quelled the land would be overrun.\n\nA council of state was therefore called, to consider what was best to\nbe done. Having consulted a whole summer's day, at length it was\nagreed that some one should be sent to seize Robin Hood and bring him\nbefore the king.\n\nA trusty and most worthy knight, called Sir William, was chosen for\nthis task.\n\n\"Go you hence to that insolent outlaw, Robin Hood,\" said the king,\n\"and bid him surrender himself without more ado, or he and all his\ncrew shall suffer. Take a hundred valiant bowmen, all chosen men of\nmight, skilled in their art, and clad in glittering armour.\"\n\n\"My sovereign liege, it shall be done,\" said the knight. \"I'll venture\nmy blood against Robin Hood, and bring him alive or dead.\"\n\nA hundred men were straightway chosen, as proper men as were ever\nseen, and on midsummer day they marched forth to conquer the bold\noutlaw.\n\nWith long yew-bows and shining spears they marched in pomp and pride,\nand they never halted nor delayed till they came to the forest.\n\n\"Tarry here, and make ready your bows, that in case of need you may\nfollow me,\" said the knight to his archers. \"And look you observe my\ncall. I will go first, in person, with the letters of our good king,\nduly signed and sealed, and if Robin Hood will surrender we need not\ndraw a string.\"\n\nThe knight wandered about the forest, till at length he came to the\ntent of Robin Hood. He greeted the outlaw, and showed him the king's\nletter, whereupon Robin sprang to his feet and stood on guard.\n\n\"They would have me surrender, then, and lie at their mercy?\" quoth\nRobin. \"Tell them from me that shall never be while I have seven score\nof good men.\"\n\nSir William, who was a bold and hardy knight, made an attempt to seize\nRobin then and there, but Robin was too quick to be caught, and bade\nhim forbear such tricks. Then he set his horn to his mouth, and blew a\nblast or two; the knight did the same.\n\nInstantly from all sides archers came running, some for Robin Hood,\nsome for the knight.\n\nSir William drew up his men with care, and placed them in battle\narray. Robin Hood was no whit behind with his yeomen. The fray was\nstern and bloody. The archers on both sides bent their bows, and\narrows flew in clouds. In the very first flight the gallant knight,\nSir William, was slain; but nevertheless the fight went on with fury,\nand lasted from morning until almost noon. They fought till both\nparties were spent, and only ceased when neither side had strength to\ngo on. Those of the king's archers that still remained went back to\nLondon with right good will, and Robin Hood's men retreated to the\ndepths of the greenwood.\n\nBut Robin Hood's last fight was fought, and of all the arrows that\never he shot, there was but one yet to fly. As he left the field of\nbattle he was taken ill, and he felt his strength fail, and the fever\nrise in his veins.\n\nHis life was ebbing fast away, and now he was too weak to go on.\n\nThen he remembered his little bugle-horn, which still hung at his\nside, and setting it to his mouth, he blew once, twice, and again--a\nlow, weak blast.\n\nAway in the greenwood, as he sat under a tree, Little John heard the\nwell-known call, but so faint and feeble was the sound it struck like\nice to his heart.\n\n\"I fear my master is near dead, he blows so wearily!\"\n\nNever after hart or hind ran Little John as he ran that day to answer\nhis master's dying call. He raced like the wind till he came to where\nRobin was, and fell on his knee before him.\n\n\"Give me my bent bow in my hand,\" said Robin Hood, \"and I will let fly\na broad arrow, and where this arrow is taken up, there shall you dig\nmy grave.\n\n  \"Lay me a green sod under my head,\n     And another at my feet;\n   And lay my bent bow at my side,\n     Which was my music sweet;\n   And make my grave of gravel and green,\n     Which is most right and meet.\"\n\nSo Robin Hood drew his bow for the last time, and there where the\narrow fell, under a clump of the greenwood trees, they dug the grave\nas he had said, and buried him.\n\n\n\n\nDON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA\n\n\nThis masterpiece of humor was first published in 1605, and is, of\ncourse, a work of fiction. It is unsurpassed as a picture of Spanish\nlife.\n\nMillions have laughed over the adventures of that upright,\nunconquered, unafraid Don Quixote, the wisest of madmen.\n\nCervantes set out to make fun of the romances of chivalry, which had\nbecome ridiculous because of their extravagance, but while writing the\nbook he fell in love with Don Quixote for wanting to be a chivalrous\nknight, and with Sancho Panza for wanting to be a loyal squire, and it\nis this love for them that he makes us see on every page.\n\nThe condensed version of the stories, by Judge Parry, well preserves\nthe flavor of the best translation, Thomas Shelton's.\n\n\n\n\nAN INTRODUCTION TO THAT SPANISH GENTLEMAN\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nOnce upon a time there lived in a certain village in a province of\nSpain called the Mancha, a gentleman named Quixada or Queseda, whose\nhouse was full of old lances, halberds, and other weapons. He was,\nbesides, the owner of an ancient target or shield, a raw-boned steed,\nand a swift greyhound. His food consisted daily of common meats, some\nlentils on Fridays, and perhaps a roast pigeon for Sunday's\ndinner. His dress was a black suit with velvet breeches, and slippers\nof the same colour, which he kept for holidays, and a suit of homespun\nwhich he wore on week-days.\n\nOn the purchase of these few things he spent the small rents that came\nto him every year. He had in his house a woman-servant about forty\nyears old, a niece not yet twenty, and a lad that served him both in\nfield and at home, and could saddle his horse or manage a\npruning-hook.\n\nThe master himself was about fifty years old, a strong, hard-featured\nman with a withered face. He was an early riser, and had once been\nvery fond of hunting. But now for a great portion of the year he\napplied himself wholly to reading the old books of knighthood, and\nthis with such keen delight that he forgot all about the pleasures of\nthe chase, and neglected all household matters. His mania and folly\ngrew to such a pitch that he sold many acres of his lands to buy books\nof the exploits and adventures of the knights of old. These he took\nfor true and correct histories, and when his friends the curate of the\nvillage, or Mr. Nicholas the worthy barber of the town, came to see\nhim, he would dispute with them as to which of the knights of romance\nhad done the greatest deeds.\n\nSo eagerly did he plunge into the reading of these books that he many\ntimes spent whole days and nights poring over them; and in the end,\nthrough little sleep and much reading, his brain became tired, and he\nfairly lost his wits. His fancy was filled with those things that he\nread, of enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings,\nloves, tempests, and other impossible follies, and those romantic\ntales so firmly took hold of him that he believed no history to be so\ntruthful and sincere as they were.\n\nFinally he was seized with one of the strangest whims that ever madman\nstumbled on in this world, for it seemed to him right and necessary\nthat he himself should become a knight-errant, and ride through the\nworld to seek adventures and practise in person all that he had read\nabout the knights of old. Therefore he resolved that he would make a\nname for himself by revenging the injuries of others, and courting all\nmanner of dangers and difficulties, until in the end he should be\nrewarded for his valour in arms by the crown of some mighty\nempire. And first of all he caused certain old rusty arms that\nbelonged to his great-grandfather, and had lain for many years\nneglected and forgotten in a corner of his house, to be brought out\nand well scoured. He fixed them up as well as he could, and then saw\nthat they had something wanting, for instead of a proper helmet they\nhad only a morion or headpiece, like a steel bonnet without any\nvisor. This his industry supplied, for he made a visor for his helmet\nby patching and pasting certain papers together, and this pasteboard\nfitted to the morion gave it all the appearance of a real helmet.\nThen, to make sure that it was strong enough, he out with his sword\nand gave it a blow or two, and with the very first blow he spoiled\nthat which had cost him a week to make. To make things better he\nplaced certain iron bars within it, and feeling sure it was now sound\nand strong, he did not put it to a second trial.\n\nHe next examined his horse, who though he had nothing on him but skin\nand bone, yet he seemed to him a better steed than Bucephalus, the\nnoble animal that carried Alexander the Great when he went to\nbattle. He spent four days inventing a name for his horse, saying to\nhimself that it was not fit that so famous a knight's horse, and so\ngood a beast, should want a known name. Therefore he tried to find a\nname that should both give people some notion of what he had been\nbefore he was the steed of a knight-errant, and also what he now was;\nfor, seeing that his lord and master was going to change his calling,\nit was only right that his horse should have a new name, famous and\nhigh-sounding, and worthy of his new position in life. And after\nhaving chosen, made up, put aside, and thrown over any number of names\nas not coming up to his idea, he finally hit upon Rozinante, a name in\nhis opinion sublime and well-sounding, expressing in a word what he\nhad been when he was a simple carriage horse, arid what was expected\nof him in his new dignity.\n\nThe name being thus given to his horse, he made up his mind to give\nhimself a name also, and in that thought laboured another eight\ndays. Finally he determined to call himself Don Quixote, and\nremembering that the great knights of olden time were not satisfied\nwith a mere dry name, but added to it the name of their kingdom or\ncountry, so he like a good knight added to his own that of his\nprovince, and called himself Don Quixote of the Mancha, whereby he\ndeclared his birthplace and did honour to his country by taking it for\nhis surname.\n\nHis armour being scoured, his morion transformed into a helmet, his\nhorse named, and himself furnished with a new name, he considered that\nnow he wanted nothing but a lady on whom he might bestow his service\nand affection. \"For,\" he said to himself, remembering what he had read\nin the books of knightly adventures, \"if I should by good hap\nencounter with some giant, as knights-errant ordinarily do, and if I\nshould overthrow him with one blow to the ground, or cut him with a\nstroke in two halves, or finally overcome and make him yield to me, it\nwould be only right and proper that I should have some lady to whom I\nmight present him. Then would he, entering my sweet lady's presence,\nsay unto her with a humble and submissive voice: 'Madam, I am the\nGiant Caraculiambro, lord of the island called Malindrania, whom the\nnever-too-much-praised knight Don Quixote of the Mancha hath overcome\nin single combat. He hath commanded me to present myself to your\ngreatness, that it may please your highness to dispose of me according\nto your liking.\"\n\nYou may believe that the heart of the knight danced for joy when he\nmade that grand speech, and he was even more pleased when he had found\nout one whom he might call his lady. For, they say, there lived in the\nnext village to his own a hale, buxom country girl with whom he was\nsometime in love, though for the matter of that she had never known of\nit or taken any notice of him whatever. She was called Aldonca\nLorenso, and her he thought fittest to honour as the Lady of his\nFancy. Then he began to search about in his mind for a name that\nshould not vary too much from her own, but should at the same time\nshow people that she was a princess or lady of quality. Thus it was\nthat he called her Dulcinea of Toboso, a name sufficiently strange,\nromantic, and musical for the lady of so brave a knight. And now,\nhaving taken to himself both armour, horse, and lady fair, he was\nready to go forth and seek adventures.\n\n\n\n\nHE SETS FORTH ON HIS ADVENTURES\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nAll his preparations being made, he could no longer resist the desire\nof carrying out his plans, his head being full of the wrongs he\nintended to put right, and the evil deeds he felt called upon to\npunish. Without telling any living creature, and unseen of anybody,\nsomewhat before daybreak--it being one of the warmest days in July--he\narmed himself from head to foot, mounted on Rozinante, laced on his\nstrange helmet, gathered up his target, seized his lance, and through\nthe back door of his yard sallied forth into the fields, marvellously\ncheerful and content to see how easily he had started on his new\ncareer. But scarcely was he clear of the village when he was struck by\na terrible thought, and one which did well-nigh overthrow all his\nplans. For he recollected that he had never been knighted, and\ntherefore, according to the laws of knighthood, neither could he nor\nought he to combat with any knight. And even if he were a knight, he\nremembered to have read that as a new knight he ought to wear white\narmour without any device upon his shield until he should win it by\nforce of arms.\n\nHe journeyed all that day, and at night both he and his horse were\ntired and hungry, and looking about him on every side to see whether\nhe could discover any castle to which he might retire for the night,\nhe saw an inn near the highway, which was as welcome a sight to him as\nif he had seen a guiding star. Spurring his horse he rode towards it\nand arrived there about nightfall.\n\nThere stood by chance at the inn door two jolly peasant women who were\ntravelling towards Seville with some carriers, who happened to take up\ntheir lodging in that inn the same evening. And as our knight-errant\nbelieved all that he saw or heard to take place in the same manner as\nhe had read in his books, he no sooner saw the inn than he fancied it\nto be a castle with four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, with\na drawbridge, a deep moat, and all such things as belong to grand\ncastles. Drawing slowly towards it, he checked Rozinante with the\nbridle when he was close to the inn, and rested awhile to see if any\ndwarf would mount on the battlements to give warning with the sound of\na trumpet how some knight did approach the castle; but seeing they\nstayed so long, and Rozinante was eager to get to his stable, he went\nto the inn door, and there beheld the two women, whom he supposed to\nbe two beautiful damsels or lovely ladies. At that moment it happened\nthat a certain swineherd, as he gathered together his hogs, blew the\nhorn which was used to call them together, and at once Don Quixote\nimagined it was some dwarf who gave notice of his arrival; and he rode\nup to the inn door with marvellous delight. The ladies, when they\nbeheld one armed in that manner with lance and target, made haste to\nrun into the inn; but Don Quixote, seeing their fear by their flight,\nlifted up his pasteboard visor, showed his withered and dusky face,\nand spoke to them thus: \"Let not your ladyships fly nor fear any harm,\nfor it does not belong to the order of knighthood which I profess to\nwrong anybody, much less such high-born damsels as your appearance\nshows you to be.\"\n\nThe women looked at him very earnestly, and sought with their eyes for\nhis face, which the ill-fashioned helmet concealed; but when they\nheard themselves called high-born damsels, they could not contain\ntheir laughter, which was so loud that Don Quixote was quite ashamed\nof them and rebuked them, saying: \"Modesty is a comedy ornament of the\nbeautiful, and too much laughter springing from trifles is great\nfolly; but I do not tell you this to make you the more ashamed, for my\ndesire is none other than to do you all the honour and service I may.\"\n\nThis speech merely increased their laughter, and with it his anger,\nwhich would have passed all bounds if the innkeeper had not come out\nat this instant. Now this innkeeper was a man of exceeding fatness,\nand therefore, as some think, of a very peaceable disposition; and\nwhen he saw that strange figure, armed in such fantastic armour, he\nwas very nearly keeping the two women company in their merriment and\nlaughter. But being afraid of the owner of such a lance and target, he\nresolved to behave civilly for fear of what might happen, and thus\naddressed him: \"Sir knight! if your worship do seek for lodging, we\nhave no bed at liberty, but you shall find all other things in\nabundance.\"\n\nTo which Don Quixote, noting the humility of the constable of the\ncastle--for such he took him to be--replied: \"Anything, sir constable,\nmay serve me, for my arms are my dress, and the battlefield is my\nbed.\"\n\nWhile he was speaking, the innkeeper laid hand on Don Quixote's\nstirrup and helped him to alight. This he did with great difficulty\nand pain, for he had not eaten a crumb all that day. He then bade the\ninnkeeper have special care of his horse, saying he was one of the\nbest animals that ever ate bread.\n\nThe innkeeper looked at Rozinante again and again, but he did not seem\nto him half so good as Don Quixote valued him. However, he led him\ncivilly to the stable, and returned to find his guest in the hands of\nthe high-born damsels, who were helping him off with his armour. They\nhad taken off his back and breast plates, but they could in no way get\nhis head and neck out of the strange, ill-fashioned helmet which he\nhad fastened on with green ribands.\n\nNow these knots were so impossible to untie that the women would have\ncut them, but this Don Quixote would not agree to. Therefore he\nremained all the night with his helmet on, and looked the drollest and\nstrangest figure you could imagine. And he was now so pleased with\nthe women, whom he still took to be ladies and dames of the castle,\nthat he said to them: \"Never was knight so well attended on and served\nby ladies as was Don Quixote. When he departed from his village,\ndamsels attended on him and princesses on his horse. O ladies!\nRozinante is the name of my steed, and I am called Don Quixote, and\nthe time shall come when your ladyships may command me and I obey, and\nthen the valour of mine arm shall discover the desire I have to do you\nservice.\"\n\nThe women could make nothing of his talk, but asked him if he would\neat, and Don Quixote replying that such was his desire, there was\nstraightway laid a table at the inn door. The host brought out a\nportion of badly boiled haddocks, and a black, greasy loaf, which was\nall the inn could supply. But the manner of Don Quixote's eating was\nthe best sport in the world, for with his helmet on he could put\nnothing into his mouth himself if others did not help him to find his\nway, and therefore one of the women served his turn at that, and\nhelped to feed him. But they could not give him drink after that\nmanner, and he would have remained dry for ever if the innkeeper had\nnot bored a cane, and putting one end in his mouth, poured the wine\ndown the other. And all this he suffered rather than cut the ribands\nof his helmet.\n\nAnd as he sat at supper the swineherd again sounded his horn, and Don\nQuixote was still firm in the belief that he was in some famous\ncastle, where he was served with music, and that the stale haddock was\nfresh trout, the bread of the finest flour, the two women high-born\ndamsels, and the innkeeper the constable of the castle. Thus he\nthought his career of knight-errant was well begun, but he was still\ngreatly troubled by the thought that he was not yet dubbed knight, and\ncould not therefore rightly follow his adventures until he received\nthe honour of knighthood.\n\n\n\n\nTHE KNIGHTING OF DON QUIXOTE\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nWhen he had finished his sorry supper, he took his host with him to\nthe stable, and shutting the door threw himself down upon his knees\nbefore him, saying: \"I will never rise from this place where I am. sir\nconstable, until your courtesy shall grant unto me a boon that I mean\nto demand of you, something which will add to your renown and to the\nprofit of all the human race.\"\n\nThe innkeeper, seeing his guest at his feet, and hearing him speak\nthese words, stood confounded at the sight, not knowing what he would\nsay or do next, and tried to make him arise. But all was in vain until\nhe had promised him that he would grant him any gift that he sought at\nhis hands.\n\n\"Signor,\" said Don Quixote, rising from his knees, \"I did never expect\nless from your great magnificence, and now I will tell you that the\nboon which I demanded of you, and which you have so generously\ngranted, is that to-morrow in the morning you will dub me knight. This\nnight I will watch mine armour in the chapel of your castle, and in\nthe morning, as I have said, the rest of my desires shall be\nfulfilled, that I may set out in a proper manner throughout the four\nparts of the world to seek adventures to the benefit of the poor and:\nneedy, as is the duty of knighthood and of knights-errant.\"\n\nThe innkeeper, who was a bit of a jester, and had before thought that\nthe wits of his guest were none of the best, was sure that his\nsuspicions were true when he heard him speak in this manner. And in\norder to enjoy a joke at his expense, he resolved to fall in with his\nhumour, and told him that there was great reason in what he desired,\nwhich was only natural and proper in a knight of such worth as he\nseemed to be. He added further that there was no chapel in his castle\nwhere he might watch his arms, for he had broken it down to build it\nup anew. But, nevertheless, he knew well that in a case of necessity\nthey might be watched in any other place, and therefore he might watch\nthem that night in the lower court of the castle, where in the morning\nhe, the innkeeper, would perform all the proper ceremonies, so that he\nshould be made not only a dubbed knight, but such a one as should not\nhave an equal in the whole universe.\n\nThe innkeeper now gave orders that Don Quixote should watch his armour\nin a great yard near one side of the inn, so he gathered together all\nhis arms, laid them on a cistern near a well, and buckling on his\ntarget he laid hold of his lance and walked up and down before the\ncistern very demurely, until night came down upon the scene.\n\nIn the meantime the roguish innkeeper told all the rest that lodged in\nthe inn of the folly of his guest, the watching of his arms, and the\nknighthood which he expected to receive. They all wondered very much\nat so strange a kind of folly, and going out to behold him from a\ndistance, they saw that sometimes he marched to and fro with a quiet\ngesture, other times leaning upon his lance he looked upon his armour\nfor a good space of time without beholding any other thing save his\narms.\n\nAlthough it was now night, yet was the moon so clear that everything\nwhich the knight did was easily seen by all beholders. And now one of\nthe carriers that lodged in the inn resolved to give his mules some\nwater, and for that purpose it was necessary to move Don Quixote's\narmour that lay on the cistern.\n\nSeeing the carrier approach, Don Quixote called to him in a loud\nvoice: \"O thou, whosoever thou art, bold knight, who dares to touch\nthe armour of the bravest adventurer that ever girded sword, look well\nwhat thou doest, and touch them not if thou meanest not to leave thy\nlife in payment for thy meddling!\"\n\nThe carrier took no notice of these words, though it were better for\nhim if he had, but laying hold of the armour threw it piece by piece\ninto the middle of the yard.\n\nWhen Don Quixote saw this, he lifted up his eyes towards heaven, and\naddressing his thoughts, as it seemed, to his Lady Dulcinea, he said:\n\"Assist me, dear lady, in this insult offered to thy vassal, and let\nnot thy favour and protection fail me in this my first adventure!\"\n\nUttering these and other such words, he let slip his target or shield,\nand lifting up his lance with both hands he gave the carrier so round\na knock on his head that it threw him to the ground, and if he had\ncaught him a second he would not have needed any surgeon to cure\nhim. This done, he gathered up his armour again, and laying the pieces\nwhere they had been before, he began walking up and down near them\nwith as much quietness as he did at first.\n\nSoon afterwards another carrier, without knowing what had happened\n(for his companion still lay on the ground), came also to give his\nmules water, and started to take away the armour to get at the\ncistern, Don Quixote let slip again his target, and lifting his lance\nbrought it down on the carrier's head, which he broke in several\nplaces.\n\nAll the people in the inn, and amongst them the innkeeper, came\nrunning out when they heard the noise, and Don Quixote seeing them\nseized his target, and, drawing his sword, cried aloud: \"O lady of all\nbeauty, now, if ever, is the time for thee to turn the eyes of thy\ngreatness on thy captive knight who is on the eve of so marvellous\ngreat an adventure.\"\n\nSaying this seemed to fill him with so great a courage, that if he had\nbeen assaulted by all the carriers in the universe he would not have\nretreated one step.\n\nThe companions of the wounded men, seeing their fellows in so evil a\nplight, began to rain stones on Don Quixote from a distance, who\ndefended himself as well as he might with his target, and durst not\nleave the cistern lest he should appear to abandon his arms.\n\nThe innkeeper cried to them to let him alone, for he had already told\nthem that he was mad. But Don Quixote cried out louder than the\ninnkeeper, calling them all disloyal men and traitors, and that the\nlord of the castle was a treacherous and bad knight to allow them to\nuse a knight-errant so basely; and if he had only received the order\nof knighthood he would have punished him soundly for his treason. Then\ncalling to the carriers he said: \"As for you, base and rascally\nruffians, you are beneath my notice. Throw at me, approach, draw near\nand do me all the hurt you may, for you shall ere long receive the\nreward of your insolence.\"\n\nThese words, which he spoke with great spirit and boldness, struck a\nterrible fear into all those who assaulted him, and, partly moved by\nhis threats and partly persuaded by the innkeeper, they left off\nthrowing stones at him, and he allowed them to carry away the wounded\nmen, while he returned to his watch with great quietness and gravity.\n\nThe innkeeper did not very much like Don Quixote's pranks, and\ntherefore determined to shorten the ceremony and give him the order of\nknighthood at once before any one else was injured. Approaching him,\ntherefore, he made apologies for the insolence of the base fellows who\nhad thrown stones at him, and explained that it was not with his\nconsent, and that he thought them well punished for their\nimpudence. He added that it was not necessary for Don Quixote to watch\nhis armour any more, because the chief point of being knighted was to\nreceive the stroke of the sword on the neck and shoulder, and that\nceremony he was ready to perform at once.\n\nAll this Don Quixote readily believed, and answered that he was most\neager to obey him, and requested him to finish everything as speedily\nas possible. For, he said, as soon as he was knighted, if he was\nassaulted again, he intended not to leave one person alive in all the\ncastle, except those which the constable should command, whom he would\nspare for his sake.\n\nThe innkeeper, alarmed at what he said, and fearing lest he should\ncarry out his threat, set about the ceremony without delay. He brought\nout his day-book, in which he wrote down the accounts of the hay and\nstraw which he sold to carriers who came to the inn, and attended by a\nsmall boy holding the end of a candle and walking before him, and\nfollowed by the two women who were staying at the inn, he approached\nDon Quixote, He solemnly commanded him to kneel upon his knees, while\nhe mumbled something which he pretended to read out of the book that\nhe held in his hand. Then he gave him a good blow on the neck, and\nafter that another sound thwack over the shoulders with his own sword,\nalways as he did so continuing to mumble and murmur as though he were\nreading something out of his book. This being done, he commanded one\nof the damsels to gird on his sword, which she did with much grace and\ncleverness. And it was with difficulty that they all kept from\nlaughing during this absurd ceremony, but what they had already seen\nof Don Quixote's fury made them careful not to annoy him even by a\nsmile.\n\nWhen she had girded on his sword, the damsel said: \"May you be a\nfortunate knight, and meet with good success in all your adventures.\"\n\nDon Quixote asked her how she was called, that he might know to whom\nhe was obliged for the favours he had received. She answered with\ngreat humility that she was named Tolosa, and was a butcher's daughter\nof Toledo. Don Quixote replied requesting her to call herself from\nhenceforth the Lady Tolosa, which she promised to perform. The other\ndamsel buckled on his spurs, and when Don Quixote asked her name she\ntold him it was Molinera, and that she was daughter of an honest\nmiller of Antequera. Don Quixote entreated her also to call herself\nLady Molinera, and offered her new services and favours.\n\nThese strange and never-before-seen ceremonies being ended, Don\nQuixote could not rest until he was mounted on horseback that he might\ngo to seek adventures. He therefore caused Rozinante to be instantly\nsaddled, leaped on his back, and embracing the innkeeper, thanked him\nin a thousand wild and ridiculous ways for the great favour he had\ndone him in dubbing him knight. The innkeeper, who was only eager to\nbe rid of him without delay, answered him in the same fashion, and let\nhim march off without demanding from him a single farthing for his\nfood or lodging.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREADFUL ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nDon Quixote persuaded a certain labourer, his neighbour, an honest\nman, but one of very shallow wit, to go away with him and serve him as\nsquire. In the end he gave him so many fair words and promises that\nthe poor fellow determined to go with him. Don Quixote, among other\nthings, told him that he ought to be very pleased to depart with him,\nfor at some time or other an adventure might befall which should in\nthe twinkling of an eye win him an island and leave him governor\nthereof. On the faith of these and other like promises, Sancho Panza\n(for so he was called) forsook his wife and children and took service\nas squire to his neighbour.\n\nWhilst they were journeying along, Sancho Panza said to his master: \"I\npray you have good care, sir knight, that you forget not that\ngovernment of the island which you have promised me, for I shall be\nable to govern it be it never so great.\"\n\nAnd Don Quixote replied: \"Thou must understand, friend Sancho, that it\nwas a custom very much used by the ancient knights-errant, to make\ntheir squires governors of the islands and kingdoms they conquered,\nand I am resolved that so good a custom shall be kept up by me. And if\nthou livest and I live it may well be that I might conquer a kingdom\nwithin six days, and crown thee king of it.\"\n\n\"By the same token,\" said Sancho Panza, \"if I were a king, then should\nJoan my wife become a queen and my children princes?\"\n\n\"Who doubts of that?\" said Don Quixote.\n\n\"That do I,\" replied Sancho Panza, \"for I am fully persuaded that\nthough it rained kingdoms down upon the earth, none of them would sit\nwell on my wife Joan. She is not worth a farthing for a queen. She\nmight scrape through as a countess, but I have my doubts of that.\"\n\nAs they were talking, they caught sight of some thirty or forty\nwindmills on a plain. As soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his\nsquire: \"Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could\ndesire. For behold, friend Sancho, how there appear thirty or forty\nmonstrous giants with whom I mean to do battle, and take all their\nlives. With their spoils we will begin to be rich, for this is fair\nwar, and it is doing great service to clear away these evil fellows\nfrom off the face of the earth.\"\n\n\"What giants?\" said Sancho amazed.\n\n\"Those thou seest there,\" replied his master, \"with the long arms.\"\n\n\"Take care, sir,\" cried Sancho, \"for those we see yonder are not\ngiants but windmills, and those things which seem to be arms are their\nsails, which being whirled round by the wind make the mill go.\"\n\n\"It is clear,\" answered Don Quixote, \"that thou art not yet\nexperienced in the matter of adventures. They are giants, and if thou\nart afraid, get thee away home, whilst I enter into cruel and unequal\nbattle with them.\"\n\nSo saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, without heeding the cries by\nwhich Sancho Panza warned him that he was going to encounter not\ngiants but windmills. For he would neither listen to Sancho's\noutcries, nor mark what he said, but shouted to the windmills in a\nloud voice: \"Fly not, cowards and vile creatures, for it is only one\nknight that assaults you!\"\n\nA slight breeze having sprung up at this moment, the great sail-arms\nbegan to move, on seeing which Don Quixote shouted out again:\n\"Although you should wield more arms than had the giant Briareus, I\nshall make you pay for your insolence!\"\n\nSaying this, and commending himself most devoutly to his Lady\nDulcinea, whom he desired to aid him in this peril, covering himself\nwith his buckler, and setting his lance in rest, he charged at\nRozinante's best gallop, and attacked the first mill before\nhim. Thrusting his lance through the sail, the wind turned it with\nsuch violence that it broke his weapon into shivers, carrying him and\nhis horse after it, and having whirled them round, finally tumbled the\nknight a good way off, and rolled him over the plain, sorely damaged.\n\nSancho Panza hastened to help him as fast as his ass could go, and\nwhen he came up he found the knight unable to stir, such a shock had\nRozinante given him in the fall.\n\n\"Bless me,\" said Sancho, \"did I not tell you that you should look well\nwhat you did, for they were windmills, nor could any think otherwise\nunless he had windmills in his brains!\"\n\n\"Peace, friend Sancho,\" said Don Quixote, \"for the things of war are\nconstantly changing, and I think this must be the work of the same\nsage Freston who robbed me of my library and books, and he hath\nchanged these giants into windmills to take from me the glory of the\nvictory. But in the end his evil arts shall avail but little against\nthe goodness of my sword.\"\n\n\"May it prove so,\" said Sancho, as he helped his master to rise and\nremount Rozinante, who, poor steed, was himself much bruised by the\nfall.\n\nThe next day they journeyed along towards the Pass of Lapice, a\nromantic spot, at which they arrived about three o'clock in the\nafternoon.\n\n\"Here,\" said Don Quixote to his squire, \"we may hope to dip our hands\nup to the elbows in what are called adventures. But take note of this,\nthat although thou seest me in the greatest dangers of the world, thou\nart not to set hand to thy sword in my defence, unless those who\nassault me be base or vulgar people. If they be knights thou mayest\nnot help me.\"\n\n\"I do assure you, sir,\" said Sancho, \"that herein you shall be most\npunctually obeyed, because I am by nature a quiet and peaceful man,\nand have a strong dislike to thrusting myself into quarrels.\"\n\nWhilst they spoke thus, two friars of the order of St. Benedict,\nmounted on large mules--big enough to be dromedaries--appeared coming\nalong the road. They wore travelling masks to keep the dust out of\ntheir eyes and carried large sun umbrellas. After them came a coach\nwith four or five a-horseback travelling with it, and two lackeys ran\nhard by it. In the coach was a Biscayan lady who was going to\nSeville. The friars were not of her company, though all were going the\nsame way.\n\nScarcely had Don Quixote espied them than he exclaimed to his squire:\n\"Either I much mistake, or this should be the most famous adventure\nthat hath ever been seen; for those dark forms that loom yonder are\ndoubtless enchanters who are carrying off in that coach some princess\nthey have stolen. Therefore I must with all my power undo this\nwrong.\"\n\n\"This will be worse than the adventure of the windmills,\" said\nSancho. \"Do you not see that they are Benedictine friars, and the\ncoach will belong to some people travelling?\"\n\n\"I have told thee already, Sancho,\" answered Don Quixote, \"that thou\nart very ignorant in the matter of adventures. What I say is true, as\nthou shalt see.\"\n\nSo saying he spurred on his horse, and posted himself in the middle of\nthe road along which the friars were coming, and when they were near\nenough to hear him he exclaimed in a loud voice: \"Monstrous and\nhorrible crew! Surrender this instant those exalted princesses, whom\nyou are carrying away in that coach, or prepare to receive instant\ndeath as a just punishment of your wicked deeds.\"\n\nThe friars drew rein, and stood amazed at the figure and words of Don\nQuixote, to whom they replied: \"Sir knight, we are neither monstrous\nnor wicked, but two religious men, Benedictines, travelling about our\nbusiness, and we know nothing about this coach or about any\nprincesses.\"\n\n\"No soft words for me,\" cried Don Quixote, \"for I know you well,\ntreacherous knaves.\"\n\nAnd without waiting for their reply he set spurs to Rozinante; and\nlaying his lance on his thigh, charged at the first friar with such\nfury and rage, that if he had not leaped from his mule he would have\nbeen slain, or at least, badly wounded.\n\nThe second friar, seeing the way his companion was treated, made no\nwords but fled across the country swifter than the wind itself.\n\nSancho Panza, on seeing the friar overthrown, dismounted very speedily\noff his ass and ran over to him, and would have stripped him of his\nclothes, But two of the friars' servants came up and asked him why he\nwas thus despoiling their master. Sancho replied that it was his due\nby the law of arms, as lawful spoils gained in battle by his lord and\nmaster, Don Quixote.\n\nThe lackeys, who knew nothing of battles or spoils, seeing that Don\nQuixote was now out of the way, speaking with those that were in the\ncoach, set both at once upon Sancho and threw him down, plucked every\nhair out of his beard and kicked and mauled him without mercy, leaving\nhim at last stretched on the ground senseless and breathless.\n\nAs for the friar, he mounted again, trembling and terror-stricken, all\nthe colour having fled from his face, and spurring his mule, he joined\nhis companion, who was waiting for him hard by.\n\nWhile this was happening, Don Quixote was talking to the lady in the\ncoach, to whom he said: \"Dear lady, you may now dispose of yourself as\nyou best please. For the pride of your robbers is laid in the dust by\nthis my invincible arm. And that you may not pine to learn the name of\nyour deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote of the Mancha,\nknight-errant, adventurer, and captive of the peerless and beauteous\nLady Dulcinea of Toboso. And in reward for the benefits you have\nreceived at my hands, I demand nothing else but that you return to\nToboso, there to present yourself in my name before my lady, and tell\nher what I have done to obtain your liberty.\"\n\nAll this was listened to by a Biscayan squire who accompanied the\ncoach. He hearing that the coach was not to pass on but was to return\nto Toboso, went up to Don Quixote, and, laying hold of his lance, said\nto him: \"Get away with thee, sir knight, for if thou leave not the\ncoach I will kill thee as sure as I am a Biscayan.\"\n\n\"If,\" replied Don Quixote haughtily, \"thou wert a gentleman, as thou\nart not, I would ere this have punished thy folly and insolence,\ncaitiff creature.\"\n\n\"I no gentleman?\" cried the enraged Biscayan. \"Throw down thy lance\nand draw thy sword, and thou shalt soon see that thou liest.\"\n\n\"That shall be seen presently,\" replied Don Quixote; and flinging his\nlance to the ground he drew his sword, grasped his buckler tight, and\nrushed at the Biscayan.\n\nThe Biscayan, seeing him come on In this manner, had nothing else to\ndo but to draw his sword. Luckily for him he was near the coach,\nwhence he snatched a cushion to serve him as a shield, and then they\nfell on one another as if they had been mortal enemies.\n\nThose that were present tried to stop them, but the Biscayan shouted\nout that if he were hindered from ending the battle he would put his\nlady and all who touched him to the sword.\n\nThe lady, amazed and terrified, made the coachman draw aside a little,\nand sat watching the deadly combat from afar.\n\nThe Biscayan, to begin with, dealt Don Quixote a mighty blow over the\ntarget, which, if it had not been for his armour, would have cleft him\nto the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this tremendous blow\nwhich had destroyed his visor and carried away part of his ear, cried\nout aloud: \"O Dulcinea, lady of my soul, flower of all beauty, help\nthy knight, who finds himself in this great danger!\" To say this, to\nraise his sword, to cover himself with his buckler, and to rush upon\nthe Biscayan was the work of a moment. With his head full of rage he\nnow raised himself in his stirrups, and, gripping his sword more\nfirmly in his two hands, struck at the Biscayan with such violence\nthat he caught him a terrible blow on the cushion, knocking this\nshield against his head with tremendous violence. It was as though a\nmountain had fallen on the Biscayan and crushed him, and the blood\nspouted from his nose and mouth and ears. He would have fallen\nstraightway from his mule if he had not clasped her round the neck;\nbut he lost his stirrups, then let go his arms, and the mule,\nfrightened at the blow, began to gallop across the fields, so that\nafter two or three plunges it threw him to the ground.\n\nDon Quixote leaped off his horse, ran towards him, and setting the\npoint of his sword between his eyes, bade him yield, or he would cut\noff his head.\n\nThe lady of the coach now came forward in great grief and begged the\nfavour of her squire's life.\n\nDon Quixote replied with great stateliness: \"Truly, fair lady, I will\ngrant thy request, but it must be on one condition, that this squire\nshall go to Toboso and present himself in my name to the peerless Lady\nDulcinea, that she may deal with him as she thinks well.\"\n\nThe lady, who was in great distress, without considering what Don\nQuixote required, or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that he\nshould certainly perform this command.\n\n\"Then,\" said Don Quixote, \"on the faith of that pledge I will do him\nno more harm.\"\n\nSeeing the contest was now over, and his master about to remount\nRozinante, Sancho ran to hold his stirrups, and before he mounted,\ntaking him by his hand he kissed it and said: \"I desire that it will\nplease you, good my lord Don Quixote, to bestow on me the government\nof that island which in this terrible battle you have won.\"\n\nTo which Don Quixote replied: \"Brother Sancho, these are not the\nadventures of islands, but of cross roads, wherein nothing is gained\nbut a broken pate or the loss of an ear. Have patience awhile, for the\nadventures will come whereby I can make thee not only a governor, but\nsomething higher.\"\n\nSancho thanked him heartily, and kissed his hand again and the hem of\nhis mailed shirt. Then he helped him to get on Rozinante, and leaped\nupon his ass to follow him.\n\nAnd Don Quixote, without another word to the people of the coach, rode\naway at a swift pace and turned into a wood that was hard by, leaving\nSancho to follow him as fast as his beast could trot.\n\n\n\n\nDON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERDS\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nAs they rode along, Don Quixote turned to his squire and said to him:\n\"Tell me now in very good earnest, didst thou ever see a more valorous\nknight than I am throughout the face of the earth? Didst thou ever\nread in histories of any other that hath or ever had more courage in\nfighting, more dexterity in wounding, or more skill in overthrowing?\"\n\n\"The truth is,\" replied Sancho, \"that I have never read any history\nwhatever, for I can neither read nor write. But what I dare wager is,\nthat I never in my life served a bolder master than you are, and I\nonly trust that all this boldness does not land us within the four\nwalls of the gaol.\"\n\n\"Peace, friend Sancho,\" said Don Quixote, \"when didst thou read of a\nknight-errant that was brought before the judge though he killed ever\nso many people?\"\n\n\"I have read nothing, as you know, good master; but a truce to all\nthis, let me attend to your wound, for you are losing a good deal of\nblood in that ear, and I have got some lint and a little white\nointment in my wallet.\"\n\n\"That,\" said Don Quixote, \"would have been unnecessary if I had\nremembered to make a bottleful of the balsam of Fierabras, for with\nonly one drop of it both time and medicines are saved.\"\n\n\"What balsam is that, then?\" asked Sancho Panza.\n\n\"It is a balsam, the receipt of which I have in my memory, and whoever\npossesses it need not fear death nor think to perish by any\nwound. Therefore after I have made it and given it unto thee, thou\nhast nothing else to do but when thou shalt see that in any battle I\nbe cloven in twain, than deftly to take up the portion of the body\nwhich is fallen to the ground and put it up again on the half which\nremains in the saddle, taking great care to fix it exactly in the\nright place. Then thou shalt give me two draughts of the balsam I have\nmentioned, and I shall become as sound as an apple.\"\n\n\"If that be true,\" said Sancho, \"I renounce from now the government of\nthe promised island, and will demand nothing else in payment of my\nservices but only the receipt of this precious liquor. But tell me, is\nit costly in making?\"\n\n\"With less than three _reals_\" said Don Quixote, \"a man may make\nthree gallons of it. But I mean to teach thee greater secrets than\nthis, and do thee greater favours also. And now let me dress my wound,\nfor this ear pains me more than I would wish.\"\n\nSancho took out of his wallet his lint and ointment to cure his\nmaster. But before he could use them Don Quixote saw that the visor of\nhis helmet was broken, and he had like to have lost his senses.\nSetting his hand to his sword, he cried: \"I swear an oath to lead the\nlife which was led by the great Marquis of Mantua when he swore to\nrevenge the death of his nephew Baldwin, which was not to eat off a\ntablecloth, nor to comb his hair, nor to change his clothes, nor to\nquit his armour, and other things which, though I cannot now remember,\nI take as said, until I have had complete revenge on him that hath\ndone this outrage.\"\n\n\"Look, your worship, Sir Don Quixote.\" said Sancho, when he heard\nthese strange words, \"you must note that if the Biscayan has done what\nyou told him, and presented himself before my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso,\nthen he has fully satisfied his debt, and deserves no other penalty\nunless he commits a new fault.\"\n\n\"Thou hast spoken well and hit the mark truly,\" answered Don Quixote;\n\"and, therefore, in respect of that, I set the oath aside. But I make\nit and confirm it again, that I will lead the life I have said, until\nI take by force another helmet as good as this from some other\nknight.\"\n\n\"Such oaths are but mischief,\" said Sancho discontentedly, \"for tell\nme now, if by chance we do not come across a man armed with a helmet,\nwhat are we to do? Do but consider that armed men travel not these\nroads, but only carriers and waggoners, who not only wear no helmets,\nbut never heard them named all the days of their life.\"\n\n\"Thou art mistaken in this,\" said Don Quixote, \"for we shall not have\nbeen here two hours before we shall see more knights than went up\nagainst Albraca to win Angelica the Fair.\"\n\n\"So be it,\" said Sancho, \"and may all turn out well for us, that the\ntime may come for the winning of that island which is costing me so\ndear.\"\n\n\"Have no fear for thine island, Sancho Panza,\" said Don Quixote; \"and\nnow look if thou hast aught to eat in thy wallet, for soon we should\ngo in search of some castle where we may lodge the night and make the\nbalsam of which I have spoken, for in truth this ear of mine pains me\ngreatly.\"\n\n\"I have got here an onion and a bit of cheese and a few crusts of\nbread, but such coarse food is not fit for so valiant a knight as your\nworship.\"\n\n\"How little dost thou understand the matter,\" replied Don Quixote,\n\"for it is an honour to knights-errant not to eat more than once a\nmonth, and if by chance they should eat, to eat only of that which is\nnext at hand! And all this thou mightest have known hadst thou read as\nmany books as I have done. For though I studied many, yet did I never\nfind that knights-errant did ever eat but by mere chance, or at some\ncostly banquets that were made for them. And the remainder of their\ndays they lived on herbs and roots. Therefore, friend Sancho, let not\nthat trouble thee which is my pleasure, for to a knight-errant that\nwhich comes is good.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, sir,\" said Sancho, \"for since I can neither read nor\nwrite, as I have already told you, I have not fallen in rightly with\nthe laws of knighthood. But from henceforth my wallet shall be\nfurnished with all sorts of dried fruits for your worship, because you\nare a knight, and for myself, seeing I am none, I will provide fowls\nand other things, which are better eating.\"\n\nSo saying he pulled out what he had, and the two fell to dinner in\ngood peace and company.\n\nBut being desirous to look out for a lodging for that night, they cut\nshort their meagre and sorry meal, mounted at once a-horseback, and\nmade haste to find out some dwellings before night did fall.\n\nBut the sun and their hopes did fail them at the same time, they being\nthen near the cabins of some goatherds. Therefore they determined to\npass the night there. And though Sancho's grief was great to lie out\nof a village, yet Don Quixote was more joyful than ever, for he\nthought that as often as he slept under the open heaven, so often did\nhe perform an act worthy of a true knight-errant.\n\nThey were welcomed by the goatherds very cordially, and Sancho, having\nput up Rozinante and his ass the best way he could, made his way\ntowards the smell given out by certain pieces of goat's flesh which\nwere boiling in a pot on the fire. And though he longed that very\ninstant to see if they were ready, he did not do so, for he saw the\ngoatherds were themselves taking them off the fire and spreading some\nsheep-skins on the ground, and were laying their rustic table as\nquickly as might be. Then with many expressions of good will they\ninvited the two to share in what they had. Those who belonged to the\nfold, being six in number, sat round on the skins, having first with\nrough compliments asked Don Quixote to seat himself upon a trough\nwhich they placed for him turned upside down.\n\nDon Quixote sat down, but Sancho remained on foot to serve him with\nthe cup which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his master said:\n\"That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good which is in knight-errantry,\nand how fair a chance they have who exercise it to arrive at honour\nand position in the world, I desire that here by my side, and in\ncompany of these good people, thou dost seat thyself, and be one and\nthe same with me that am thy master and natural lord. That thou dost\neat in my dish and drink in the same cup wherein I drink. For the\nsame may be said of knight-errantry as is said of love, that it makes\nall things equal.\"\n\n\"Thanks for your favour,\" replied Sancho, \"but I may tell your worship\nthat provided I have plenty to eat I can eat it as well and better\nstanding and by myself, than if I were seated on a level with an\nemperor. And, indeed, if I speak the truth, what I eat in my corner\nwithout ceremony, though it be but a bread and onion, smacks much\nbetter than turkeycocks at other tables, where I must chaw my meat\nleisurely, drink but little, wipe my hands often, nor do other things\nthat solitude and liberty allow.\"\n\n\"For all that,\" said Don Quixote, \"here shalt thou sit, for the humble\nshall be exalted,\" and taking him by the arm, he forced his squire to\nsit down near himself.\n\nThe goatherds did not understand the gibberish of squires and\nknights-errant, and did nothing but eat, hold their peace, and stare\nat their guests, who with great relish were gorging themselves with\npieces as big as their fists. The course of flesh being over, the\ngoatherds spread on the skins a great number of parched acorns and\nhalf a cheese, harder than if it had been made of mortar. The horn in\nthe meantime was not idle, but came full from the wineskins and\nreturned empty, as though it had been a bucket sent to the well.\n\nAfter Don Quixote had satisfied his appetite, he took up a fistful of\nacorns, and beholding them earnestly, began in this manner: \"Happy\ntime and fortunate ages were those which our ancestors called Golden:\nnot because gold--so much prized in this our Iron Age--was gotten in\nthat happy time without any labours, but because those who lived in\nthat time knew not these two words, _Thine_ and _Mine_. In\nthat holy age all things were in common. No man needed to do aught but\nlift up his hand and take his food from the strong oak, which did\nliberally invite them to gather his sweet and savoury fruit. The clear\nfountains and running rivers did offer them transparent water in\nmagnificent abundance, and in the hollow trees did careful bees erect\ntheir commonwealth, offering to every hand without interest the\nfertile crop of their sweet labours.\" Thus did the eloquent knight\ndescribe the Golden Age, when all was peace, friendship, and concord,\nand then he showed the astonished goatherds how an evil world had\ntaken its place, and made it necessary for knights-errant like himself\nto come forward for the protection of widows and orphans, and the\ndefence of distressed damsels. All this he did because the acorns that\nwere given him called to his mind the Golden Age. The goatherds sat\nand listened with grave attention, and Sancho made frequent visits to\nthe second wine-skin during his discourse. At length it was ended, and\nthey sat round the fire, drinking their wine and listening to one of\nthe goat herds singing, and towards night, Don Quixote's ear becoming\nvery painful, one of his hosts made a dressing of rosemary leaves and\nsalt, and bound up his wound. By this means being eased of his pain,\nhe was able to lie down in one of the huts and sleep soundly after his\nday's adventures.\n\nDon Quixote spent several days among the goatherds, and at length,\nwhen his wound was better, he thanked them for their hospitality, and\nrode away in search of new adventures, followed by the faithful\nSancho.\n\nThey came to a halt in a pleasant meadow rich with beautiful grass, by\nthe side of a delightful and refreshing stream, which seemed to invite\nthem to stop and spend there the sultry hours of noon, which were\nalready becoming oppressive.\n\nDon Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and leaving Rozinante and Dapple\nloose, to feed on the grass that was there in plenty, they ransacked\nthe wallet, and without any ceremony fell to eating what they found in\nit.\n\nSancho had neglected to tie up Rozinante, and, as luck would have it,\na troop of Galician ponies belonging to some Yanguesian carriers,\nwhose custom it is to rest at noon with their teams in spots and\nplaces where grass and water abound, were feeding in the same valley.\n\nIt must be believed that Rozinante supposed that the grass the ponies\nwere feeding on was better than his own; but be that as it may, he\nstarted off at a little swift trot to feed among them. They resented\nhis appearance, and, as he sought to enter their ranks and feed among\nthem, they received him with their heels and teeth, with such vigour\nthat in a trice he had burst his girth, and his saddle was stripped\nfrom his back. But the worst of all was that the carriers, taking part\nwith their own ponies, ran up with stakes and so belaboured him that\nthey brought him to the ground in a sore plight.\n\nUpon this Don Quixote and Sancho, who witnessed the basting of\nRozinante, came running up all out of breath, and Don Quixote said to\nSancho: \"From what I see, friend Sancho, these be no knights, but\nbase, rascally fellows of low breeding. I say this, that thou mayest\nfreely aid me in taking vengeance for the wrong which they have done\nto Rozinante before our eyes.\"\n\n\"What vengeance can we take,\" replied Sancho, \"when there are more\nthan twenty, and we are but two--nay, perhaps but one and a half?\"\n\n\"I count for a hundred,\" said Don Quixote, and without further parley\nhe drew his sword and flew upon the Yanguesians, boldly followed by\nSancho Panza.\n\nWith his first blow Don Quixote pierced a buff coat that one of them\nwore, wounding him grievously in the shoulder. Then the Yanguesians,\nfinding themselves so rudely handled by two men only, they being so\nmany, betook themselves to their stakes, and hemming in their\nadversaries in the midst of them, they laid on with great fury. In\nfact the second thwack brought Sancho to the ground, and the same fate\nsoon befell Don Quixote, whose dexterity and courage availed him\nnothing, for he fell at the feet of his unfortunate steed, who had not\nyet been able to arise.\n\nThen, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesians loaded their\nteam with as much haste as possible, and went their way, leaving the\nadventurers in a doleful plight and a worse humour.\n\n\n\n\nHOW DON QUIXOTE ARRIVED AT AN INN WHICH HE IMAGINED TO BE A CASTLE\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nFor some time after the Yanguesian carriers had gone on their way Don\nQuixote and Sancho Panza lay on the ground groaning and saying\nnothing.\n\nThe first that came to himself was Sancho Panza, who cried in a weak\nand pitiful voice: \"Sir Don Quixote! O Sir Don Quixote!\"\n\n\"What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?\" answered Don Quixote in the same\nfaint and grievous tone as Sancho.\n\n\"I would, if it were possible,\" said Sancho Panza, \"that your worship\nshould give me a couple of mouthfuls of that balsam of Fierabras, if\nso be that your worship has it at hand. Perhaps it will be as good for\nbroken bones as for wounds.\"\n\n\"If I had it here,\" sighed Don Quixote, \"we should lack nothing. But I\nswear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, that\nbefore two days pass, unless fortune forbids, I will have it in my\npossession.\"\n\n\"I pray you,\" asked Sancho, \"in how many days do you think we shall be\nable to move our feet?\"\n\n\"I cannot say,\" said the battered knight; \"but I take on myself the\nblame of all, for I should not have drawn my sword against men that\nare not knights. Therefore, brother Sancho, take heed of what I tell\nthee, for it mightily concerns the welfare of us both; and it is this,\nthat when thou seest such rabble offer us any wrong, wait not for me\nto draw sword upon them, for I will not do it in any wise, but put\nthou thy hand to thy sword and chastise them at thy pleasure.\"\n\nBut Sancho Panza did not much relish his master's advice, and replied:\n\"Sir, I am a peaceable, sober, and quiet man, and can let pass any\ninjury whatever, for I have a wife and children to take care\nof. Therefore, let me also say a word to your worship, that by no\nmanner of means shall I put hand to sword either against clown or\nagainst knight. And from this time forth I forgive whatever insults\nare paid to me, whether they are or shall be paid by persons high or\nlow, rich or poor, gentle or simple.\"\n\nOn hearing this his master said: \"Would that I had breath enough to be\nable to speak easily, and that the pain I feel in this rib were less,\nthat I, might make thee understand, Sancho, the mistake thou art\nmaking! How can I appoint thee governor of an island when thou wouldst\nmake an end of all by having neither valour nor will to defend thy\nlands or revenge thine injuries?\"\n\n\"Alas!\" groaned Sancho. \"I would that I had the courage and\nunderstanding of which your worship speaks, but in truth at this\nmoment I am more fit for plasters than preachments. See if your\nworship can rise, and we will help Rozinante, although he deserves it\nnot, for he was the chief cause of all this mauling.\"\n\n\"Fortune always leaves one door open in disasters, and your Dapple\nwill now be able to supply the want of Rozinante and carry me hence to\nsome castle where I may be healed of my wounds. Nor shall I esteem\nsuch riding a dishonour, for I remember to have read that old Silenus,\ntutor and guide of the merry god of Laughter, when he entered the city\nof a hundred gates, rode very pleasantly, mounted on a handsome ass.\"\n\n\"That may be,\" replied Sancho, \"but there is a difference between\nriding a-horseback and being laid athwart like a sack of rubbish.\"\n\n\"Have done with your replies,\" exclaimed Don Quixote, \"and rise as\nwell as thou art able and sit me on top of thine ass, and let us\ndepart hence before the night comes and overtakes us in this\nwilderness.\"\n\nThen Sancho, with thirty groans and sixty sighs and a hundred and\ntwenty curses, lifted up Rozinante--who if he had had a tongue would\nhave complained louder than Sancho himself--and after much trouble set\nDon Quixote on the ass. Then tying Rozinante to his tail, he led the\nass by the halter, and proceeded as best he could to where the\nhighroad seemed to lie.\n\nAnd Fortune, which had guided their affairs from good to better, led\nhim on to a road on which, he spied an inn, which to his annoyance and\nDon Quixote's joy must needs be a castle. Sancho protested that it was\nan inn, and his master that it was a castle; and their dispute lasted\nso long that they had time to arrive there before it was finished; and\ninto this inn or castle Sancho entered without more parley with all\nhis team.\n\nThe innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote laid athwart of the ass, asked\nSancho what ailed him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that\nhe had fallen down from a rock, and had bruised his ribs somewhat. The\ninnkeeper's wife was by nature charitable, and she felt for the\nsufferings of others, so she hastened at once to attend to Don\nQuixote, and made her daughter, a comely young maiden, help her in\ntaking care of her guest. There was also serving in the inn an\nAsturian woman, broad-cheeked, flat-pated, with a snub nose, blind of\none eye and the other not very sound. This young woman, who was called\nMaritornes, assisted the daughter, and the two made up a bed for Don\nQuixote in a garret which had served for many years as a\nstraw-loft. The bed on which they placed him was made of four roughly\nplaned boards on two unequal trestles; a mattress which, in thinness,\nmight have been a quilt, so full of pellets that if they had not\nthrough the holes shown themselves to be wool, they would to the touch\nseem to be pebbles. There was a pair of sheets made of target leather;\nand as for the coverlet, if any one had chosen to count the threads of\nit he could not have missed one in the reckoning.\n\nOn this miserable bed did Don Quixote lie, and presently the hostess\nand her daughter plastered him over from head to foot, Maritornes\nholding the candle for them.\n\nWhile she was plastering him, the hostess, seeing that he was in\nplaces black and blue, said that it looked more like blows than a\nfall. Sancho, however, declared they were not blows, but that the rock\nhad many sharp points, and each one had left a mark; and he added:\n\"Pray, good mistress, spare some of that tow, as my back pains are not\na little.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said the hostess, \"you must have fallen, too.\"\n\n\"I did not fall,\" said Sancho Panza, \"but with the sudden fright I\ntook on seeing my master fall, my body aches as if they had given me a\nthousand blows, and I now find myself with only a few bruises less\nthan my master, Don Quixote.\"\n\n\"What is this gentleman's name?\" asked Maritornes.\n\n\"Don Quixote of the Mancha,\" answered Sancho Panza; \"and he is a\nknight-errant, and one of the best and strongest that have been seen\nin the world these many ages.\"\n\n\"What is a knight-errant?\" asked the young woman.\n\n\"Art thou so young in the world that thou knowest it not?\" answered\nSancho Panza. \"Know then, sister mine, that a knight-errant is a thing\nwhich in two words is found cudgelled and an emperor. To-day he is\nthe most miserable creature in the world, and the most needy;\nto-morrow he will have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give to his\nsquire.\"\n\n\"How is it, then,\" said the hostess, \"that thou hast not gotten at\nleast an earldom, seeing thou art squire to this good knight?\"\n\n\"It is early yet,\" replied Sancho, \"for it is but a month since we set\nout on our adventures. But believe me, if my master, Don Quixote, gets\nwell of his wounds--or his fall, I should say--I would not sell my\nhopes for the best title in Spain.\"\n\nTo all this Don Quixote listened very attentively, and sitting up in\nhis bed as well as he could, he took the hostess's hand and said:\n\"Believe me, beautiful lady, that you may count yourself fortunate in\nhaving entertained me in this your castle. My squire will inform you\nwho I am, for self-praise is no recommendation; only this I say, that\nI will keep eternally written in memory the service you have done to\nme, and I will be grateful to you as long as my life shall endure.\"\n\nThe hostess, her daughter, and the good Maritomes remained confounded\non hearing the words of the knight-errant, which they understood as\nwell as if he had spoken in Greek, but yet they believed they were\nwords of compliment, and so they thanked him for his courtesy and\ndeparted, leaving Sancho and his master for the night.\n\nThere happened to be lodging in the inn that night one of the officers\nof the Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, whose duty it was to travel the\nroads and inquire into cases of highway robbery. He hearing some time\nlater that a man was lying in the house sorely wounded must needs go\nand make an examination of the matter. He therefore lighted his lamp\nand made his way to Don Quixote's garret.\n\nAs soon as Sancho Panza saw him enter arrayed in a shirt and a\nnightcap with the lamp in his hand, which showed him to be a very ugly\nman, he asked his master: \"Will this by chance be some wizard Moor\ncome to torment us?\"\n\n\"A wizard it cannot be,\" said Don Quixote, \"for those under\nenchantment never let themselves be seen.\"\n\nThe officer could make nothing of their talk, and came up to Don\nQuixote, who lay face upwards encased in his plasters. \"Well,\" said\nthe officer roughly, \"how goes it, my good fellow?\"\n\n\"I would speak more politely if I were you,\" answered Don Quixote. \"Is\nit the custom in this country, lout, to speak in that way to a\nknight-errant?\"\n\nThe officer, finding himself thus rudely addressed, could not endure\nit, and, lifting up the lamp, oil and all, gave Don Quixote such a\nblow on the head with it that he broke his lamp in one or two places,\nand, leaving all in darkness, left the room.\n\n\"Ah!\" groaned Sancho, \"this is indeed the wizard Moor, and he must be\nkeeping his treasures for others, and for us nothing but blows.\"\n\n\"It is ever so,\" replied Don Quixote; \"and we must take no notice of\nthese things of enchantment, nor must we be angry or vexed with them,\nfor since they are invisible, there is no one on whom to take\nvengeance. Rise, Sancho, if thou canst, and call the constable of this\nfortress, and try to get him to give me a little wine, oil, salt, and\nrosemary to prepare the health-giving balsam, of which I have grievous\nneed, for there comes much blood from the wound which the phantom hath\ngiven me.\"\n\nSancho arose, not without aching bones, and crept in the dark to where\nthe innkeeper was, and said to him: \"My lord constable, do us the\nfavour and courtesy to give me a little rosemary, oil, wine, and salt\nto cure one of the best knights-errant in the world, who lies yonder\nin bed sorely wounded at the hands of a Moorish enchanter.\" When the\ninnkeeper heard this he took Sancho Panza for a man out of his wits,\nbut nevertheless gave him what he wanted, and Sancho carried it to Don\nQuixote. His master was lying with his hands to his head, groaning\nwith pain from the blows of the lamp, which, however, had only raised\ntwo big lumps; what he thought was blood being only the perspiration\nrunning down his face.\n\nHe now took the things Sancho had brought, of which he made a\ncompound, mixing them together and boiling them a good while until\nthey came to perfection.\n\nThen he asked for a bottle into which to pour this precious liquor,\nbut as there was not one to be had in the inn, he decided to pour it\ninto a tin oil-vessel which the innkeeper had given him.\n\nThis being done, he at once made an experiment on himself of the\nvirtue of this precious balsam, as he imagined it to be, and drank off\na whole quart of what was left in the boiling-pot.\n\nThe only result of this was that it made him very sick indeed, as well\nit might, and, what with the sickness and the bruising and the\nweariness of body, he fell fast asleep for several hours, and at the\nend of his sleep awoke so refreshed and so much the better of his\nbruises that he took himself to be cured and verily believed he had\nhit upon the balsam of Fierabras.\n\nSancho Panza, to whom his master's recovery seemed little short of a\nmiracle, begged that he might have what was left in the boiling-pot,\nwhich was no small quantity. Don Quixote consenting, he took the pot\nin both hands, and tossed it down, swallowing very little less than\nhis master had done.\n\nIt happened, however, that Sancho's stomach was not so delicate as his\nmaster's and he suffered such terrible pains and misery before he was\nsick that he thought his last hour was come, and cursed the balsam and\nthe thief who had given it to him.\n\nDon Quixote, seeing him in this bad way, said: \"I believe, Sancho,\nthat all this evil befalleth thee because thou art not dubbed knight,\nfor I am persuaded that this balsam may not benefit any one that is\nnot.\"\n\n\"If your worship knew that,\" replied poor Sancho \"bad luck to me and\nmine, why did you let me taste it?\"\n\nBefore Don Quixote could reply to this, Sancho became so terribly sick\nthat he could only lie groaning and moaning for two hours, at the end\nof which he felt so shaken and shattered that he could scarcely stand,\nand sadly wished that he had never become squire to a knight-errant.\n\n\n\n\nHOW SANCHO PAID THE RECKONING AT THE INN\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nNow whilst Sancho Panza lay groaning in his bed, Don Quixote, who, as\nwe have said, felt somewhat eased and cured, made up his mind to set\noff in search of new adventures. And full of this desire he himself\nsaddled Rozinante and put the pack-saddle on his squire's beast, and\nhelped Sancho to dress and to mount his ass. Then getting a-horseback\nhe rode over to the corner of the inn and seized hold of a pike which\nstood there, to make it serve him instead of a lance.\n\nAll the people that were staying at the inn, some twenty in number,\nstood staring at him, and among these was the innkeeper's\ndaughter. Don Quixote kept turning his eyes towards her and sighing\ndolefully, which every one, or at least all who had seen him the night\nbefore, thought must be caused by the pain he was in from his bruises.\n\nWhen they were both mounted and standing by the inn gate, he called to\nthe innkeeper and said in a grave voice: \"Many and great are the\nfavours, sir constable, which I have received in this your castle,\narid I shall remain deeply grateful for them all the days of my\nlife. If I am able to repay you by avenging you on some proud\nmiscreant that hath done you any wrong, know that it is my office to\nhelp the weak, to revenge the wronged, and to punish traitors. Ransack\nyour memory, and if you find anything of this sort for me to do, you\nhave but to utter it, and I promise you, by the Order of Knighthood\nwhich I have received, to procure you satisfaction to your heart's\ncontent,\"\n\n\"Sir knight,\" replied the innkeeper with equal gravity, \"I have no\nneed that your worship should avenge me any wrong, for I know how to\ntake what revenge I think good when an injury is done. All I want is\nthat your worship should pay me the score you have run up this night\nin mine inn, both for the straw and barley of your two beasts, and\nyour suppers and your beds.\"\n\n\"This then is an inn?\" exclaimed Don Quixote.\n\n\"Ay, that it is, and a very respectable one, too,\" replied the\ninnkeeper.\n\n\"All this time then I have been deceived,\" said Don Quixote, \"for in\ntruth I thought it was a castle and no mean one. But since it is\nindeed an inn and no castle, all that can be done now is to ask you to\nforgive me any payment, for I cannot break the laws of knights-errant,\nof whom I know for certain that they never paid for lodging or\nanything else in the inns where they stayed. For the good\nentertainment that is given them is their due reward for the\nsufferings they endure, seeking adventures both day and night, winter\nand summer, a-foot and a-horseback, in thirst and hunger, in heat and\ncold, being exposed to all the storms of heaven and the hardships of\nearth.\"\n\n\"All that is no business of mine,\" retorted the innkeeper. \"Pay me\nwhat you owe me, and keep your tales of knights-errant for those who\nwant them. My business is to earn my living.\"\n\n\"You are a fool and a saucy fellow,\" said Don Quixote angrily, and,\nspurring Rozinante and brandishing his lance, he swept out of the inn\nyard before any one could stop him, and rode on a good distance\nwithout waiting to see if his squire was following.\n\nThe innkeeper, when he saw him go without paying, ran up to get his\ndue from Sancho Panza, who also refused to pay, and said to him: \"Sir,\nseeing I am squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and reason for\nnot paying at inns and taverns hold as good for me as for my master.\"\n\nThe innkeeper grew angry at these words, and threatened that if he did\nnot pay speedily he would get it from him in a way he would not like.\n\nSancho replied that by the Order of Knighthood which his lord and\nmaster had received, he would not pay a penny though it cost him his\nlife.\n\nBut his bad fortune so managed it, that there happened to be at the\ninn at this time four woolcombers of Segovia, and three needlemakers\nof Cordova, and two neighbours from Seville, all merry fellows, very\nmischievous and playsome. And as if they were all moved with one\nidea, they came up to Sancho, and pulling him down off his ass, one of\nthem ran in for the innkeeper's blanket, and they flung him into\nit. But looking up and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower than\nthey needed for their business, they determined to go out into the\nyard, which had no roof but the sky, and there placing Sancho in the\nmiddle of the blanket, they began to toss him aloft and to make sport\nwith him by throwing him up and down. The outcries of the miserable\nbe-tossed squire were so many and so loud that they reached the ears\nof his master, who, standing awhile to listen what it was, believed\nthat some new adventure was at hand, until he clearly recognised the\nshrieks to come from poor Sancho. Immediately turning his horse, he\nrode back at a gallop to the inn gate, and finding it closed, rode\nround the wall to see if he could find any place at which he might\nenter. But he scarcely got to the wall of the inn yard, which was not\nvery high, when he beheld the wicked sport they were making with his\nsquire. He saw him go up and down with such grace and agility, that,\nhad his anger allowed him, I make no doubt he would have burst with\nlaughter. He tried to climb the wall from his horse, but he was so\nbruised and broken that he could by no means alight from his saddle,\nand therefore from on top of his horse he used such terrible threats\nagainst those that were tossing Sancho that one could not set them\ndown in writing.\n\nBut in spite of his reproaches they did not cease from their laughter\nor labour, nor did the flying Sancho stop his lamentations, mingled\nnow with threats and now with prayers. Thus they carried on their\nmerry game, until at last from sheer weariness they stopped and let\nhim be. And then they brought him his ass, and, helping him to mount\nit, wrapped him in his coat, and the kind-hearted Maritornes, seeing\nhim so exhausted, gave him a pitcher of water, which, that it might be\nthe cooler, she fetched from the well.\n\nJust as he was going to drink he heard his master's voice calling to\nhim, saying: \"Son Sancho, drink not water, drink it not, my son, for\nit will kill thee. Behold, here I have that most holy balsam,\"--and he\nshowed him the can of liquor,--\"two drops of which if thou drinkest\nthou wilt undoubtedly be cured.\"\n\nAt these words Sancho shuddered, and replied to his master: \"You\nforget surely that I am no knight, or else you do not remember the\npains I suffered last evening. Keep your liquor to yourself, and let\nme be in peace.\"\n\nAt the conclusion of this speech he began to drink, but finding it was\nonly water he would not taste it, and called for wine, which\nMaritornes very kindly fetched for him, and likewise paid for it out\nof her own purse.\n\nAs soon as Sancho had finished drinking, he stuck his heels into his\nass, and the inn gate being thrown wide open he rode out, highly\npleased at having paid for nothing, even at the price of a tossing.\nThe innkeeper, however, had kept his wallet, but Sancho was so\ndistracted when he departed that he never missed it.\n\nWhen Sancho reached his master, he was almost too jaded and faint to\nride his beast. Don Quixote, seeing him in this plight, said to him:\n\"Now I am certain that yon castle or inn is without doubt enchanted,\nfor those who made sport with thee so cruelly, what else could they\nbe but phantoms, and beings of another world? And I am the more sure\nof this, because when I was by the wall of the inn yard I was not able\nto mount it, or to alight from Rozinante, and therefore I must have\nbeen enchanted. For if I could have moved, I would have avenged thee\nin a way to make those scoundrels remember the jest for ever, even\nalthough to do it I should have had to disobey the rules of\nknighthood.\"\n\n\"So would I also have avenged myself,\" said Sancho, \"knight or no\nknight, but I could not. And yet I believe that those who amused\nthemselves with me were no phantoms or enchanted beings, but men of\nflesh and bones as we are, for one was called Pedro, and another\nTenorio, and the innkeeper called a third Juan. But what I make out of\nall this, is that those adventures which we go in search of, will\nbring us at last so many misadventures that we shall not know our\nright foot from our left. And the best thing for us to do, in my\nhumble opinion, is to return us again to our village and look after\nour own affairs, and not go jumping, as the saying is, 'out of the\nfrying-pan into the fire.'\"\n\n\"How little dost thou know of knighthood, friend Sancho,\" replied Don\nQuixote. \"Peace, and have patience, for a day will come when thou\nshalt see with thine own eyes how fine a thing it is to follow this\ncalling. What pleasure can equal that of winning a battle or\ntriumphing over an enemy?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell,\" answered Sancho; \"but this I know, that since we are\nknights-errant, we have never won any battle, unless it was that with\nthe Biscayan, and even then your worship lost half an ear. And ever\nafter that time it has been nothing but cudgels and more cudgels,\nblows and more blows,--I getting the tossing in the blanket to boot.\nAnd all this happens to me from enchanted people on whom I cannot take\nvengeance.\"\n\n\"That grieves me,\" replied Don Quixote; \"but who knows what may\nhappen? Fortune may bring me a sword like that of Amadis, which did\nnot only cut like a razor, but there was no armour however strong or\nenchanted which could stand before it.\"\n\n\"It will be like my luck,\" said Sancho, \"that when your worship finds\nsuch a sword it will, like the balsam, be of use only to those who are\nknights, whilst poor squires will still have to sup sorrow.\"\n\n\"Fear not that, Sancho,\" replied his master; and he rode ahead, his\nmind full of adventures, followed at a little distance by his unhappy\nsquire.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nWhilst they were riding on their way, Don Quixote saw a large, dense\ncloud of dust rolling towards them, and turning to Sancho said: \"This\nis the day on which shall be shown the might of my arm and on which I\nam to do deeds which shall be written in the books of fame. Dost thou\nsee the dust which arises there? Know then that it is caused by a\nmighty army composed of various and numberless nations that are\nmarching this way.\" \"If that be so,\" replied Sancho, \"then must there\nbe two armies, for on this other side there is as great a dust.\"\n\nDon Quixote turned round to behold it, and seeing that it was so, he\nwas marvellous glad, for he imagined that there were indeed two armies\ncoming to fight each other in the midst of that spacious plain. For at\nevery hour and moment his fancy was full of battles, enchantments, and\nadventures, such as are related in the books of knighthood, and all\nhis thoughts and wishes were turned towards such things.\n\nAs for the clouds he had seen, they were raised by two large flocks of\nsheep which were being driven along the same road from two opposite\nsides, and these by reason of the dust could not be seen until they\ncame near.\n\nDon Quixote was so much in earnest when he called them armies that\nSancho at once believed it, asking: \"What then shall we do, good\nmaster?\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Don Quixote. \"Why, favour and help those who are in\ndistress and need. Thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes on\nour front is led by the mighty Emperor Alifamfaron, lord of the great\nisland of Trapobana. This other which is marching at our back is the\narmy of his foe, the King of the Garamantes, Pentapolin of the Naked\nArm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.\"\n\n\"But why do these two princes hate each other so much?\" asked Sancho.\n\n\"They are enemies,\" replied Don Quixote, \"because Alifamfaron is a\nfurious pagan and is deeply in love with Pentapolin's daughter, who is\na beautiful and gracious princess and a Christian. Her father refuses\nto give her to the pagan king until he abandons Mahomet's false\nreligion and becomes a convert to his own.\"\n\n\"By my beard,\" said Sancho, \"Pentapolin does right well, and I will\nhelp him all I can.\"\n\n\"Then thou wilt but do thy duty,\" said Don Quixote, \"for it is not\nnecessary to be a dubbed knight to engage in battles such as these.\"\n\n\"Right!\" replied Sancho, \"but where shall we stow this ass that we may\nbe sure of finding him after the fight is over, for I think it is not\nthe custom to enter into battle mounted on such a beast.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" said Don Quixote; \"but thou mayest safely leave it to\nchance whether he be lost or found, for after this battle we shall\nhave so many horses that even Rozinante runs a risk of being changed\nfor another. And now let us withdraw to that hillock yonder that we\nmay get a better view of both those great armies.\"\n\nThey did so, and standing on the top of a hill gazed at the two great\nclouds of dust which the imagination of Don Quixote had turned into\narmies. And then Don Quixote, with all the eloquence he could muster,\ndescribed to Sancho the names of the different knights in the two\narmies, with their colours and devices and mottoes, and the numbers of\ntheir squadrons, and the countries and provinces from which they came.\n\nBut though Sancho stood and listened in wonder he could see nothing as\nyet of knights or armies, and at last he cried out: \"Where are all\nthese grand knights, good my master? For myself, I can see none of\nthem. But perhaps it is all enchantment, as so many things have been.\"\n\n\"How! Sayest them so?\" said Don Quixote. \"Dost thou not hear the\nhorses neigh and the trumpets sound and the noise of the drums?\"\n\n\"I hear nothing else,\" said Sancho, \"but the great bleating of sheep.\"\n\nAnd so it was, indeed, for by this time the two flocks were\napproaching very near to them.\n\n\"The fear thou art in,\" said Don Quixote, \"permits thee neither to see\nnor hear aright, for one of the effects of fear is to disturb the\nsenses and make things seem different from what they are. If thou art\nafraid, stand to one side and leave me to myself, for I alone can give\nthe victory to the side which I assist.\"\n\nSo saying he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and, setting his lance in\nrest, rode down the hillside like a thunderbolt.\n\nSancho shouted after him as loud as he could: \"Return, good Sir Don\nQuixote! Return! For verily all those you go to charge are but sheep\nand muttons. Return, I say! Alas that ever I was born! What madness is\nthis? Look, there are neither knights, nor arms, nor shields, nor\nsoldiers, nor emperors, but only sheep. What is it you do, Wretch that\nI am?\"\n\nFor all this Don Quixote did not turn back, but rode on, shouting in a\nloud voice: \"So ho! knights! Ye that serve and fight under the banner\nof Pentapolin of the Naked Arm, follow me, all of you. Ye shall see\nhow easily I will revenge him on his enemy Alifamfaron of Trapobana!\"\n\nWith these words he dashed into the midst of the flock of sheep, and\nbegan to spear them with as much courage and fury as if he were\nfighting his mortal enemies.\n\nThe shepherds that came with the flock cried to him to leave off, but\nseeing their words had no effect, they unloosed their slings and began\nto salute his head with stones as big as one's fist.\n\nBut Don Quixote made no account of their stones, and galloping to and\nfro everywhere cried out: \"Where art thou, proud Alifamfaron? Where\nart thou? Come to me, for I am but one knight alone, who desires to\nprove my strength with thee, man to man, and make thee yield thy life\nfor the wrong thou hast done to the valorous Pentapolin.\"\n\nAt that instant a stone gave him such a blow that it buried two of his\nribs in his body. Finding himself so ill-treated he thought for\ncertain that he was killed or sorely wounded, and recollecting his\nbalsam, he drew out his oil pot and set it to his mouth to drink. But\nbefore he could take as much as he wanted, another stone struck him\nfull on the hand, broke the oil pot into pieces, and carried away with\nit three or four teeth out of his mouth, and sorely crushed two\nfingers of his hand. So badly was he wounded by these two blows that\nhe now fell off his horse on to the ground.\n\nThe shepherds ran up, and believing that they had killed him, they\ncollected their flocks in great haste, and carrying away their dead\nmuttons, of which there were seven, they went away without caring to\ninquire into things any further.\n\nSancho was all this time standing on the hill looking at the mad\npranks his master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing\nthe hour when they had first met. Seeing, however, that he was fallen\non the ground, and the shepherds had gone away, he came down the hill\nand went up to his master, and found him in a very bad way, although\nnot quite insensible.\n\n\"Did I not tell you, Sir Don Quixote,\" said Sancho mournfully, \"did I\nnot tell you to come back, for those you went to attack were not\narmies but sheep?\"\n\n\"That thief of an enchanter, my enemy, can alter things and make men\nvanish away as he pleases. Know, Sancho, that it is very easy for\nthose kind of men to make us seem what they please, and this malicious\nbeing who persecutes me, envious of the glory that I was to reap from\nthis battle, hath changed the squadrons of the foe into flocks of\nsheep. If thou dost not believe me, Sancho, get on thine ass and\nfollow them fair and softly, and thou shalt see that when they have\ngone a little way off they will return to their original shapes, and,\nceasing to be sheep, become men as right and straight as I painted\nthem to you at first.\"\n\nAt this moment the balsam that Don Quixote had swallowed began to make\nhim very sick, and Sancho Panza ran off to search in his wallet for\nsomething that might cure him. But when he found that his wallet was\nnot upon his ass, and remembered for the first time that it was left\nat the inn, he was on the point of losing his wits. He cursed himself\nanew, and resolved in his heart to leave his master and return to his\nhouse, even though he should lose his wages and the government of the\npromised island.\n\nDon Quixote had now risen, and with his left hand to his mouth that\nthe rest of his teeth might not fall out, with the other he took\nRozinante by the bridle, and went up to where his squire stood leaning\nagainst his ass with his head in his hand, looking the picture of\nmisery.\n\nDon Quixote, seeing him look so miserable, said to him: \"Learn,\nSancho, not to be so easily downcast, for these storms that befall us\nare signs that the weather will soon be fair. Therefore thou shouldst\nnot vex thyself about my misfortunes, for sure thou dost not share in\nthem.\"\n\n\"How not?\" replied Sancho; \"mayhap he they tossed in a blanket\nyesterday was not my father's son? And the wallet which is missing\nto-day with all my chattels, is not that my misfortune?\"\n\n\"What, is the wallet missing, Sancho?\" said Don Quixote,\n\n\"Yes, it is missing,\" answered Sancho.\n\n\"In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,\" said Don Quixote.\n\n\"It would be so,\" said Sancho, \"should the herbs of the field fail us,\nwhich your worship says you know of, and with which you have told me\nknights-errant must supply their wants.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" answered Don Quixote, \"I would rather just now have a\nhunch of bread, or a cottage loaf and a couple of pilchards' heads,\nthan all the herbs that Dioscorides has described. But before thou\nmountest thine ass, lend me here thy hand and see how many teeth are\nlacking on this right side of my upper jaw, for there I feel the\npain.\"\n\nSancho put his fingers in, and, feeling about, asked: \"How many teeth\ndid your worship have before, on this side?\"\n\n\"Four,\" replied Don Quixote, \"besides the wisdom tooth, all whole and\nsound.\"\n\n\"Mind well what you say, sir,\" answered Sancho.\n\n\"Four, say I, if not five,\" said Don Quixote, \"for in all my life I\nnever had tooth drawn from my mouth, nor has any fallen out or been\ndestroyed by decay.\"\n\n\"Well, then, in this lower part,\" said Sancho, \"your worship has but\ntwo teeth and a half, and in the upper, neither a half nor any, for\nall is as smooth as the palm of my hand.\"\n\n\"Unfortunate I!\" exclaimed Don Quixote, \"for I would rather they had\ndeprived me of my arm, as long as it were not my sword arm. Know,\nSancho, that a mouth without teeth is like a mill without a\ngrindstone, and a tooth is more to be prized than a millstone. But all\nthis must we suffer who profess the stern rule of knights-errant.\nMount, friend, and lead the way, for I will follow thee what pace thou\npleasest.\"\n\n\n\n\nDON QUIXOTE DOES PENANCE AS DID THE KNIGHTS OF OLD\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nDon Quixote mounted once again on Rozinante, and commanded Sancho to\nfollow him. Dapple, the ass, had been stolen from them one night while\nthey slept, and Sancho was now obliged to walk. They travelled slowly\nthrough the thickest and roughest part of the mountains. \"What is it\nthat your worship intends to do in this out of the way spot?\" asked\nSancho.\n\n\"I will keep you no longer in the dark,\" replied Don Quixote. \"You\nmust know that Amadis of Gaul was the most perfect of all\nknights-errant. And as he was the morning star and the sun of all\nvaliant knights, so am I wise in imitating all he did. And I remember\nthat when his lady Oriana disdained his love, he showed his wisdom,\nvirtue, and manhood by changing his name to Beltenebros and retiring\nto a wild country, there to perform a penance. And as I may more\neasily imitate him in this than in staying giants, beheading serpents,\nkilling monsters, destroying armies, and putting navies to flight, and\nbecause this mountain seems fit for the purpose, I intend myself to do\npenance here.\"\n\nBy this time they had arrived at the foot of a lofty mountain, which\nstood like a huge rock apart from all the rest. Close by glided a\nsmooth river, hemmed in on every side by a green and fertile\nmeadow. Around were many fine trees and plants and flowers, which made\nthe spot a most delightful one.\n\n\"Here!\" cried Don Quixote in a loud voice, \"I elect to do my\npenance. Here shall the tears from my eyes swell the limpid streams,\nand here shall the sighs of my heart stir the leaves of every mountain\ntree. O Dulcinea of Toboso, day of my night and star of my fortunes,\nconsider the pass to which I am come, and return a favourable answer\nto my wishes!\"\n\nWith this he alighted from Rozinante, and, taking off his saddle and\nbridle, gave him a slap on his haunches, and said: \"He gives thee\nliberty that wants it himself, O steed, famous for thy swiftness and\nthe great works thou hast done!\"\n\nWhen Sancho heard all this he could not help saying: \"I wish Dapple\nwere here, for he deserves at least as long a speech in his praise;\nbut truly, sir knight, if my journey with your letter, and your\npenance here are really to take place, it would be better to saddle\nRozinante again, that he may supply the want of mine ass that was\nstolen from me.\"\n\n\"As thou likest about that,\" said Don Quixote; \"but thou must not\ndepart for three days as yet, during which time thou shalt see what I\nwill say and do for my lady's sake, that thou mayest tell her all\nabout it.\"\n\n\"But what more can I see,\" asked Sancho, \"than what I have already\nseen?\"\n\n\"Thou art well up in the matter, certainly,\" replied his master, \"for\nas yet I have done nothing, and if I am to be a despairing lover, I\nmust tear my clothes, and throw away mine armour, and beat my head\nagainst these rocks, with many other things that shall make thee\nmarvel.\"\n\n\"For goodness' sake,\" cried Sancho, \"take care how you go knocking\nyour head against rocks, for you might happen to come up against so\nungracious a rock that it would put an end to the penance\naltogether. If the knocks on the head are necessary, I should content\nyourself, seeing that this madness is all make-believe, with striking\nyour head on some softer thing, and leave the rest to me, for I will\ntell your lady that I saw you strike your head on the point of a rock\nthat was harder than a diamond.\"\n\n\"I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good will,\" replied the knight, \"but\nthe rules of knighthood forbid me to act or to speak a lie, and\ntherefore the knocks of the head must be real solid knocks, and it\nwill be necessary for thee to leave me some lint to cure them, seeing\nthat fortune has deprived us of that precious balsam.\"\n\n\"It was worse to lose the ass,\" said Sancho, \"seeing that with him we\nlost lint and everything; but pray, your worship, never mention that\nhorrible balsam again, for the very name of it nearly turns me inside\nout. And now write your letter, and let me saddle Rozinante and\nbegone, for I warrant when I once get to Toboso I will tell the Lady\nDulcinea such strange things of your follies and madness, that I shall\nmake her as soft as a glove even though I find her harder than a\ncork-tree. And with her sweet and honied answer I will return as\nspeedily as a witch on a broom-stick, and release you from your\npenance.\"\n\n\"But how shall we write a letter here?\" said Don Quixote.\n\n\"And how can you write the order for the handing over to me of the\nass-colts?\" asked Sancho.\n\n\"Seeing there is no paper,\" said the knight, \"we might, like the\nancients, write on waxen tablets, but that wax is as hard to find as\npaper. But now that I come to think of it, there is Cardenio's\npocket-book. I will write on that, and thou shalt have the matter of\nit written out in a good round hand at the first village wherein thou\nshalt find a schoolmaster.\"\n\n\"But what is to be done about the signature?\" asked Sancho.\n\n\"The letters of Amadis were never signed,\" replied Don Quixote.\n\n\"That is all very well,\" said Sancho, \"but the paper for the three\nasses must be signed, for if it be copied out they shall say it is\nfalse, and then I shall not get the ass-colts.\"\n\n\"Well, then, the order for the ass-colts shall be signed in the book,\"\nsaid Don Quixote; \"and as for the love-letter, thou shalt put this\nending to it, 'Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful\nCountenance.' And it will be no great matter that it goes in a\nstrange hand, for as well as I remember Dulcinea can neither read nor\nwrite, nor has she ever seen my handwriting. For indeed, during the\ntwelve years I have been loving her more dearly than the light of my\neyes, I have only seen her four times, and I doubt if she hath ever\nnoticed me at all, so closely have her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and\nher mother Aldonza brought her up.\"\n\n\"Ha! ha!\" cried Sancho, \"then the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso is the\ndaughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, and is called Aldonza Corchuelo?\"\n\n\"That is she,\" said Don Quixote, \"and a lady worthy to be the empress\nof this wide universe.\"\n\n\"I know her very well,\" replied Sancho, \"and can tell you that she can\nthrow an iron bar with the strongest lad in our village. She is a girl\nof mettle, tall and stout, and a sturdy lass that can hold her own\nwith any knight-errant in the world. Out upon her, what an arm she\nhath! Why, I saw her one day stand on top of the church belfry, to\ncall her father's servants from the fields, and, though they were half\na league off, they heard her as though she were in the next field; and\nthe best of her is there is nothing coy about her, but she jokes with\nall and makes game and jest of everybody. To be frank with you, Sir\nDon Quixote, I have been living under a great mistake, for, really and\ntruly, I thought all this while that the lady Dulcinea was some great\nprincess with whom your worship was in love.\"\n\n\"I have told thee, Sancho, many times before now,\" said Don Quixote,\n\"that thou art a very great babbler. Understand, then, that my lady\nDulcinea is to me as good and beautiful as any princess in the world,\nand that is enough.\"\n\nWith these words; he took out the pocket-book, and, going aside, began\nto write with great gravity. When he had ended, he called Sancho to\nhim and read him the following letter:--\n\n\n\"SOVEREIGN LADY,\n\n\"The sere wounded one, O sweetest Dulcinea of Toboso, sends thee the\nhealth which he wants himself. If thy beauty disdain me, I cannot\nlive. My good Squire Sancho will give thee ample account, O ungrateful\nfair one, of the penance I do for love of thee. Should it be thy\npleasure to favour me, I am thine. If not, by ending my life I shall\nsatisfy both thy cruelty and my desires.\n\n\"Thine until death,\n\n\"KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.\"\n\n\n\"By my father's life,\" said Sancho, \"it is the noblest thing that ever\nI heard in my life; and now will your worship write the order for the\nthree ass-colts?\"\n\n\"With pleasure,\" answered Don Quixote, and he did as he was desired.\n\n\"And now,\" said Sancho, \"let me saddle Rozinante and be off. For I\nintend to start without waiting to see those mad pranks your worship\nis going to play. There is one thing I am afraid of, though, and that\nis, that on my return I shall not be able to find the place where I\nleave you, it is so wild and difficult.\"\n\n\"Take the marks well, and when thou shouldst return I will mount to\nthe tops of the highest rocks. Also it will be well to cut down some\nboughs and strew them after you as you go, that they may serve as\nmarks to find your way back.\"\n\nSancho did this, and, not heeding his master's request to stay and see\nhim go through some mad tricks in order that he might describe them to\nDulcinea, he mounted Rozinante and rode away.\n\nHe had not got more than a hundred paces when he returned and said:\n\"Sir, what you said was true, and it would be better for my conscience\nif I saw the follies you are about to do before I describe them to\nyour lady.\"\n\n\"Did I not tell thee so?\" said Don Quixote; \"wait but a minute.\"\n\nThen stripping himself in all haste of most of his clothes, Don\nQuixote began cutting capers and turning somersaults in his shirt\ntails, until even Sancho was satisfied that he might truthfully tell\nthe Lady Dulcinea that her lover was mad, and so, turning away, he\nstarted in good earnest upon his journey.\n\n\n\n\nSANCHO'S JOURNEY TO THE LADY DULCINEA\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nDon Quixote, left to himself, climbed to the top of a high mountain,\nand spent his days making poems about the beautiful Dulcinea, which he\nrecited to the rocks and trees around him. In this, and in calling\nupon the nymphs of the streams, and the satyrs of the woods, to hear\nhis cries, did he pass his time while Sancho was away.\n\nAs for his squire, turning out on the highway, he took the road which\nled to Toboso, and arrived the next day at the inn where he had been\ntossed in a blanket. He no sooner saw it than he imagined that he was\nonce again flying through the air, and he half made up his mind that\nhe would not enter the inn, although it was now dinner-hour and he\nfelt a marvellous longing to taste some cooked meat again, as he had\neaten nothing but cold fare for a good many days.\n\nThis longing made him draw near to the inn, remaining still in some\ndoubt as to whether he should enter it or not.\n\nAs he stood musing, there came out of the inn two persons who\nrecognised him at once, and the one said to the other: \"Tell me, sir\ncurate, is not that horseman riding there Sancho Panza, who departed\nwith Don Quixote to be his squire?\"\n\n\"It is,\" said the curate, \"and that is Don Quixote's horse.\"\n\nThey knew him well enough, for they were Don Quixote's friends, the\ncurate and the barber, who not so long ago had helped to burn his\nbooks and wall up his library; so, wanting to learn news of Don\nQuixote, they went up to him and said: \"Friend Sancho Panza, where\nhave you left your master?\"\n\nSancho Panza knew them instantly, but wanted to conceal the place and\nmanner in which the knight remained, and answered that his master was\nkept in a certain place by affairs of the greatest importance of which\nhe must say nothing.\n\n\"That will not do, friend Sancho,\" said the barber. \"If thou dost not\ntell us where he is, we shall believe that thou hast robbed and slain\nhim, seeing that thou art riding his horse. Verily thou must find us\nthe owner of the steed, or it will be the worse for thee.\"\n\n\"Your threats do not trouble me, for I am not one who would rob or\nmurder anybody, and, for my master, he is enjoying himself doing\npenance in the Brown Mountains, where I have just left him.\"\n\nThen Sancho told them from beginning to end how his master was\ncarrying out his penance, and of the mad pranks he intended to\nperform, and how he, Sancho, was bearing a letter to the Lady Dulcinea\nof Toboso, who was none other than the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo,\nwith whom the knight was head and ears in love.\n\nBoth of them were amazed at what they heard, although they knew\nsomething of Don Quixote's madness already. They asked Sancho to show,\nthem the letter he was carrying to the Lady Dulcinea. Sancho told\nthem it was written in the pocket-book, and that he was ordered to get\nit copied out at the first village he came to.\n\nThe curate told him that if he would show it to them, he would make a\nfair copy of it for him. Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosom\nto search for the little book, but he could not find it, nor would he\nhave found it if he had hunted until Doomsday, for he had left it with\nDon Quixote, who had quite forgotten to give it to him, nor had he\nremembered to ask for it when he came away. When Sancho discovered\nthat the book was lost, his face grew as pale as death, and feeling\nall over his body he saw clearly that it was not to be found. Without\nmore ado he laid hold of his beard, and with both his fists plucked\nout half his hair and gave himself half a dozen blows about his face\nand nose, so that he was soon bathed in his own blood.\n\nSeeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what was the matter,\nthat he should treat himself so ill.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" cried poor Sancho. \"Why, I have let slip\nthrough my fingers three of the finest ass-colts you ever saw.\"\n\n\"How so?\" asked the barber.\n\n\"Why, I have lost the pocket-book,\" replied Sancho, \"which had in it\nnot only the letter for Dulcinea, but also a note of hand signed by my\nmaster addressed to his niece, ordering her to give me three ass-colts\nof the four or five that were left at his house.\" So saying, he told\nthem the story of his lost Dapple.\n\nThe curate comforted him by telling him that as soon as they had found\nhis master they would get him to write out the paper again in proper\nform. With this Sancho took courage, and said if that could be done\nall would be right, for he cared not much for the loss of Dulcinea's\nletter, as he knew it by heart.\n\n\"Say it then, Sancho,\" said the barber, \"and we will write it out.\"\n\nThen Sancho stood still and began to scratch his head and try to call\nthe letter to memory. He stood first on one leg and then on the other,\nand looked first to heaven and then to earth, while he gnawed off half\nhis nails, and at the end of a long pause said: \"I doubt if I can\nremember all, but it began, 'High and unsavoury lady.'\"\n\n\"I warrant you,\" interrupted the barber, \"it was not 'unsavoury' but\n'sovereign lady.'\"\n\n\"So it was,\" cried Sancho; \"and then there was something about the\nwounded one sending health and sickness and what not to the ungrateful\nfair, and so it scrambled along until it ended in 'Yours till death,\nthe Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'\"\n\nThey were both much amused at Sancho's good memory, and praised it\nhighly, asking him to repeat the letter once or twice more to them, so\nthat they might be able to write it down when they got a chance. Three\ntimes did Sancho repeat it, and each time he made as many new\nmistakes. Then he told them other things about his master, but never a\nword about being tossed in a blanket, although he refused, without\ngiving any reason, to enter the inn, though he begged them to bring\nhim something nice and hot to eat, and some barley for Rozinante, when\nthey had finished their own repast.\n\nWith that they went into the inn, and after a while the curate brought\nhim some meat, which Sancho was very glad to see.\n\nNow whilst the curate and the barber were in the inn they discussed\ntogether the best means of bringing Don Quixote back to his home, and\nthe curate hit upon a plan which fitted in well with Don Quixote's\nhumour, and seemed likely to be successful. This plan was, as he told\nthe barber, to dress himself like a wandering damsel, while the barber\ntook the part of her squire, and in this disguise they were to go to\nwhere Don Quixote was undergoing his penance, and the curate,\npretending that he was an afflicted and sorely distressed damsel, was\nto demand of him a boon, which as a valiant knight errant he could not\nrefuse.\n\nThe service which the damsel was to ask was that Don Quixote would\nfollow her where she should lead him, to right a wrong which some\nwicked knight had done her. Besides this, she was to pray him not to\ncommand her to unveil herself or inquire as to her condition, until he\nhad done her right against the wicked knight. And thus they hoped to\nlead Don Quixote back to his own village, and afterwards to cure him\nof his mad ideas.\n\nThe curate's notion pleased the barber well, and they resolved to\ncarry it out. They borrowed of the innkeeper's wife a gown and a\nhead-dress, leaving with her in exchange the curate's new cassock. The\nbarber made for himself a great beard of a red ox's tail in which the\ninnkeeper used to hang his horse-comb.\n\nThe innkeeper's wife asked them what they wanted these things for, and\nthe curate told her shortly all about Don Quixote's madness, and how\nthis disguise was necessary to bring him away from the mountains where\nhe had taken up his abode.\n\nThe innkeeper and his wife then remembered all about their strange\nguest, and told the barber and the curate all about him and his\nbalsam, and how Sancho had fared with the blanket. Then the\ninnkeeper's wife dressed up the curate so cleverly that it could not\nhave been better done. She attired him in a stuff gown with bands of\nblack velvet several inches broad, and a bodice and sleeves of green\nvelvet trimmed with white satin, both of which might have been made in\nthe days of the Flood. The curate would not consent to wear a\nheaddress like a woman's, but put on a white quilted linen nightcap,\nwhich he carried to sleep in. Then with two strips of black stuff he\nmade himself a mask and fixed it on, and this covered his face and\nbeard very neatly. He then put on his large hat, and, wrapping himself\nin his cloak, seated himself like a woman sideways on his mule, whilst\nthe barber mounted his, with a beard reaching down to his girdle,\nmade, as was said, from a red ox's tail.\n\nThey now took their leave, and all at the inn wished them a good\nsuccess; but they had not gone very far when the curate began to dread\nthat he was not doing right in dressing up as a woman and gadding\nabout in such a costume, even on so good an errand. He therefore\nproposed to the barber that he should be the distressed damsel, and\nhe, the curate, would take the part of the squire and teach him what\nto say and how to behave. Sancho now came up to them, and, seeing them\nin their strange dresses, could not contain his laughter.\n\nThe curate soon threw off his disguise, and the barber did the same,\nand both resolved not to dress up any more until they should come\nnearer to Don Quixote, when the barber should be the distressed damsel\nand the curate should be the squire.\n\nThen they pursued their journey towards the Brown Mountains, guided by\nSancho, to whom they explained that it was necessary that his master\nshould be led away from his penance, if he was ever to become an\nemperor and be in a position to give Sancho his desired island.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF CARDENIO\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nThe next day they arrived at the place where Sancho had left the\nboughs strewn along his path, and there he told them they were near to\nDon Quixote, and that they had better get dressed. For they had told\nSancho part of their plan to take away his master from this wretched\npenance he was performing, and warned him not to tell the knight who\nthey were. They also said that if Don Quixote asked, as they were sure\nhe would, whether he had delivered his letter to Dulcinea, he was to\nsay that he had done so; but as his lady could not read, she had sent\na message that he was to return to her. Sancho listened to all this\ntalk, and said he would remember everything, for he was anxious that\nhis master should give up penances and go forth again in search of\nislands. He also suggested that it were best he should go on in\nadvance, as perhaps the message from Dulcinea would of itself be\nenough to bring Don Quixote away from the mountains.\n\nWith that, Sancho went off into the mountain gorges, leaving the other\ntwo behind by a stream overhung with pleasant trees and rocks.\n\nIt was one of the hottest days of August, when in those parts the heat\nis very great, and it was about three in the afternoon when Sancho\nleft them. The two were resting in the shade at their ease when they\nheard the sound of a voice, not accompanied by any instrument, but\nsinging very sweetly and melodiously. The song surprised them not a\nlittle, for this did not seem the place in which to find so good a\nsinger.\n\nThe singer finished his song, and the barber and curate, in wonder and\ndelight, listened for more. But as silence continued, they agreed to\ngo in search of this strange musician. As they were moving away he\nagain burst into song, and at the end of this, uttered a deep sigh,\nand the music was changed into sobs and heartrending moans.\n\nThey had not gone far in their search when, in turning the corner of a\nrock, they saw a man with a black and matted beard, his hair long and\nuntangled, his feet unshod and his legs bare. The curate at once went\nup to him and the man returned his greeting in a hoarse tone but with\ngreat courtesy.\n\n\"Whoever you may be, good sirs, I see clearly that, unworthy as I am,\nthere are yet human beings who would show me kindness. My name is\nCardenio; the place of my birth one of the best cities in Andalusia;\nmy lineage noble, my parents rich, and my misfortunes so great that I\nthink no one was ever to be pitied as I am. A terrible madness masters\nme to live in these mountains and many blame my outrageous conduct\nrather than pity my misery. But if you will listen to my story, you\nwill know why I have been driven here, what has made me mad, and will\nunderstand how far I ought to be blamed and how much I may be pitied.\"\n\nThe curate and the barber, who wanted nothing better than to learn the\ncause of his woe from his own lips, asked him to tell his story.\n\nUpon this Cardenio began in the middle of his story and progressed\nrapidly in spite of repeated questioning until he came to the book\nthat his beloved Lucinda had borrowed about Amadis Gaul.\n\nThere was no interruption from any one on this occasion, so Cardenio\nwent on to tell them how, when Lucinda returned the book he found in\nit a letter full of tender wishes beautifully expressed.\n\n\"It was this letter,\" continued Cardenio, \"that moved me to again ask\nLucinda for wife; it was this letter also which made Don Fernando\ndetermine to ruin me before my happiness could be complete. I told\nDon Fernando how matters stood with me, and how her father expected\nmine to ask for Lucinda, and how I dared not speak to my father about\nit for fear he should refuse his consent; not because he was ignorant\nof the beauty and worth of Lucinda, but because he did not wish me to\nmarry so soon, or at least not until he had seen what the Duke Ricardo\nwould do for me. I told Don Fernando that I could not venture to speak\nto my father about it, and he offered to speak on my behalf, and\npersuade my father to ask for Lucinda's hand.\n\n\"How could I imagine that with a gentleman like Fernando, my own\nfriend, such a thing as treachery was possible? But so it was! And my\nfriend, as I thought him, knowing that my presence was a\nstumbling-block to his plans, asked me to go to his elder brother's to\nborrow some money from him to pay for six horses which Fernando had\nbought in the city. It never entered my thoughts to imagine his\nvillainy, and I went with a right good will to do his errand. That\nnight I spoke with Lucinda, and told her what had been arranged\nbetween me and Fernando, telling her to hope that all would turn out\nwell. As I left her, tears filled her eyes, and we both seemed full of\nmisery and alarm, tokens, as I now think, of the dark fate that\nawaited me. I reached the town to which I was sent, and delivered my\nletters to Don Fernando's brother. I was well received, but there\nseemed no haste to send me back again, and I was put off with many\nexcuses about the difficulty of raising the money that Don Fernando\nneeded. In this way I rested several days, much to my disgust, and it\nseemed to me impossible to live apart from Lucinda for so long a time.\n\n\"But on the fourth day after I had arrived, there came a man in search\nof me with a letter, which, by the handwriting, I knew to be\nLucinda's. I opened it, not without fear, knowing that it must be some\nserious matter which would lead her to write to me, seeing she did it\nso rarely. I asked the bearer, before I read the letter, who had given\nit to him, and how long it had been on the way. He answered that,\npassing by chance at midday through a street in my native city, a very\nbeautiful lady had called to him from a window. Poor thing, said he,\nher eyes were all bedewed with tears, and she spoke hurriedly, saying:\n'Brother, if thou art a good man, as thou seemest to be, I pray thee\ntake this letter to the person named in the address, and in so doing\nthou shalt do me a great service. And that thou mayest not want money\nto do it, take what thou shalt find wrapped in that handkerchief.'\n\n\"'So saying she threw out of the window a handkerchief in which was\nwrapped a hundred _reals_, this ring of gold which I carry here,\nand this letter which I have given you. I made signs to her that I\nwould do what she bade, and as I knew you very well I made up my mind\nnot to trust any other messenger, but to come myself, and so I have\ntravelled this journey, which you know is some eighteen leagues, in\nbut sixteen hours.'\n\n\"Whilst the kind messenger was telling his story, I remained trembling\nwith the letter in my hand, until at last I took courage and opened\nit, when these words caught my eyes:--\n\n\"'The promise Don Fernando made to you to persuade your father to\nspeak to mine, he has kept after his own fashion. Know, then, that he\nhas himself asked me for wife, and my father, carried away by his rank\nand position, has agreed to his wishes, so that in two days we are to\nbe privately married. Imagine how I feel, and consider if you should\nnot come at once. Let me hope that this reaches your hand ere mine be\njoined to his who keeps his promised faith so ill.'\n\n\"Such were the words of her letter, and they caused me at once to set\nout on my journey without waiting for the despatch of Don Fernando's\nbusiness, for now I knew that it was not a matter of buying horses,\nbut the pursuit of his own wretched pleasure, that had led to my being\nsent to his brother. The rage which I felt for Don Fernando, joined to\nthe fear I had of losing the jewel I had won by so many years of\npatient love, seemed to lend me wings, and I arrived at my native city\nas swiftly as though I had flown, just in time to see and speak with\nLucinda. I entered the city secretly, and left my mule at the house of\nthe honest man who had brought my letter, and went straight to the\nlittle iron gate where I had so often met Lucinda.\n\n\"There I found her, and as soon as she saw me she said in deep\ndistress: 'Cardenio, I am attired in wedding garments, and in the hall\nthere waits for me the traitor, Don Fernando, and my covetous father,\nwith other witnesses, who shall see my death rather than my wedding.\nBe not troubled, dear friend, for if I cannot persuade them to give me\nmy freedom, I can at least end my life with this dagger.'\n\n\"I answered her in great distress, saying: 'Sweet lady, if thou\ncarriest a dagger, I also carry a sword to defend thy life, or to kill\nmyself, should fortune be against us.'\n\n\"I believe she did not hear all I said, for she was hastily called\naway, and I aroused myself from my grief, as best I could, and went\ninto the house, for I knew well all the entrances and exits. Then,\nwithout being seen, I managed to place myself in a hollow formed by\nthe window of the great hall, which was covered by two pieces of\ntapestry drawn together, whence I could see all that went on in the\nhall without any one seeing me.\n\n\"The bridegroom entered the hall, wearing his ordinary dress. His\ngroomsman was a first cousin of Lucinda's, and no one else was in the\nroom but the servants of the house. In a little while Lucinda came out\nof her dressing-room with her mother and two of her maids. My anxiety\ngave me no time to note what she wore. I was only able to mark the\ncolours, which were crimson and white; and I remember the glimmer with\nwhich the jewels and precious stones shone in her head-dress. But all\nthis was as nothing to the singular beauty of her fair golden hair.\n\n\"When they were all stood in the hall, the priest of the parish\nentered, and, taking each by the hand, asked: 'Will you, Lady Lucinda,\ntake the Lord Don Fernando for your lawful husband?' I thrust my head\nand neck out of the tapestry to hear what Lucinda answered. The priest\nstood waiting for a long time before she gave it, and then, when I\nexpected, nay, almost hoped, that she would take out the dagger to\nstab herself, or unloose her tongue to speak the truth, or make some\nconfession of her love for me, I heard her say in a faint and\nlanguishing voice, 'I will.'\n\n\"Then Don Fernando said the same, and, giving her the ring, the knot\nwas tied. But when the bridegroom approached to embrace her, she put\nher hand to her heart and fell fainting in her mother's arms.\n\n\"It remains only for me to tell in what a state I was, when in that\n'Yes!' I saw all my hopes at an end. I burned with rage and jealousy.\nAll the house was in a tumult when Lucinda fainted, and, her mother\nunclasping her dress to give her air, found in her bosom a paper,\nwhich Fernando seized and went aside to read by the light of a torch.\nWhilst he read it he fell into a chair and covered his face with his\nhands in melancholy discontent.\n\n\"Seeing every one was in confusion I ventured forth, not caring where\nI went, not having even a desire to take vengeance on my enemies. I\nleft the house, and came to where I had left my mule, which I caused\nto be saddled. Then without a word of farewell to any one I rode out\nof the city, and never turned my head to look back at it again.\n\n\"All night I travelled, and about dawn I came to one of the entrances\nto these mountains, through which I wandered three days at random. I\nthen left my mule, and such things as I had, and took to living in\nthese wilds. My most ordinary dwelling is in the hollow of a\ncork-tree, which is large enough to shelter this wretched body. The\ngoatherds who live among these mountains give me food out of charity.\nThey tell me, when they meet me in my wits, that at other times I rush\nout at them and seize with violence the food they would offer me in\nkindness.\n\n\"I know that I do a thousand mad things, but without Lucinda I shall\nnever recover my reason, and I feel certain that my misery can only be\nended by death.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF DOROTHEA\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nAs soon as Cardenio had finished his melancholy story, the curate was\nabout to offer him some consolation, when he was stopped by hearing a\nmournful voice calling out: \"Oh that I could find an end to this life\nof misery! Alas, how much more agreeable to me is the company of these\nrocks and thickets than the society of faithless man! Would that I had\nany one to advise me in difficulty, to comfort me in distress, or to\navenge my wrongs!\" This was overheard by the curate and all who were\nwith him, and thinking that the person who spoke must be hard by, they\nwent to search, and had not gone twenty paces when they saw behind a\nlarge rock a boy sitting under an ash-tree. He wore a peasant's dress,\nbut as he was bending down to wash his feet in the brook, his head was\nturned from them. They approached softly and without speaking, while\nhis whole attention was employed in bathing his legs in the stream.\nThey wondered at the whiteness and beauty of his feet, that did not\nseem formed to tread the furrows, or follow the cattle or the plough,\nas his dress seemed to suggest. The curate, who was ahead of the rest,\nmade signs to them to crouch down, or hide themselves behind a rock.\nThis done, they all gazed at the beautiful youth, who was clad in a\ngrey jacket, and wore breeches and hose of the same cloth, with a grey\nhunting-cap on his head. Having washed his delicate feet, he wiped\nthem with a handkerchief which he took out of his cap, and in doing so\nhe raised his head, showing to those who were looking at him a face of\nsuch exquisite beauty that Cardenio murmured: \"Since this is not\nLucinda, it can be no earthly but some celestial being.\"\n\nThe youth took off his cap, and, shaking his head, a wealth of hair,\nthat Apollo might have envied, fell down upon his shoulders, and\ndiscovered to them all that the peasant was not only a woman, but one\nof the most delicate and handsome women they had ever seen. Even\nCardenio had to admit to himself that only Lucinda could rival her in\nbeauty. Her golden locks fell down in such length and quantity that\nthey not only covered her shoulders, but concealed everything except\nher feet, and the bystanders more than ever desired to know who this\nmysterious beauty might be. Some one advanced, and at the noise the\nbeauteous phantasy raised her head, and thrust aside her locks with\nboth hands, to see what it was that had startled her. No sooner did\nshe perceive them than she started up, and, without staying to put on\nher shoes or tie up her hair, seized her bundle, and took to flight\nfull of alarm, but she had not run six yards when her delicate feet,\nunable to bear the roughness of the stones, failed her, and she fell\nto the ground.\n\nThey all ran to her assistance, and the curate, who was first, said:\n\"Stay, madam, whosoever you are; those you see here have no desire to\nharm you, and there is therefore no necessity whatever for flight.\"\n\nTo this she made no reply, being ashamed and confused, but the curate,\ntaking her hand, continued in a kindly manner: \"Madam, it can be no\nslight cause that has hidden your beauty in such an unworthy disguise,\nand brought you to this lonely place where we have found you. Let us\nat least offer you our advice and counsel in your distress, for no\nsorrow can be so great that kind words may not be of service. Therefore,\nmadam, tell us something of your good or evil fortune, that we may\nhelp you in your troubles as best we can.\"\n\nAt first, while the curate spoke, the disguised damsel stood rapt in\nattention, and gaped and gazed at them all as if she were some stupid\nvillager, who did not understand what was said; but finding that the\ncurate understood something of her secret, she sighed deeply, and\nsaid: \"Since these mountains cannot conceal me, and my poor hair\nbetrays my secret, it would be vain for me to pretend things which you\ncould not be expected to believe. Therefore I thank you all,\ngentlemen, for your kindness and courtesy, and I will tell you\nsomething of my misfortunes, not to win your pity, but that you may\nknow why it is I wander here alone and in this strange disguise.\"\n\nAll this was said in such a sweet voice, and in so sensible a manner,\nthat they again assured her of their wish to serve her, and begged\nthat she would tell them her story.\n\nTo this she replied by putting on her shoes and binding up her hair,\nand seating herself upon a rock in the midst of her three hearers.\nThen, brushing away a few tears from her eyes, she began in a clear\nvoice the story of her life.\n\n\"In the Province of Andalusia there is a certain town from which a\ngreat duke takes his name, which makes him one of our grandees, as\nthey are called in Spain. He has two sons. The elder is heir to his\nestates, the younger is heir to I know not what, unless it be his\nfather's evil qualities. To this nobleman my parents are vassals, of\nhumble and low degree, but still so rich that if nature had gifted\nthem with birth equal to their wealth, I should have been nobly born,\nnor should I now have suffered these strange misfortunes. They are but\nfarmers and plain people, and what they mostly prized was their\ndaughter, whom they thought to be the best treasure they had. As they\nhad no other child, they were almost too affectionate and indulgent,\nand I was their spoilt child. And as I was the mistress of their\naffection, so also was I mistress of all their goods. I kept the\nreckoning of their oil-mills, their wine-presses, their cattle and\nsheep, their beehives--in a word, of all that a rich farmer like my\nfather could possess. I engaged and dismissed the servants, and was\nthe stewardess of the estate. The spare hours that were left from the\nmanagement of the farm I spent with the needle, the lace cushion, and\nthe distaff, or else I would read some good hook or practise upon my\nharp.\n\n\"This was the life that I led in my father's house. And though I\nseldom went abroad except to church, yet it seems I had attracted the\neyes of the duke's younger son, Don Fernando, for so he was called.\"\n\nNo sooner did she mention the name of Don Fernando than Cardenio's\nface changed colour, and the curate and barber noticing it, feared\nthat he would burst out into one of his mad fits. But he did nothing\nbut tremble and remain silent, and the girl continued her story.\n\n\"No sooner, then, had Don Fernando seen me than he was smitten with\nlove for me, and from that moment I had no peace. I could not sleep\nfor his serenades. I had numerous letters from him, full of\ndeclarations of love, and at last at his earnest entreaty we had many\nmeetings. But though he talked much of love, yet I knew that his\nfather would not allow him to marry the daughter of one of his own\nvassals, and my parents both assured me that the duke would never\nconsent to our marriage.\n\n\"One evening Don Fernando gave me a beautiful ring, and promised that\nhe would always be true to me, and from that moment I felt that I was\nbetrothed to him, and that he really intended, in spite of the duke's\nopposition, to make me his wife. For some days I lived in the\ngreatest joy, and Don Fernando came constantly to see me, but after a\nwhile his visits grew less frequent, and at last ceased altogether,\nand I heard that he had gone on a visit to another city.\n\n\"I waited in hopes of receiving a letter from him, but none came. Ah,\nhow sad and bitter those days and hours were to me, when I first began\nto doubt and even to disbelieve in my lover's faith! I had to keep\nwatch on my tears, and wear a happy face for fear my parents should\nfind out the reason of my unhappiness. All this time of doubt,\nhowever, came to an end at an instant. For at last it was announced in\nthe town that Don Fernando had married, in the city where he was\nvisiting, a damsel of exceeding beauty and of very noble birth called\nLucinda, and there were many strange tales told of their wedding.\"\n\nCardenio, hearing the name of Lucinda, did nothing but shrug his\nshoulders, bow his head, and shed bitter tears. But yet, for all that,\nDorothea, for such was the maiden's name, did not interrupt the thread\nof her story, but continued.\n\n\"When this doleful news reached my ears, I was inflamed with rage and\nfury. I ordered one of my father's shepherds to attend me, and without\nsaying a word to my parents, I packed up some dresses and some money\nand jewels, and set off on foot for the city where Don Fernando had\ngone, that I might get from him at least some explanation of his\nwickedness. In two days and a half I arrived at my journey's end, and\nthe first person I asked told me the whole story of Don Fernando's\nwedding. He told me that at the time of the wedding, after Lucinda\nhad uttered her consent to be Fernando's wife, she had fainted, and\nthere fell from her bosom a letter written in her own hand, in which\nshe said that she could not be the wife of Don Fernando, because she\nwas betrothed to Cardenio, a gentleman of that city. The letter went\non to say that she intended to kill herself at the end of the\nceremony, and upon her was found a dagger, which seemed to bear out\nwhat she said. Don Fernando seeing this, and thinking that Lucinda had\nmocked him, would have stabbed her with the dagger had her parents not\nprevented him. After this, I was told, Don Fernando fled, and I\nlearned that this Cardenio had been present at the wedding, and,\nhearing her words, had vanished from the city in despair, leaving a\nletter behind, declaring the wrongs Lucinda had done to him. The whole\ncity were talking of these terrible things, and they talked the more\nwhen it was known that Lucinda was missing from her father's house,\nand that her parents had almost lost their reason in their distress.\nWhen I heard all these things I made up my mind I would find Don\nFernando, married or unmarried. But before I left the city on my\nsearch, I was told there was a proclamation made by the public crier,\noffering a large reward for any one who should bring me back to my\nparents. Fearing that this might tempt the shepherd to betray my\nwhereabouts, I made my escape from the city, and in this disguise came\nto the Brown Mountains, where I have lived for some months with an old\ngoatherd, and I help him to tend his goats. Here I have managed to\npass as a peasant lad until my hair betrayed me to you gentlemen as\nwhat I am, a distressed and unfortunate maiden. This is indeed the\ntrue story of my tragedy, for which consolation is in vain, and\nrelief, I fear me, impossible.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE END OF THE PENANCE\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\nWhen the unfortunate Dorothea had finished her story, she remained\nsilent, her face flushed with sorrow; and as the priest was about to\ncomfort her, Cardenio took her by the hand and said: \"Lady, thou art\nthe beautiful Dorothea, daughter unto rich Cleonardo.\"\n\nDorothea was amazed when she heard her father's name spoken by a\nperson of such wretched appearance as Cardenio, and answered: \"Who art\nthou, friend, that knowest so well my father's name? For, unless I am\nmistaken, I did not once name him throughout all my story.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Cardenio, \"the unlucky one to whom Lucinda was betrothed;\nand I, too, had thought that I was without hope of comfort. But now I\nhear that Lucinda will not marry Fernando because she is mine, and\nFernando cannot marry Lucinda because he is yours, it seems to me that\nthere is yet some consolation for both of us. And I vow, on the faith\nof a gentleman, not to forsake you until I see you in the possession\nof Don Fernando.\"\n\nThe curate now told them both the nature of his errand, and begged\nthat they would join him in his travels, and stay as long as they\npleased at his village. By this time they heard the voice of Sancho\nPanza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling out\nas loudly as he might.\n\nThey went to meet him, and asked for Don Quixote. Sancho told them\nthat he had found him almost naked to his shirt, lean and yellow, half\ndead with hunger, and sighing for the Lady Dulcinea; and although he\nhad told him that she commanded him to journey to Tohoso, yet he\ndeclared that he had made up his mind not to appear before her until\nhe had done feats worthy of her great beauty.\n\nThe curate now returned and told Dorothea of their plan, and she at\nonce offered to act the part of the distressed damsel, for she had a\nlady's dress in the bundle which she carried.\n\n\"The sooner, then, we set about our work the better,\" said the barber.\n\nDorothea retired to put on her robe of a fine rich woollen cloth, a\nshort mantle of another green stuff, and a collar and many rich jewels\nwhich she took from a little casket. With these things she adorned\nherself so gorgeously that she appeared to be a princess at\nleast. When Sancho saw her he was amazed, and asked the curate with\ngreat eagerness to tell him who the lady was, and what she was doing\nin these out of the way places.\n\n\"This beautiful lady, brother Sancho,\" replied the curate, \"is the\nheiress in direct line of the mighty Kingdom of Micomicon, who has\ncome in search of thy master, to ask of him a boon, which is to avenge\nher of a wrong done by a wicked giant. And, owing to the great fame\nof thy master which has spread through all lands, this beautiful\nprincess has come to find him out.\"\n\n\"A happy searcher and a happy finding,\" cried Sancho; \"my master shall\nsoon slay the great lubber of a giant, unless he turn out to be a\nphantom, for he has no power over those things. And when this is done,\nmy lord shall marry the princess, whose name, by the bye, you have not\nyet told me, and by this means shall he become an emperor, and have\nislands to give away.\"\n\n\"Her name,\" replied the curate, \"is the Princess Micomicona, and as to\nyour master's marriage, I will do what I can to help.\"\n\nSancho was quite satisfied with these answers, and, when Dorothea had\nmounted the mule, he guided them towards the spot where Don Quixote\nwas to be found. And as they went along, the barber told Sancho he\nmust in no way pretend to know who he was, for if he did, Don Quixote\nwould never leave the mountains and would never become an emperor. The\ncurate and Cardenio remained behind, promising to join them again on\nthe first opportunity.\n\nHaving travelled about three-quarters of a league, they found Don\nQuixote clothed, though still unarmed, sitting amidst the rocks. No\nsooner did Sancho tell Dorothea that this was his master than she\nwhipped up her palfrey, closely followed by the well-bearded barber,\nwho jumped from his mule, and ran to help his lady alight.\n\nQuickly dismounting, she threw herself on her knees before Don\nQuixote, and refusing his efforts to raise her, spoke as follows:\n\"Never will I rise from this position, most valiant and invincible\nknight, until you grant me a boon which will not only add to your\nhonour and renown, but also assist the most injured and unfortunate\ndamsel that ever the sun beheld. And if the valour of your mighty arm\nbe equal to what I have heard of your immortal fame, you can indeed\nrender aid to a miserable being who comes from a far-distant land to\nseek your help.\"\n\n\"Beauteous lady,\" replied Don Quixote, \"I will not answer one word,\nnor hear a jot of your affairs, until you rise from the ground.\"\n\n\"I will not rise, my lord,\" answered the unfortunate maiden, \"until I\nhave obtained from you the boon I beg.\"\n\n\"Dear lady,\" replied Don Quixote, \"it is granted, so that it be not\nanything that touches my duty to my king, my country, or the chosen\nqueen of my heart.\"\n\n\"Your kindness shall in no way affect them,\" replied Dorothea.\n\nAt this moment Sancho came up and whispered softly in his master's\near: \"Sir, you may very well grant the request she asketh, for it is a\nmere nothing; it is only to kill a monstrous giant, and she that\ndemands it is the Princess Micomicona, Queen of the great Kingdom of\nMicomicon in Ethiopia.\"\n\n\"Let her be what she will,\" said Don Quixote, \"I will do my duty\ntowards her.\" And then turning to the damsel, he said: \"Rise, most\nbeautiful lady, for I grant you any boon you shall please to ask of\nme.\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" said Dorothea, \"what I ask of you is, that you will at\nonce come away with me to the place where I shall guide you, and that\nyou promise me not to undertake any new adventure, until you have\nrevenged me on a traitor who has driven me out of my kingdom.\"\n\n\"I grant your request,\" said Don Quixote, \"and therefore, lady, you\nmay cast away from this day forward all the melancholy that troubles\nyou, for this mighty arm shall restore you to your kingdom.\"\n\nThe distressed damsel strove with much ado to kiss his hand, but Don\nQuixote, who was a most courteous knight, would not permit it, and,\nmaking her arise, treated her with the greatest respect.\n\nHe now commanded Sancho to saddle Rozinante and help him to arm\nhimself, and this done the knight was ready to depart. The barber, who\nhad been kneeling all the while, had great difficulty to stop laughing\naloud at all this, and his beard was in danger of falling off. He was\nglad to get up and help his lady to mount the mule, and when Don\nQuixote was mounted, and the barber himself had got upon his beast,\nthey were ready to start. As for Sancho, who trudged along on foot,\nhe could not help grieving for the loss of his Dapple; but he bore it\nall with patience, for now he saw his master on the way to marry a\nprincess, and so become at least King of Micomicon, though it grieved\nhim to think that that country was peopled by blackamoors, and that\nwhen he became a ruler his vassals would all be black.\n\nWhile this was going on, the curate and Cardenio had not been\nidle. For the curate was a cunning plotter, and had hit on a bright\nidea. He took from his pocket a pair of scissors, and cut off\nCardenio's rugged beard and trimmed his hair very cleverly. And when\nhe had thrown his riding-cloak over Cardenio's shoulders, he was so\nunlike what he was before, that he would not have known himself in a\nlooking-glass. This finished, they went out to meet Don Quixote and\nthe others.\n\nWhen they came towards them, the curate looked earnestly at the knight\nfor some time, and then ran towards him with open arms, saying: \"In a\ngood hour is this meeting with my worthy countryman, the mirror of\nknighthood, Don Quixote of the Mancha, the champion of the\ndistressed.\"\n\nDon Quixote did not at first know him, but when he remembered the\ncurate he wanted to alight, saying: \"It is not seemly, reverend sir,\nthat I should ride whilst you travel on foot.\"\n\nBut the curate would not allow him to dismount and give him his horse,\nbut suggested that he might ride behind the lady's squire on his mule.\n\n\"I did not think of that, good master curate,\" said Don Quixote; \"but\nI know my lady the princess will for my sake order her squire to lend\nyou the use of his saddle.\"\n\n\"That I will,\" said the princess; \"and I know my squire is the last\nman to grudge a share of his beast to this reverend father.\"\n\n\"That is most certain,\" said the barber, and got off his steed at\nonce.\n\nThe curate now mounted, but the misfortune was that when the barber\ntried to get up behind, the mule, which was a hired one, lifted up her\nlegs and kicked out with such fury that she knocked Mr. Nicholas to\nthe ground, and, as he rolled over, his beard fell off and lay upon\nthe earth. Don Quixote, seeing that huge mass of beard torn from the\njaw without blood, and lying at a distance from the squire's face,\nsaid: \"This, I vow, is one of the greatest miracles I ever saw in my\nlife. The beard is taken off as clean by the heel of the mule as if it\nhad been done by the hand of a barber.\"\n\nThe curate, seeing the risk they ran of their plan being found out,\ncame to where Master Nicholas was lying, and with one jerk clapped it\non again, muttering as he did so some Latin words, which he said were\na charm for fixing on beards.\n\nBy this means, to Don Quixote's amazement, the squire was cured again,\nand he asked the curate to tell him this charm, which, he said, since\nit could heal a wound of this kind, must be good for even more\ndangerous injuries.\n\nThe curate agreed to tell him the secret some other day, and, having\nmounted the mule, the party rode slowly away towards the inn.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JOURNEY TO THE INN\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nThe curate rode first on the mule, and with him rode Don Quixote and\nthe princess. The others, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza,\nfollowed on foot.\n\nAnd as they rode, Don Quixote said to the damsel: \"Madam, let me\nentreat your highness to lead the way that most pleaseth you.\"\n\nBefore she could answer, the curate said: \"Towards what kingdoms would\nyou travel? Are you for your native land of Micomicon?\"\n\nShe, who knew very well what to answer, being no babe, replied: \"Yes,\nsir, my way lies towards that kingdom.\"\n\n\"If it be so,\" said the curate, \"you must pass through the village\nwhere I dwell, and from thence your ladyship must take the road to\nCarthagena, where you may embark. And, if you have a prosperous\njourney, you may come within the space of nine years to the Lake\nMeona, I mean Meolidas, which stands on this side of your highness's\nkingdom some hundred days' journey or more.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, good sir,\" said she, \"for it is not yet fully two\nyears since I left there, and, though I never had fair weather, I have\narrived in time to see what I so longed for, the presence of the\nrenowned Don Quixote of the Mancha, whose glory was known to me as\nsoon as my foot touched the shores of Spain.\"\n\n\"No more,\" cried Don Quixote. \"I cannot abide to hear myself praised,\nfor I am a sworn enemy to flattery. And though I know what you speak\nis but truth, yet it offends mine ears. And I can tell you this, at\nleast, that whether I have valour or not, I will use it in your\nservice, even to the loss of my life. But let me know, master curate,\nwhat has brought you here?\"\n\n\"You must know, then,\" replied the curate, \"that Master Nicholas, the\nbarber, and myself travelled towards Seville to recover certain sums\nof money which a kinsman of mine in the Indies had sent me. And\npassing yesterday through this way we were set upon by four robbers,\nwho took everything that we had. And it is said about here, that those\nwho robbed us were certain galley slaves, who they say were set at\nliberty, almost on this very spot, by a man so valiant that in spite\nof the guard he released them all. And doubtless he must be out of his\nwits, or else he must be as great a knave as they, to loose the wolf\namong the sheep, and rebel against his king by taking from the galleys\ntheir lawful prey.\"\n\nSancho had told the curate of an adventure they had had with galley\nslaves, and the curate spoke of it to see what Don Quixote would say.\nThe knight, however, durst not confess his part in the adventure, but\nrode on, changing colour at every word the curate spoke.\n\nWhen the curate had finished, Sancho burst out: \"By my father, master\ncurate, he that did that deed was my master, and that not for want of\nwarning, for I told him beforehand that it was a sin to deliver them,\nand that they were great rogues who had been sent to the galleys to\npunish them for their crimes.\"\n\n\"You bottlehead!\" replied Don Quixote. \"It is not the duty of\nknights-errant to examine whether the afflicted, enslaved, and\noppressed whom they meet by the way are in sorrow for their own\ndefault; they must relieve them because they are needy and in\ndistress, looking at their sorrow and not at their crimes. And if any\nbut the holy master curate shall find fault with me on this account, I\nwill tell him that he knows nought of knighthood, and that he lies in\nhis throat, and this I will make him know by the power of my sword.\"\n\nDorothea, who was discreet enough to see they were carrying the jest\ntoo far, now said: \"Remember, sir knight, the boon you promised me,\nnever to engage in any other adventure, be it ever so urgent, until\nyou have seen me righted. And had master curate known that it was the\nmighty arm of Don Quixote that freed the galley slaves, I feel sure he\nwould have bit his tongue through ere he spoke words which might cause\nyou anger.\"\n\n\"That I dare swear,\" said the curate.\n\n\"Madam,\" replied Don Quixote, \"I will hold my peace and keep my anger\nto myself, and will ride on peaceably and quietly until I have done\nthe thing I promised. Tell me, therefore, without delay, what are your\ntroubles and on whom am I to take revenge.\"\n\nTo this Dorothea replied: \"Willingly will I do what you ask, so you\nwill give me your attention.\"\n\nAt this Cardenio and the barber drew near to hear the witty Dorothea\ntell her tale, and Sancho, who was as much deceived as his master, was\nthe most eager of all to listen.\n\nShe, after settling herself in her saddle, began with a lively air to\nspeak as follows: \"In the first place, I would have you know,\ngentlemen, that my name is--\" Here she stopped a moment, for she had\nforgotten what name the curate had given her.\n\nHe, seeing her trouble, said quickly: \"It is no wonder, great lady,\nthat you hesitate to tell your misfortunes. Great sufferers often lose\ntheir memory, so that they even forget their own names, as seems to\nhave happened to your ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called\nthe Princess Micomicona, heiress of the great Kingdom of Micomicon.\"\n\n\"True,\" said the damsel, \"but let me proceed. The king, my father,\nwas called Tinacrio the Sage, and was learned in the magic art. By\nthis he discovered that my mother, the Queen Xaramilla, would die\nbefore him, and that I should soon afterwards be left an orphan. This\ndid not trouble him so much as the knowledge that a certain giant,\ncalled Pandafilando of the Sour Face, lord of a great island near our\nborder, when he should hear that I was an orphan, would pass over with\na mighty force into my kingdom and take it from me. My father warned\nme that when this came to pass I should not stay to defend myself, and\nso cause the slaughter of my people, but should at once set out for\nSpain, where I should meet with a knight whose fame would then extend\nthrough all that kingdom. His name, he said, should be Don Quixote,\nand he would be tall of stature, have a withered face, and on his\nright side, a little under his left shoulder, he should have a tawny\nspot with certain hairs like bristles.\"\n\nOn hearing this, Don Quixote said: \"Hold my horse, son Sancho, and\nhelp me to strip, for I would know if I am the knight of whom the sage\nking spoke.\"\n\n\"There is no need,\" said Sancho, \"for I know that your worship has\nsuch a mark near your backbone.\"\n\n\"It is enough,\" said Dorothea, \"for among friends we must not be too\nparticular, and whether it is on your shoulder or your backbone is of\nno importance. And, indeed, no sooner did I land in Osuna than I heard\nof Don Quixote's fame, and felt sure that he was the man.\"\n\n\"But how did you land in Osuna, madam,\" asked Don Quixote, \"seeing\nthat it is not a sea town?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the curate, \"the princess would say that she landed at\nMalaga, and that Osuna was the first place wherein she heard tidings\nof your worship.\"\n\n\"That is so,\" said Dorothea; \"and now nothing remains but to guide you\nto Pandafilando of the Sour Face, that I may see you slay him, and\nonce again enter into my kingdom. For all must succeed as the wise\nTinacrio, my father, has foretold, and if the knight of the prophecy,\nwhen he has killed the giant, so desires, then it will be my lot to\nbecome his wife, and he will at once possess both me and my kingdom.\"\n\n\"What thinkest thou of this, friend Sancho? Did I not tell thee this\nwould come about? Here we have a kingdom to command and a queen to\nmarry.\"\n\nWhen Sancho heard all this he jumped for joy, and running to Dorothea\nstopped her mule, and asking her very humbly to give him her hand to\nkiss, he kneeled down as a sign that he accepted her as his queen and\nlady.\n\nAll around could scarcely hide their laughter at the knight's madness\nand the squire's simplicity, and when Dorothea promised Sancho to make\nhim a great lord, and Sancho gave her thanks, it roused their mirth\nanew.\n\n\"Madam,\" continued Don Quixote, who appeared to be full of thought, \"I\nrepeat all I have said, and make my vow anew, and when I have cut off\nthe head of Pandafilando I will put you in peaceable possession of\nyour kingdom, but since my memory and will are captive to another, it\nis not possible for me to marry.\"\n\nSo disgusted was Sancho with what he heard that he cried out in a\ngreat rage: \"Surely, Sir Don Quixote, your worship is not in your\nright senses. Is it possible your worship can refuse to marry a\nprincess like this? A poor chance have I of getting a countship if\nyour worship goes on like this, searching for mushrooms at the bottom\nof the sea. Is my Lady Dulcinea more beautiful? She cannot hold a\ncandle to her. Marry her! Marry at once, and when you are king make me\na governor.\"\n\nDon Quixote, who heard such evil things spoken of his Lady Dulcinea,\ncould not bear them any longer, and therefore, lifting up his lance,\nwithout speaking a word to Sancho, gave him two blows that brought him\nto the earth, and if Dorothea had not called to the knight to spare\nhim, without doubt he would have taken his squire's life.\n\n\"Think you, miserable villain,\" cried Don Quixote, \"that it is to be\nall sinning on thy side and pardoning on mine? Say, scoffer with the\nviper's tongue, who dost thou think hath gained this kingdom and cut\noff the head of this giant and made thee marquis--for all this I take\nto be a thing as good as completed--unless it be the worth and valour\nof Dulcinea using my arm as her instrument? She fights in my person,\nand I live and breathe in her. From her I hold my life and being. O\nvillain, how ungrateful art thou that seest thyself raised from the\ndust of the earth to be a nobleman, and speakest evil of her who gives\nthee such honours!\"\n\nSancho was not too much hurt to hear what his master said. He jumped\nup nimbly and ran behind Dorothea's palfrey, and from there said to\nhis master: \"Tell me, your worship, if you are not going to marry this\ngreat princess, how this kingdom will become yours, and how you can do\nme any favours. Pray marry this queen now we have her here. I say\nnothing against Lady Dulcinea's beauty, for I have never seen her.\"\n\n\"How, thou wicked traitor, thou hast not seen her!\" cried Don\nQuixote. \"Didst thou not but now bring me a message from Her?\"\n\n\"I mean,\" replied Sancho, \"not seen her for long enough to judge of\nher beauty, though, from what I did see, she appeared very lovely.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Don Quixote, \"then I do excuse thee, but have a care what\nthou sayest, for, remember, the pitcher may go once too often to the\nwell.\"\n\n\"No more of this,\" said Dorothea. \"Run Sancho, kiss your master's\nhand, and ask his pardon. Henceforth speak no evil of the Lady\nDulcinea, and trust that fortune may find you an estate where you may\nlive like a prince.\"\n\nSancho went up hanging his head and asked his lord's hand, which he\ngave him with a grave air, and, after he had kissed it, the knight\ngave him his blessing, and no more was said about it.\n\nWhile this was passing, they saw coming along the road on which they\nwere a man riding upon an ass, and when he drew near he seemed to be a\ngipsy.\n\nBut Sancho Panza, whenever he met with any asses, followed them with\nhis eyes and his heart, and he had hardly caught sight of the man when\nhe knew him to be an escaped robber, Gines of Passamonte, and the ass\nto be none other than his beloved Dapple.\n\nGines had disguised himself as a gipsy, but Sancho knew him, and\ncalled out in a loud voice: \"Ah! thief Gines, give up my jewel, let go\nmy life, give up mine ass, give up the comfort of my home. Fly,\nscoundrel! Begone, thief! Give back what is none of thine.\"\n\nHe need not have used so many words, for Gines leaped off at the first\nand raced away from them all as fast as his legs could carry him.\n\nSancho then ran up to Dapple, and, embracing him, cried: \"How hast\nthou been cared for, my darling and treasure, Dapple of mine eyes, my\nsweet companion?\" With this he stroked and kissed him as if he had\nbeen a human being. But the ass held his peace, and allowed Sancho to\nkiss and cherish him without answering a word.\n\n\n\n\nSANCHO PANZA'S STORY OF HIS VISIT TO THE LADY DULCINEA\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\n\"Friend Sancho,\" said Don Quixote, \"let us bury all our differences,\nand tell me when, how, and where didst thou find Dulcinea. What was\nshe doing? What saidst thou to her? What answer made she? How did she\nlook when she read my letter? Who copied it for thee? Tell me all,\nwithout adding to it or lying, for I would know everything.\"\n\n\"Master,\" replied Sancho, \"if I must speak the truth, nobody copied\nout the letter, for I carried no letter at all.\"\n\n\"Thou sayest true,\" said Don Quixote, \"for I found the pocket-book,\nwherein it was written, two days after thy departure, and I did expect\nthat thou wouldst return for it.\"\n\n\"I had done so,\" said Sancho, \"if I had not carried it in my memory\nwhen you read it to me, so that I could say it to a parish clerk, who\ncopied it out of my head, word for word, so exactly that he said that\nin all the days of his life he had never read such a pretty letter.\"\n\n\"And hast thou it still by heart, Sancho?\" asked Don Quixote.\n\n\"No, sir, for after I gave it, seeing that it was to be of no more\nuse, I let myself forget it. If I remember, it began, _Scrubby Queen,\nSovereign Lady_, and the ending--_yours till death, the Knight of the\nRueful Countenance_--but between these things I put in three hundred\n_hearts_, and _loves_, and _dear eyes_.\"\n\n\"All this I like to hear, therefore say on,\" said Don Quixote. \"Thou\ndidst arrive; and what was the Queen of Beauty doing then? I daresay\nthou foundest her threading pearls or embroidering some curious device\nwith golden threads for this her captive knight.\"\n\n\"No, that I did not,\" said Sancho, \"but winnowing two bushels of wheat\nin the yard of her house.\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" said Don Quixote, \"thou mayest reckon that each grain of\nwheat was a pearl, seeing they were touched by her hands. But tell me,\nwhen thou didst deliver my letter, did she kiss it? Did she use any\nceremony worthy of such a letter? Or what did she?\"\n\n\"When I went to give it to her,\" said Sancho, \"she was all in a bustle\nwith a good lot of wheat in her sieve, and said to me: 'Lay down that\nletter there on the sack, for I cannot read it until I have winnowed\nall that is here.'\"\n\n\"O discreet lady!\" said Don Quixote; \"she must have done that, so that\nshe might read and enjoy it at leisure. Go on, then, Sancho, and tell\nall she said about me, and what thou saidst to her.\"\n\n\"She asked me nothing,\" replied the squire, \"but I told her the state\nwhich I left you in for her sake, doing penance, and I told her how\nyou slept on the ground and never combed your beard, but spent your\ntime weeping and cursing your fortune.\"\n\n\"There thou saidst ill,\" said Don Quixote, \"for I do not curse my\nfortune, but rather bless it, seeing that it hath made me worthy to\nmerit the love of so beautiful a lady as Dulcinea of Toboso. But tell\nme, after she had sifted her corn and sent it to the mill, did she\nthen read my letter?\"\n\n\"The letter,\" replied Sancho, \"she did never read, for she said she\ncould neither read nor write, and therefore she tore it into small\npieces, and would allow no one to read it lest the whole village might\nknow her secrets. Lastly, she told me that I was to say to your\nworship that she kissed your hands, and that she had a greater desire\nto see you than to write to you. Therefore she begged, as you loved\nher, that you should quit these bushes and brambles, and leave off\nthese mad pranks, and set out for Toboso, for she had a great longing\nto see your worship. She laughed a good deal when I told her they\ncalled your worship the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. I asked her\nwhether the beaten Biscayan came there. She said yes, and that he was\na very good fellow. I asked also after the galley slaves you sent; but\nshe told me that she had seen none of them as yet.\"\n\n\"All goes well, then,\" said Don Quixote; \"but tell me, what jewel did\nshe bestow on thee at thy departure for reward of the tidings thou\nhadst brought? For it is a usual and ancient custom among\nknights-errant and their ladies to give to their squires, damsels, or\ndwarfs who bring good tidings, some rich jewel as a reward for their\nwelcome news.\"\n\n\"It may well be,\" replied Sancho; \"and I think it was a most excellent\ncustom, but I doubt if it exists nowadays, for it would seem to be the\nmanner of our age only to give a piece of bread and cheese; for this\nwas all that my Lady Dulcinea bestowed on me when I took my leave,\nand, by the way, the cheese was made of sheep's milk.\"\n\n\"She is marvellous liberal,\" said the knight; \"and if she gave thee\nnot a jewel of gold, it was doubtless because she had none then about\nher. But that will be put right some day. Knowest thou, Sancho, at\nwhat I am astonished? It is at thy sudden return, for it seems to me\nthou wast gone and hast come back again in the air, for thou hast been\naway but a little more than three days, although Toboso is more than\nthirty leagues from hence. Therefore I do believe that the wise\nenchanter, who takes care of my affairs and is my friend, must have\nhelped thee to travel without thy being aware of it. For there are\nsages that take up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and, without\nknowing how or in what manner, he awakes the next day more than a\nthousand leagues from the place where he fell asleep. For otherwise\nknights-errant could not help one another in perils as they do\nnow. For it may be that one is fighting in the mountains of Armenia\nwith some dragon or fierce serpent, and is at the point of death, and,\njust when he least expects it, he sees on a cloud, or in a chariot of\nfire, some other knight, his friend, who a little before was in\nEngland, who helps him and delivers him from danger. And all this is\ndone by the craft and wisdom of those sage enchanters who take care of\nvalorous knights. But, leaving all this apart, what dost thou think I\nshould do about my lady's commands to go and see her?\"\n\n\"Tell me, good your worship,\" replied Sancho, \"do you intend to\njourney to Toboso and lose so rich and noble a prize as this princess\nwe have just met at the inn? Peace! take my advice and marry her in\nthe first village that hath a parish priest, or let the curate do it,\nfor he is here, and remember the old saying, 'A bird in the hand is\nworth two in the bush.'\"\n\n\"Look you, Sancho,\" said his master, \"if you counsel me to marry, to\nthe end that I may be king when I have slain the giant and be able to\ngive you an island, know that I can do that without marrying, for I\nwill make it a condition that upon conquering this monster they shall\ngive me a portion of the kingdom, although I marry not the princess,\nand this I will bestow upon thee.\"\n\n\"Let it be so, then,\" said Sancho. \"And trouble not your mind, I pray\nyou, to go and see the Lady Dulcinea at this moment, but go away and\nkill the giant and let us finish off this job, for I believe it will\nprove of great honour and greater profit.\"\n\n\"I believe, Sancho,\" said Don Quixote, \"that thou art in the right,\nand I will follow thy advice in going first with the princess rather\nthan visiting Dulcinea.\"\n\n\n\n\nDON QUIXOTE WAGES A BATTLE AGAINST A GIANT\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nWhen they had finished their dinner, they saddled and went to horse\nonce more, and travelled all that day and the next without any\nadventure of note, until they arrived at the inn, which was the dread\nand terror of Sancho Panza, and though he would rather not have\nentered it, yet he could not avoid doing so. The innkeeper, the\nhostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and Sancho\nreturn, went out to meet them with tokens of great love and joy. The\nknight returned their compliments with grave courtesy, and bade them\nprepare a better bed than they gave him the last time.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the hostess, \"if you would pay us better than the last\ntime, we would give you one fit for a prince.\"\n\nDon Quixote answered that he would, and they prepared a reasonable\ngood bed for him in the same room where he lay before. Then he went\noff to bed at once, because he was tired and weary, both in body and\nmind.\n\nDon Quixote was still asleep when the dinner was served, and during\ndinner--the innkeeper, his wife, his daughter, and Maritornes being\nthere, as well as all the travellers--they talked of Don Quixote's\nstrange craze, and of the state in which they had found him. The\nhostess told them of what had happened between him and the carrier,\nand glancing round to see if Sancho were present, and not seeing him,\nshe told them the story of his being tossed in the blanket, to the no\nsmall entertainment of all the company.\n\nThe curate told him it was the books of knighthood that Don Quixote\nhad read that had turned his head.\n\n\"I know not how that can be,\" said the innkeeper, \"for to my thinking,\nthere is no finer reading in the world; and when it is harvest-time,\nthe reapers here often collect during the midday heat, and one who can\nread takes one of these books in hand, while some thirty of us get\nround him, and sit listening with so much delight that I could find it\nin my heart to be hearing such stories day and night.\"\n\n\"And I think well of them, too,\" said the hostess, \"for when the\nreading is going on, you are so full of it that you forget to scold\nme, and I have a good time of it.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said her daughter, \"I too listen, and though I like not the\nfights which please my father, yet the lamentations which the knights\nmake when they are away from their ladies make me weep for pity, and I\nenjoy that.\"\n\n\"We have need here,\" said the curate, \"of our friends, the old woman\nand the niece. Beware, my good host, of these books, and take care\nthat they carry you not on the road they have taken Don Quixote.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said the innkeeper, \"I shall not be such a fool as to turn\nknight-errant; for I see well enough that it is not the fashion now to\ndo as they used to do in the times when these famous knights roamed\nabout the world. All that is of no use nowadays.\"\n\n\nSancho came in in the midst of this, and was amazed to hear them say\nthat knights-errant now were of no use, and that books of knighthood\nwere full of follies and lies, and he made up his mind to see the end\nof this voyage of his master, and if that did not turn out as happily\nas he expected, to return home to his wife and children and to his\nformer labours.\n\nAt this moment a noise came from the room where Don Quixote was lying,\nand Sancho went hastily to see if his master wanted anything.\n\nIn a few moments he returned, rushing wildly back, and shouting at the\ntop of his voice: \"Come, good sirs, quickly, and help my master, who\nis engaged in one of the most terrible battles my eyes have ever\nseen. I swear he has given the giant, the enemy of my lady, the\nPrincess Micomicona, such a cut, that he has sliced his head clean off\nlike a turnip.\"\n\n\"What sayest thou, friend?\" said the curate. \"Art thou in thy wits,\nSancho? How can it be as you say, when the giant is at least two\nthousand leagues from here?\"\n\nBy this time they heard a marvellous great noise within the chamber,\nand Don Quixote shouting out: \"Hold, thief, scoundrel, rogue! now I\nhave thee, and thy scimitar shall not avail thee!\"\n\nAnd it seemed as if he were striking a number of mighty blows on the\nwalls.\n\n\"Do not stand there listening,\" cried Sancho, \"but go in and part the\nfray, or aid my master. Though I think it will not now be necessary,\nfor doubtless the giant is dead by now, and giving an account of the\nill life he led; for I saw his blood was all about the house and his\nhead cut off, which is as big as a great wine-bag.\"\n\n\"May I be hewed in pieces,\" cried the innkeeper on hearing this, \"if\nDon Quixote has not been slashing at one of the skins of red wine that\nare standing filled at his bed head, and the wine that is spilt must\nbe what this fellow takes for blood.\"\n\nSo saying he ran into the room, and the rest followed him, and found\nDon Quixote in the strangest guise imaginable. He was in his shirt,\nwhich did not reach to his knees. His legs were very long and lean. On\nhis head he wore a greasy red nightcap which belonged to the inkeeper.\nRound his left arm he had folded the blanket from off his bed, at\nwhich Sancho gazed angrily, for he owed that blanket a grudge. In his\nright hand he gripped his naked sword, with which he laid round about\nhim with many a thwack, shouting out as if indeed he was at battle\nwith some terrible giant. The best sport of all was that his eyes\nwere not open, for he was indeed asleep, and dreaming that he was\nfighting a giant. For his imagination was so full of the adventure in\nfront of him that he dreamed that he had already arrived at Micomicon,\nand was there in combat with his enemy; and he had given so many blows\nto the wine-bags, supposing them to be the giant, that the whole\nchamber flowed with wine.\n\nWhen the innkeeper saw this, he flew into such a rage that he set upon\nDon Quixote with his clenched fist, and began to pummel him, so that\nif Cardenio and the curate had not pulled him off, he would have\nfinished the battle of the giant altogether. In spite of this, the\npoor knight did not awake until the barber got a great kettleful of\ncold water from the well, and threw it right over him, when Don\nQuixote woke up, but even then did not understand where he was.\n\nAs for Sancho, he went up and down the floor, searching for the\ngiant's head, and seeing he could not find it, said: \"Now I know that\neverything I see in this house is enchanted, for this head is not to\nbe seen here, though I myself saw it cut off with my own eyes, and the\nblood running from the body as from a fountain.\"\n\n\"What blood or what fountain dost thou cackle of here?\" cried the\ninnkeeper. \"Thou thief! dost thou not see that the blood and the\nfountain is no other thing but the wine-bags which are ripped open,\nand the red wine which swims up and down the room?\"\n\n\"I know nothing but this,\" replied Sancho, \"that if I cannot find the\ngiant's head, my earldom will dissolve like salt cast into water.\" For\nindeed Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, so greatly had\nhis master's promises turned his brain.\n\nThe innkeeper was at his wits' end at seeing the stupidity of the\nsquire and the mischief done by his master, but he determined that\nthey should not as before go away without paying; that knighthood\nshould be no excuse for this, and he would make them pay for the very\npatches in the wine-skins that had been ruined.\n\nAll this time the curate was holding Don Quixote's hands, who,\nbelieving that he had finished the adventure and was in the presence\nof the Princess Micomicona herself, fell on his knees before the\ncurate, and said: \"Your highness, exalted and beautiful lady, may live\nfrom henceforth secure from any danger that this wretched giant might\nhave done to you; and I am also freed this day from the promise I made\nto you, seeing that I have with the assistance of her through whose\nfavour I live and breathe, so happily completed my labour.\"\n\n\"Did I not say so?\" cried Sancho, hearing his master. \"I was not\ndrunk. My master has salted the giant down this time, and my earldom\nis secure.\"\n\nWho could help laughing at the follies of the two, master and man? All\nof them laughed except the innkeeper, who burst out into fits of anger\nten times worse than before.\n\nAt length the barber, Cardenio, and the curate managed, not without\nmuch ado, to get Don Quixote to bed again, and presently left him\nsleeping, with every sign of being worn out. They let him sleep, and\nwent out to comfort Sancho Panza, whose grief was great at not finding\nthe giant's head. But they had more to do to pacify the innkeeper, who\nwas almost out of his wits at the sudden death of his wine-skins.\n\nHis wife, too, was running up and down, scolding and crying out:\n\"Alas, the unlucky hour when this knight-errant came to my house!\nWould that mine eyes had never seen him, for he has cost me dear. The\nlast time he was here he went away scot free for his supper, bed,\nstraw, and barley for himself, his man, his horse, and his ass,\nbecause he said he was a knight-errant. Then for his sake the other\ngentlemen came and took away my good tail, and have returned it\ndamaged, and now he breaks my wine-skins and spills the wine. I wish I\nmay see as much of his blood spilt.\" And backed up by Maritornes, the\ngood innkeeper's wife continued her lamentations with great fury.\n\nAt length the curate quelled the storm, promising to satisfy them for\nthe wine and the skins, and also for the damage to the tail, about\nwhich there was so much fuss. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling him\nthat as soon as ever it was made certain that his master had slain the\ngiant, and placed her safely in her kingdom, she would give him the\nbest earldom she had.\n\nWith this he was consoled, and told her that he himself had seen the\ngiant's head cut off, and that it had a beard which reached down to\nhis girdle, and that if the beard could not now be found it was\nbecause the affairs of this house were all guided by enchantment, as\nhe knew to his cost by what had happened to himself in his last visit.\n\nDorothea replied that she was of the same opinion, and bade him be of\ngood cheer, since all would be well ended to his heart's desire.\n\n\n\n\nADVENTURES AT THE INN\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nLater in the day the innkeeper, who was standing at the door, cried\nout: \"Here is a fine troop of guests coming. If they stop here, we may\nsing and rejoice.\"\n\n\"Who are they?\" asked Cardenio.\n\n\"Four men on horseback,\" answered the innkeeper, \"with lances and\ntargets, and all with black masks on their faces. With them comes a\nwoman dressed in white, on a side-saddle, and her face also masked,\nand two lackeys that run with them on foot.\"\n\n\"Are they near?\" asked the curate.\n\n\"So near,\" replied the innkeeper, \"that they are now arriving.\"\nHearing this, Dorothea veiled her face, and Cardenio went into Don\nQuixote's room; and they had hardly time to do this when the whole\nparty, of whom the innkeeper had spoken, entered the inn. The four who\nwere on horseback were of comely and gallant bearing, and, having\ndismounted, went to help down the lady on the side-saddle; and one of\nthem, taking her in his arms, placed her upon a chair that stood at\nthe door of the room into which Cardenio had entered. All this while\nneither she nor they took off their masks, or said a word, only the\nlady, as she sank into the chair, breathed a deep sigh, and let fall\nher arms as one who was sick and faint. The lackeys led away the\nhorses to the stable.\n\nThe curate, seeing and noting all this, and curious to know who they\nwere that came to the inn in such strange attire and keeping so close\na silence, went after one of the lackeys, and asked of him what he\nwanted to learn.\n\n\"Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who these are, but they seem to be\npersons of good quality, especially he who went to help the lady\ndismount. The rest obey him in all things.\"\n\n\"And the lady--who is she?\" asked the curate.\n\n\"I cannot tell you that neither,\" replied the lackey, \"for I have not\nonce seen her face during all the journey, though I have often heard\nher groan and utter deep sighs.\"\n\n\"And have you heard the name of any of them?\" asked the curate.\n\n\"Not I, indeed,\" replied the man; \"they travel in silence, and nothing\nis heard but the sighs and sobs of the poor lady, and it is our firm\nbelief that, wherever she is going, she is going against her.\"\n\n\"May be it is so,\" said the curate, and he returned to the inn.\n\nDorothea, who heard the disguised lady sigh so mournfully, moved by\npity, drew near to her and asked: \"What ails you, good madam, for I\noffer you my service and good-will, and would help you as much as lies\nin my power?\"\n\nTo this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea again\nspoke kindly to her, yet she sat silent and spoke not a word.\n\nAt length the masked gentleman came across and said to Dorothea:\n\"Lady, do not trouble yourself to offer anything to that woman; she is\nof a most ungrateful nature, and not wont to return any courtesy.\"\n\n\"I have never spoken,\" said the silent lady, \"since I am too unhappy\nto do so, and am almost drowned in my misfortunes.\"\n\nCardenio overheard these words very clearly and distinctly, for he was\nclose to her who uttered them, the door of Don Quixote's room being\nthe only thing that separated them, and he cried aloud: \"What is this\nI hear? What voice is this that hath touched mine ear?\"\n\nThe lady, moved with a sudden passion, turned her head at these cries,\nand as she could not see who uttered them, she rose to her feet and\nwould have entered the room, but the gentleman stopped her and would\nnot let her move a step.\n\nThis sudden movement loosened the mask, which fell from her face,\ndiscovering her marvellous beauty.\n\nBut her countenance was wan and pale, and she turned her eyes from\nplace to place as one distracted, which caused Dorothea and the rest\nto behold her with a vast pity.\n\nThe gentleman held her fast by the shoulders, and was so busied that\nhe could not hold up his own mask, which fell from his face, and, as\nit did so, Dorothea looked up and discovered that it was her lover,\nDon Fernando.\n\nScarce had she known him than, breathing out a long and most pitiful\n\"Alas!\" from the bottom of her heart, she fell backward in a\nswoon. And if the barber had not been by good chance at hand, she\nwould have fallen on the ground with all the weight of her body.\n\nThe curate removed the veil from her face, and cast water thereon, and\nDon Fernando, as soon as he looked upon her, turned as pale as death.\nCardenio, who had heard the moan which Dorothea uttered, as she fell\nfainting on the floor, came out of the room, and saw Don Fernando\nholding his beloved Lucinda.\n\nAll of them held their peace and beheld one another; Dorothea looking\non Don Fernando, Don Fernando on Cardenio, Cardenio on Lucinda, and\nLucinda on Cardenio, all stood dumb and amazed, as folk that knew not\nwhat had befallen them.\n\nLucinda was the first to break the silence. \"Leave me, Don Fernando,\"\nshe cried, \"for the sake of what is due to yourself. Let me cleave to\nthe wall whose ivy I am, to his support from whom neither your threats\nnor your promises could part me.\"\n\nBy this time Dorothea had come to herself, and seeing that Don\nFernando did not release Lucinda, she arose, and casting herself at\nhis feet, shed a flood of crystal tears as she thus addressed him: \"If\nthe sun of Lucinda's beauty hath not blinded thine eyes, know that she\nwho is kneeling at thy feet is the hapless and miserable Dorothea. I\nam that lowly country girl to whom thou didst promise marriage. Know,\nmy dear lord, that the matchless love I bear thee may make amends for\nthe beauty and nobility of her for whom thou dost abandon me. Thou\ncanst not be the beautiful Lucinda's, because thou art mine; nor she\nthine, for she belongs to Cardenio. And all this being so, as in truth\nit is, and seeing that thou art as good as thou art noble, wherefore\nput off making me once more happy again? Do not vex the declining\nyears of my parents, who have ever been loyal vassals to thine. For\nremember, whether thou wilt or no, thou must ever remain my promised\nhusband.\"\n\nThese and many other reasons did the grieved Dorothea use, with so\nmuch feeling and so many tears, that all who were present, even those\nwho had come with Don Fernando, could not help from giving her their\nsympathy.\n\nAs for Don Fernando, he stood gazing fixedly at Dorothea for some\ntime, and at last, overwhelmed with remorse and admiration, he took\nher to his arms, saying: \"Thou hast vanquished, O beautiful\nDorothea. Thou hast vanquished!\"\n\nAt the same moment, Cardenio, who had stood close to Don Fernando,\nstarted forward to catch the fainting Lucinda, who threw both her arms\naround his neck, crying: \"Thou, and thou only, art my lord and\nmaster.\"\n\nThus were the true lovers all united, and the good curate, the barber,\nand even Sancho Panza joined in their tears, delighted that so much\njoy had taken the place of so much misery. As for Sancho, he excused\nhimself afterwards for his tears, saying he wept only because he saw\nthat Dorothea was not the Queen of Micomicona as he had imagined, from\nwhom he hoped to have received such mighty gifts and favours.\n\nEach in turn told his or her story, and Don Fernando gave an account\nof all that had befallen him in the city, after he had found the\nscroll that Lucinda had written in which she declared her love for\nCardenio.\n\nAnd it appeared that, the day after the interruption of the wedding,\nLucinda had secretly departed from her father's house, and had fled no\none knew whither; but within a few months Don Fernando had learned\nthat she was in a certain convent, intending to remain there all the\ndays of her life, if she could not pass them with Cardenio. As soon as\nhe had learned that, choosing three gentlemen to aid him, he went to\nthe place where she was. One day he surprised her walking with one of\nthe nuns in the cloisters, and carried her off without giving her a\nchance to resist. From there they brought her to a certain village,\nwhere they disguised themselves, and so rode on until they came to the\ninn. But Lucinda, after she was in his power, did nothing but weep and\nsigh without speaking a word.\n\nThus in silence and tears had they reached this inn, which to him and\nall of them would always remain the most beautiful place in the world,\nsince it had seen the end of so many troubles, and brought him back to\nhis own true love.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINCESS MICOMICONA\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nSancho gave ear to what he heard with no small grief of mind, seeing\nthat all hopes of his earldom vanished away like smoke, and the fair\nPrincess Micomicona was turned into Dorothea, whilst his master was\nsound asleep, careless of all that happened. Dorothea could not\nbelieve that the happiness she enjoyed was not a dream. Cardenio and\nLucinda were of a similar mind, and Don Fernando was truly thankful\nthat he was free from the dangerous path he had taken, which must have\nended in loss of all honour and credit.\n\nIn a word, all were contented and happy. The curate, like a man of\nsense, congratulated every one on his good fortune; but she that kept\ngreatest jubilee and joy was the hostess, because Cardenio and the\ncurate had promised to pay all the damages done by Don Quixote.\n\nOnly Sancho, as has been said, was unhappy and sorrowful. And thus he\nwent with a melancholy face to his master, who was then just awaking,\nand said: \"Your worship, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, may\nwell sleep on as long as you please, without troubling yourself to\nkill any giant, or restore to the princess her kingdom, for all that\nis done and finished already.\"\n\n\"That I well believe,\" replied Don Quixote, \"for I have had the most\nmonstrous and terrible battle with that giant that ever I had all the\ndays of my life; and yet with one back stroke, swish, I tumbled his\nhead to the ground, and his blood gushed forth, so that streams of it\nran along the earth as if it had been water.\"\n\n\"As if it had been red wine, your worship might have said,\" replied\nSancho, \"for I would have you know, if you do not know already, that\nthe dead giant is no other than a ruined wine-bag, and the blood\nsix-and-twenty gallons of red wine.\"\n\n\"What sayest thou, madman?\" cried Don Quixote. \"Art thou in thy right\nwits?\"\n\n\"Get up, sir,\" said Sancho, \"and you shall see yourself the fine piece\nof work you have done, and what we have to pay. You shall behold the\nqueen turned into a private lady, called Dorothea, with many other\nthings that may well astonish you.\"\n\n\"I should marvel at nothing,\" replied Don Quixote, \"for if thou\nrememberest right, I told thee, the other time that we were here, how\nall that happened here was done by enchantment, and it would be no\nwonder if it were the same now.\"\n\n\"I should believe it all,\" replied Sancho, \"if my tossing in the\nblanket had been a thing of that sort. Only it was not so, but very\nreal and certain. And I saw the innkeeper, who is here to this day,\nhold one end of the blanket and toss me up to the sky with very good\ngrace and strength, and as much mirth as muscle. And where it comes to\nknowing persons, I hold, though I may be a simpleton and a sinner,\nthat there is no enchantment, but only bruising and bad luck.\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried Don Quixote, \"time will show; but give me my clothes,\nfor I would see these wonders that thou speakest of for myself.\"\n\nSancho gave him his clothes, and, whilst he was making him ready, the\ncurate told Don Fernando and the rest, of Don Quixote's mad pranks,\nand the plan he had used to get him away from the Brown Mountains,\nwhere he imagined he was exiled through the disdain of his lady.\n\nThe curate told them further, that since the good fortune of the Lady\nDorothea prevented them carrying out their scheme, they must invent\nsome other way of taking him home to his village.\n\nCardenio offered to continue the adventure, and let Luanda take\nDorothea's part.\n\n\"No,\" cried Don Fernando. \"It shall not be so, for I will have\nDorothea herself carry out her plan, and if the good knight's home is\nnot far from here, I shall be very glad to help in his cure.\"\n\n\"It is not more than two days' journey,\" said the curate.\n\n\"Even if it were more,\" replied Don Fernando, \"I should be happy to\nmake the journey in so good a cause.\"\n\nAt this moment Don Quixote sallied out, completely armed with\nMambrino's helmet, which had a great hole in it, on his head, his\nshield on his arm, and leaning on his lance. His grotesque appearance\namazed Don Fernando and his companions very much, who wondered at his\ngaunt face so withered and yellow, the strangeness of his arms, and\nhis grave manner of proceeding.\n\nAll stood silent to see what he would do, whilst the knight, casting\nhis eyes on the beautiful Dorothea, with great gravity and calmness\nspoke as follows: \"I am informed, beautiful lady, by this my squire,\nthat your greatness has come to an end, and your condition is\ndestroyed. For, instead of being a queen and a mighty princess, you\nare now become a private damsel. If this has been done by the special\norder of that sage magician, the king your father, because he dreaded\nthat I could not give you all necessary help, I say that he does not\nknow half his art, and has never understood the histories of knightly\nadventures. For if he had read them with the attention that I have, he\nwould have found how many knights of less fame than myself have ended\nfar more desperate adventures than this, for it is no great matter to\nkill a giant, be he ever so proud. For in truth it is not so many\nhours since I myself fought with one; but I will be silent, lest they\ntell me I lie. Time, the detecter of all things, will disclose it when\nwe least expect.\"\n\n\"Thou foughtest with two wine-bags, not with a giant,\" cried the\ninnkeeper.\n\nDon Fernando told him to be silent and not to interrupt Don Quixote,\nwho continued his speech thus: \"In fine, I say, high and disinherited\nlady, do not trouble if your father has made this change in you, for\nthere is no peril so great on earth but my sword shall open a way\nthrough it, and by overthrowing your enemies' head to the ground I\nshall set your crown on your own head within a few days.\"\n\nDon Quixote said no more, but waited for the princess's answer. She\nknowing Don Fernando's wish that she should continue to carry out\ntheir plan, answered with a good grace and pleasant manner, saying:\n\"Whosoever informed you, valorous Knight of the Rueful Countenance,\nthat I have altered and transformed my being, hath not told you the\ntruth, for I am the very same to-day as I was yesterday. True it is\nthat my fortunes have somewhat changed, and given me more than I hoped\nfor or could wish for, but for all that I have not ceased to be what I\nwas before, and I still hope to have the aid of your valorous and\ninvincible arm. Therefore, good my lord, restore to my father his\nhonour, and believe him to be both wise and sagacious, for by his\nmagic he has found me a remedy for all my misfortunes. For I believe\nthat had it not been for you, I should never have attained the\nhappiness I now enjoy, and that I speak the truth these good gentlemen\nwill bear witness. All that is now wanted is that to-morrow morning we\nset out on our journey. As for the conclusion of the good success I\nhourly expect, that I leave to the valour of your invincible arm.\"\n\nThus spoke the witty Dorothea, and Don Quixote, having heard her,\nturned to Sancho with an air of great indignation, and said: \"Now, I\nsay unto thee, Sancho, thou art the veriest little rascal in all\nSpain. Tell me, thief and vagabond, didst thou not tell me that this\nprincess was turned into a damsel, and that she was called Dorothea?\nAnd that the head that I slashed from a giant's shoulders, was a\nwine-skin, with a thousand other follies, that threw me into the\ngreatest confusion I was ever in in my life? I vow,\" he continued,\nlooking up to the heavens and crashing his teeth together, \"I vow that\nI am about to make such a havoc of thee, as shall beat some wit into\nthe pates of all the lying squires that shall hereafter ever serve\nknights-errant in this world.\n\n\"I pray you have patience, good my lord,\" answered Sancho, \"for it may\nwell befall me to be deceived touching the change of the lady and\nPrincess Micomicona. But in what touches the giant's head, or at least\nthe cutting of the winebags, and that the blood was but red wine, I am\nnot deceived, I swear. For the bags lie wounded there at your own\nbed-head, and the red wine hath made a lake in your room: and all this\nyou will know, when his honour the landlord asks you to pay the\ndamages.\"\n\n\"I tell thee, Sancho, thou art a blockhead,\" said Don Quixote. \"Pardon\nme, we have had enough of it.\"\n\n\"Enough, indeed,\" said Don Fernando, \"and let me entreat you to say no\nmore of it. Seeing my lady the princess says she will go away\nto-morrow, as it is too late to depart to-day, let us agree to spend\nthis evening in pleasant discourse.\"\n\nIt was now time for supper, and they all sat down at a long table, for\nthere was not a square or round one in the whole house. And they gave\nthe principal end to Don Quixote, though he did all he could to refuse\nit; but when he had taken it, he commanded that the Lady Micomicona\nshould sit at his elbow, as he was her champion. The others being\nplaced in due order, they all enjoyed a pleasant supper, listening to\nthe wise, strange discourse that Don Quixote held upon his favourite\nsubject of knightly adventures.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURES OF OUR GOOD KNIGHT\n\nRetold by Judge Parry\n\n\nDon Quixote, as soon as he found himself free from all the quarrels by\nwhich he had been surrounded, held it high time to begin his voyage\nand bring to an end the great adventure unto which he was called and\nchosen.\n\nTherefore, having made up his mind to depart, he went and cast himself\nupon his knees before Dorothea and said: \"I cannot but think, high and\nworthy lady, that our abode in this castle is nothing profitable, and\nmay turn out to our disadvantage. For who knows but that your enemy\nthe giant hath learned by spies or other secret means how I intend to\ncome and destroy him, and he may by now have fortified himself in some\nimpregnable castle or fortress, against the strength of which even the\nforce of mine invincible arm will be of little use. Therefore, dear\nlady, let us by our diligence hinder his plans, and let us depart to\nthe place where fortune calls us.\"\n\nDon Quixote said no more but awaited the answer of the beautiful\nprincess, who, with a lordly air and in a style not unworthy of Don\nQuixote himself, replied as follows:\n\n\"I thank you, sir knight, for the desire you show to assist me in this\nmy great need, and I trust your desires and mine may succeed, that I\nmay show you that there are some thankful women on earth. As for my\ndeparture, let it be as you wish.\" * * *\n\nTwo days passed, when it seemed to all the noble company at the inn\nthat it was time to depart, and they considered how, without putting\nDorothea and Don Fernando to the pain of turning back with Don Quixote\nto his village, the curate and the barber could carry him home as they\ndesired, and leave him cured of his folly in his own home.\n\nThis was the plan they decided on. They made a bargain with a wagoner,\nwho chanced to pass by that way with a team of oxen, to carry him in\nthe following manner:--\n\nThey made a thing like a cage of timber, so big that Don Quixote might\nsit or lie in it at his ease, and presently Don Fernando, Cardemo,\ntheir companions, and the innkeeper did all, by master curate's\ndirections, cover their faces and disguise themselves as well as they\ncould, so that they might seem to Don Quixote to be different persons\nto any he had seen in the castle. This being done, they entered\nsilently into the place where he slept, reposing after his recent\nbattles. They went up to him as he was sleeping peacefully, not\nfearing any such accident, and, laying hold of him forcibly, they tied\nhis hands and feet very strongly, so that when he started out of his\nsleep he could not move, nor do anything else but stare and wonder at\nthe strange faces that he saw before him.\n\nAnd immediately he fell into the idea, which his wild imagination had\nat once suggested to him, that all these strange figures were spirits\nand phantoms of that enchanted castle, and he believed that he himself\nwas without doubt enchanted, seeing that he could neither move nor\ndefend himself.\n\nAll happened as the curate who plotted the jest expected; and after\nthey had brought him to the cage, they shut him within, and afterwards\nnailed the bars thereof so well that they could not easily be broken.\n\nSancho all this time looked on in wonder to see what would happen to\nhis master.\n\nThen the phantoms mounted him upon their shoulders, and as he was\ncarried out of his chamber door the barber called out in as terrible a\nvoice as he could muster: \"O Knight of the Rueful Countenance, be not\ngrieved at thine imprisonment, for so it must be that thine adventures\nbe more speedily ended. And thou, O most noble and obedient squire\nthat ever had sword at girdle, beard on a face, or dent in a nose, let\nit not dismay thee to see carried away thus the flower of all\nknighthood. For I assure thee that all thy wages shall be paid to\nthee, if thou wilt follow in the steps of this valorous and enchanted\nknight. And as I am not allowed to say more, farewell!\"\n\nDon Quixote listened attentively to all this prophecy, and said: \"O\nthou, whatsoever thou beest, I desire thee to request in my name that\nI may not perish in this prison before my work is ended. And as\nconcerns my squire Sancho Panza, I trust in his goodness that he will\nnot abandon me in good or bad fortune. For, though it should fall out\nthrough his or my hard lot that I shall not be able to bestow on him\nan island, as I have promised, his wages cannot be lost to him, for in\nmy will, which is made already, I have set down what he is to have for\nhis many good services.\"\n\nSancho Panza bowed his head with great reverence when he heard this,\nand kissed both his master's hands, which were bound tightly together.\nThen the phantoms lifted up the cage and hoisted it on to the wagon\nthat was drawn by the team of oxen.\n\nAfter bidding farewell to all their friends, the procession\nstarted. First went the cart guided by the carter, then the troopers,\nthen followed Sancho upon his ass leading Rozinante by the bridle, and\nlast of all the curate and the barber, riding their mighty mules, with\nmasks on their faces.\n\nDon Quixote sat with his hands tied and his legs stretched out,\nleaning against a bar of the cage, with such a silence and such\npatience that he seemed rather to be a statue than a man. And thus at\nan alderman-like pace, such as suited the slow steps of the heavy\noxen, they journeyed home.\n\nAt the end of two days they arrived at Don Quixote's village, into\nwhich they entered about noon. This was on a Sunday, when all the\npeople were in the market-place, through the midst of which Don\nQuixote's cart passed. All drew near to see what was in it, and when\nthey knew their neighbour they were greatly astounded. A little boy\nran home before, to tell the old woman and the niece that their lord\nand uncle was returned. It would have moved one to pity to have heard\nthe cries and lamentations the two good women made, and the curses\nthey poured out against all books of knighthood, when they saw Don\nQuixote enter the gates of his own house again in so strange a\ncarriage.\n\nSancho Panza's wife, when she heard of his return, ran forward to meet\nher husband, and the first question she asked was whether the ass were\nin health or no.\n\nSancho answered that he was come in better health than his master.\n\n\"Tell me, then,\" cried his wife, \"what profit hast thou reaped by this\nsquireship? What petticoat hast thou brought me home? What shoes for\nthe little boys?\"\n\n\"I bring none of these things, good wife,\" replied Sancho, \"though I\nbring things better thought of and of greater moment.\"\n\n\"I am glad of that,\" said his wife, \"for I should like to see them, to\nthe end that my heart may be cheered, which hath been swollen and\nsorrowful for so long, all the time of thine absence.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt see them at home,\" said Sancho, \"therefore rest\nsatisfied. For when we travel once again to seek adventures, thou\nshalt see me shortly afterwards an earl or governor of an island, one\nof the best in the world.\"\n\n\"I pray that it may be so,\" replied his wife; \"but what means that\nisland, for I understand not the word?\"\n\n\"Honey is not made for the ass's mouth,\" said Sancho, \"but thou shalt\nknow all in good time. Do not busy thyself, Joan, to know all things\nin a sudden. It is enough that I will tell thee all the truth, and\ntherefore close thy mouth. I will only say this much unto thee as yet,\nthat there is nothing in the world so pleasant as for an honest man to\nbe the squire of a knight that seeks adventures.\"\n\nNow, if I were to tell you that Don Quixote got quite well and lived\nquietly at home after all these adventures, and never went abroad\nagain, I should tell you what is not true. For some day, and I hope at\nno great distance of time, you may read all that the great Cervantes\nhas written, not only of the adventures of which I have told you the\nstory, but of others. You will then learn how Sancho Panza became at\nlast governor of an island for a short space, and may read of the\ngreat wisdom and shrewdness with which he ruled.","title":"The Junior Classics, Volume 4: Heroes and heroines of chivalry","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":137111}