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Title: The Junior Classics, Volume 4: Heroes and heroines of chivalry

Editor: William Patten

Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6323]
                Most recently updated: December 29, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Tom Allen, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JUNIOR CLASSICS, VOLUME 4: HEROES AND HEROINES OF CHIVALRY ***




Produced by Tom Allen, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




THE JUNIOR CLASSICS:
A LIBRARY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS




[Illustration: HE SEIZED THE HILT
AND INSTANTLY DREW FORTH THE SWORD (Page 16)
From the painting by Walter Crane]




THE JUNIOR CLASSICS


SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY WILLIAM PATTEN
Managing Editor of the Harvard Classics

INTRODUCTION BY CHARLES W. ELIOT, LL.D.
President Emeritus of Harvard University

WITH A READING GUIDE BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON, Ph.D.
Professor of English, Harvard University
President, Smith College, Northampton, Mass., since 1917




VOLUME FOUR:
HEROES AND HEROINES OF CHIVALRY




CONTENTS


PREFACE

THE STORY OF KING ARTHUR

Of Arthur's Birth and How He Became King (Beatrice Clay)

The Round Table (Beatrice Clay)

Merlin the Magician (Beatrice Clay)

The Sword Excalibur (Sir Thomas Malory)

Sir Launcelot and the Adventure of the Castle Perilous (Beatrice
Clay)

Sir Launcelot and the Falcon (Beatrice Clay)

The Adventures of Sir Gareth (Beatrice Clay)

The Coming of Sir Galahad (Beatrice Clay)

How Sir Galahad Won the Red Cross Shield (Beatrice Clay)

The Adventures of Sir Percivale (Beatrice Clay)

The Adventures of Sir Bors (Beatrice Clay)

The Adventures of Sir Launcelot (Beatrice Clay)

How Sir Launcelot Saw the Holy Grail (Beatrice Clay)

The End of the Quest (Beatrice Clay)

The Fair Maid of Astolat (Beatrice Clay)


THE MABINOGION

Kynon's Adventure at the Fountain (Lady Charlotte Guest)

Owain's Adventure at the Fountain (Lady Charlotte Guest)

Gawain's Adventure in Search of Owain (Lady Charlotte Guest)

The Adventure of the Lion (Lady Charlotte Guest)

How Pwyll Outwitted Gawl (Lady Charlotte Guest)

How Manawyddan Caught a Thief (Lady Charlotte Guest)

The Story of Lludd and Llevelys (Lady Charlotte Guest)


TALES FROM EARLY ENGLISH CHRONICLES

The Adventures of King Horn (F. J. H. Darton)

Horn is Dubbed Knight (F. J. H. Darton)

Horn the Knight Errant (F. J. H. Darton)

Horn in Exile (F. J. H. Darton)

Horn's Return (F. J. H. Darton)

The King of Suddenne (F. J. H. Darton)

Havelok Hid from the Traitor (F. J. H. Darton)

Havelok Married Against His Will (F. J. H. Darton)

Havelok Wins Back His Kingdom (F. J. H. Darton)

The Fair Unknown (F. J. H. Darton)

The Fight With the Two Giants (F. J. H. Darton)

In the Castle of the Sorcerers (F. J. H. Darton)


TALES TOLD BY CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS

The Old Woman and the Knight (F. J. H. Darton)

Death and the Three Revellers (F. J. H. Darton)

Patient Griselda (F. J. H. Darton)


TALES FROM FRENCH AND ITALIAN CHRONICLES

Ogier the Dane (Thomas Bulfinch)

A Roland for an Oliver (Thomas Bulfinch)

The Treason of Ganelon (Sir George W. Cox)

The Great Battle of Roncesvalles (Sir George W. Cox)

Charlemagne Revenges Roland (Sir George W. Cox)

How Thierry Vanquished Ganelon (Sir George W. Cox)

Rinaldo and Bayard (Thomas Bulfinch)

How the Child of the Sea Was Made Knight (Robert Southey)


THE SPANISH CHRONICLE OF THE CID

Why Don Sancho Attacked His Neighbors (Robert Southey)

Don Garcia Defies Don Sancho (Robert Southey)

Don Garcia Takes Don Sancho Prisoner (Robert Southey)

The Siege of Zamora (Robert Southey)

How Don Diego Fought the Three Brothers (Robert Southey)


TALES OF ROBIN HOOD

Robin Hood and the Knight (Mary Macleod)

Little John and the Sheriff of Nottingham (Mary Macleod)

How Robin Hood Was Paid His Loan (Mary Macleod)

The Golden Arrow (Mary Macleod)

How the Sheriff Took Sir Richard Prisoner (Mary Macleod)

How the King Came to Sherwood Forest (Mary Macleod)

How Robin Hood Went Back to the Greenwood (Mary Macleod)

Robin Hood and the Butcher (Mary Macleod)

The Jolly Tanner (Mary Macleod)

How Robin Hood Drew His Bow for the Last Time (Mary Macleod)


DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA (Miguel de Cervantes)

An Introduction to that Spanish Gentleman (Judge Parry)

He Sets Forth on His Adventures (Judge Parry)

The Knighting of Don Quixote (Judge Parry)

The Dreadful Adventure of the Windmills (Judge Parry)

Don Quixote and the Goatherds (Judge Parry)

How Don Quixote Arrived at an Inn Which He Imagined to be a Castle
(Judge Parry)

How Sancho Paid the Reckoning at the Inn (Judge Parry)

The Adventure of the Two Armies (Judge Parry)

Don Quixote Does Penance as Did the Knights of Old (Judge Parry)

Sancho's Journey to the Lady Dulcinea (Judge Parry)

The Story of Cardenio (Judge Parry)

The Story of Dorothea (Judge Parry)

The End of the Penance (Judge Parry)

The Journey to the Inn (Judge Parry)

Sancho Panza's Story of His Visit to the Lady Dulcinea (Judge
Parry)

Don Quixote Wages a Battle Against a Giant (Judge Parry)

Adventures at the Inn (Judge Parry)

The Princess Micomicona (Judge Parry)

The Last of the Notable Adventures of our Good Knight (Judge
Parry)




ILLUSTRATIONS


HE SEIZED THE HILT, AND INSTANTLY DREW FORTH THE SWORD
Of Arthur's Birth and How He Became King
Frontispiece illustration in color from the painting by Walter
Crane

THERE CAME AN ARM AND A HAND ABOVE THE WATER
The Sword Excalibur
From the painting by Walter Crane

AN AGED MAN ENTERED THE HALL, FOLLOWED BY A YOUNG MAN
The Coming of Sir Galahad
From the painting by Walter Crane

"THIS IS MY BRIDE," HE CRIED TO ALL THE PEOPLE
Patient Griselda
From the drawing by Hugh Thomson




PREFACE


The word chivalry is taken from the French cheval, a horse. A knight
was a young man, the son of a good family, who was allowed to wear
arms. In the story "How the Child of the Sea was made Knight," we are
told how a boy of twelve became a page to the queen, and in the
opening pages of the story "The Adventures of Sir Gareth," we get a
glimpse of a young man growing up at the court of King Arthur. It was
not an easy life, that of a boy who wished to become a knight, but it
made a man of him. He was taken at an early age, sometimes when only
seven years old, to the castle of the king or knight he was to
serve. He first became a page or valet, and, under the instruction of
a governor, was taught to carve and wait on the table, to hunt and
fish, and was drilled in wrestling and riding on horseback. Most pages
were taught to dance, and if a boy had talent he was taught to play
the harp so he could accompany his voice when singing to the ladies.

By the time a boy was fourteen he was ready to become an esquire. He
was then taught to get on and off a horse with his heavy armor on, to
wield the battle axe, and practise tilting with a spear. His service
to the ladies had now reached the point where he picked out a lady to
serve loyally. His endeavor was to please her in all things, in order
that he might be known as her knight, and wear her glove or scarf as a
badge or favor when he entered the lists of a joust or tournament.

To become a knight was almost as solemn an affair as it was to become
a priest. Before the day of the ceremony he fasted, spent the night in
prayer, confessed his sins, and received the Holy Sacrament. When
morning came he went, clothed in white, to the church or hall, with a
knight's sword suspended from his neck. This the priest blessed and
returned to him. Upon receiving back the sword he went and knelt
before the presiding knight and took the oath of knighthood. The
friends who accompanied him now came forward and handed him the spurs,
the coat of mail, the armlet and gauntlet, and having put these on he
girded on his sword. The presiding knight now bade him kneel, and,
touching him three times on the shoulder with the flat of his sword,
he pronounced the words that received him into the company of worthy
knights: "In the name of God, of St. Michael, and St. George, I make
thee a knight; be valiant, courteous, and loyal!" After this he
received his helmet, his shield, and his spear, and the ceremony was
completed.

The knight's real work, and greatest joy, was fighting for some one
who needed his help. Tournaments and jousts gave them chances to show
off their skill in public. We must remember that there were no big
open-air theatres in those days, such as the Greeks had, no public
races or trials of strength such as the Greeks held in the stadiums,
nor were there chariot races or fighting gladiators such as the Romans
had at an earlier day. Tournaments or jousts were the big public
entertainments, and you will find a famous description of one by Sir
Walter Scott in Ivanhoe, in the volume "Stories that Never Grow Old,"
the tournament of Ashby-de-la-Zouche. In it you will find a clear
description of how the field of contest was laid out, of the
magnificent pavilions decorated with flags, and the galleries spread
with carpets and tapestries for the ladies.

The same qualities that made a manful fighter then, make one now: to
speak the truth, to perform a promise to the utmost, to reverence all
women, to be constant in love, to despise luxury, to be simple and
modest and gentle in heart, to help the weak and take no unfair
advantage of an inferior. This was the ideal of the age, and chivalry
is the word that expresses that ideal. In all our reading we shall
perhaps find no more glowing example of it as something real, than in
the speech of Sir Jean de Vienne, governor of the besieged town of
Calais who, when called upon by King Edward III of England to
surrender unconditionally, replied:--

"We are but a small number of knights and squires, who have loyally
served our lord and master as you would have done, and have suffered
much ill and disquiet, but we will endure far more than any man has
done in such a post, before we consent that the smallest boy in the
town shall fare worse than ourselves."

And this story you can find in the volume "Tales of Courage and
Heroism," entitled "The Noble Burghers of Calais."

WILLIAM PATTEN.




THE STORY OF KING ARTHUR

This great treasure-house of stories is to the English race what
the stories of Ulysses and Aeneas were to the Greeks and Latins, a
national inheritance of which they should be, and are, proud.

The high nobility, dauntless courage and gentle humility of Arthur and
his knights have had a great effect in moulding the character of
English peoples, since none of us can help trying to imitate what he
admires and loves most.

As a series of pictures of life in the Middle Ages the stories are of
the greatest value. The geography is confused, as it is in the Iliad
and the Odyssey, and facts are sometimes mixed up with magic, but
modern critics believe there was a real Arthur, who lived about the
year 500 A.D.




OF ARTHUR'S BIRTH AND HOW HE BECAME KING

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Long years ago, there ruled over Britain a king called Uther
Pendragon. A mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet when he
sought the love of the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have naught
to do with him, so that, from grief and disappointment, Uther fell
sick, and at last seemed like to die.

Now in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so
powerful that he could change his form at will, or even make himself
invisible; nor was there any place so remote that he could not reach
it at once, merely by wishing himself there. One day, suddenly he
stood at Uther's bedside, and said: "Sir king, I know thy grief, and
am ready to help thee. Only promise to give me, at his birth, the son
that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have thy heart's desire."
To this the king agreed joyfully, and Merlin kept his word: for he
gave Uther the form of one whom Igraine had loved dearly, and so she
took him willingly for her husband.

When the time had come that a child should be born to the king and
queen, Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise; and
Uther swore it should be as he had said. Three days later, a prince
was born, and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the name of
Arthur; but immediately thereafter, the king commanded that the child
should be carried to the postern-gate, there to be given to the old
man who would be found waiting without.

Not long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come;
so, by Merlin's advice, he called together his knights and barons, and
said to them: "My death draws near. I charge you, therefore, that ye
obey my son even as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon him if he
claim not the crown when he is a man grown." Then the king turned his
face to the wall and died.

Scarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of the
nobles had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them would
have been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought himself
fitted to be king, and, strengthening his own castle, made war on his
neighbors until confusion alone was supreme, and the poor groaned
because there was none to help them.

Now when Merlin carried away Arthur--for Merlin was the old man who
had stood at the postern-gate--he had known all that would happen, and
had taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons until he
should be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all the wonders
prophesied of him. He gave the child to the care of the good knight
Sir Ector to bring up with his son Kay, but revealed not to him that
it was the son of Uther Pendragon that was given into his charge.

At last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth well
skilled in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop of
Canterbury and advised him that he should call together at
Christmas-time all the chief men of the realm to the great cathedral
in London; "for," said Merlin, "there shall be seen a great marvel by
which it shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful king of this
land." The archbishop did as Merlin counselled. Under pain of a
fearful curse, he bade the barons and knights come to London to keep
the feast, and to pray heaven to send peace to the realm.

The people hastened to obey the archbishop's commands, and, from all
sides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of
Our Lord. And when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the
cathedral they saw a strange sight. There, in the open space before
the church, stood, on a great stone, an anvil thrust through with a
sword; and on the stone were written these words: "Whoso can draw
forth this sword is rightful King of Britain born."

At once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamoring to be the first
to try his fortune, none doubting his success. Then the archbishop
decreed that each should make the venture in turn, from the greatest
baron to the least knight; and each in turn, having put forth his
utmost strength, failed to move the sword one inch, and drew back
ashamed. So the archbishop dismissed the company, and having
appointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers through all
the land to give word of great jousts to be held in London at Easter,
when each knight could give proof of his skill and courage, and try
whether the adventure of the sword was for him.

Among those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector, and
with him his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young Arthur.
When the morning came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay and Arthur
mounted their horses and set out for the lists; but before they
reached the field, Kay looked and saw that he had left his sword
behind. Immediately Arthur turned back to fetch it for him, only to
find the house fast shut, for all were gone to view the tournament.
Sore vexed was Arthur, fearing lest his brother Kay should lose his
chance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he bethought him of the
sword in the great anvil before the cathedral. Thither he rode with
all speed, and the guards having deserted their post to view the
tournament, there was none to forbid him the adventure. He leaped from
his horse, seized the hilt, and instantly drew forth the sword as
easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting his horse and thinking no
marvel of what he had done, he rode after his brother and handed him
the weapon.

When Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword
from the stone. In great joy he sought his father, and showing it to
him, said: "Then must I be King of Britain." But Sir Ector bade him
say how he came by the sword, and when Sir Kay told how Arthur had
brought it to him, Sir Ector bent his knee to the boy, and said: "Sir,
I perceive that ye are my king, and here I tender you my homage;" and
Kay did as his father. Then the three sought the archbishop, to whom
they related all that had happened; and he, much marvelling, called
the people together to the great stone, and bade Arthur thrust back
the sword and draw it forth again in the presence of all, which he did
with ease. But an angry murmur arose from the barons, who cried that
what a boy could do, a man could do; so, at the archbishop's word, the
sword was put back, and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in
his turn to draw it forth, and failed. Then, for the third time,
Arthur drew forth the sword. Immediately there arose from the people a
great shout: "Arthur is King! Arthur is King! We will have no King
but Arthur;" and, though the great barons scowled and threatened, they
fell on their knees before him while the archbishop placed the crown
upon his head, and swore to obey him faithfully as their lord and
sovereign.

Thus Arthur was made King; and to all he did justice, righting wrongs
and giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those that had
been his friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he made
seneschal and chief of his household, and to Sir Ector, his foster
father, he gave broad lands.




THE ROUND TABLE

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Thus Arthur was made King, but he had to fight for his own; for eleven
great kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as their
lord, and chief among the rebels was King Lot of Orkney, who had
married Arthur's sister, Bellicent.

By Merlin's advice, Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors,
the two great kings who ruled in Gaul.

With their aid, he overthrew his foes in a great battle near the river
Trent; and then he passed with them into their own lands and helped
them drive out their enemies. So there was ever great friendship
between Arthur and the Kings Ban and Bors, and all their kindred, and
afterward some of the most famous Knights of the Round Table were of
that kin.

Then King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his kingdom.
To all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he showed kindness;
but those who persisted in oppression and wrong he removed, putting in
their places others who would deal justly with the people. And because
the land had become overrun with forest during the days of misrule, he
cut roads through the thickets, that no longer wild beasts and men,
fiercer than the beasts, should lurk in their gloom, to the harm of
the weak and defenceless. Thus it came to pass that soon the peasant
plowed his fields in safety, and where had been wastes, men dwelt
again in peace and prosperity.

Among the lesser kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns and
restore order, was King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Now Leodegrance had
one fair child, his daughter Guenevere; and from the first he saw her,
Arthur gave her all his love. So he sought counsel of Merlin, his
chief adviser. Merlin heard the king sorrowfully, and he said: "Sir
king, when a man's heart is set, he may not change. Yet had it been
well if ye had loved another."

So the king sent his knights to Leodegrance, to ask of him his
daughter; and Leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good
and knightly a king. With great pomp, the princess was conducted to
Canterbury, and there the king met her, and they two were wed by the
archbishop in the great cathedral, amid the rejoicings of the people.

On that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the
fame of which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure through
all time. Now the Round Table had been made for King Uther Pendragon
by Merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to all men the
roundness of the earth. After Uther died, King Leodegrance had
possessed it; but when Arthur was wed, he sent it to him as a gift,
and great was the king's joy at receiving it. One hundred and fifty
knights might take their places about it, and for them Merlin made
sieges or seats. One hundred and twenty-eight did Arthur knight at
that great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were empty, at the high
festival of Pentecost new knights were ordained to fill them, and by
magic was the name of each knight found inscribed, in letters of gold,
in his proper siege. One seat only long remained unoccupied, and that
was the Siege Perilous. No knight might occupy it until the coming of
Sir Galahad; for, without danger to his life, none might sit there who
was not free from all stain of sin.

With pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of true
knighthood: to obey the king; to show mercy to all who asked it; to
defend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a wrongful cause:
and all the knights rejoiced together, doing honor to Arthur and to
his queen. Then they rode forth to right the wrong and help the
oppressed, and by their aid, the king held his realm in peace, doing
justice to all.




MERLIN THE MAGICIAN

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Of Merlin and how he served King Arthur, something has been already
shown. Loyal he was ever to Uther Pendragon and to his son, King
Arthur, and for the latter especially he wrought great marvels. He
brought the king to his rights; he made him his ships; and some say
that Camelot, with its splendid halls, where Arthur would gather his
knights around him at the great festivals of the year, at Christmas,
at Easter, and at Pentecost, was raised by his magic, without human
toil. Bleise, the aged magician who dwelt in Northumberland and
recorded the great deeds of Arthur and his knights, had been Merlin's
master in magic; but it came to pass in time that Merlin far excelled
him in skill, so that his enemies declared no mortal was his father,
and called him devil's son.

Then, on a certain time, Merlin said to Arthur: "The time draws near
when ye shall miss me, for I shall go down alive into the earth; and
it shall be that gladly would ye give your lands to have me again."
Then Arthur was grieved, and said: "Since ye know your danger, use
your craft to avoid it." But Merlin answered: "That may not be."

Now there had come to Arthur's court, a damsel of the Lady of the
Lake--her whose skill in magic, some say, was greater than Merlin's
own; and the damsel's name was Vivien. She set herself to learn the
secrets of Merlin's art, and was ever with him, tending upon the old
man, and with gentleness and tender service, winning her way to his
heart; but all was a pretence, for she was weary of him and sought
only his ruin, thinking it should be fame for her, by any means
whatsoever, to enslave the greatest wizard of his age. And so she
persuaded him to pass with her over seas into King Ban's land of
Benwick, and there, one day, he showed her a wondrous rock formed by
magic art. Then she begged him to enter into it, the better to declare
to her its wonders; but when once he was within, by a charm that she
had learned from Merlin's self, she caused the rock to shut down that
never again might he come forth. Thus was Merlin's prophecy fulfilled,
that he should go down into the earth alive. Much they marvelled in
Arthur's court what had become of the great magician, till on a time,
there rode past the stone a certain Knight of the Round Table and
heard Merlin lamenting his sad fate. The knight would have striven to
raise the mighty stone, but Merlin bade him not waste his labor, since
none might release him save her who had imprisoned him there. Thus
Merlin passed from the world through the treachery of a damsel, and
thus Arthur was without aid in the days when his doom came upon him.




THE SWORD EXCALIBUR

By Sir Thomas Malory


Merlin took up King Arthur, and rode forth with him upon the knight's
horse. As they rode King Arthur said, "I have no sword." "No matter,"
said Merlin, "hereby is a sword that shall be yours, Sir King." So
they rode till they came to a lake, which was a fair water and a
broad; and in the midst of the lake King Arthur was aware of an arm
clothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in the hand. "Lo,"
said Merlin unto the king, "yonder is the sword that I spake of." With
that they saw a damsel going upon the lake. "What damsel is that?"
said the king. "That is the Lady of the Lake," said Merlin, "and
within that lake is a reach, and therein is as fair a place as any is
on earth, and richly beseen; and this damsel will come to you anon,
and then speak fair to her that she will give you that sword."
Therewith came the damsel to King Arthur and saluted him, and he her
again. "Damsel," said the king, "what sword is that which the arm
holdeth yonder above the water? I would it were mine, for I have no
sword." "Sir king," said the damsel of the lake, "that sword is mine,
and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have
it."--"By my faith," said King Arthur, "I will give you any gift that
you will ask or desire." "Well," said the damsel, "go ye into yonder
barge, and row yourself unto the sword, and take it and the scabbard
with you; and I will ask my gift when I see my time." So King Arthur
and Merlin alighted, tied their horses to two trees, and so they went
into the barge. And when they came to the sword that the hand held,
King Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with him: and the
arm and the hand went under the water, and so King Arthur came to the
land, and rode forth. * * * Then the king looked upon the sword, and
liked it passing well. "Whether liketh you better," said Merlin, "the
sword or the scabbard?" "Me liketh better the sword," said King
Arthur.--"Ye are more unwise," said Merlin; "for the scabbard is worth
ten of the sword; for while ye have the scabbard upon you ye shall
lose no blood, be ye never so sore wounded; therefore keep well the
scabbard alway with you."

* * * Then Arthur proclaimed that all the lords, knights, and
gentlemen of arms, should draw unto a castle, that was called in those
days Camelot, and the king would have a council-general and a great
joust. So when the king was come thither, with all his baronage, and
lodged as them seemed best, there came a damsel, sent on message from
the great Lady Lily, of Avilion; and, when she came before King
Arthur, she told him from whom she came, and how she was sent on
message unto him for these causes. And she let her mantle fall, that
was richly furred, and then she was girded with a noble sword, whereof
the king had great marvel, and said, "Damsel, for what cause are ye
gird with that sword? It beseemeth you not." "Now shall I tell you,"
said the damsel. "This sword, that I am gird withal, doth me great
sorrow and remembrance; for I may not be delivered of this sword but
by a good knight; and he must be a passing good man of his hands and
of his deeds, and without villany or treachery. If I may find such a
knight that hath all these virtues, he may draw out this sword of the
scabbard. For I have been at King Rience; for it was told that there
were passing good knights, and he and all his knights have assayed it,
and none can speed."

"This is a great marvel," said King Arthur, "and if besooth, I will
myself assay to draw out the sword; not presuming upon myself that I
am the best knight, but that I will begin to draw at your sword, in
giving example to all the barons, that they shall assay every one
after other, when I have assayed." Then King Arthur took the sword by
the scabbard and girdle and pulled at it eagerly, but the sword would
not out. "Sir," said the damsel, "ye need not pull half so hard; for
he that shall pull it out shall do it with little might." "Ye say
well," said King Arthur: "now assay ye, all my barons; but beware ye
be not defiled with shame, treachery, nor guile."--"Then it will not
avail," said the damsel; "for he must be a clean knight, without
villany, and of gentle stream of father's side and mother's side."
Most of all the barons of the Round Table, that were there at that
time, assayed all in turn, but none might speed. Wherefore the damsel
made great sorrow out of measure, and said, "Alas! I weened in this
court had been the best knights, without treachery or treason." "By my
faith," said King Arthur, "here are as good knights as I deem any be
in the world; but their grace is not to help you, wherefore I am
greatly displeased."

It happened so, at that time, that there was a poor knight with King
Arthur, that had been prisoner with him half a year and more, for
slaying of a knight, which was cousin to King Arthur. The knight was
named Balin le Savage: and by good means of the barons he was
delivered out of prison; for he was a good man named of his body, and
he was born in Northumberland. And so he went privily into the court,
and saw this adventure, whereof his heart rose, and would assay it as
other knights did; but for because he was poor, and poorly arrayed, he
put him not far in press. But in his heart he was fully assured (if
his grace happened him) as any knight that was there. And, as that
damsel took her leave of King Arthur and the barons, this knight,
Balin, called unto her, and said, "Damsel, I pray you of your
courtesy, to suffer me as well to assay as these lords; though I be
poorly clothed, in mine heart meseemeth I am fully assured as some of
these other lords, and meseemeth in my heart to speed right well." The
damsel beheld the poor knight, and saw he was a likely man; but,
because of his poor array, she thought he should be of no worship
without villany or treachery. And then she said to the knight Balin,
"Sir, it is no need to put me to any more pain or labour; for
beseemeth not you to speed there as others have failed." "Ah, fair
damsel," said Balin, "worthiness and good graces and good deeds are
not all only in raiment, but manhood and worship is hid within man's
person; and many a worshipful knight is not known unto all people; and
therefore worship and hardiness is not in raiment and clothing."--"By
God!" said the damsel, "ye say truth; therefore ye shall assay to do
what ye may." Then Balin took the sword by the girdle and scabbard,
and drew it out easily; and when he looked upon the sword, it pleased
him well. * * * Anon after Balin sent for his horse and his armour,
and so would depart from the court, and took his leave of King Arthur.

The meanwhile that this knight was making him ready to depart, there
came into the court a lady, which hight the Lady of the Lake, and she
came on horseback, richly beseen, and saluted King Arthur, and there
asked him a gift that he had promised her when she gave him the sword.

"That is sooth," said King Arthur, "a gift I promised you; but I have
forgotten the name of the sword which ye gave me." "The name of it,"
said the lady, "is Excalibur; that is as much to say _cut-steel_."--
"Ye say well," said King Arthur. "Ask what ye will, and ye shall have
it, if it lie in my power to give it." "Well," said the Lady of the
Lake, "I ask the head of the knight that hath won the sword, or else
the damsel's head that brought it. And though I have both their heads
I care not; for he slew my brother, a full good knight and true, and
the gentlewoman was causer of my father's death."--"Truly," said King
Arthur, "I may not grant you either of their heads with my worship;
therefore ask what ye will else, and I shall fulfil your desire." "I
will ask none other thing of you," said the lady. When Balin was ready
to depart, he saw the Lady of the Lake there, by whose means was slain
his own mother, and he had sought her three years. And when it was
told him that she demanded his head of King Arthur, he went straight
to her, and said, "Evil be ye found. Ye would have my head, and
therefore ye shall lose yours!" And with his sword lightly he smote
off her head, in the presence of King Arthur. "Alas! for shame," said
the king. "Why have you done so? You have shamed me and all my court.
For this was a lady that I was much beholden unto; and hither she came
under my safe conduct. I shall never forgive you that trespass." "My
lord," said Balin, "me forethinketh much of your displeasure; for this
lady was the untruest lady living; and by her enchantment and
witchcraft she hath been the destroyer of many good knights, and she
was the causer that my mother was burnt, through her falsehood and
treachery." Then King Arthur and all his court made great dole, and
had great shame of the death of the Lady of the Lake. Then the king
full richly buried her.

* * * "My time hieth fast," said King Arthur unto Sir Bedivere;
"therefore take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it unto
yonder water-side; and when thou comest there, I charge thee, throw my
sword into that water, and come again and tell me what thou shalt see
there." "My lord," said Sir Bedivere, "your command shall be done, and
lightly bring you word again." And so Sir Bedivere departed, and by
the way he beheld that noble sword, where the pommel and the haft were
all of precious stones. And then he said to himself, "If I throw this
rich sword into the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and
loss." And then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree; and as soon
as he might, he came again unto King Arthur, and said he had been at
the water. "What sawest thou there?" said the king. "Sir," said he, "I
saw nothing but waves and wind."--"That is untruly said of thee," said
King Arthur. "Therefore go thou lightly, and do my command; as thou
art to me life and dear, spare not, but throw it in." Then Sir
Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and then he
thought it sin and shame to throw away that noble sword: and so after
he hid the sword and returned again, and told the king that he had
been at the water and done his command. "What saw ye there?" said the
king. "Sir," said he, "I saw nothing but the water lap and waves
wan."--"Ah! traitor untrue," said King Arthur, "now hast thou betrayed
me two times, who would have weened that thou that hast been unto me
so self and dear, and thou art named a noble knight, and wouldest
betray me for the rich sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long
tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken
cold; and but if thou do as I command thee, and if ever I may see
thee, I shall slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldest for my
rich sword see me dead." Then Sir Bedivere departed and went to the
sword and lightly took it up and went to the water's side, and there
he bound the girdle about the belts. And then he threw the sword into
the water as far as he might, and there came an arm and a hand above
the water, and met it and caught it, and so shook it thrice and
brandished. And then the hand vanished away with the sword in the
water.

So Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he had
seen. "Alas!" said the king, "help me from hence; for I dread me I
have tarried over long." Then Sir Bedivere took King Arthur upon his
back, and so went with him to the water's side; and, when they were at
the water's side, even fast by the bank hovered a little barge, with
many fair ladies in it: and among them all was a queen, and they all
had black hoods; and they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur.

"Now put me into the barge," said the king. And so he did softly, and
there received him three queens with great mourning; and so these
three queens sat them down, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid
his head. And then that queen said: "Ah! dear brother, why have ye
tarried so long from me? Alas! this wound on your head hath taken
overmuch cold." And so then they rowed from the land; and Sir Bedivere
cried, "Ah! my lord Arthur, what shall become of me now ye go from me,
and leave me here alone among mine enemies?" "Comfort thyself," said
King Arthur, "and do as well as thou mayest; for in me is no trust for
to trust in: for I will into the vale of Avilion, for to heal me of my
grievous wound; and, if thou never hear more of me, pray for my soul."




SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE ADVENTURE OF THE CASTLE PERILOUS

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Now, as time passed, King Arthur gathered into his Order of the Round
Table knights whose peers shall never be found in any age; and
foremost among them all was Sir Launcelot du Lac. Such was his
strength that none against whom he had lain lance in rest could keep
the saddle, and no shield was proof against his sword dint; but for
his courtesy even more than for his courage and strength, Sir
Launcelot was famed far and near. Gentle he was and ever the first to
rejoice in the renown of another; and, in the jousts, he would avoid
encounter with the young and untried knight, letting him pass to gain
glory if he might.

It would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of Sir
Launcelot, and all his adventures. He was of Gaul, for his father;
King Ban, ruled over Benwick; and some say that his first name was
Galahad, and that he was named Launcelot du Lac by the Lady of the
Lake, who reared him when his mother died. Early he won renown by
delivering his father's people from the grim King Claudas, who, for
more than twenty years, had lain waste the fair land of Benwick; then,
when there was peace in his own land, he passed into Britain, to
Arthur's Court, where the king received him gladly, and made him
Knight of the Round Table and took him for his trustiest friend. And
so it was that, when Guenevere was to be brought to Canterbury, to be
married to the king, Launcelot was chief of the knights sent to wait
upon her.

Now on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Launcelot met a
damsel weeping bitterly, and seeing him, she cried, "Stay, sir knight!
By your knighthood I require you to aid me in my distress."
Immediately Sir Launcelot checked his horse and asked in what she
needed his service. "Sir," said the maiden, "my brother lies at the
point of death, for this day he fought with the stout knight, Sir
Gilbert, and sorely they wounded each other; and a wise woman, a
sorceress, has said that nothing may stanch my brother's wounds unless
they be searched with the sword and bound up with a piece of the cloth
from the body of the wounded knight who lies in the ruined chapel hard
by. And well I know you, my lord Sir Launcelot, and that, if ye will
not help me, none may." "Tell me your brother's name," said Sir
Launcelot. "Sir Meliot de Logris," replied the damsel. "A Knight of
our Round Table," said Sir Launcelot; "the more am I bound to your
service. Only tell me, gentle damsel, where I may find this Chapel
Perilous." So she directed him, and, riding through forest byways, Sir
Launcelot came presently upon a little ruined chapel, standing in the
midst of a churchyard, where the tombs showed broken and neglected
under the dark yews. In front of the porch, Sir Launcelot paused and
looked, for thereon hung, upside down, dishonored, the shield of many
a good knight whom Sir Launcelot had known.

As he stood wondering, suddenly there pressed upon him from all sides
thirty stout knights, all giants and fully armed, their drawn swords
in their hands and their shields advanced. With threatening looks,
they spoke to him, saying, "Sir Launcelot, it were well ye turned back
before evil befell you." But Sir Launcelot, though he feared to have
to do with thirty such warriors, answered boldly, "I turn not back for
high words. Make them good by your deeds." Then he rode upon them
fiercely, whereupon instantly they scattered and disappeared, and,
sword in hand, Sir Launcelot entered the little chapel. All was dark
within, save that a little lamp hung from the roof, and by its dim
light he could just espy how on a bier before the altar there lay,
stark and cold, a knight sheathed in armor. And drawing nearer Sir
Launcelot saw that the dead man lay on a blood-stained mantle, his
naked sword by his side, but that his left hand had been lopped off at
the wrist by a mighty sword-cut. Then Sir Launcelot boldly seized the
sword and with it cut off a piece of the bloody mantle. Immediately
the earth shook and the walls of the chapel rocked, and in fear Sir
Launcelot turned to go. But, as he would have left the chapel, there
stood before him in the doorway a lady, fair to look upon and
beautifully arrayed, who gazed earnestly upon him, and said: "Sir
knight, put away from you that sword lest it be your death." But Sir
Launcelot answered her: "Lady, what I have said, I do; and what I have
won, I keep." "It is well," said the lady. "Had ye cast away the sword
your life days were done. And now I make but one request. Kiss me
once." "That may I not do," said Sir Launcelot. Then said the lady,
"Go your way, Launcelot; ye have won, and I have lost. Know that, had
ye kissed me, your dead body had lain even now on the altar bier. For
much have I desired to win you; and to entrap you, I ordained this
chapel. Many a knight have I taken, and once Sir Gawain himself
hardly escaped, but he fought with Sir Gilbert and lopped off his
hand, and so got away. Fare ye well; it is plain to see that none but
our lady, Queen Guenevere, may have your services." With that, she
vanished from his sight. So Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and rode
away from that evil place till he met Sir Meliot's sister, who led him
to her brother where he lay, pale as the earth, and bleeding fast. And
when he saw Sir Launcelot, he would have risen to greet him; but his
strength failed him, and he fell back on his couch. Sir Launcelot
searched his wounds with the sword, and bound them up with the
blood-stained cloth, and immediately Sir Meliot was sound and well,
and greatly he rejoiced. Then Sir Meliot and his sister begged Sir
Launcelot to stay and rest, but he departed on his adventures, bidding
them farewell until he should meet them again at Arthur's court. As
for the sorceress of the Chapel Perilous, it is said she died of grief
that all her charms had failed to win for her the good knight Sir
Launcelot.




SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FALCON

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Sir Launcelot rode on his way, by marsh and valley and hill, till he
chanced upon a fair castle, and saw fly from it, over his head, a
beautiful falcon, with the lines still hanging from her feet. And as
he looked, the falcon flew into a tree where she was held fast by the
lines becoming entangled about the boughs. Immediately, from the
castle there came running a fair lady, who cried: "O Launcelot,
Launcelot! As ye are the noblest of all knights, I pray you help me to
recover my falcon. For if my husband discover its loss, he will slay
me in his anger." "Who is your husband, fair lady?" asked Sir
Launcelot. "Sir Phelot, a knight of Northgalis, and he is of a hasty
temper; wherefore, I beseech you, help me." "Well, lady," said Sir
Launcelot, "I will serve you if I may; but the tree is hard to climb,
for the boughs are few, and, in truth, I am no climber. But I will do
my best." So the lady helped Sir Launcelot to unarm, and he led his
horse to the foot of the tree, and springing from its back, he caught
at the nearest bough, and drew himself up into the branches. Then he
climbed till he reached the falcon and, tying her lines to a rotten
bough, broke it off, and threw down the bird and bough to the lady
below. Forthwith Sir Phelot came from among the trees and said: "Ah!
Sir Launcelot! Now at length I have you as I would; for I have long
sought your life." And Sir Launcelot made answer: "Surely ye would not
slay me, an unarmed man; for that were dishonor to you. Keep my armor
if ye will; but hang my sword on a bough where I may reach it, and
then do with me as ye can." But Sir Phelot laughed mockingly and said:
"Not so, Sir Launcelot. I know you too well to throw away my
advantage; wherefore, shift as ye may." "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot,
"that ever knight should be so unknightly. And you, madam, how could
ye so betray me?" "She did but as I commanded her," said Sir Phelot.

Then Launcelot looked about him to see how he might help himself in
these straits, and espying above his head a great bare branch, he tore
it down. Then, ever watching his advantage, he sprang to the ground
on the far side of his horse, so that the horse was between him and
Sir Phelot. Sir Phelot rushed upon him with his sword, but Launcelot
parried it with the bough, with which he dealt his enemy such a blow
on the head that Sir Phelot sank to the ground in a swoon. Then Sir
Launcelot seized his sword where it lay beside his armor, and stooping
over the fallen knight, unloosed his helm. When the lady saw him do
that, she shrieked and cried: "Spare his life! spare his life, noble
knight, I beseech you!" But Sir Launcelot answered sternly: "A felon's
death for him who does felon's deeds. He has lived too long already,"
and with one blow he smote off his head. Then he armed himself, and
mounting upon his steed, rode away, leaving the lady to weep beside
her lord.




THE ADVENTURES OF SIR GARETH

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Gareth was the youngest of the sons of Lot and Bellicent, and had
grown up long after Gawain and Mordred left their home for King
Arthur's court; so that when he came before the king, all humbly
attired, he was not known even by his own brothers.

King Arthur was keeping Pentecost at Kink Kenadon on the Welsh border,
and, as his custom was, waited to begin the feast until some adventure
should befall. Presently there was seen approaching a youth who, to
the wonderment of all that saw, leaned upon the shoulders of two men,
his companions; and yet as he passed up the hall, he seemed a goodly
youth, tall and broad-shouldered. When he stood before the king,
suddenly he drew himself up and after due greeting, said: "Sir king, I
would ask of you three boons; one to be granted now and two hereafter
when I shall require them." And Arthur, looking upon him, was pleased,
for his countenance was open and honest. So he made answer: "Fair son,
ask of me aught that is honorable and I will grant it." Then the youth
said: "For this present, I ask only that ye will give me meat and
drink for a year and a day." "Ye might have asked and had a better
gift," replied the king; "tell me now your name." "At this time, I may
not tell it," said the youth. Now King Arthur trusted every man until
he proved himself unworthy, and in this youth he thought he saw one
who should do nobly and win renown; so laughing, he bade him keep his
own counsel since so he would, and gave him in charge to Sir Kay, the
seneschal.

Now Sir Kay was but harsh to those whom he liked not, and from the
first he scorned the young man. "For none," said he, "but a low-born
lout would crave meat and drink when he might have asked for a horse
and arms." But Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain took the youth's part.
Neither knew him for Gareth of the Orkneys, but both believed him to
be a youth of good promise who, for his own reasons, would pass in
disguise for a season.

So Gareth lived the year among the kitchen boys, all the time mocked
and scorned by Sir Kay, who called him Fairhands because his hands
were white and shapely. But Launcelot and Gawain showed him all
courtesy, and failed not to observe how, in all trials of strength, he
excelled his comrades, and that he was ever present to witness the
feats of the knights in the tournaments.

So the year passed, and again King Arthur was keeping the feast of
Pentecost with his knights, when a damsel entered the hall and asked
his aid: "For," said she, "my sister is closely besieged in her castle
by a strong knight who lays waste all her lands. And since I know that
the knights of your court be the most renowned in the world, I have
come to crave help of your mightiest." "What is your sister's name,
and who is he that oppresses her?" asked the king. "The Red Knight, he
is called," replied the damsel. "As for my sister, I will not say her
name, only that she is a high-born lady and owns broad lands." Then
the king frowned and said: "Ye would have aid but will say no name. I
may not ask knight of mine to go on such an errand."

Then forth stepped Gareth from among the serving-men at the hall end
and said: "Sir king, I have eaten of your meat in your kitchen this
twelvemonth since, and now I crave my other two boons." "Ask and
have," replied the king. "Grant me then the adventure of this damsel,
and bid Sir Launcelot ride after me to knight me at my desire, for of
him alone would I be made knight." "It shall be so," answered the
king. "What!" cried the damsel, "I ask for a knight and ye give me a
kitchen-boy. Shame on you, sir king." And in great wrath she fled from
the hall, mounted her palfrey and rode away. Gareth but waited to
array himself in the armor which he had kept ever in readiness for the
time when he should need it, and mounting his horse, rode after the
damsel.

But when Sir Kay knew what had happened, he was wroth, and got to
horse to ride after Gareth and bring him back. Even as Gareth overtook
the damsel, so did Kay come up with him and cried: "Turn back,
Fairhands! What, sir, do ye not know me?" "Yes," answered Gareth, "I
know you for the most discourteous knight in Arthur's court." Then Sir
Kay rode upon him with his lance, but Gareth turned it aside with his
sword and pierced Sir Kay through the side so that he fell to the
ground and lay there without motion. So Gareth took Sir Kay's shield
and spear and was about to ride away, when seeing Sir Launcelot draw
near he called upon him to joust. At the first encounter, Sir
Launcelot unhorsed Gareth, but quickly helped him to his feet. Then,
at Gareth's desire, they fought together with swords, and Gareth did
knightly till, at length, Sir Launcelot said, laughing: "Why should we
fight any longer? Of a truth ye are a stout knight." "If that is
indeed your thought, I pray you make me knight," cried Gareth. So Sir
Launcelot knighted Gareth, who, bidding him farewell, hastened after
the damsel, for she had ridden on again while the two knights talked.
When she saw him coming, she cried: "Keep off! ye smell of the
kitchen!" "Damsel," said Sir Gareth, "I must follow until I have
fulfilled the adventure." "Till ye accomplish the adventure,
Turn-spit? Your part in it shall soon be ended." "I can only do my
best," answered Sir Gareth.

Now as they rode through the forest, they met with a knight sore beset
by six thieves, and him Sir Gareth rescued. The knight then bade
Gareth and the damsel rest at his castle, and entertained them right
gladly until the morn, when the two rode forth again. Presently, they
drew near to a deep river where two knights kept the ford. "How now,
kitchen knave? Will ye fight or escape while ye may?" cried the
damsel. "I would fight though there were six instead of two," replied
Sir Gareth. Therewith he encountered the one knight in midstream and
struck him such a blow on the head that he fell, stunned, into the
water and was drowned. Then, gaining the land, Gareth cleft in two
helmet and head of the other knight, and turned to the damsel, saying,
"Lead on; I follow."

But the damsel mocked him, saying: "What a mischance is this that a
kitchen boy should slay two noble knights! Be not overproud,
Turn-spit. It was but luck, if indeed ye did not attack one knight
from behind." "Say what you will, I follow," said Sir Gareth.

So they rode on again, the damsel in front and Sir Gareth behind, till
they reached a wide meadow where stood many fair pavilions; and one,
the largest, was all of blue, and the men who stood about it were
clothed in blue, and bore shields and spears of that color; and of
blue, too, were the trappings of the horses. Then said the damsel,
"Yonder is the Blue Knight, the goodliest that ever ye have looked
upon, and five hundred knights own him lord." "I will encounter him,"
said Sir Gareth; "for if he be good knight and true as ye say, he will
scarce set on me with all his following; and man to man, I fear him
not." "Fie!" said the damsel, "for a dirty knave, ye brag loud. And
even if ye overcome him, his might is as nothing to that of the Red
Knight who besieges my lady sister. So get ye gone while ye may."
"Damsel," said Sir Gareth, "ye are but ungentle so to rebuke me; for,
knight or knave, I have done you good service, nor will I leave this
guest while life is mine." Then the damsel ashamed, and, looking
curiously at Gareth, she said, "I would gladly know what manner of man
ye are. For I heard you call yourself kitchen knave before Arthur's
self, but ye have ever answered patiently though I have chidden you
shamefully; and courtesy comes only of gentle blood." Thereat Sir
Gareth but laughed, and said: "He is no knight whom a maiden can anger
by harsh words."

So talking, they entered the field, and there came to Sir Gareth a
messenger from the Blue Knight to ask him if he came in peace or in
war. "As your lord pleases," said Sir Gareth. So when the messenger
had brought back this word, the Blue Knight mounted his horse, took
his spear in his hand, and rode upon Sir Gareth. At their first
encounter their lances shivered to pieces, and such was the shock that
their horses fell dead. So they rushed on each other with swords and
shield, cutting and slashing till the armor was hacked from their
bodies; but at last, Sir Gareth smote the Blue Knight to the
earth. Then the Blue Knight yielded, and at the damsel's entreaty, Sir
Gareth spared his life.

So they were reconciled, and, at the request of the Blue Knight, Sir
Gareth and the damsel abode that night in his tents. As they sat at
table, the Blue Knight said: "Fair damsel, are ye not called Linet?"
"Yes," answered she, "and I am taking this noble knight to the relief
of my sister, the Lady Liones." "God speed you, sir," said the Blue
Knight, "for he is a stout knight whom ye must meet. Long ago might he
have taken the lady, but that he hoped that Sir Launcelot or some
other of Arthur's most famous knights, coming to her rescue, might
fall beneath his lance. If ye overthrow him, then are ye the peer of
Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram." "Sir knight," answered Gareth, "I can
but strive to bear me worthily as one whom the great Sir Launcelot
made knight."

So in the morning they bade farewell to the Blue Knight, who vowed to
carry to King Arthur word of all that Gareth had achieved; and they
rode on till, in the evening, they came to a little ruined hermitage
where there awaited them a dwarf, sent by the Lady Liones, with all
manner of meats and other store. In the morning, the dwarf set out
again to bear word to his lady that her rescuer was come. As he drew
near the castle, the Red Knight stopped him, demanding whence he came.
"Sir," said the dwarf, "I have been with my lady's sister, who brings
with her a knight to the rescue of my lady." "It is lost labor," said
the Red Knight; "even though she brought Launcelot or Tristram, I hold
myself a match for them." "He is none of these," said the dwarf, "but
he has overthrown the knights who kept the ford, and the Blue Knight
yielded to him." "Let him come," said the Red Knight; "I shall soon
make an end of him, and a shameful death shall he have at my hands, as
many a better knight has had." So saying, he let the dwarf go.

Presently, there came riding toward the castle Sir Gareth and the
damsel Linet, and Gareth marvelled to see hang from the trees some
forty knights in goodly armor, their shields reversed beside them. And
when he inquired of the damsel, she told him how these were the bodies
of brave knights who, coming to the rescue of the Lady Liones, had
been overthrown and shamefully done to death by the Red Knight. Then
was Gareth shamed and angry, and he vowed to make an end of these evil
practices. So at last they drew near to the castle walls, and saw how
the plain around was covered with the Red Knight's tents, and the
noise was that of a great army. Hard by was a tall sycamore tree, and
from it hung a mighty horn, made of an elephant's tusk. Spurring his
horse, Gareth rode to it, and blew such a blast that those on the
castle walls heard it; the knights came forth from their tents to see
who blew so bold a blast, and from a window of the castle the Lady
Liones looked forth and waved her hand to her champion. Then, as Sir
Gareth made his reverence to the lady, the Red Knight called roughly
to him to leave his courtesy and look to himself: "For," said he, "she
is mine, and to have her, I have fought many a battle." "It is but
vain labor," said Sir Gareth, "since she loves you not. Know, too, sir
knight, that I have vowed to rescue her from you." "So did many
another who now hangs on a tree," replied the Red Knight, "and soon ye
shall hang beside them," Then both laid their spears in rest, and
spurred their horses. At the first encounter, each smote the other
full in the shield, and the girths of the saddles bursting, they were
borne to the earth, where they lay for a while as if dead. But
presently they rose, and setting their shields before them, rushed
upon each other with their swords, cutting and hacking till the armor
lay on the ground in fragments. So they fought till noon and then
rested; but soon they renewed the battle, and so furiously they
fought, that often they fell to the ground together. Then, when the
bells sounded for evensong, the knights rested again, unlacing their
helms to breathe the evening air. But looking up to the castle
windows, Gareth saw the Lady Liones gazing earnestly upon him; then he
caught up his helmet, and calling to the Red Knight, bade him make
ready for the battle; "And this time," said he, "we will make an end
of it." "So be it," said the Red Knight. Then the Red Knight smote
Gareth on the hand so that his sword flew from his grasp, and with
another blow he brought him grovelling to the earth. At the sight of
this, Linet cried aloud, and hearing her, Gareth, with a mighty
effort, threw off the Red Knight, leaped to his sword, and got it
again within his hand. Then he pressed the Red Knight harder than
ever, and at the last bore him to the earth, and unlacing his helm,
made ready to slay him; but the Red Knight cried aloud: "Mercy! I
yield." At first, remembering the evil deaths of the forty good
knights, Gareth was unwilling to spare him; but the Red Knight
besought him to have mercy, telling him how, against his will, he had
been bound by a vow to make war on Arthur's knights. So Sir Gareth
relented, and bade him set forth at once for Kink Kenadon and entreat
the king's pardon for his evil past. And this the Red Knight promised
to do.

Then amid much rejoicing, Sir Gareth was borne into the castle. There
his wounds were dressed by the Lady Liones, and there he rested until
he recovered his strength. And having won her love, when Gareth
returned to Arthur's court the Lady Liones rode with him, and they two
were wed with great pomp in the presence of the whole fellowship of
the Round Table; the king rejoicing much that his nephew had done so
valiantly. So Sir Gareth lived happily with Dame Liones, winning fame
and the love of all true knights. As for Linet, she came again to
Arthur's court and wedded Sir Gareth's younger brother, Sir Gaheris.




THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Many times had the Feast of Pentecost come round, and many were the
knights that Arthur had made since first he founded the Order of the
Round Table; yet no knight had appeared who dared claim the seat named
by Merlin the Siege Perilous. At last, one vigil of the great feast, a
lady came to Arthur's court at Camelot and asked Sir Launcelot to ride
with her into the forest hard by, for a purpose not then to be
revealed. Launcelot consenting, they rode together until they came to
a nunnery hidden deep in the forest; and there the lady bade Launcelot
dismount, and led him into a great and stately room. Presently there
entered twelve nuns, and with them a youth, the fairest that Launcelot
had ever seen. "Sir," said the nuns, "we have brought up this child
in our midst, and now that he is grown to manhood, we pray you make
him knight, for of none worthier could he receive the honor." "Is this
thy own desire?" asked Launcelot of the young squire; and when he said
that so it was, Launcelot promised to make him knight after the great
festival had been celebrated in the church next day.

So on the morrow, after they had worshipped, Launcelot knighted
Galahad--for that was the youth's name--and asked him if he would ride
at once with him to the king's court; but the young knight excusing
himself, Sir Launcelot rode back alone to Camelot, where all rejoiced
that he was returned in time to keep the feast with the whole Order of
the Round Table.

Now, according to his custom, King Arthur was waiting for some marvel
to befall before he and his knights sat down to the banquet. Presently
a squire entered the hall and said: "Sir king, a great wonder has
appeared. There floats on the river a mighty stone, as it were a block
of red marble, and it is thrust through by a sword, the hilt of which
is set thick with precious stones." On hearing this, the king and all
his knights went forth to view the stone and found it as the squire
had said; moreover, looking closer, they read these words: "None shall
draw me hence, but only he by whose side I must hang; and he shall be
the best knight in all the world." Immediately, all bade Launcelot
draw forth the sword, but he refused, saying that the sword was not
for him. Then, at the king's command, Sir Gawain made the attempt and
failed, as did Sir Percivale after him. So the knights knew the
adventure was not for them, and returning to the hall, took their
places about the Round Table.

No sooner were they seated than an aged man, clothed all in white,
entered the hall, followed by a young knight in red armor, by whose
side hung an empty scabbard. The old man approached King Arthur, and
bowing low before him, said: "Sir, I bring you a young knight of the
house and lineage of Joseph of Arimathea, and through him shall great
glory be won for all the land of Britain." Greatly did King Arthur
rejoice to hear this, and welcomed the two right royally. Then when
the young knight had saluted the king, the old man led him to the
Siege Perilous and drew off its silken cover; and all the knights were
amazed, for they saw that where had been engraved the words, "The
Siege Perilous," was written now in shining gold: "This is the siege
of the noble prince, Sir Galahad." Straightway the young man seated
himself there where none other had ever sat without danger to his
life; and all who saw it said, one to another: "Surely this is he that
shall achieve the Holy Grail." Now the Holy Grail was the blessed dish
from which Our Lord had eaten the Last Supper, and it had been brought
to the land of Britain by Joseph of Arimathea; but because of men's
sinfulness, it had been withdrawn from human sight, only that, from
time to time, it appeared to the pure in heart.

When all had partaken of the royal banquet, King Arthur bade Sir
Galahad come with him to the river's brink; and showing him the
floating stone with the sword thrust through it, told him how his
knights had failed to draw forth the sword. "Sir," said Galahad, "it
is no marvel that they failed, for the adventure was meant for me, as
my empty scabbard shows." So saying, lightly he drew the sword from
the heart of the stone, and lightly he slid it into the scabbard at
his side. While all yet wondered at this adventure of the sword,
there came riding to them a lady on a white palfrey who, saluting King
Arthur, said: "Sir king, Nacien the hermit sends thee word that this
day shall great honor be shown to thee and all thine house; for the
Holy Grail shall appear in thy hall, and thou and all thy fellowship
shall be fed therefrom." And to Launcelot she said: "Sir knight, thou
hast ever been the best knight of all the world; but another has come
to whom thou must yield precedence. "Then Launcelot answered humbly:
"I know well I was never the best." "Ay, of a truth thou wast and art
still, of sinful men," said she, and rode away before any could
question her further.

So, that evening, when all were gathered about the Round Table, each
knight in his own siege, suddenly there was heard a crash of thunder,
so mighty that the hall trembled, and there flashed into the hall a
sunbeam, brighter far than any that had ever before been seen; and
then, draped all in white samite, there glided through the air what
none might see, yet what all knew to be the Holy Grail. And all the
air was filled with sweet odors, and on every one was shed a light in
which he looked fairer and nobler than ever before. So they sat in an
amazed silence, till presently King Arthur rose and gave thanks to God
for the grace given to him and to his court. Then up sprang Sir Gawain
and made his avow to follow for a year and a day the Quest of the Holy
Grail, if perchance he might be granted the vision of it. Immediately
other of the knights followed his example, binding themselves to the
Quest of the Holy Grail until, in all, one hundred and fifty had vowed
themselves to the adventure.

Then was King Arthur grieved, for he foresaw the ruin of his noble
Order. And turning to Sir Gawain, he said: "Nephew, ye have done ill,
for through you I am bereft of the noblest company of knights that
ever brought honor to any realm in Christendom. Well I know that never
again shall all of you gather in this hall, and it grieves me to lose
men I have loved as my life and through whom I have won peace and
righteousness for all my realm."

So the king mourned and his knights with him, but their oaths they
could not recall.




HOW SIR GALAHAD WON THE RED CROSS SHIELD

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Great woe was there in Camelot next day when, after worship in the
cathedral, the knights who had vowed themselves to the Quest of the
Holy Grail got to horse and rode away. A goodly company it was that
passed through the streets, the townfolk weeping to see them go; Sir
Launcelot du Lac and his kin, Sir Galahad of whom all expected great
deeds, Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, and many another scarcely less
famed than they. So they rode together that day to the Castle of
Vagon, where they were entertained right hospitably, and the next day
they separated, each to ride his own way and see what adventures
should befall him.

So it came to pass that, after four days' ride, Sir Galahad reached an
abbey. Now Sir Galahad was still clothed in red armor as when he came
to the king's court, and by his side hung the wondrous sword; but he
was without a shield. They of the abbey received him right heartily,
as also did the brave King Bagdemagus, Knight of the Round Table, who
was resting there. When they had greeted each other, Sir Galahad asked
King Bagdemagus what adventure had brought him there. "Sir," said
Bagdemagus, "I was told that in this abbey was preserved a wondrous
shield which none but the best knight in the world might bear without
grievous harm to himself. And though I know well that there are better
knights than I, to-morrow I purpose to make the attempt. But, I pray
you, bide at this monastery awhile until you hear from me; and if I
fail, do ye take the adventure upon you." "So be it," said Sir
Galahad.

The next day, at their request, Sir Galahad and King Bagdemagus were
led into the church by a monk and shown where, behind the altar, hung
the wondrous shield, whiter than snow save for the blood-red cross in
its midst. Then the monk warned them of the danger to any who, being
unworthy, should dare to bear the shield. But King Bagdemagus made
answer: "I know well that I am not the best knight in the world, yet
will I try if I may bear it." So he hung it about his neck, and
bidding farewell, rode away with his squire.

The two had not journeyed far before they saw a knight approach, armed
all in white mail and mounted upon a white horse. Immediately he laid
his spear in rest and, charging King Bagdemagus, pierced him through
the shoulder and bore him from his horse; and standing over the
wounded knight, he said: "Knight, thou hast shown great folly, for
none shall bear this shield save the peerless knight, Sir Galahad."
Then, taking the shield, he gave it to the squire, and said: "Bear
this shield to the good Knight Galahad and greet him well from me."
"What is your name?" asked the squire. "That is not for thee or any
other to know." "One thing I pray you," said the squire; "why may this
shield be borne by none but Sir Galahad without danger?" "Because it
belongs to him only," answered the stranger knight, and vanished.

Then the squire took the shield and setting King Bagdemagus on his
horse, bore him back to the abbey where he lay long, sick unto death.
To Galahad the squire gave the shield and told him all that had
befallen. So Galahad hung the shield about his neck and rode the way
that Bagdemagus had gone the day before; and presently he met the
White Knight, whom he greeted courteously, begging that he would make
known to him the marvels of the red-cross shield. "That will I
gladly," answered the White Knight. "Ye must know, sir knight, that
this shield was made and given by Joseph of Arimathea to the good King
Evelake of Sarras, that, in the might of the holy symbol, he should
overthrow the heathen who threatened his kingdom. But afterward, King
Evelake followed Joseph to this land of Britain, where they taught the
true faith unto the people who before were heathen. Then when Joseph
lay dying, he bade King Evelake set the shield in the monastery where
ye lay last night, and foretold that none should wear it without loss
until that day when it should be taken by the knight, ninth and last
in descent from him, who should come to that place the fifteenth day
after receiving the degree of knighthood. Even so has it been with
you, sir knight." So saying, the unknown knight disappeared and Sir
Galahad rode on his way.




THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PERCIVALE

Retold by Beatrice Clay


After he had left his fellows, Sir Percivale rode long through the
forest until, one evening, he reached a monastery where he sought
shelter for the night. The next morning, he went into the chapel to
hear mass and there he espied the body of an old, old man, laid on a
richly adorned couch. At first it seemed as if the aged man were dead,
but presently, raising himself in his bed, he took off his crown and,
delivering it to the priest, bade him place it on the altar. So when
the service was concluded, Sir Percivale asked who the aged king might
be. Then he was told that it was none other than King Evelake who
accompanied Joseph of Arimathea to Britain. And on a certain occasion,
the king had approached the Holy Grail nigher than was reverent and,
for his impiety, God had punished him with blindness. Thereupon he
repented and, entreating God earnestly, had obtained his petition that
he should not die until he had seen the spotless knight who should be
descended from him in the ninth degree. (This his desire was fulfilled
later when Sir Galahad came thither; after which, he died and was
buried by the good knight.)

The next day, Sir Percivale continued his journey and presently met
with twenty knights who bore on a bier the body of a dead knight. When
they espied Sir Percivale, they demanded of him who he was and whence
he came. So he told them, whereupon they all shouted, "Slay him! slay
him!" and setting upon him all at once, they killed his horse and
would have slain him but that the good knight, Sir Galahad, passing
that way by chance, came to his rescue and put his assailants to
flight. Then Galahad rode away as fast as he might, for he would not
be thanked, and Sir Percivale was left, horseless and alone, in the
forest.

So Sir Percivale continued his journey on foot as well as he might;
and ever the way became lonelier, until at last he came to the shores
of a vast sea. There Sir Percivale abode many days, without food and
desolate, doubting whether he should ever escape thence. At last it
chanced that, looking out to sea, Sir Percivale descried a ship and,
as it drew nearer, he saw how it was all hung with satin and velvet.
Presently it reached the land and out of it there stepped a lady of
marvellous beauty, who asked him how he came there; "For know," said
she, "ye are like to die here by hunger or mischance." "He whom I
serve will protect me," said Sir Percivale. "I know well whom ye
desire most to see," said the lady. "Ye would meet with the Red Knight
who bears the red-cross shield." "Ah! lady, I pray you tell me where I
may find him," cried Sir Percivale. "With a good will," said the
damsel; "if ye will but promise me your service when I shall ask for
it, I will lead you to the knight, for I met him of late in the
forest." So Sir Percivale promised gladly to serve her when she should
need him. Then the lady asked him how long he had fasted. "For three
days," answered Sir Percivale. Immediately she gave orders to her
attendants forthwith to pitch a tent and set out a table with all
manner of delicacies, and of these she invited Sir Percivale to
partake, "I pray you, fair lady," said Sir Percivale, "who are ye that
show me such kindness?" "Truly," said the lady, "I am but a hapless
damsel, driven forth from my inheritance by a great lord whom I have
chanced to displease. I implore you, sir knight, by your vows of
knighthood, to give me your aid." Sir Percivale promised her all the
aid he could give, and then she bade him lie down and sleep, and
herself took off his helmet, and unclasped his sword-belt. So Sir
Percivale slept, and when he waked, there was another feast prepared,
and he was given the rarest and the strongest wines that ever he had
tasted. Thus they made merry, and, when the lady begged Percivale to
rest him there awhile, promising him all that ever he could desire if
he would vow himself to her service, almost he forgot the quest to
which he was vowed, and would have consented, but that his eye fell
upon his sword where it lay. Now in the sword-hilt there was set a red
cross and, seeing it, Percivale called to mind his vow, and, thinking
on it, he signed him with the cross on his forehead. Instantly, the
tent was overthrown and vanished in thick smoke; and she who had
appeared a lovely woman disappeared from his sight in semblance of a
fiend.

Then was Sir Percivale sore ashamed that almost he had yielded to the
temptings of the Evil One and earnestly he prayed that his sin might
be forgiven him. Thus he remained in prayer far into the night,
bewailing his weakness; and when the dawn appeared, a ship drew nigh
the land. Sir Percivale entered into it, but could find no one there;
so commending himself to God, he determined to remain thereon, and was
borne over the seas for many days, he knew not whither.




THE ADVENTURES OF SIR BORS

Retold by Beatrice Clay


Among the knights vowed to the Quest of the Holy Grail was Sir Bors,
one of the kin of Sir Launcelot, a brave knight and pious. He rode
through the forest many a day, making his lodging most often under a
leafy tree, though once on his journey he stayed at a castle, that he
might do battle for its lady against a felon knight who would have
robbed and oppressed her.

So, on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Bors came to the
parting of two ways. While he was considering which he should follow,
he espied two knights driving before them a horse on which was
stretched, bound and naked, none other than Sir Bors' own brother, Sir
Lionel; and, from time to time, the two false knights beat him with
thorns so that his body was all smeared with blood, but, so great was
his heart, Sir Lionel uttered never a word. Then, in great wrath, Sir
Bors laid his lance in rest and would have fought the felon knights to
rescue his brother, but that, even as he spurred his horse, there came
a bitter cry from the other path and, looking round, he saw a lady
being dragged by a knight into the darkest part of the forest where
none might find and rescue her. When she saw Sir Bors, she cried to
him: "Help me! sir knight, help me! I beseech you by your knighthood."
Then Sir Bors was much troubled, for he would not desert his brother;
but bethinking him that ever a woman must be more helpless than a man,
he wheeled his horse, rode upon her captor, and beat him to the
earth. The damsel thanked him earnestly and told him how the knight
was her own cousin, who had that day carried her off by craft from her
father's castle. As they talked, there came up twelve knights who had
been seeking the lady everywhere; so to their care Sir Bors delivered
her, and rode with haste in the direction whither his brother had been
borne. On the way, he met with an old man, dressed as a priest, who
asked him what he sought. When Sir Bors had told him, "Ah! Bors," said
he, "I can give you tidings indeed. Your brother is dead;" and
parting the bushes, he showed him the body of a dead man, to all
seeming Sir Lionel's self. Then Sir Bors grieved sorely, misdoubting
almost whether he should not rather have rescued his own brother; and
at the last, he dug a grave and buried the dead man; then he rode
sorrowfully on his way.

When he had ridden many days, he met with a yeoman whom he asked if
there were any adventures in those parts. "Sir," said the man, "at the
castle, hard by, they hold a great tournament." Sir Bors thanked him
and rode along the way pointed out to him; and presently, as he passed
a hermitage, whom should he see sitting at its door but his brother,
Sir Lionel, whom he had believed dead.

Then in great joy, he leaped from his horse, and running to Lionel,
cried: "Fair brother, how came ye hither?" "Through no aid of yours,"
said Sir Lionel angrily; "for ye left me bound and beaten, to ride to
the rescue of a maiden. Never was brother so dealt with by brother
before. Keep you from me as ye may!" When Sir Bors understood that his
brother would slay him, he knelt before him entreating his pardon. Sir
Lionel took no heed, but mounting his horse and taking his lance,
cried: "Keep you from me, traitor! Fight, or die!" And Sir Bors moved
not; for to him it seemed a sin most horrible that brother should
fight with brother. Then Sir Lionel, in his rage, rode his horse at
him, bore him to the ground and trampled him under the horse's hoofs,
till Bors lay beaten to the earth in a swoon. Even so, Sir Lionel's
anger was not stayed; for, alighting, he drew his sword and would have
smitten off his brother's head, but that the holy hermit, hearing the
noise of conflict, ran out of the hermitage and threw himself upon Sir
Bors. "Gentle knight," he cried, "have mercy upon him and on thyself;
for of the sin of slaying thy brother, thou couldst never be quit."
"Sir priest," said Lionel, "if ye leave him not, I shall slay you
too." "It were a lesser sin than to slay thy brother," answered the
hermit. "So be it," cried Lionel, and with one blow struck off the
hermit's head. Then he would have worked his evil will upon his
brother too, but that, even as he was unlacing Sir Bors' helm to cut
off his head, there rode up the good knight Sir Colgrevance, a fellow
of the Round Table. When he saw the dead hermit and was aware how
Lionel sought the life of Bors, he was amazed, and springing from his
horse, ran to Lionel and dragged him back from his brother. "Do ye
think to hinder me?" said Sir Lionel. "Let come who will, I will have
his life." "Ye shall have to do with me first," cried Colgrevance.
Therewith, they took their swords, and, setting their shields before
them, rushed upon each other. Now Sir Colgrevance was a good knight,
but Sir Lionel was strong and his anger added to his strength. So long
they fought that Sir Bors had time to recover from his swoon, and
raising himself with pain on his elbow, saw how the two fought for his
life; and as it seemed, Sir Lionel would prevail, for Sir Colgrevance
grew weak and weary. Sir Bors tried to get to his feet, but so weak he
was, he could not stand; and Sir Colgrevance, seeing him stir, called
on him to come to his aid, for he was in mortal peril for his
sake. But even as he called, Sir Lionel cut him to the ground, and, as
one possessed, rushed upon his brother to slay him. Sir Bors entreated
him for mercy, and when he would not, sorrowfully he took his sword,
saying: "Now, God forgive me, though I defend my life against my
brother."

Immediately there was heard a voice saying, "Flee, Bors, and touch not
thy brother;" and at the same time, a fiery cloud burned between them,
so that their shields glowed with the flame, and both knights fell to
the earth. But the voice came again, saying, "Bors, leave thy brother
and take thy way to the sea. There thou shalt meet Sir Percivale."
Then Sir Bors made ready to obey, and, turning to Lionel, said: "Dear
brother, I pray you forgive me for aught in which I have wronged you."
"I forgive you," said Sir Lionel, for he was too amazed terrified to
keep his anger.

So Sir Bors continued his journey, and at the last, coming to the
sea-shore, he espied a ship draped all with white samite, and entering
thereon, he saw Sir Percivale, and much they rejoiced them in each
other's company.




THE ADVENTURES OF SIR LAUNCELOT

Retold by Beatrice Clay


After Sir Launcelot had parted from his fellows at the Castle of
Vagon, he rode many days through the forest without adventure, till he
chanced upon a knight close by a little hermitage in the wood.
Immediately, as was the wont of errant knights, they prepared to
joust, and Launcelot, whom none before had overthrown, was borne down,
man and horse, by the stranger knight. Thereupon a nun, who dwelt in
the hermitage, cried: "God be with thee, best knight in all this
world," for she knew the victor for Sir Galahad. But Galahad, not
wishing to be known, rode swiftly away; and presently Sir Launcelot
got to horse again and rode slowly on his way, shamed and doubting
sorely in his heart whether this quest was meant for him.

When night fell, he came to a great stone cross which stood at the
parting of the way and close by a little ruined chapel. So Sir
Launcelot, being minded to pass the night there, alighted, fastened
his horse to a tree and hung his shield on a bough. Then he drew near
to the little chapel, and wondered to see how, all ruinous though it
was, yet within was an altar hung with silk and a great silver
candlestick on it; but when he sought entrance, he could find none
and, much troubled in his mind, he returned to his horse where he had
left it, and unlacing his helm and ungirding his sword, laid him down
to rest.

Then it seemed to Sir Launcelot that, as he lay between sleeping and
waking, there passed him two white palfreys bearing a litter wherein
was a sick knight, who cried: "Sweet Lord, when shall I be pardoned
all my transgressions, and when shall the holy vessel come to me, to
cure me of my sickness?" And instantly it seemed that the great
candlestick came forth of itself from the chapel, floating through the
air before a table of silver on which was the Holy Grail. Thereupon,
the sick knight raised himself, and on his bended knees he approached
so nigh that he kissed the holy vessel; and immediately he cried: "I
thank Thee, sweet Lord, that I am healed of my sickness." And all the
while Sir Launcelot, who saw this wonder, felt himself held that he
could not move. Then a squire brought the stranger knight his weapons,
in much joy that his lord was cured. "Who think ye that this knight
may be who remains sleeping when the holy vessel is so near?" said the
knight. "In truth," said the squire, "he must be one that is held by
the bond of some great sin. I will take his helm and his sword, for
here have I brought you all your armor save only these two." So the
knight armed him from head to foot, and taking Sir Launcelot's horse,
rode away with his squire. On the instant, Sir Launcelot awoke amazed,
not knowing whether he had dreamed or not; but while he wondered,
there came a terrible voice, saying: "Launcelot, arise and leave this
holy place." In shame, Sir Launcelot turned to obey, only to find
horse and sword and shield alike vanished. Then, indeed, he knew
himself dishonored. Weeping bitterly, he made the best of his way on
foot, until he came to a cell where a hermit was saying prayer. Sir
Launcelot knelt too, and, when all was ended, called to the hermit,
entreating him for counsel. "With good will," said the hermit. So Sir
Launcelot made himself known and told the hermit all, lamenting how
his good fortune was turned to wretchedness and his glory to shame;
and truly, the hermit was amazed that Sir Launcelot should be in such
case. "Sir," said he, "God has given you manhood and strength beyond
all other knights; and more are ye bounden to his service." "I have
sinned," said Sir Launcelot; "for in all these years of my knighthood,
I have done everything for the honor and glory of my lady and naught
for my Maker; and little thank have I given to God for all his
benefits to me." Then the holy man gave Sir Launcelot good counsel and
made him rest there that night; and the next day he gave him a horse,
a sword and a helmet, and bade him go forth and bear himself knightly
as the servant of God.




HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SAW THE HOLY GRAIL

Retold by Beatrice Clay


For many days after he bad left the hermitage, Sir Launcelot rode
through the forest, but there came to him no such adventures as had
befallen him on other quests to the increase of his fame. At last, one
night-tide, he came to the shores of a great water and there he lay
down to sleep; but as he slept, a voice called on him: "Launcelot,
arise, put on thine armor and go on thy way until thou comest to a
ship. Into that thou shalt enter." Immediately, Sir Launcelot started
from his sleep to obey, and, riding along the shore, came presently to
a ship beached on the strand; no sooner had he entered it, than the
ship was launched--how, he might not know. So the ship sailed before
the wind for many a day. No mortal was on it, save only Sir Launcelot,
yet were all his needs supplied. Then, at last, the ship ran ashore
at the foot of a great castle; and it was midnight. Sir Launcelot
waited not for the dawn, but, his sword gripped in his hand, sprang
ashore, and then right before him, he saw a postern where the gate
stood open indeed, but two grisly lions kept the way. And when Sir
Launcelot would have rushed upon the great beasts with his sword, it
was struck from his hands, and a voice said: "Ah! Launcelot, ever is
thy trust in thy might rather than thy Maker!" Sore ashamed, Sir
Launcelot took his sword and thrust it back into the sheath, and going
forward, he passed unhurt through the gateway, the lions that kept it
falling back from his path. So without more adventure, Launcelot
entered into the castle; and there he saw how every door stood open,
save only one, and that was fast barred, nor, with all his force,
might he open it. Presently from the chamber within came the sound of
a sweet voice in a holy chant, and then in his heart Launcelot knew
that he was come to the Holy Grail. So, kneeling humbly, he prayed
that to him might be shown some vision of that he sought. Forthwith
the door flew open and from the chamber blazed a light such as he had
never known before; but when he made to enter, a voice cried:
"Launcelot, forbear," and sorrowfully he withdrew. Then where he
knelt, far even from the threshold of the wondrous room, he saw a
silver table and, on it, covered with red samite, the Holy Grail. At
sight of that which he had sought so long, his joy became so great
that, unmindful of the warning, he advanced into the room and drew
nigh even to the table itself. Then on the instant there burst between
him and it a blaze of light, and he fell to the ground. There he lay,
nor might he move nor utter any sound; only he was aware of hands busy
about him which bore him away from the chamber.

For four-and-twenty days Sir Launcelot lay as in a trance. At the end
of that time he came to himself, and found those about him that had
tended him in his swoon. These, when they had given him fresh raiment,
brought him to the aged king--Pelles was his name--that owned that
castle. The king entertained him right royally, for he knew of the
fame of Sir Launcelot; and long he talked with him of his quest and of
the other knights who followed it, for he was of a great age and knew
much of men. At the end of four days he spoke to Sir Launcelot,
bidding him return to Arthur's court: "For," said he, "your quest is
ended here, and all that ye shall see of the Holy Grail ye have seen."
So Launcelot rode on his way, grieving for the sin that hindered him
from the perfect vision of the Holy Grail, but thanking God for that
which he had seen. So in time he came to Camelot, and told to Arthur
all that had befallen him.




THE END OF THE QUEST

Retold by Beatrice Clay


After he had rescued Sir Percivale from the twenty knights who beset
him, Sir Galahad rode on his way till nightfall, when he sought
shelter at a little hermitage. Thither there came in the night a
damsel who desired to speak with Sir Galahad; so he arose and went to
her. "Galahad," said she, "arm you and mount your horse and follow me,
for I am come to guide you in your quest." So they rode together until
they had come to the seashore, and there the damsel showed Galahad a
great ship into which he must enter. Then she bade him farewell, and
he, going on to the ship, found there already the good knights Sir
Bors and Sir Percivale, who made much joy of the meeting. They abode
in that ship until they had come to the castle of King Pelles, who
welcomed them right gladly. Then, as they all sat at supper that
night, suddenly the hall was filled with a great light, and the holy
vessel appeared in their midst, covered all in white samite. While
they all rejoiced, there came a voice, saying: "My knights whom I have
chosen, ye have seen the holy vessel dimly. Continue your journey to
the city of Sarras and there the perfect Vision shall be yours."

Now in the city of Sarras had dwelt long time Joseph of Arimathea,
teaching its people the true faith, before ever he came into the land
of Britain; but when Sir Galahad and his fellows came there after long
voyage, they found it ruled by a heathen king named Estorause, who
cast them into a deep dungeon. There they were kept a year, but at the
end of that time, the tyrant died. Then the great men of the land
gathered together to consider who should be their king; and, while
they were in council, came a voice bidding them take as their king the
youngest of the three knights whom Estorause had thrown into prison.

So in fear and wonder they hastened to the prison, and, releasing the
three knights, made Galahad king as the voice had bidden them.

[Illustration: THERE CAME AN ARM AND A HAND ABOVE THE WATER. From
the painting by Walter Crane.]

Thus Sir Galahad became king of the famous city of Sarras, in far
Babylon. He had reigned a year when, one morning early, he and the
other two knights, his fellows, went into the chapel, and there they
saw, kneeling in prayer, an aged man, robed as a bishop and round him
hovered many angels. The knights fell on their knees in awe and
reverence, whereupon he that seemed a bishop turned to them and said:
"I am Joseph of Arimathea, and I am come to show you the perfect
Vision of the Holy Grail." On the instant there appeared before them,
without veil or cover, the holy vessel, in a radiance of light such as
almost blinded them. Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, when at length they
were recovered from the brightness of that glory, looked up to find
that the holy Joseph and the wondrous vessel had passed from their
sight. Then they Went to Sir Galahad where he still knelt as in
prayer, and behold, he was dead; for it had been with him even as he
had prayed; in the moment when he had seen the vision, his soul had
gone back to God.

So the two knights buried him in that far city, themselves mourning
and all the people with them. And immediately after, Sir Percivale
put off his arms and took the habit of a monk, living a devout and
holy life until, a year and two months later, he also died and was
buried near Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bors armed him, and bidding
farewell to the city, sailed away until, after many weeks, he came
again to the land of Britain. There he took horse, and stayed not till
he had come to Camelot. Great was the rejoicing of Arthur and all his
knights when Sir Bors was once more among them. When he had told all
the adventures which had befallen him and the good knights, his
companions, all who heard were filled with amaze. But the king, he
caused the wisest clerks in the land to write in great books this
Quest of the Holy Grail, that the fame of it should endure unto all
time.




THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT

Retold by Beatrice Clay


At last, the Quest of the Holy Grail was ended, and by ones and twos
the knights came back to Camelot, though many who had set out so
boldly were never seen again about the Round Table.

Great was the joy of King Arthur when Sir Launcelot and Sir Bors
returned, for, so long had they been away, that almost he had feared
that they had perished. In their honor there was high festival for
many days in London, where Arthur then had his court; and the king
made proclamation of a great tournament that he would hold at Camelot,
when he and the King of Nortgalis would keep the lists against all
comers.

So, one fair morning of spring, King Arthur made ready to ride to
Camelot and all his knights with him, save Launcelot who excused
himself, saying that an old wound hindered him from riding. But when
the king, sore vexed, had departed, the queen rebuked Sir Launcelot,
and bade him go and prove his great prowess as of old. "Madam," said
Sir Launcelot, "in this, as in all else, I obey you; at your bidding I
go, but know that in this tournament I shall adventure me in other
wise than ever before."

The next day, at dawn, Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and, riding
forth unattended, journeyed all that day till, as evening fell, he
reached the little town of Astolat, and there, at the castle, sought
lodgment for that night. The old Lord of Astolat was glad at his
coming, judging him at once to be a noble knight, though he knew him
not, for it was Sir Launcelot's will to remain unknown.

So they went to supper, Sir Launcelot and the old lord, his son, Sir
Lavaine, and his daughter Elaine, whom they of the place called the
Fair Maid of Astolat. As they sat at meat, the baron asked Sir
Launcelot if he rode to the tournament. "Yea," answered Launcelot;
"and right glad should I be if, of your courtesy, ye would lend me a
shield without device." "Right willingly," said his host; "ye shall
have my son Sir Tirre's shield. He was but lately made knight and was
hurt in his first encounter, so his shield is bare enough. If ye will
take with you my young son, Sir Lavaine, he will be glad to ride in
the company of so noble a knight and will do you such service as he
may." "I shall be glad indeed of his fellowship," answered Sir
Launcelot courteously.

Now it seemed to the fair Elaine that never had she beheld so noble a
knight as this stranger; and seeing that he was as gentle and
courteous as he was strong, she said to him: "Fair knight, will ye
wear my favor at this tournament? For never have I found knight yet to
wear my crimson sleeve, and sure am I that none other could ever win
it such honor." "Maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "right gladly would I
serve you in aught; but it has never been my custom to wear lady's
favor." "Then shall it serve the better for disguise," answered
Elaine. Sir Launcelot pondered her words, and at last he said; "Fair
maiden, I will do for you what I have done for none, and will wear
your favor." So with great glee, she brought it him, a crimson velvet
sleeve embroidered with great pearls, and fastened it in his
helmet. Then Sir Launcelot begged her to keep for him his own shield
until after the tournament, when he would come for it again and tell
them his name.

The next morn Sir Launcelot took his departure with Sir Lavaine and,
by evening, they were come to Camelot. Forthwith Sir Lavaine led Sir
Launcelot to the house of a worthy burgher, where he might stay in
privacy, undiscovered by those of his acquaintance. Then, when at dawn
the trumpets blew, they mounted their horses and rode to a little wood
hard by the lists, and there they abode some while; for Sir Launcelot
would take no part until he had seen which side was the stronger. So
they saw how King Arthur sat high on a throne to overlook the combat,
while the King of Northgalis and all the fellowship of the Round Table
held the lists against their opponents led by King Anguish of Ireland
and the King of Scots.

Then it soon appeared that the two kings with all their company could
do but little against the Knights of the Round Table, and were sore
pressed to maintain their ground. Seeing this, Sir Launcelot said to
Sir Lavaine: "Sir knight, will ye give me your aid if I go to the
rescue of the weaker side? For it seems to me they may not much longer
hold their own unaided." "Sir," answered Lavaine, "I will gladly
follow you and do what I may." So the two laid their lances in rest
and charged into the thickest of the fight and, with one spear, Sir
Launcelot bore four knights from the saddle. Lavaine, too, did nobly,
for he unhorsed the bold Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan the Butler. Then
with their swords they smote lustily on the left hand and on the
right, and those whom they had come to aid rallying to them, they
drove the Knights of the Round Table back a space. So the fight raged
furiously, Launcelot ever being in the thickest of the press and
performing such deeds of valor, that all marvelled to see him, and
would fain know who was the Knight of the Crimson Sleeve. But the
knights of Arthur's court felt shame of their discomfiture, and, in
especial, those of Launcelot's kin were wroth that one should appear
who seemed mightier even than Launcelot's self. So they called to each
other and, making a rally, directed all their force against the
stranger knight who had so turned the fortunes of the day. With lances
in rest, Sir Lionel, Sir Bors, and Sir Ector, bore down together upon
Sir Launcelot, and Sir Bors' spear pierced Sir Launcelot and brought
him to the earth, leaving the spear head broken off in his side. This
Sir Lavaine saw, and immediately, with all his might, he rode upon the
King of Scots, unhorsed him and took his horse to Sir Launcelot. Now
Sir Launcelot felt as he had got his death-wound, but such was his
spirit that he was resolved to do some great deed while yet his
strength remained. So, with Lavaine's aid, he got upon the horse, took
a spear and laying it in rest, bore down, one after the other, Sir
Bors, Sir Lionel, and Sir Ector. Next he flung himself into the
thickest of the fight, and before the trumpets sounded the signal to
cease, he had unhorsed thirty good knights. Then the Kings of Scotland
and Ireland came to Sir Launcelot and said: "Sir knight, we thank you
for the service done us this day. And now, we pray you, come with us
to receive the prize which is rightly yours; for never have we seen
such deeds as ye have done this day." "My fair lords," answered Sir
Launcelot, "for aught that I have accomplished, I am like to pay
dearly; I beseech you, suffer me to depart." With these words, he rode
away full gallop, followed by Sir Lavaine; and when he had come to a
little wood, he called Lavaine to him, saying: "Gentle knight, I
entreat you, draw forth this spear head, for it nigh slayeth me." "Oh!
my dear lord," said Lavaine, "I fear sore to draw it forth lest ye
die." "If ye love me, draw it out," answered Launcelot. So Lavaine did
as he was bidden, and, with a deathly groan, Sir Launcelot fell in a
swoon to the ground. When he was a little recovered, he begged Lavaine
to help him to his horse and lead him to a hermitage hard by where
dwelt a hermit who, in bygone days, had been known to Launcelot for a
good knight and true. So with pain and difficulty they journeyed to
the hermitage, Lavaine oft fearing that Sir Launcelot would die. And
when the hermit saw Sir Launcelot, all pale and besmeared with blood,
he scarce knew him for the bold Sir Launcelot du Lac; but he bore him
within and dressed his wounds and bade him be of good cheer, for he
should recover. So there Sir Launcelot abode many weeks and Sir
Lavaine with him; for Lavaine would not leave him, such love had he
for the good knight he had taken for his lord.

Now when it was known that the victorious knight had departed from the
field sore wounded, Sir Gawain vowed to go in search of him. So it
chanced that, in his wanderings, he came to Astolat, and there he had
a hearty welcome of the Lord of Astolat, who asked him for news of the
tournament. Then Sir Gawain related how two stranger knights, bearing
white shields, had won great glory, and in especial one, who wore in
his helm a crimson sleeve, had surpassed all others in knightly
prowess. At these words, the fair Elaine cried aloud with delight.
"Maiden," said Gawain, "know ye this knight?" "Not his name," she
replied; "but full sure was I that he was a noble knight when I prayed
him to wear my favor." Then she showed Gawain the shield which she had
kept wrapped in rich broideries, and immediately Sir Gawain knew it
for Launcelot's. "Alas!" cried he, "without doubt it was Launcelot
himself that we wounded to the death. Sir Bors will never recover the
woe of it."

Then, on the morrow, Sir Gawain rode to London to tell the court how
the stranger knight and Launcelot were one; but the Fair Maid of
Astolat rose betimes, and having obtained leave of her father, set out
to search for Sir Launcelot and her brother Lavaine. After many
journeyings, she came, one day, upon Lavaine exercising his horse in a
field, and by him she was taken to Sir Launcelot. Then, indeed, her
heart was filled with grief when she saw the good knight to whom she
had given her crimson sleeve thus laid low; so she abode in the
hermitage, waiting upon Sir Launcelot and doing all within her power
to lessen his pain.

After many weeks, by the good care of the hermit and the fair Elaine,
Sir Launcelot was so far recovered that he might bear the weight of
his armor and mount his horse again. Then, one morn, they left the
hermitage and rode all three, the Fair Maid, Sir Launcelot, and Sir
Lavaine, to the castle of Astolat, where there was much joy of their
coming. After brief sojourn, Sir Launcelot desired to ride to court,
for he knew there would be much sorrow among his kinsmen for his long
absence. But when he would take his departure, Elaine cried aloud:
"Ah! my lord, suffer me to go with you, for I may not bear to lose
you." "Fair child," answered Sir Launcelot gently, "that may not be.
But in the days to come, when ye shall love and wed some good knight,
for your sake I will bestow upon him broad lands and great riches; and
at all times will I hold me ready to serve you as a true knight may."
Thus spoke Sir Launcelot, but the fair Elaine answered never a word.

So Sir Launcelot rode to London where the whole court was glad of his
coming; but from the day of his departure, the Fair Maid drooped and
pined until, when ten days were passed, she felt that her end was at
hand. So she sent for her father and two brothers, to whom she said
gently: "Dear father and brethren, I must now leave you." Bitterly
they wept, but she comforted them all she might, and presently desired
of her father a boon. "Ye shall have what ye will," said the old
lord; for he hoped that she might yet recover. Then first she required
her brother, Sir Tirre, to write a letter, word for word as she said
it; and when it was written, she turned to her father and said: "Kind
father, I desire that, when I am dead, I may be arrayed in my fairest
raiment, and placed on a bier; and let the bier be set within a barge,
with one to steer it until I be come to London, Then, perchance, Sir
Launcelot will come and look upon me with kindness." So she died, and
all was done as she desired; for they set her, looking as fair as a
lily, in a barge all hung with black, and an old dumb man went with
her as helmsman.

Slowly the barge floated down the river until it had come to
Westminster; and as it passed under the palace walls, it chanced that
King Arthur and Queen Guenevere looked forth from a window. Marvelling
much at the strange sight, together they went forth to the quay,
followed by many of the knights. Then the king espied the letter
clasped in the dead maiden's hand, and drew it forth gently and broke
the seal. And thus the letter ran: "Most noble knight, Sir Launcelot,
I, that men called the Fair Maid of Astolat, am come hither to crave
burial at thy hands for the sake of the unrequited love I gave thee.
As thou art peerless knight, pray for my soul."

Then the king bade fetch Sir Launcelot, and when he was come, he
showed him the letter. And Sir Launcelot, gazing on the dead maiden,
was filled with sorrow. "My lord Arthur," he said, "for the death of
this dear child I shall grieve my life long. Gentle she was and
loving, and much was I beholden to her; but what she desired I could
not give." "Yet her request now thou wilt grant, I know," said the
king, "for ever thou art kind and courteous to all." "It is my
desire," answered Sir Launcelot.

So the Maid of Astolat was buried in the presence of the king and
queen and of the fellowship of the Round Table, and of many a gentle
lady who wept, that time, the fair child's fate. Over her grave was
raised a tomb of white marble, and on it was sculptured the shield of
Sir Launcelot; for, when he had heard her whole story, it was the
king's will that she that in life had guarded the shield of his
noblest knight, should keep it also in death.




THE MABINOGION


Mabinogion means Tales, and it is the name given to the collection of
popular tales belonging to the people of Wales. The Welsh is a very
old language, one of the oldest in Europe, with poems dating from the
sixth century. It is so much a spoken language, and so little a
printed language, that it was only in recent years that the tales were
translated into English by Lady Charlotte Guest. The following stories
have been retold from her text.




KYNON'S ADVENTURE AT THE FOUNTAIN

By Lady Charlotte Guest


King Arthur was at Caerleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his
chamber, and with him were Owain, the son of Urien, and Kynon the son
of Clydno, and Kay the son of Kyner, and Guenevere and her handmaidens
at needlework by the window. In the centre of the chamber King Arthur
sat, upon a seat of green rushes, over which was spread a covering of
flame-covered satin, and a cushion of red satin was under his elbow.

Then Arthur spoke. "If I thought you would not disparage me," said he,
"I would sleep while I wait for my repast; and you can entertain one
another with relating tales, and can obtain a flagon of mead and some
meat from Kay." And the king went to sleep. And Kynon the son of
Clydno asked Kay for that which Arthur had promised them. "I too will
have the good tale which he promised me," said Kay. "Nay," answered
Kynon; "fairer will it be for thee to fulfil Arthur's behest in the
first place, and then we will tell thee the best tale that we know."
So Kay went to the kitchen and to the mead-cellar, and returned,
bearing a flagon of mead, and a golden goblet, and a handful of
skewers, upon which were broiled slices of meat. They ate the collops,
and began to drink the mead. "Now," said Kay, "it is time for you to
give me my story." "Kynon," said Owain, "do thou pay to Kay the tale
that is his due." "I will do so," answered Kynon.

"I was the only son of my mother and father, and I was exceedingly
aspiring, and my daring was very great. I thought there was no
enterprise in the world too mighty for me: and after I had achieved
all the adventures that were in my own country I equipped myself, and
set forth to journey through deserts and distant regions. And at
length it chanced that I came to the fairest valley in the world,
wherein were trees all of equal growth; and a river ran through the
valley, and a path was by the side of the river. I followed the path
until midday, and continued my journey along the remainder of the
valley until the evening; and at the extremity of the plain I came to
a large and lustrous castle, at the foot of which was a torrent. I
approached the castle, and there I beheld two youths with yellow
curling hair, each with a frontlet of gold upon his head, and clad in
a garment of yellow satin; and they had gold clasps upon their
insteps. In the hand of each of them was an ivory bow, strung with the
sinews of the stag, and their arrows and their shafts were of the bone
of the whale, and were winged with peacock's feathers. The shafts also
had golden heads. They had daggers with blades of gold, with hilts of
the bone of the whale, and they were shooting at a mark.

"A little away from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his
beard newly shorn, clad in a robe and mantle of yellow satin, and
round the top of his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were
shoes of variegated leather, fastened by two bosses of gold. When I
saw him I went towards him and saluted him; and such was his courtesy,
that he no sooner received my greeting than he returned it. And he
went with me towards the castle. Now there were no dwellers in the
castle, except those who were in one hall. There I saw four and twenty
damsels, embroidering satin at a window. And this I tell thee, Kay,
that the least fair of them was fairer than the fairest maid thou
didst ever behold in the island of Britain; and the least lovely of
them was more lovely than Guenevere, the wife of Arthur, when she
appeared loveliest, at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming,
and six of them took my horse, and divested me of my armor, and six
others took my arms and washed them in a vessel till they were
perfectly bright. And the third six spread cloths upon the tables, and
prepared meat. And the fourth six took off my soiled garments, and
placed others upon me, namely, an under vest and a doublet of fine
linen, and a robe and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, with a
broad gold band upon the mantle. And they placed cushions both beneath
and around me, with coverings of red linen. And I sat down. Now the
six maidens who had taken my horse unharnessed him as well as if they
had been the best squires in the island of Britain.

"Then behold they brought bowls of silver, wherein was water to wash,
and towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a
little while the man sat down at the table. I sat next to him, and
below me sat all the maidens, except those who waited on us. The table
was of silver, and the cloths upon the table were of linen. No vessel
was served upon the table that was not either of gold or of silver or
of buffalo horn, and our meat was brought to us. And verily, Kay, I
saw there every sort of meat and every sort of liquor that I ever saw
elsewhere; but the meat and the liquor were better served there than I
ever saw them in any other place.

"Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the
damsels spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it
would be more agreeable for me to converse than to eat any more, he
began to inquire of me who I was. I told the man who I was, and what
was the cause of my journey, and said that I was seeking whether any
one was superior to me, or whether I could gain mastery over all. The
man looked upon me, and smiled and said, 'If I did not fear to do thee
a mischief, I would show thee that which thou seekest.' Then I
desired him to speak freely. And he said: 'Sleep here to-night, and in
the morning arise early, take the road upwards through the valley,
until thou reachest the wood. A little way within the wood thou wilt
come to a large sheltered glade, with a mound in the centre, and thou
wilt see a black man of great stature on the top of the mound. He has
but one foot, and one eye in the middle of his forehead. He is the
wood-ward of that wood. Thou wilt see a thousand wild animals grazing
around him. Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will reply
to thee briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find
that which thou art in quest of.'

"Long seemed that night to me. The next morning I arose and equipped
myself, mounted my horse, and proceeded straight through the valley to
the wood, and at length I arrived at the glade. The black man was
there, sitting upon the top of the mound; and I was three times more
astonished at the number of wild animals that I beheld than the man
had said I should be. I inquired of him the way, and he asked me
roughly whither I would go. When I had told him who I was and what I
sought, 'Take,' said he, 'that path that leads toward the head of the
glade, and there thou wilt find an open space like to a large valley,
and in the midst of it a tall tree. Under this tree is a fountain, and
by the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the marble slab a
silver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, that it may not be carried
away. Take the bowl and throw a bowlful of water on the slab. If thou
dost not find trouble in that adventure, thou needest not seek it
during the rest of thy life'

"So I journeyed on until I reached the summit of the steep. And there
I found everything as the black man had described it to me. I went up
to the tree, and beneath it I saw the fountain, and by its side the
marble slab, and the silver bowl fastened by the chain. Then I took
the bowl, and cast a bowlful of water upon the slab. Immediately I
heard a mighty peal of thunder, so that heaven and earth seemed to
tremble with its fury. And after the thunder came a shower; and of a
truth I tell thee, Kay, that it was such a shower as neither man nor
beast could endure and live. I turned my horse's flank toward the
shower, and placed the point of my shield over his head and neck,
while I held the upper part of it over my own neck. And thus I
withstood the shower. Presently the sky became clear, and with that,
behold, the birds lighted upon the tree, and sang. Truly, Kay, I never
heard any melody equal to that, either before or since. And when I was
most charmed with listening to the birds, lo! a chiding voice was
heard of one approaching me, and saying: 'O knight, what has brought
thee hither? What evil have I done to thee, that thou shouldst act
toward me and my possessions as thou hast this day? Dost thou not know
that the shower to-day has left in my dominions neither man nor beast
alive that was exposed to it?' And thereupon, behold, a knight on a
black horse appeared, clothed in jet-black velvet, and with a tabard
of black linen about him. We charged each other, and as the onset was
furious, it was not long before I was overthrown. Then the knight
passed the shaft of his lance through the bridle-rein of my horse, and
rode off with the two horses, leaving me where I was. He did not even
bestow so much notice upon me as to imprison me, nor did he despoil me
of my arms. So I returned along the road by which I had come. And
when I reached the glade where the black man was, I confess to thee,
Kay, it is a marvel that I did not melt down into a liquid pool,
through the shame that I felt at the black man's derision. That night
I came to the same castle where I had spent the night preceding, and I
was more agreeably entertained that night than I had been the night
before. I conversed freely with the inmates of the castle, and none of
them alluded to my expedition to the fountain, neither did I mention
it to any. And I remained there that night. When I arose on the
morrow I found ready saddled a dark bay palfrey, with nostrils as red
as scarlet. After putting on my armor, and leaving there my blessing,
I returned to my own court. That horse I still possess, and he is in
the stable yonder. And I declare that I would not part with him for
the best palfrey in the island of Britain.

"Now, of a truth, Kay, no man ever before confessed to an adventure so
much to his own discredit; and verily it seems strange to me that
neither before nor since have I heard of any person who knew of this
adventure, and that the subject of it should exist within King
Arthur's dominions without any other person lighting upon it."




OWAIN'S ADVENTURE AT THE FOUNTAIN

By Lady Charlotte Guest


"Now," quoth Owain, "would it not be well to go and endeavor to
discover that place?" "By the hand of my friend," said Kay, "often
dost thou utter that with thy tongue which thou wouldest not make good
with thy deeds."

"In very truth," said Guenevere, "it were better thou wert hanged,
Kay, than to use such uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain."

"By the hand of my friend, good lady," said Kay, "thy praise of Owain
is not greater than mine."

With that Arthur awoke, and asked if he had not been sleeping a
little.

"Yes, lord," answered Owain, "thou hast slept awhile."

"Is it time for us to go to meat?"

"It is, lord," said Owain.

Then the horn for washing was sounded, and the king and all his
household sat down to eat. When the meal was ended Owain withdrew to
his lodging, and made ready his horse and his arms.

On the morrow with the dawn of day he put on his armor, mounted his
charger, and travelled through distant lands, and over desert
mountains. At length he arrived at the valley which Kynon had
described to him, and he was certain that it was the same that he
sought. Journeying along the valley, by the side of the river, he
followed its course till he came to the plain, and within sight of the
castle. When he approached the castle he saw the youths shooting with
their bows, in the place where Kynon had seen them, and the yellow
man, to whom the castle belonged, standing hard by. And no sooner had
Owain saluted the yellow man, than he was saluted by him in return.

He went forward towards the castle, and there he saw the chamber; and
when he had entered the chamber, he beheld the maidens working at
satin embroidery, in chains of gold. Their beauty and their comeliness
seemed to Owain far greater than Kynon had represented to him. They
arose to wait upon Owain, as they had done to Kynon, and the meal
which they set before him gave even more satisfaction to Owain than it
had done to Kynon.

About the middle of the repast the yellow man asked Owain the object
of his journey. Owain made it known to him, and said, "I am in quest
of the knight who guards the fountain." Upon this the yellow man
smiled, and said that he was as loath to point out that adventure to
him as he had been to Kynon. However, he described the whole to Owain,
and they retired to rest.

The next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the
damsels, and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man
was. The stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain than
it had done to Kynon; and Owain asked of him his road, and he showed
it to him. And Owain followed the road till he came to the green tree;
and he beheld the fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, with the
bowl upon it. Owain took the bowl and threw a bowlful of water upon
the slab. And, lo! the thunder was heard, and after the thunder came
the shower, more violent than Kynon had described, and after the
shower the sky became bright. Immediately the birds came and settled
upon the tree and sang. And when their song was most pleasing to Owain
he beheld a knight coming towards him through the valley; and he
prepared to receive him, and encountered him violently. Having broken
both their lances, they drew their swords and fought blade to blade.
Then Owain struck the knight a blow through his helmet, head-piece,
and visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the bone, until it
wounded the very brain. Then the black knight felt that he had
received a mortal wound, upon which he turned his horse's head and
fled. Owain pursued him, and followed close upon him, although he was
not near enough to strike him with his sword. Then Owain descried a
vast and resplendent castle; and they came to the castle gate. The
black knight was allowed to enter, but the portcullis was let fall
upon Owain, and it struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in
two, and carried away the rowels of the spurs that were upon Owain's
heels. And the portcullis descended to the floor. And the rowels of
the spurs and part of the horse were without, and Owain with the other
part of the horse remained between the two gates, and the inner gate
was closed, so that Owain could not go thence; and Owain was in a
perplexing situation. While he was in this state, he could see through
an aperture in the gate a street facing him, with a row of houses on
each side. He beheld a maiden with yellow, curling hair, and a
frontlet of gold upon her head; and she was clad in a dress of yellow
satin, and on her feet were shoes of variegated leather. And she
approached the gate, and desired that it should be opened. "Heaven
knows, lady," said Owain, "it is no more possible for me to open to
thee from hence, than it is for thee to set me free." And he told her
his name, and who he was. "Truly," said the damsel, "it is very sad
that thou canst not be released; and every woman ought to succor thee,
for I know there is no one more faithful in the service of ladies than
thou. Therefore," quoth she, "whatever is in my power to do for thy
release, I will do it. Take this ring and put it on thy finger, with
the stone inside thy hand, and close thy hand upon the stone. As long
as thou concealest it, it will conceal thee. When they come forth to
fetch thee, they will be much grieved that they cannot find thee. I
will await thee on the horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be able to see
me, though I cannot see thee. Therefore come and place thy hand upon
my shoulder, that I may know that thou art near me. And by the way
that I go hence do thou accompany me."

Then the maiden went away from Owain, and he did all that she had told
him. The people of the castle came to seek Owain to put him to death;
and when they found nothing but the half of his horse, they were
sorely grieved.

And Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed
his hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed
her, until they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and
the maiden opened it, and they went in. Owain looked around the
chamber, and behold there was not a single nail in it that was not
painted with gorgeous colors, and there was not a single panel that
had not sundry images in gold portrayed upon it.

The maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver bowl, and gave
Owain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver table, inlaid
with gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen, and she brought him
food. Of a truth, Owain never saw any kind of meat that was not there
in abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever found it
in any other place. There was not one vessel from which he was served
that was not of gold or of silver. Owain eat and drank until late in
the afternoon, when lo! they heard a mighty clamor in the castle, and
he asked the maiden what it was. "They are administering extreme
unction," said she, "to the nobleman who owns the castle." And she
prepared a couch for Owain which was meet for Arthur himself, and
Owain went to sleep.

A little after daybreak he heard an exceeding loud clamor and wailing,
and he asked the maiden what was the cause of it. "They are bearing to
the church the body of the nobleman who owned the castle."

And Owain rose up, and clothed himself, and opened a window of the
chamber, and looked towards the castle. He could see neither the
bounds nor the extent of the hosts that filled the streets, and they
were fully armed; and a vast number of women were with them, both on
horseback and on foot, and all the ecclesiastics in the city singing.
In the midst of the throng he beheld the bier, over which was a veil
of white linen; and wax tapers were burning beside and around it; and
none that supported the bier was lower in rank than a powerful baron.

Never did Owain see an assemblage so gorgeous with silk and
satin. And, following the train, he beheld a lady with yellow hair
falling over her shoulders, and stained with blood; and about her a
dress of yellow satin, which was torn. Upon her feet were shoes of
variegated leather. It was a marvel that the ends of her fingers were
not bruised from the violence with which she smote her hands together.
Truly she would have been the fairest lady Owain ever saw, had she
been in her usual guise. And her cry was louder than the shout of the
men or the clamor of the trumpets. No sooner had he beheld the lady
than he became inflamed with her love, so that it took entire
possession of him.

Then he inquired of the maiden who the lady was. "Heaven knows,"
replied the maiden, "she is the fairest, the purest, the most liberal,
and the most noble of women. She is my mistress, and she is called the
Countess of the Fountain, the wife of him whom thou didst slay
yesterday." "Verily," said Owain, "she is the woman that I love best."
"Verily," said the maiden, "she shall also love thee not a little."

The maiden prepared a repast for Owain, and truly he thought he had
never before so good a meal, nor was he ever so well served. Then she
left him, and went towards the castle. When she came there, she found
nothing but mourning and sorrow; and the countess in her chamber could
not bear the sight of any one through grief. Luned, for that was the
name of the maiden, saluted her, but the Countess of the Fountain
answered her not. And the maiden bent down towards her, and said,
"What aileth thee, that thou answerest no one to-day?" "Luned," said
the countess, "what change hath befallen thee, that thou hast not come
to visit me in my grief. It was wrong in thee, and I so sorely
afflicted." "Truly," said Luned, "I thought thy good sense was greater
than I find it to be. Is it well for thee to mourn after that good
man, or for anything else that thou canst not have?" "I declare to
Heaven," said the countess, "that in the whole world there is not a
man equal to him." "Not so," said Luned, "for an ugly man would be as
good as or better than he." "I declare to Heaven," said the countess,
"that were it not repugnant to me to put to death one whom I have
brought up, I would have thee executed, for making such a comparison
to me. As it is, I will banish thee." "I am glad," said Luned, "that
thou hast no other cause to do so than that I would have been of
service to thee, where thou didst not know what was to thine
advantage. Henceforth, evil betide whichever of us shall make the
first advance towards reconciliation to the other, whether I should
seek an invitation from thee, or thou of thine own accord should send
to invite."

With that Luned went forth; and the countess arose and followed her to
the door of the chamber, and began coughing loudly. When Luned looked
back, the countess beckoned to her, and she returned to the countess.
"In truth," said the countess, "evil is thy disposition; but if thou
knowest what is to my advantage, declare it to me." "I will do so,"
said she.

"Thou knowest that, except by warfare and arms, it is impossible for
thee to preserve thy possessions; delay not, therefore, to seek some
one who can defend them." "How can I do that?" said the countess. "I
will tell thee," said Luned; "unless thou canst defend the fountain,
thou canst not maintain thy dominions; and no one can defend the
fountain except it be a knight of Arthur's household. I will go to
Arthur's court, and I'll betide me if I return not thence with a
warrior who can guard the fountain as well as, or even better than he
who defended it formerly." "That will be hard to perform," said the
countess. "Go, however, and make proof of that which thou hast
promised."

Luned set out under the pretence of going to Arthur's court; but she
went back to the mansion where she had left Owain, and she tarried
there as long as it might have taken her to travel to the court of
King Arthur and back. At the end of that time she apparelled herself,
and went to visit the countess. The countess was much rejoiced when
she saw her, and inquired what news she brought from the court. "I
bring thee the best of news," said Luned, "for I have compassed the
object of my mission. When wilt thou that I should present to thee the
chieftain who has come with me hither?" "Bring him here to visit me
tomorrow," said the countess, "and I will cause the town to be
assembled by that time." And Luned returned home.

The next day, at noon, Owain arrayed himself in a coat and a surcoat,
and a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a broad band of gold
lace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated leather, which
were fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And they
proceeded to the chamber of the countess.

Right glad was the countess of their coming. She gazed steadfastly
upon Owain, and said, "Luned, this knight has not the look of a
traveller." "What harm is there in that, lady?" said Luned. "I am
certain," said the countess, "that no other man than this chased the
soul from the body of my lord." "So much the better for thee, lady,"
said Luned, "for had he not been stronger than thy lord, he could not
have deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past,
be it as it may." "Go back to thine abode," said the countess, "and I
will take counsel."

The next day the countess caused all her subjects to assemble, and
showed them that her earldom was left defenceless, and that it could
not be protected but with horse and arms, and military skill.
"Therefore," said she, "this is what I offer for your choice: either
let one of you take me, or give your consent for me to take a husband
from elsewhere, to defend my dominions."

So they came to the determination that it was better that she should
have permission to marry some one from elsewhere; and thereupon she
sent for the bishops and archbishops, to celebrate her nuptials with
Owain. And the men of the earldom did Owain homage.

Owain defended the fountain with lance and sword. And this is the
manner in which he defended it. Whensoever a knight came there, he
overthrew him, and sold him for his full worth. What he thus gained he
divided among his barons and his knights, and no man in the whole
world could be more beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was
thus for the space of three years.




GAWAIN'S ADVENTURE IN SEARCH OF OWAIN

By Lady Charlotte Guest


It befell that, as Gawain went forth one day with King Arthur, he
perceived him to be very sad and sorrowful. And Gawain was much
grieved to see Arthur in this state, and he questioned him, saying, "O
my lord, what has befallen thee?" "In sooth, Gawain," said Arthur, "I
am grieved concerning Owain, whom I have lost these three years; and I
shall certainly die if the fourth year pass without my seeing him. Now
I am sure that it is through the tale which Kynon, the son of Clydno,
related, that I have lost Owain." "There is no need for thee," said
Gawain, "to summon to arms thy whole dominions on this account, for
thou thyself, and the men of thy household, will be able to avenge
Owain if he be slain, or to set him free if he be in prison and, if
alive, to bring him back with thee." And it was settled according to
what Gawain had said.

Then Arthur and the men of his household prepared to go and seek
Owain, and Kynon, the son of Clydno, acted as their guide. And Arthur
came to the castle where Kynon had been before, and when he came
there, the youths were shooting in the same place, and the yellow man
was standing hard by. When the yellow man saw Arthur, he greeted him,
and invited him to the castle. Arthur accepted his invitation, and
they entered the castle together. Great as was the number of his
retinue, their presence was scarcely observed in the castle, so vast
was its extent. And the maidens rose up to wait on them. The service
of the maidens appeared to them all to excel any attendance they had
ever met with; and even the pages, who had charge of the horses, were
no worse served that night than Arthur himself would have been in his
own palace.

The next morning Arthur set out thence, with Kynon for his guide, and
came to the place where the black man was. And the stature of the
black man was more surprising to Arthur than it had been represented
to him. They came to the top of the wooded steep, and traversed the
valley, till they reached the green tree, where they saw the fountain
and the bowl and the slab. And upon that Kay came to Arthur, and spoke
to him. "My lord," said he, "I know the meaning of all this, and my
request is that thou wilt permit me to throw the water on the slab,
and to receive the first adventure that may befall." And Arthur gave
him leave.

Then Kay threw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately there
came the thunder, and after the thunder the shower. And such a
thunderstorm they had never known before. After the shower had ceased,
the sky became clear, and on looking at the tree, they beheld it
completely leafless. Then the birds descended upon the tree. And the
song of the birds was far sweeter than any strain they had ever heard
before. Then they beheld a knight, on a coal-black horse, clothed in
sating coming rapidly towards them. Kay met him and encountered him,
and it was not long before Kay was overthrown. The knight withdrew,
and Arthur and his host encamped for the night.

When they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat
upon the lance of the knight. Then, one by one, all the household of
Arthur went forth to combat the knight, until there was not one that
was not overthrown by him, except Arthur and Gawain. And Arthur armed
himself to encounter the knight. "O my lord," said Gawain, "permit me
to fight with him first." And Arthur permitted him. He went forth to
meet the knight, having over himself and his horse a satin robe of
honor, which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of Rhangyr,
and in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they
charged each other, and fought all that day until the evening. And
neither of them was able to unhorse the other. And so it was the next
day; they broke their lances in the shock, but neither of them could
obtain the mastery.

The third day they fought with exceeding strong lances. They were
incensed with rage, and fought furiously, even until noon. They gave
each other such a shock that the girths of their horses were broken,
so that they fell over their horses' cruppers to the ground. And they
rose up speedily and drew their swords, and resumed the combat. All
they that witnessed their encounter felt assured that they had never
before seen two men so valiant or so powerful. Had it been midnight,
it would have been light, from the fire that flashed from their
weapons. And the knight gave Gawain a blow that turned his helmet from
off his face, so that the knight saw that it was Gawain. Then Owain
said, "My lord Gawain, I did not know thee for my cousin, owing to the
robe of honor that enveloped thee; take my sword and my arms." Said
Gawain, "Thou, Owain, art the victor; take thou my sword." And with
that Arthur saw that they were conversing, and advanced toward them.
"My lord Arthur," said Gawain, "here is Owain, who has vanquished me,
and will not take my arms." "My lord," said Owain, "it is he that has
vanquished me, and he will not take my sword." "Give me your swords,"
said Arthur, "and then neither of you has vanquished the other." Then
Owain put his arms round Arthur's neck, and they embraced. All the
host hurried forward to see Owain, and to embrace him. And there was
nigh being a loss of life, so great was the press.

The next day Arthur prepared to depart. "My lord," said Owain, "this
is not well of thee. For I have been absent from thee these three
years, and during all that time, up to this very day, I have been
preparing a banquet for thee, knowing that thou wouldst come to seek
me. Tarry with me, therefore, until thou and thy attendants have
recovered the fatigues of the journey, and have been anointed."

[Illustration: AN AGED MAN ENTERED THE HALL FOLLOWED BY A YOUNG MAN.
From the painting by Walter Crane.]

And they all proceeded to the castle of the Countess of the Fountain,
and the banquet which had been three years preparing was consumed in
three months. Never had they a more delicious or agreeable banquet.
And Arthur prepared to depart. Then he sent an embassy to the countess
to beseech her to permit Owain to go with him, for the space of three
months, that he might show him to the nobles and the fair dames of the
island of Britain. And the countess gave her consent, although it was
very painful to her. So Owain came with Arthur to the island of
Britain. And when he was once more amongst his kindred and friends, he
remained three years, instead of three months, with them.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION

By Lady Charlotte Guest


As Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerleon upon Usk, a
damsel entered the hall upon a bay horse, with a curling mane, and
covered with foam; and the bridle, and as much as was seen of the
saddle, were of gold. The damsel was arrayed in a dress of yellow
satin. And she came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his
hand. "Thus," said she, "shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor,
the faithless, the disgraced, and the beardless." And she turned her
horse's head and departed.

Then his adventure came to Owain's remembrance, and he was sorrowful.
Having finished eating, he went to his own abode, and made
preparations that night. The next day he arose, but did not go to the
court, nor did he return to the Countess of the Fountain, but wandered
to the distant parts of the earth and to uncultivated mountains. And
he remained there until all his apparel was worn out, and his body was
wasted away, and his hair was grown long. And he went about with the
wild beasts, and fed with them, until they became familiar with him.
But at length he became so weak that he could no longer bear them
company. Then he descended from the mountains to the valley, and came
to a park, that was the fairest in the world, and belonged to a
charitable lady.

One day the lady and her attendants went forth to walk by a lake that
was in the middle of the park. They saw the form of a man, lying as if
dead, and were terrified. Nevertheless they went near him, and touched
him, and saw that there was life in him. And the lady returned to the
castle, and took a flask full of precious ointment and gave it to one
of her maidens. "Go with this," said she, "and take with thee yonder
horse, and clothing, and place them near the man we saw just now; and
anoint him with this balsam near his heart; and if there is life in
him, he will revive, through the efficiency of this balsam. Then watch
what he will do."

The maiden departed from her, and went and poured of the balsam upon
Owain, and left the horse and garments hard by, and went a little way
off and hid herself to watch him. In a short time she saw him begin to
move. He rose up, looked at his person, and became ashamed of the
unseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the
garments that were near him. He clothed himself, and with difficulty
mounted the horse.

Then the damsel discovered herself to him, and saluted him. And he and
the maiden proceeded to the castle, and the maiden conducted him to a
pleasant chamber, and kindled a fire, and left him.

He stayed at the castle three months, till he was restored to his
former guise, and became even more comely than he had ever been
before. And Owain rendered signal service to the lady, in a
controversy with a powerful neighbor, so that he made ample requital
to her for her hospitality; and he took his departure.

As he journeyed he heard a loud yelling in a wood. It was repeated a
second and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and beheld
a huge craggy mound, in the middle of the wood, on the side of which
was a gray rock. There was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent was
within the cleft.

Near the rock stood a black lion, and every time the lion sought to go
thence the serpent darted towards him to attack him. And Owain
unsheathed his sword, and drew near to the rock; and as the serpent
sprung out he struck him with his sword and cut him in two; and he
dried his sword, and went on his way as before. Behold the lion
followed him, and played about him, as though it had been a greyhound
that he had reared.

They proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. When it was
time for Owain to take his rest he dismounted, and turned his horse
loose in a flat and wooded meadow. He struck fire, and when the fire
was kindled, the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three
nights. And the lion disappeared. Presently the lion returned, bearing
a fine large roebuck, and threw it down before Owain, who went towards
the fire with it.

Owain took the roebuck, skinned it, and placed slices of its flesh
upon skewers round the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the lion
to devour. While he was so employed, he heard a deep groan near him,
and a second, and a third. The place whence the groans proceeded was a
cave in the rock; and Owain went near, and called out to know who it
was that groaned so piteously. And a voice answered, "I am Luned, the
hand-maiden of the Countess of the Fountain." "And what dost thou
here?" said he. "I am imprisoned," said she, "on account of the knight
who came from Arthur's court, and married the countess. And he staid a
short time with her, but he afterwards departed for the court of
Arthur, and has not returned since. And two of the countess's pages
traduced him, and called him a deceiver. And because I said I would
vouch for it he would come before long and maintain his cause against
both of them, they imprisoned me in this cave, and said that I should
be put to death, unless he came to deliver me, by a certain day; and
that is no further off than to-morrow, and I have no one to send to
seek him for me. His name is Owain, the son of Urien." "And art thou
certain that if that knight knew all this, he would come to thy
rescue?" "I am most certain of it," said she.

When the slices of meat were cooked, Owain divided them into two
parts, between himself and the maiden, and then Owain laid himself
down to sleep; and never did sentinel keep stricter watch over his
lord than the lion that night over Owain.

The next day there came two pages with a great troop of attendants to
take Luned from her cell, and put her to death. Owain asked them what
charge they had against her. They told him of the compact that was
between them; as the maiden had done the night before. "And," said
they, "Owain has failed her, therefore we are taking her to be burnt."
"Truly," said Owain, "he is a good knight, and if he knew that the
maiden was in such peril, I marvel that he came not to her rescue. But
if you will accept me in his stead, I will do battle with you." "We
will," said the youths.

And they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that,
the lion came to Owain's assistance, and they two got the better of
the young men. And they said to him, "Chieftain, it was not agreed
that we should fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us
to contend with yonder animal than with thee." And Owain put the lion
in the place where Luned had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door
with stones. And he went to fight with the young men as before.

But Owain had not his usual strength, and the two youths pressed hard
upon him. And the lion roared incessantly at seeing Owain in trouble.
And he burst through the wall, until he found a way out, and rushed
upon the young men and instantly slew them. So Luned was saved from
being burnt.

Then Owain returned with Luned to the castle of the Lady of the
Fountain. And when he went thence, he took the countess with him to
Arthur's court, and she was his wife as long as she lived.




HOW PWYLL OUTWITTED GAWL

By Lady Charlotte Guest


Once upon a time Pwyll was at Narberth, his chief palace, where a
feast had been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of men.
And after the first meal Pwyll arose to walk; and he went to the top
of a mound that was above the palace, and was called Gorsedd Arberth.
"Lord," said one of the court, "it is peculiar to the mound that
whosoever sits upon it cannot go thence without either receiving
wounds or blows, or else seeing a wonder." "I fear not to receive
wounds or blows," said Pwyll; "but as to the wonder, gladly would I
see it. I will therefore go and sit upon the mound."

And upon the mound he sat. While he sat there they saw a lady, on a
pure white horse of large size, with a garment of shining gold around
her, coming along the highway that led from the mound. "My men," said
Pwyll, "is there any among you who knows yonder lady?" "There is not,
lord," said they. "Go one of you and meet her, that we may know who
she is." And one of them arose, and as he came upon the road to meet
her, she passed by; and he followed as fast as he could, being on
foot, and the greater was his speed, the further was she from him.
When he saw that it profited him nothing to follow her, he returned to
Pwyll, and said, "Lord, it is idle for any one in the world to follow
her on foot." "Verily," said Pwyll, "go unto the palace, and take the
fleetest horse that thou seest, and go after her."

So he took a horse and went forward. He came to an open, level plain,
and put spurs to his horse; and the more he urged his horse, the
further was she from him. And he returned to the place where Pwyll
was, and said, "Lord, it will avail nothing for any one to follow
yonder lady. I know of no horse in these realms swifter than this, and
it availed me not to pursue her." "Of a truth," said Pwyll, "there
must be some illusion here; let us go toward the palace." So to the
palace they went, and spent the day.

And the next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to
meat. And when meat was ended, Pwyll said, "Where are the hosts that
went yesterday to the top of the mound?" "Behold, lord, we are here,"
said they. "Let us go," said he, "to the mound, and sit there. And do
thou," said he to the page who tended his horse, "saddle my horse
well, and hasten with him to the road, and bring also my spurs with
thee." And the youth did thus. They went and sat upon the mound and
ere they had been there but a short time they beheld the lady coming
by the same road, "Young man," said Pwyll, "I see the lady coming;
give me my horse." Before he had mounted his horse she passed him. And
he turned after her and followed her. He let his horse go bounding
playfully, and thought that he should soon come up with her, but he
came no nearer to her than at first. Then he urged his horse to his
utmost speed, yet he found that it availed not. Then said Pwyll, "O
maiden, for the sake of him whom thou best lovest, stay for me." "I
will stay gladly," said she; "and it were better for thy horse hadst
thou asked it long since." So the maiden stopped; and she threw back
that part of her head-dress which covered her face. Then he thought
that the beauty of all the maidens and all the ladies that he had ever
seen was as nothing compared to her beauty. "Lady," he said, "wilt
thou tell me aught concerning thy purpose?" "I will tell thee," said
she; "my chief quest was to see thee." "Truly," said Pwyll, "this is
to me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst have come; and
wilt thou tell me who thou art?" "I will tell thee, lord," said
she. "I am Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd, and they sought to give
me a husband against my will. But no husband would I have, and that
because of my love for thee; neither will I yet have one, unless thou
reject me; and hither have I come to hear thy answer." "By Heaven,"
said Pwyll, "behold this is my answer. If I might choose among all
the ladies and damsels in the world, thee would I choose." "Verily,"
said she, "if thou art thus minded, make a pledge to meet me ere I am
given to another." "The sooner I may do so, the more pleasing will it
be to me," said Pwyll; "and wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet
with thee." "I will that thou meet me this day twelvemonth at the
palace of Heveydd." "Gladly," said he, "will I keep this tryst." So
they parted, and he went back to his hosts, and to them of his
household. And whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the
damsel, he always turned the discourse upon other matters.

When a year from that time was gone, he caused a hundred knights to
equip themselves, and to go with him to the palace of Heveydd. And he
came to the palace, and there was great joy concerning him, with much
concourse of people, and great rejoicing, and vast preparations for
his coming. And the whole court was placed under his orders.

And the hall was garnished, and they went to meat, and thus did they
sit: Heveydd was on one side of Pwyll, and Rhiannon on the other; and
all the rest according to their rank. And they ate and feasted, and
talked one with another. After the meat there entered a tall,
auburn-haired youth, of royal bearing, clothed in a garment of satin,
who saluted Pwyll and his companions. "The greeting of Heaven be unto
thee," said Pwyll; "come thou and sit down." "Nay," said he, "a suitor
am I, and I will do my errand." "Do so willingly," said Pwyll. "Lord,"
said he, "my errand is unto thee, and it is to crave a boon of thee
that I come." "What boon soever thou mayest ask of me, so far as I am
able, thou shalt have." "Ah!" said Rhiannon, "wherefore didst thou
give that answer?" "Has he not given it before the presence of these
nobles?" asked the youth. "My soul," said Pwyll, "what is the boon
thou askest?" "The lady whom best I love is to be thy bride this
night; I come to ask her of thee, with the feast and the banquet that
are in this place," And Pwyll was silent, because of the promise which
he had given. "Be silent as long as thou wilt," said Rhiannon, "never
did man make worse use of his wits than thou hast done." "Lady," said
he, "I knew not who he was." "Behold, this is the man to whom they
would have given me against my will," said she; "and he is Gawl, the
son of Clud, a man of great power and wealth, and because of the word
thou hast spoken, bestow me upon him, lest shame befall thee." "Lady,"
said he, "I understand not thy answer; never can I do as thou sayest."
"Bestow me upon him," said she, "and I will cause that I shall never
be his." "By what means will that be?" asked Pwyll. She told him the
thought that was in her mind, and they talked long together. Then Gawl
said, "Lord, it is meet that I have an answer to my request." "As much
of that thou hast asked as it is in my power to give, thou shalt
have," replied Pwyll. "My soul," said Rhiannon unto Gawl, "as for the
feast and the banquet that are here, I have bestowed them upon the men
of Dyved, and the household and the warriors that are with us. These
can I not suffer to be given to any. In a year from to-night, a
banquet shall be prepared for thee in this palace, that I may become
thy bride."

So Gawl went forth to his possessions, and Pwyll went also back to
Dyved. And they both spent that year until it was the time for the
feast at the palace of Heveydd. Then Gawl, the son of Clud, set out to
the feast that was prepared for him; and he came to the palace, and
was received there with rejoicing. Pwyll, also, the chief of Dyved,
came to the orchard with a hundred knights, as Rhiannon had commanded
him. And Pwyll was clad in coarse and ragged garments, and wore large,
clumsy old shoes upon his feet. And when he knew that the carousal
after the meat had begun, he went toward the hall; and when he came
into the hall he saluted Gawl, the son of Clud, and his company, both
men and women. "Heaven prosper thee," said Gawl, "and friendly
greeting be unto thee!" "Lord," said he, "may Heaven reward thee! I
have an errand unto thee." "Welcome be thine errand, and if thou ask
of me that which is right, thou shalt have it gladly." "It is
fitting," answered he; "I crave but from want, and the boon I ask is
to have this small bag that thou seest filled with meat." "A request
within reason is this," said he, "and gladly shalt thou have it. Bring
him food." A great number of attendants arose and began to fill the
bag; but for all they put into it, it was no fuller than at first. "My
soul," said Gawl, "will thy bag ever be full?" "It will not, I declare
to Heaven," said he, "for all that may be put into it, unless one
possessed of lands, and domains, and treasure, shall arise and tread
down with both his feet the food that is within the bag, and shall
say, 'Enough has been put therein.'" Then said Rhiannon unto Gawl, the
son of Clud, "Rise up quickly." "I will willingly arise," said he. So
he rose up, and put his two feet into the bag. And Pwyll turned up the
sides of the bag, so that Gawl was over his head in it. And he shut it
up quickly, and slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his horn. And
thereupon, behold, his knights came down upon the palace. They seized
all the host that had come with Gawl, and cast them into his own
prison, and Pwyll threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his
tattered array. As they came in, every one of Pwyll's knights struck a
blow upon the bag, and asked, "What is here?" "A badger," said they.
And in this manner they played, each of them striking the bag, either
with his foot or with a staff. And then was the game of Badger in the
Bag first played.

"Lord," said the man in the bag, "if thou wouldst but hear me, I merit
not to be slain in a bag." Said Heveydd, "Lord, he speaks truth; it
were fitting that thou listen to him, for he deserves not this."
"Verily," said Pwyll, "I will do thy counsel concerning him." "Behold,
this is my counsel then," said Rhiannon. "Thou art now in a position
in which it behooves thee to satisfy suitors and minstrels. Let him
give unto them in thy stead, and take a pledge from him that he will
never seek to revenge that which has been done to him. And this will
be punishment enough." "I will do this gladly," said the man in the
bag. "And gladly will I accept it," said Pwyll, "since it is the
counsel of Heveydd and Rhiannon. Seek thyself sureties." "We will be
for him," said Heveydd, "until his men be free to answer for him." And
upon this he was let out of the bag, and his liegemen were liberated.
"Verily, lord," said Gawl, "I am greatly hurt, and I have many
bruises. With thy leave, I will go forth. I will leave nobles in my
stead to answer for me in all that thou shalt require." "Willingly,"
said Pwyll, "mayest thou do thus." So Gawl went to his own
possessions.

And the hall was set in order for Pwyll and the men of his host, and
for them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and sat
down. And as they had sat that time twelvemonth, so sat they that
night. They ate and feasted, and spent the night in mirth and
tranquillity.

Next morning at break of day, "My lord," said Rhiannon, "arise and
begin to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one to-day that
may claim thy bounty." "Thus shall it be gladly," said Pwyll, "both
to-day and every day while the feast shall last." So Pwyll arose, and
he caused silence to be proclaimed, and desired all the suitors and
minstrels to show and to point out what gifts they desired.

And this being done, the feast went on, and he denied no one while it
lasted. And when the feast was ended, Pwyll said unto Heveydd, "My
lord, with thy permission, I will set out for Dyved to-morrow."
"Certainly," said Heveydd; "may Heaven prosper thee! Fix also a time
when Rhiannon shall follow thee." "By Heaven," said Pwyll, "we will go
hence together." "Willest thou this, lord?" said Heveydd. "Yes, lord,"
answered Pwyll.

And the next day they set forward toward Dyved, and journeyed to the
palace of Narberth, where a feast was made ready for them. And there
came to them great numbers of the chief men and the most noble ladies
of the land, and of these there were none to whom Rhiannon did not
give some rich gift, either a bracelet, or a ring, or a precious
stone. And they ruled the land prosperously that year and the next.




HOW MANAWYDDAN CAUGHT A THIEF

By Lady Charlotte Guest


Pwyll and Rhiannon had a son, whom they named Pryderi. And when he was
grown up, Pwyll, his father, died. And Pryderi married Kieva, the
daughter of Gwynn Gloy.

Now Manawyddan returned from the war in Ireland, and he found that his
cousin had seized all his possessions, and much grief and heaviness
came upon him. "Alas! woe is me!" he exclaimed; "there is none save
myself without a home and a resting-place." "Lord," said Pryderi, "be
not so sorrowful. Thy cousin is king of the Island of the Mighty, and
though he has done thee wrong, thou hast never been a claimant of land
or possessions." "Yea," answered he, "but although this man is my
cousin, it grieveth me to see any one in the place of my brother,
Bendigeid Vran; neither can I be happy in the same dwelling with him."
"Wilt thou follow the counsel of another?" said Pryderi. "I stand in
need of counsel," he answered, "and what may that counsel be?" "Seven
cantrevs belong unto me," said Pryderi, "wherein Rhiannon, my mother,
dwells. I will bestow her upon thee, and the seven cantrevs with her;
and though thou hadst no possessions but those cantrevs only, thou
couldst not have any fairer than they. Do thou and Rhiannon enjoy
them, and if thou desire any possessions thou wilt not despise these."
"I do not, chieftain," said he, "Heaven reward thee for the
friendship! I will go with thee to seek Rhiannon, and to look at thy
possessions." "Thou wilt do well," he answered; "and I believe that
thou didst never hear a lady discourse better than she, and when she
was in her prime, none was ever fairer. Even now her aspect is not
uncomely."

They set forth, and, however long the journey, they came at last to
Dyved; and a feast was prepared for them by Rhiannon and Kieva. Then
began Manawyddan and Rhiannon to sit and to talk together; and his
mind and his thoughts became warmed towards her, and he thought in his
heart he had never beheld any lady more fulfilled of grace and beauty
than she. "Pryderi," said he, "I will that it be as thou didst say."
"What saying was that?" asked Rhiannon. "Lady," said Pryderi, "I did
offer thee as a wife to Manawyddan." "By that will I gladly abide,"
said Rhiannon. "Right glad am I also," said Manawyddan; "may Heaven
reward him who hath shown unto me friendship so perfect as this!" And
before the feast was over she became his bride.

"Tarry ye here the rest of the feast, and I will go into England to
tender my homage unto Caswallawn, the son of Beli," said Pryderi.
"Lord," said Rhiannon, "Caswallawn is in Kent; thou mayest therefore
tarry at the feast, and wait until he shall be nearer." "We will
wait," he answered. So they finished the feast. And they began to make
the circuit of Dyved, and to hunt, and to take their pleasure. And as
they went through the country, they had never seen lands more pleasant
to live in, nor better hunting grounds, nor greater plenty of honey
and fish. And such was the friendship between these four, that they
would not be parted from each other by night nor by day.

In the midst of all this he went to Caswallawn at Oxford, and tendered
his homage; and honorable was his reception there, and highly was he
praised for offering his homage.

After his return Pryderi and Manawyddan began a feast at Narberth, for
it was the chief palace. When they had ended the first meal, while
those who served them ate, they arose and went to the Mound of
Narberth, and their retinue with them. As they sat there, behold a
peal of thunder, and, with the violence of the thunder-storm, lo!
there came a fall of mist, so thick that not one of them could see the
other. And after the mist it became light all around. When they looked
towards the place where they were wont to see the cattle and herds and
dwellings, they saw nothing now, neither house, nor beast, nor smoke,
nor fire, nor man, nor dwelling, but the buildings of the court empty
and uninhabited, without either man or beast within them.

"In the name of Heaven," said Manawyddan, "where are they of the
court, and all my host beside? Let us go and see."

So they came to the castle, and saw no man, and into the hall, and to
the sleeping-place, and there was none; and in the mead-cellar and in
the kitchen there was naught but desolation. Then they began to go
through the land, and all the possessions that they had; and they
visited the houses and dwellings, and found nothing but wild
beasts. And when they had consumed their feast and all their
provisions, they fed upon the prey they killed in hunting.

One morning Pryderi and Manawyddan ranged their dogs and went forth to
hunt. Some of the dogs ran before them, and came to a bush which was
near at hand; but as soon as they were come to the bush, they hastily
drew back, and returned to the men, their hair bristling up greatly.
"Let us go," said Pryderi, "and see what is in it." As they came near,
behold, a wild boar of a pure white color rose up from the bush. Then
the dogs, being set on by the men, rushed towards him; but he left the
bush, and fell back a little way from the men, and made a stand
against the dogs, until the men had come near. When the men came up he
fell back a second time, and betook him to flight. Then they pursued
the boar until they beheld a vast and lofty castle, all newly built,
in a place where they had never before seen either stone or building.
And the boar ran swiftly into the castle, the dogs after him. Then men
began to wonder at finding a castle in a place where they had never
before seen any building, and listened for the dogs. But they heard
not one of the dogs, nor aught concerning them.

"Lord," said Pryderi, "I will go into the castle to get tidings of the
dogs." "Truly," he replied, "if thou wouldst follow my counsel, thou
wouldst not enter therein. Whosoever has cast a spell over this land,
has caused this castle to be here." "Of a truth," answered Pryderi, "I
cannot thus give up my dogs," and to the castle he went.

When he came within the castle he found neither man nor beast, nor
boar, nor dogs, nor house, nor dwelling within it. In the centre of
the castle-floor he beheld a fountain with marble-work around it, and
on the margin of the fountain a golden bowl upon a marble slab, and
chains hanging from the air, to which he saw no end.

He was greatly pleased with the beauty of the gold, and with the rich
workmanship of the bowl; and he went up to the bowl, and laid hold of
it. And when he had taken hold of it, his hands stuck to the bowl,
and his feet to the slab on which the bowl was placed; and all his
joyousness forsook him, so that he could not utter a word. And thus he
stood.

Manawyddan waited for him till near the close of the day. Late in the
evening, being certain that he should have no tidings of Pryderi or
the dogs, he went back to the palace. As he entered, Rhiannon looked
at him. "Where," said she, "are thy companion and thy dogs?" "Behold,"
he answered, "the adventure that has befallen me." And he related it
all unto her. "An evil companion hast thou been," said Rhiannon, "and
a good companion hast thou lost." And with that word she went out, and
proceeded towards the castle, according to the direction which he gave
her. The gate of the castle she found open. She was nothing daunted,
and went in. As she went in, she perceived Pryderi laying hold of the
bowl, and she went towards him. "O my lord," said she, "what dost
thou here?" She took hold of the bowl with him; and as she did so her
hands also became fast to the bowl, and her feet to the slab, and she
was not able to utter a word. And with that, as it became night, lo!
there came thunder upon them, and a fall of mist; and thereupon the
castle vanished, and they with it.

When Kieva saw that there was no one in the palace but herself and
Manawyddan, she sorrowed so that she cared not whether she lived or
died. And Manawyddan saw this. "Thou art in the wrong," said he, "if
through fear of me thou grievest thus. I call Heaven to witness that
thou hast never seen friendship more pure than that which I will bear
thee, but it is not fitting for us to stay here; we have lost our
dogs, and cannot get food. Let us go into England; it is easiest for
us to find support there." "Gladly, lord," said she, "we will do so."
And they set forth together to England.

"Lord," said she, "what craft wilt thou follow? Take up one that is
seemly," "None other will I take," answered he, "but that of making
shoes." "Lord," said she, "such a craft becomes not a man so nobly
born as thou." "By that however will I abide," said he. "I know
nothing thereof," said Kieva. "But I know," answered Manawyddan, "and
I will teach thee to stitch. We will not attempt to dress the leather,
but we will buy it ready dressed, and will make the shoes from it."

So they went into England, and went as far as Hereford; and they
betook themselves to making shoes. He began by buying the best
cordwain that could be had in the town, and associated himself with
the best goldsmith in the town, and caused him to make clasps for the
shoes, and to gild the clasps; and he marked how it was done until he
learned the method. When they could be had from him, not a shoe nor
hose was bought of any of the cordwainers in the town. When the
cordwainers perceived that their gains were failing they came together
and took counsel, and agreed that they would slay them. And he had
warning thereof, and it was told him how the cordwainers had agreed
together to slay him.

"Lord," said Kieva, "wherefore should this be borne from these boors?"
"Nay," said he, "we will go back unto Dyved." So towards Dyved they
set forth.

Now Manawyddan, when he set out to return to Dyved, took with him a
burden of wheat. And he proceeded towards Narberth, and there he
dwelt. Never was he better pleased than when he saw Narberth again,
and the lands where he had been wont to hunt with Pryderi and with
Rhiannon. And he accustomed himself to fish, and to hunt the deer in
their covert. He began to prepare some ground, and he sowed a croft,
and a second, and a third. And no wheat in the world ever sprung up
better. The three crofts prospered with perfect growth, and no man
ever saw fairer wheat.

Thus passed the seasons of the year until the harvest came. And he
went to look at one of his crofts, and, behold, it was ripe. "I will
reap this to-morrow," said he. On the morrow, when he came there, he
found nothing but the bare straw. Every one of the ears of the wheat
was cut off from the stalk, and all the ears carried entirely
away. And at this he marvelled greatly.

Then he went to look at another croft, and, behold, that also was
ripe. "Verily," said he, "this will I reap to-morrow." And on the
morrow he came with the intent to reap it; and when he came there, he
found nothing but the bare straw.

 "O gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed. "I know that whosoever has begun
my ruin is completing it, and has also destroyed the country with me."

Then he went to look at the third croft; and when he came there, finer
wheat had there never been seen, and this also was ripe. "Evil betide
me," said he, "if I watch not here to-night. Whoever carried off the
other corn will come in like manner to take this, and I will know who
it is." And he told Kieva all that had befallen. "Verily," said she,
"what thinkest thou to do?" "I will watch the croft to-night," said
he. And he went to watch the croft.

At midnight he heard something stirring among the wheat; and he
looked, and behold, the mightiest host of mice in the world, which
could neither be numbered nor measured. He knew not what it was until
the mice had made their way into the croft, and each of them, climbing
up the straw and bending it down with its weight, had cut off one of
the ears of wheat and had carried it away, leaving there the stalk;
and he saw not a single straw there that had not a mouse to it. And
they all took their way, carrying the ears with them.

In wrath and anger did he rush upon the mice, but he could no more
come up with them than if they had been gnats or birds of the air,
except one only, which, though it was but sluggish, went so fast that
a man on foot could scarce overtake it. After this one he went, and
he caught it and put it in his glove, and tied up the opening of the
glove with a string, and kept it with him, and returned to the
palace. Then he came to the hall where Kieva was, and he lighted a
fire, and hung the glove by the string upon a peg. "What hast thou
there, lord?" said Kieva. "A thief," said he, "that I found robbing
me." "What kind of a thief may it be, lord, that thou couldst put into
thy glove?" said she. Then he told her how the mice came to the last
of the fields in his sight. "And one of them was less nimble than the
rest, and is now in my glove; to-morrow I will hang it." "My lord,"
said she, "this is marvellous; but yet it would be unseemly for a man
of dignity like thee to be hanging such a reptile as this." "Woe
betide me," said he, "if I would not hang them all, could I catch
them, and such as I have I will hang." "Verily, lord," said she,
"there is no reason that I should succor this reptile, except to
prevent discredit unto thee. Do therefore, lord, as thou wilt."

Then he went to the Mound of Narberth, taking the mouse with him. He
set up two forks on the highest part of the mound, and while he was
doing this he saw a scholar coming towards him, in old and tattered
garments. It was seven years since he had seen in that place either
man or beast, except those four persons who had remained together
until two of them were lost.

"My lord," said the scholar, "good day to thee." "Heaven prosper
thee, and my greeting be unto thee! And whence dost thou come,
scholar?" asked he. "I come, lord, from singing in England; and
wherefore dost thou inquire?" "Because for the last seven years,"
answered he, "I have seen no man here save four secluded persons, and
thyself this moment." "Truly, lord," said he, "I go through this land
unto mine own. And what work art thou upon, lord?" "I am hanging a
thief that I caught robbing me," said he. "What manner of thief is
that?" asked the scholar. "I see a creature in thy hand like unto a
mouse, and ill does it become a man of rank equal to thine to touch a
reptile such as this. Let it go forth free." "I will not let it go
free, by Heaven," said he; "I caught it robbing me, and the doom of a
thief will I inflict upon it, and I will hang it." "Lord," said he,
"rather than see a man of rank equal to thine at such a work as this,
I would give thee a pound, which I have received as alms, to let the
reptile go forth free." "I will not let it go free," said he, "neither
will I sell it." "As thou wilt, lord," he answered; "I care naught."
And the scholar went his way.

As he was placing the cross-beam upon the two forks, behold, a priest
came towards him, upon a horse covered with trappings. "Good day to
thee, lord," said he. "Heaven prosper thee!" said Manawyddan; "thy
blessing." "The blessing of Heaven be upon thee! And what, lord, art
Thou doing?" "I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said
he. "What manner of thief, lord?" asked he. "A creature," he
answered, "in the form of a mouse. It has been robbing me, and I am
inflicting upon it the doom of a thief." "Lord," said he, "rather than
see thee touch this reptile, I would purchase its freedom." "By my
confession to Heaven, neither will I sell it nor set it free." "It is
true, lord, that it is worth nothing to buy; but rather than see thee
defile thyself by touching such a reptile as this, I will give thee
three pounds to let it go." "I will not, by Heaven," said he, "take
any price for it. As it ought, so shall it be hanged." And the priest
went his way.

Then he noosed the string around the mouse's neck, and as he was about
to draw it up, behold, he saw a bishop's retinue, with his
sumpter-horses and his attendants. The bishop himself came towards
him, and he stayed his work. "Lord bishop," said he, "thy blessing."
"Heaven's blessing be unto thee!" said he. "What work art thou upon?"
"Hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said he. "Is not that a
mouse that I see in thy hand?" "Yes," answered he, "and she has
robbed me." "Ay," said he, "since I have come at the doom of this
reptile, I will ransom it of thee. I will give thee seven pounds for
it, and that rather than see a man of rank equal to thine destroying
so vile a reptile as this. Let it loose, and thou shalt have the
money." "I declare to Heaven that I will not let it loose." "If thou
wilt not loose it for this, I will give thee four and twenty pounds of
ready money to set it free." "I will not set it free, by Heaven, for
as much again," said he. "If thou wilt not set it free for this, I
will give thee all the horses that thou seest in this plain, and the
seven loads of baggage, and the seven horses that they are upon." "By
Heaven, I will not," he replied. "Since for this thou wilt not set it
free, do so at what price soever thou wilt." "I will that Rhiannon and
Pryderi be free," said he. "That thou shalt have," he answered. "Not
yet will I loose the mouse, by Heaven." "What then wouldst thou?"
"That the charm and the illusion be removed from the seven cantrevs of
Dyved." "This shalt thou have also; set therefore the mouse free." "I
will not set it free, by Heaven," said he, "till I know who the mouse
may be." "She is my wife." "Wherefore came she to me?" "To despoil
thee," he answered. "I am Lloyd, the son of Kilwed, and I cast the
charm over the seven cantrevs of Dyved. And it was to avenge Gawl,
the son of Clud, from the friendship I had towards him, that I cast
the charm. And upon Pryderi did I avenge Gawl, the son of Clud, for
the game of Badger in the Bag, that Pwyll, the son of Auwyn, played
upon him. And when it was known that thou wast come to dwell in the
land, my household came and besought me to transform them into mice,
that they might destroy thy corn. They went the first and the second
night, and destroyed thy two crops. The third night my wife came unto
me, and the ladies of the court, and besought me to transform
them. And I transformed them. Now my wife was not in her usual health,
for had she been in her usual health thou wouldst not have been able
to overtake her; but since this has taken place, and she has been
caught, I will restore to thee Pryderi and Rhiannon, and I will take
the charm and illusion from off Dyved. Set her therefore free." "I
will not set her free yet." "What wilt thou more?" he asked. "I will
that there be no more charm upon the seven cantrevs of Dyved, and that
none shall be put upon it henceforth; moreover, that vengeance be
never taken for this, either upon Pryderi or Rhiannon, or upon me."
"All this shalt thou have. And truly thou hast done wisely in asking
this. Upon thy head would have lit all this trouble." "Yea," said he,
"for fear thereof was it that I required this." "Set now my wife at
liberty." "I will not," said he, "until I see Pryderi and Rhiannon
with me free." "Behold, here they come," he answered.

And thereupon behold Pryderi and Rhiannon. He rose up to meet them,
and greeted them, and sat down beside them. "Ah, chieftain, set now my
wife at liberty," said the bishop. "Hast thou not received all thou
didst ask?" "I will release her, gladly," said he. And thereupon he
set her free.

Then he struck her with a magic wand, and she was changed back into a
young woman, the fairest ever seen.

"Look round upon thy land," said he, "and thou wilt see it all tilled
and peopled as it was in its best estate." And he rose up and looked
forth. And when he looked he saw all the lands tilled, and full of
herds and dwellings.




THE STORY OF LLUDD LLEVELYS

By Lady Charlotte Guest


Beli the Great, the son of Manogan, had three sons, Lludd and
Caswallawn and Nynyaw; and according to the story he had a fourth son
called Llevelys. And after the death of Beli, the kingdom of the
island of Britain fell into the hands of Lludd his eldest son; and
Lludd ruled prosperously, and rebuilt the city of London, and
encompassed it about with numberless towers. And after that he bade
the citizens build houses therein, such as no houses in the kingdom
could equal. And moreover he was a mighty warrior, and generous and
liberal in giving meat and drink to all that sought them. And though
he had many castles and cities, this one loved he more than any. And
he dwelt therein most part of the year, and therefore was it called
Caer Lludd, and at last Caer London.

And after the stranger race came there, it was called London, or
Lwndrys.

Lludd loved Llevelys best of all his brothers, because he was a wise
and a discreet man. Having heard that the King of France had died,
leaving no heir except a daughter, and that he had left all his
possessions in her hands, he came to Lludd his brother, to beseech his
counsel and aid. And that not so much for his own welfare, as to seek
to add to the glory and honour and dignity of his kindred, if he might
go to France to woo the maiden for his wife. And forthwith his brother
conferred with him, and this counsel was pleasing unto him.

So he prepared ships and filled them with armed knights, and set forth
towards France. And as soon as they had landed, they sent messengers
to show the nobles of France the cause of the embassy. And by the
joint counsel of the nobles of France and of the princes, the maiden
was given to Llevelys, and the crown of the kingdom with her. And
thenceforth he ruled the land discreetly and wisely and happily, as
long as his life lasted.

After a space of time had passed, three plagues fell upon the island
of Britain, such as none in the islands had ever seen the like. The
first was a certain race that came, and was called the Coranians; and
so great was their knowledge that there was no discourse upon the face
of the island however low it might be spoken, but what, if the wind
met it, it was known to them. And through this they could not be
injured.

The second plague was a shriek which came on every May eve, over every
hearth in the island of Britain. And this went through people's
hearts, and so scared them that men lost their hue and their strength,
and the women their children, and the young men and the maidens lost
their senses, and all the animals and the waters were left barren.

The third plague was, that however much of provisions and food might
be prepared in the king's courts, were there even so much as a year's
provisions of meats and drink, none of it could ever be found, except
what was consumed in the first night. And two of these plagues, no
one ever knew their cause; therefore was there better hope of being
freed from the first than from the second and third.

And thereupon King Lludd felt great sorrow and care, because that he
knew not how he might be freed from these plagues. And he called to
him all the nobles of his kingdom, and asked counsel of them what they
should do against these afflictions. And by the common counsel of the
nobles, Lludd the son of Beli went to Llevelys his brother, King of
France, for he was a man great of counsel and wisdom, to seek his
advice.

And they made ready a fleet, and that in secret and in silence, lest
that race should know the cause of their errand, or any besides the
king and his counsellors. And when they were made ready they went into
their ships, Lludd and those whom he chose with him. And they began to
cleave the seas towards France.

And when these tidings came to Llevelys, seeing that he knew not the
cause of his brother's ships, he came on the other side to meet him,
and with him was a fleet vast of size. And when Lludd saw this, he
left all the ships out upon the sea except one only; and in that one
he came to meet his brother, and he likewise with a single ship came
to meet him. And when they were come together, each put his arms
about the other's neck, and they welcomed each other with brotherly
love.

After that Lludd had shown his brother the cause of his errand,
Llevelys said that he himself knew the cause of the coming to those
lands. And they took counsel together to discourse on the matter
otherwise than thus, in order that the wind might not catch their
words, nor the Coranians know what they might say. Then Llevelys
caused a long horn to be made of brass, and through this horn they
discoursed. But whatsoever words they spoke through this horn, one to
the other, neither of them could hear any other but harsh and hostile
words. And when Llevelys saw this and that there was a demon
thwarting them and disturbing through this horn, he caused wine to be
put therein to wash it. And through the virtue of the wine the demon
was driven out of the horn. And when their discourse was unobstructed,
Llevelys told his brother that he would give him some insects whereof
he should keep some to breed, lest by chance the like affliction might
come a second time. And other of these insects he should take and
bruise in water. And he assured him that he would have power to
destroy the race of Coranians. That is to say, that when he came home
to his kingdom he should call together all the people both of his own
race and of the race of the Coranians for a conference, as though with
the intent of making peace between them; and that when they were all
together, he should take this charmed water, and cast it over all
alike. And he assured him that the water would poison the race of the
Coranians, but that it would not slay or harm those of his own race.

"And the second plague," said he, "that is in thy dominion, behold it
is a dragon. And another dragon of foreign race is fighting with it,
and striving to overcome it. And therefore does your dragon make a
fearful outcry. And on this wise mayest thou come to know this. After
thou hast returned home, cause the island to be measured in its length
and breadth, and in the place where thou dost find the exact central
point, there cause a pit to be dug, and cause a cauldron full of the
best mead that can be made to be put in the pit with a covering of
satin over the face of the cauldron. And then in thine own person do
thou remain there watching, and thou wilt see the dragons fighting in
the form of terrific animals. And at length they will take the form of
dragons in the air. And last of all, after wearying themselves with
fierce and furious fighting, they will fall in the form of two pigs
upon the covering, and they will sink in and the covering with them,
and they will draw it down to the very bottom of the cauldron. And
they will drink up the whole of the mead; and after that they will
sleep. Thereupon do thou immediately fold the covering round them, and
bury them in a kistvaen, in the strongest place thou hast in thy
dominions, and hide them in the earth. And as long as they shall bide
in that strong place, no plague shall come to the island of Britain
from elsewhere.

"The cause of the third plague," said he, "is a mighty man of magic,
who takes thy meat and thy drink and thy stores. And he through
illusions and charms causes every one to sleep. Therefore it is
needful for thee in thy own person to watch thy food and thy
provisions. And lest he should overcome thee with sleep, be there a
cauldron of cold water by thy side, and when thou art oppressed with
sleep, plunge into the cauldron."

Then Lludd returned back into his land. And immediately he summoned to
him the whole of his own race and of the Coranians. And as Llevelys
had taught him, he bruised the insects in water, the which he cast
over them altogether, and forthwith it destroyed the whole tribe of
the Coranians, without hurt to any of the Britons.

And some time after this Lludd caused the island to be measured in its
length and breadth. And in Oxford he found the central point, and in
that place he caused the earth to be dug, and in that pit a cauldron
to be set, full of the best mead that could be made, and a covering of
satin over the face of it. And he himself watched that night. And
while he was there, he beheld the dragons fighting. And when they were
weary they fell, and came down upon the top of the satin, and drew it
with them to the bottom of the cauldron. And when they had drunk the
mead, they slept. And in their sleep, Lludd folded the covering around
them, and in the securest place he had in Snowdon, he hid them in a
kistvaen. Now after that this spot was called Dinas Emreis, but before
that, Dinas Ffaraon. And thus the fierce outcry ceased in his
dominions.

And when this was ended, King Lludd caused an exceeding great banquet
to be prepared. And when it was ready, he placed a vessel of cold
water by his side and he in his own proper person watched it. And as
he abode thus clad with arms, about the third watch of the night, lo!
he heard many surpassing fascinations and various songs. And
drowsiness urged him to sleep. Upon this, lest he should be hindered
from his purpose and be overcome by sleep, he went often into the
water. And at last, behold! a man of vast size, clad in strong, heavy
armour, came in, bearing a hamper. And, as he was wont, he put all the
food and provisions of meat and drink into the hamper and proceeded to
go with it forth. And nothing was ever more wonderful to Lludd than
that the hamper should hold so much.

And thereupon King Lludd went after him and spoke unto him thus:
"Stop, stop," said he; "though thou hast done many insults and much
spoil erewhile, thou shalt not do so any more unless thy skill in arms
and thy prowess be greater than mine."

Then he instantly put down the hamper on the floor, and awaited
him. And a fierce encounter was between them, so that the glittering
fire flew out from their arms. And at the last Lludd grappled with
him, and fate bestowed the victory on Lludd. And he threw the plague
to the earth. And after he had overcome him by strength and might, he
besought his mercy. "How can I grant thee mercy," said the king,
"after all the many injuries and wrongs thou hast done me?" "All the
losses that ever I have caused thee," said he, "I will make thee
atonement for, equal to what I have taken. And I will never do the
like from this time forth. But thy faithful vassal will I be." And the
king accepted this from him.

And thus Lludd freed the island of Britain from the three plagues. And
from thenceforth until the end of his life, in prosperous peace did
Lludd the son of Beli rule the island of Britain. And this tale is
called the Story of Lludd and Llevelys. And thus it ends.




TALES FROM EARLY ENGLISH CHRONICLES


King Horn, in the version here given, is a fine old English story,
evidently very popular with the common people. Earlier versions were
probably familiar to the Norse in the tenth century, at which time
Dublin was the capital of a Norse kingdom. Suddenne was possibly the
Isle of Man.

There seems to be some historical basis for the story of Havelok,
since the seal of the city of Grimsby today represents Grim with
"Habloc," or Havelok, on his right hand, and Goldborough on his left.

The Fair Unknown is one of the King Arthur stories that is not
included in Sir Thomas Malory's Morte d'Arthur.




THE ADVENTURES OF KING HORN

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


Murray was King of Suddenne in the west country, a wise king whom all
his subjects honoured. Godhild was his queen, and no woman of that day
was lovelier than she. Their son was named Horn; and when Horn was
fifteen years old, the sun shone and the rain fell on no fairer boy.

Twelve squires, each one the son of a man of noble birth, were chosen
to be Horn's companions. Athulf was the best and truest of them, and
dearest to Horn's heart; and one Fikenhild was the basest among them.

It pleased King Murry, on a certain summer's day, to ride, as was his
wont, by the seashore, with only two comrades. Suddenly, as they rode,
they came upon a strange sight. There before them on the edge of the
waves lay fifteen ships beached, full of fierce Saracens; and many
other Saracens went busily to and fro upon the shore. "What seek you
here, pagan men?" cried Murry at that sight. "What wares do you bring
to this my land of Suddenne?" For he thought them to be merchants from
a far land,

"We are come to slay all your folk who believe in Christ," answered
one of them; "and that we do right soon. As for you, you go not hence
alive. "Thereat Murry was sorely troubled in heart. Nevertheless, he
made no sign of fear. He and his two companions, with bold mien, leapt
down from their horses, to fight more readily, and drew their swords,
and fell upon the pagans. Many a stout blow they dealt; many a Saracen
felt the strength of their arms: but for all their might and valour,
they were but three against a host. From every side the enemy fell
upon them unceasingly, and in a little time they lay there dead upon
the sand. Then the Saracens left their ships and spread over the whole
of Suddenne, slaying and burning and laying waste wheresoever they
came. None might live, were he stranger or friend or native of the
land, unless he forswore the Christian faith and became a pagan.

Of all women in those days Godhild the queen was saddest. Her kingdom
was lost, her husband cruelly slain, and all her days were filled with
grief. But worse befell her, for on a certain day the Saracens came
suddenly and took Horn prisoner and carried him away. Godhild escaped,
and in her dire distress fled alone to a distant cave, and there lay
hid, worshipping her God in secret, and praying that He would save her
son from harm.

Horn and his companions--for all his twelve squires had been captured
with him--seemed in sorry case. The savage pagans were for killing all
Christians. But their chief Emir wished to have no innocent blood on
his hands, and spoke out boldly. "We might well slay you, Horn," he
said; "you are young and fair and strong, and will grow yet
stronger. Perchance, if we spare you now, you will some day return and
be avenged upon us, when you have come to your full power. Yet we
ourselves will not put you to death; the guilt shall not be on us, but
on the sea. To the sea will we give you and your comrades; the sea
shall be your judge, to save or drown you as it will."

Weeping and wringing their hands, Horn and his comrades were led down
to the seashore. There a boat was made ready for them, with oars, but
no rudder or sail.

All their tears were vain: the Saracens forced them aboard, and turned
the little craft adrift into the wide ocean.

The boat drove fast and far through the water, and fear came down upon
those in it. Soon they were tossing haphazard upon the rushing waves,
now resting forlornly, now praying for help, now rowing wildly, as if
for their lives, if ever the violence of the sea abated for a
moment. All that afternoon, and through the long, dark night, they
voyaged in cold and terror, till in the morning, as the day dawned,
Horn looked up and saw land at a little distance. "Friends," said he,
"I have good tidings. Yonder I spy land; I hear the song of birds, and
see grass growing. Be merry once more; our ship has come into safety."

They took their oars and rowed lustily. Soon the keel touched the
shore, and they sprang out eagerly on to dry land, leaving the boat
empty. The waves drew the little craft gently back to themselves, and
it began to glide away into the great sea. "Go now from us, dear
boat," cried Horn lovingly to it, as he saw it drawn away; "farewell,
sail softly, and may no wave do you harm."

The boat floated slowly away, and Horn wept sorely at parting from
it. Then they all turned their faces inland, and left the sea behind
them, and set forth to seek whatsoever fortune might bring them.




HORN IS DUBBED KNIGHT

Retold by F.J.H. Darton


The country to which Horn and his comrades had come was called
Westerness: Aylmer the Good was king of it. But of that the wanderers
knew nought as yet.

They journeyed far over hill and dale, ignorant of the way, and seeing
no living man, until, as the day drew to an end? there met them Aylmer
the king himself. "Whence do you come, friends?" asked he. "Who are
you that are so fair and straight of body?"

Horn spoke up for them all, for he was wisest and most skilled in the
use of courteous words. "We are from Suddenne, sire, of good lineage
and Christian faith. The pagans came to our land, and slew my father
and many others, and drove us from our homes. We thirteen whom you see
were set adrift in a boat, to be the sport of the sea; a day and a
night have we travelled without sail or rudder, and our boat brought
us to this land. We are in your hands, sire: slay us, or keep us
bound as prisoners; do with us as you will."

The good king was no ungentle boor: he spoke them fair and
graciously. "Tell me, child," he said, "what is your name? No harm
shall come to you at my hands, whosoever you he."

"Horn am I called, sire."

"Horn, child, you are well and truly named: your fame shall ring like
a horn over dale and hill. Now, Horn, come with me. You and your
comrades shall abide at my court."

They set out for the king's palace. When they were come thither,
Aylmer entrusted them to his steward, Athelbrus, whom he charged to
bring them up in knightly ways. They were added to Aylmer's household,
and taught all that squires of kings should know. But Horn was to come
to greater things than this. He learnt quickly, and became beloved by
every one; and most of all, Rimenhild, the king's daughter, loved him
from the day when she first set eyes on him. Her love for him grew
daily stronger and stronger, though she dared speak no word of it to
him, for she was a princess, and he only a squire rescued by chance
from the sea.

At length Rimenhild could hide her love no longer.

She sent for Athelbrus the steward, and bade him bring Horn to her
bower. But he, guessing her secret from her wild looks, was unwilling
to send Horn to her, fearing the king's displeasure; and he bade
Athulf, Horn's dearest companion, go to the princess instead, hoping
either that the princess would not know him from Horn (for she had as
yet spoken to neither of them, and they were much alike in face and
mien), or that by this plan she would see the folly of her desire.

Athulf came to Rimenhild's bower, and she did not know that he was not
Horn, and received him lovingly. But soon the trick was made plain,
for Athulf, as beseems a loyal heart, could not hear himself praised
above all other squires at Aylmer's court, and vowed that Horn was far
fairer and better than he. Then Rimenhild in a rage sent him from her,
and bade Athelbrus bring Horn to her without more ado. And thus at
last Horn came before the princess.

"King's daughter," said he with reverence and courtesy, "Athelbrus,
the steward, bade me come to you here. Say what you would have me do."

Rimenhild rose, answering nothing till she had taken him by the hand,
and made him sit by her, and embraced him lovingly. "Welcome, Horn,"
she said; "you are so fair that I cannot but love you. Take me to
wife; have pity on my love."

Horn knew not what to say. "Princess," he began at last, "I am
too lowly for such a wife as you. I am but a thrall [Footnote: A slave
or bondsman.] and a foundling, and owe all that I have to the king
your sire. There is no meet wedding between a thrall and the king's
daughter." At those words Rimenhild fell into a swoon; and Horn was
filled with pity and love at the sight, and took her in his arms, and
kissed her.

"Dear lady," he said, "be brave. Help me to win knighthood at the
hands of my lord the king; if I be dubbed knight my thraldom is ended,
and I am free to love you, as I do in my heart already." For Horn had
long loved the princess secretly, but dared not hope that she would
give him her love in turn.

Rimenhild came to her senses as he spoke. "Horn," she said, "it shall
be as you wish. Ere fourteen days have passed you shall be made a
knight."

Thereupon she sent for Athelbrus again, and bade him pray the king
Aylmer to dub Horn a knight; and, to be brief, Horn was speedily
knighted, and, asking the king's leave, himself knighted in turn his
twelve companions.

As soon as he was knighted, Rimenhild called him to her; and Athulf,
his dear comrade, went with him into her presence. "Sir Horn, my
knight," she said, "sit by me here. See, it is time to fulfil your
word. Take me for your wife."

"Nay, Rimenhild," answered Horn; "that may not be yet. It is not
enough that I am knighted. I must prove my knighthood, as all men do,
in combat with some other knight. I must do a deed of prowess in the
field for love of you: then if I win through with my life, I will
return and take you to wife."

"Be it so, Horn. Now take from me this carven ring of gold. On it is
wrought: 'Be true to Rimenhild.' Wear it always on your finger, for
my love's sake. The stone in it has such grace that never need you
fear any wound nor shrink from any combat, if you do but wear this
ring, and look steadfastly upon it, and think of me. And you, Athulf,
you too, when you have proven your knighthood, shall have such another
ring also. Sir Horn, may Heaven bless and keep you, and bring you safe
to me again."

With that Horn kissed her, and received her blessing, and went away to
prove his knighthood in brave feats of arms.




HORN THE KNIGHT ERRANT

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


When Horn had saddled his great black horse, and put on his armour, he
rode forth to adventure, singing gaily. Scarce had he gone a mile when
he spied by the seashore a ship, beached, and filled with heathen
Saracens. "What do you bring hither?" asked Horn. "Whence do you
come?" The pagans saw that he was but one man, and they were many, and
answered boldly, "We are come to win this land, and slay all its
folk."

At that Horn gripped his sword, and his blood ran hot. He sprang upon
the Saracen chief and smote him with all his strength, so that he
cleft the man's head from off his shoulders. Then he looked at the
ring which Rimenhild had given him; and immediately such might came
upon him that in a trice he slew full five score of the pagans. They
fled in terror before him, and few of those whom he did not slay at
the first onset escaped.

Horn set the head of the Saracen leader on the point of his sword, and
rode back to Aylmer's court. When he had come to the king's palace, he
went into the great hall, where the king and all his knights sat.
"King Aylmer," he cried, "and you, his knights, hear me. To-day, after
I was dubbed knight, I rode forth and found a ship by the shore,
filled with outlandish knaves, fierce Saracens, who were for slaying
you all. I set upon them; my sword failed not, and I smote them to the
ground. Lo, here is the head of their chief."

Men marvelled at Horn's prowess, and the king gave him words of
praise. But not yet did Horn dare speak of his love for Rimenhild. On
the morrow, at dawn, King Aylmer went a-hunting in the forest, and
Horn's twelve companions rode with him. But Horn himself did not go to
the chase; he sought instead to tell his lady Rimenhild of his deeds,
and went to her bower secretly, thinking to hear her joy in the feats
he had done. But he found her weeping bitterly. "Dear love," he said,
"why do you weep?"

"Alas, Horn, I have had an evil dream," she answered. "I dreamed that
I went fishing, and saw my net burst. A great fish was taken in it,
and I thought to have drawn him out safely; but he broke from my
hands, and rent the meshes of the net. It is in my mind that this
dream is of ill omen for us, Horn, and that the great fish signifies
you yourself, whereby I know that I am to lose you."

"Heaven keep this ill hap from us, dear princess," said Horn. "Nought
shall harm you, I vow; I take you for my own for ever, and plight my
troth to you here and now." But though he seemed to be of good cheer,
he too was stirred by this strange dream, and had evil forebodings.

Meanwhile Fikenhild, riding with King Aylmer by the river Stour, was
filled with envy of Horn's great deeds against the Saracens; and at
last he said to the king, "King Aylmer, hear me. This Horn, whom you
knighted yesterday for his valour in slaying the Saracens, would fain
undo you. I have heard him plotting to kill you and take Rimenhild to
wife. Even now, as we ride here by the river, he is in her bower--he,
Horn, the foundling, is with your daughter, the Princess Rimenhild.
Go now, and take him, and drive him out of your land for his
presumption." For Fikenhild had set a watch on Horn, and found out the
secret of his love for Rimenhild.

Thereupon King Aylmer turned his horse, and rode home again, and found
Horn with Rimenhild, even as Fikenhild had said. "Get you hence,
Horn," he cried in anger, "you base foundling; forth out of my
daughter's bower, away with you altogether! See that you leave this
land of Westerness right speedily; here is no place nor work for you.
If you flee not soon, your life is forfeit."

Horn, flushed with rage, went to the stable, and set saddle on his
steed, and took his arms; so fierce was his mien that none dared
withstand him. When all was ready for his going, he sought out
Rimenhild. "Your dream was true, dear love," he said. "The fish has
torn your net, and I go from you. But I will put a new ending to the
dream; fear not. Now fare you well; the king your father has cast me
out of his realm, and I must needs seek adventure in other lands.
Seven years will I wander, and it may be that I shall win such fortune
as shall bring me back to sue honourably for you. But if at the end of
seven years I have not come again to Westerness, nor sent word to you,
then do you, if you so will, take another man for husband in my stead,
and put me out of your heart. Now for the last time hold me in your
arms and kiss me good-bye."

So Horn took his leave. But before he went away from Aylmer's court,
he charged Athulf his friend to watch over Rimenhild and guard her
from harm. Then he set forth on his horse, and rode down to the sea,
and took ship to sail away alone from Westerness.




HORN IN EXILE

Retold by F. J. H. Barton


Ere Horn had sailed long, the wind rose, and the ship drove blindly
before it for many leagues, till at length it was cast up on land.
Horn stepped out on to the beach, and there before him saw two
princes, whose names (for they greeted him kindly) were Harild and
Berild.

"Whence are you?" they asked, when they had told him who they were.
"What are you called?"

Horn thought it wise to hide his real name from them, lest it should
come to Aylmer's ears, and his anger reach Horn even in this distant
land. "I am called Cuthbert," he answered, "and I am come far from the
west in this little ship, seeking adventure and honour."

"Well met, sir knight," said Harild. "Come now to our father the king:
you shall do knightly deeds in his service." They led him to King
Thurston their father; and when Thurston saw that Horn was a man of
might, skilled in arms, and a true knight, he took him into his
service readily. So Horn--or Cuthbert, as they knew him--abode at
Thurston's court, and served the king in battle. But no great and
notable thing befell him until the coming of Christmas.

It was King Thurston's custom to make each Christmas a great feast,
lasting many days. To this feast Horn was bidden, with all the other
knights of the court. Great mirth and joy was there that Yule-tide;
all men feasted with light hearts. Suddenly, about noon-day, the great
doors of the king's hall were flung open, and a monstrous giant strode
in. He was fully armed, in pagan raiment, and his mien was proud and
terrible.

"Sit still, sir king," he roared, as Thurston turned to him. "Hearken
to my tidings. I am come hither with a Saracen host, and my comrades
are close at hand. From them I bring a challenge; and this is the
challenge. One of us alone will fight any three of your knights, in a
certain place. If your three slay our one, then we will depart and
leave you and your land unscathed. But if our one champion slays your
three, then will we take your land for our own, and deal with it and
you as it pleases us. To-morrow at dawn we will make ready for the
combat; and if you take not up this challenge, and send your appointed
knights to battle, then will we burn and lay waste and slay all over
this realm." Thereupon he turned, and stalked out of the hall, saying
never another word. "This is a sorry hap," said King Thurston, when
the Saracen had gone and left them all aghast. "Yet must we take up
this challenge. Cuthbert," he said, turning to Horn, "you have heard
this pagan boast; will you be one of our three champions? Harild and
Berild, my sons, shall be the other two, and may God prosper all
three! But alas! it is of little avail. We are all dead men!"

But Horn felt no fear. He started up from the board when he heard the
king's sorrowful words. "Sir king," he cried, "this is all amiss. It
is not to our honour that three Christian knights should fight this
one pagan. I alone will lay the giant low, with my own sword,
unaided."

Thurston hoped little of this plan, but none the less he agreed to it;
and when the next day came, he arose betimes, and with his own hands
helped to arm Horn; and having made ready, he rode down to the field
of battle with him. There, in a great open space, stood the Saracen
giant awaiting them, his friends standing by him to abide the issue of
the combat. They made little tarrying, but fell to right soon. Horn
dealt mightily with the giant; he attacked him at once, and showered
blows upon him, so that the pagan was hard pressed, and begged for a
breathing space.

"Let us rest awhile, sir knight," he said. "Never suffered I such
blows from any man's hand yet, except from King Murry, whom I slew in
Suddenne."

At that dear name Horn's blood ran hot within him: before him he saw
the man who had slain his father and had driven himself from his
kingdom. He fell to more furiously than ever, and drove hard at the
giant beneath the shield; and as he smote he cast his eye upon the
ring Rimenhild had given him.

Therewith his strength was redoubled; so straight and strong was the
blow, so true his arm, that he pierced the giant to the heart, and he
fell dead upon the ground.

When they saw their champion slain, the Saracens were stricken with
panic. They turned and fled headlong to their ships, Thurston and his
knights pursuing. A great battle was fought by the ships: Harild and
Berild were slain, but Horn did such deeds of prowess that every pagan
was killed.

There was great lamentation over the two princes. Their bodies were
brought to the king's palace and laid in state, and lastly buried in a
great church built for them.




HORN'S RETURN

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


There was now no heir to Thurston's kingdom, since Harild and Berild
were slain; and in a little time, when the king's grief abated, he
bethought him of what should befall his people when his time came to
die.

"Cuthbert," he said to Horn one day, when he had pondered long over
these things, "there is no heir to my kingdom. There is but my
daughter Reynild to come after me. Will you wed her, and he king and
rule this land after my death?"

Horn was sorely tempted. But he looked on his ring, and remembered
Rimenhild. "Sir king," he answered, "you do me great honour, and I
give you thanks. But I am under a vow, and cannot wed the lady
Reynild." He would say no more, but was firm in his purpose; and King
Thurston had to be content with his loyal service only. For seven
years Horn abode at Thurston's court, serving in arms under him and
winning great fame by his knightly deeds. No word did he send to
Rimenhild, nor received tidings of any kind from Westerness.

About the end of the seventh year Horn chanced to be riding in the
forest, when he met a page journeying as if towards Thurston's
palace. "What do you here?" he said. "Whither do you go?"

"Sir," answered the page, "I have a message for one Sir Horn from Sir
Athulf in Westerness, where Aylmer is king. The Lady Rimenhild is to
be wedded on Sunday to King Modi of Reynes, and I am sent to bring
tidings thereof to Sir Horn. But I can find him nowhere, nor hear
even so much as his name, though I have wandered far and wide."

At this heavy news Horn hid his name no longer. He told the page who
he was, and bade him go back with all speed, and say to Rimenhild that
she need no longer mourn: her lover would save her ere Sunday came.

The page returned blithely with this message. But he never delivered
it, for as he went back he was by chance drowned; and Rimenhild,
hearing no word of Horn, despaired. Athulf, too, watching long for
Horn each day on a tower of Aylmer's palace, gave up hope.

But Horn was not idle or forgetful. When he had despatched the page,
as he thought, safely back to Athulf and Rimenhild, he went straight
to King Thurston, and without more pretence told him his true name and
all the story of the adventures.

"Sire," he said, at the end, "I have served you well. Grant me reward
for my service, and help me to win Rimenhild. See, you offered me the
hand of your daughter Reynild; that I might not accept, for I was
pledged already; but perchance my comrade Athulf might be deemed an
honourable suitor. If you will but help me, Athulf shall be Reynild's
husband; that I vow. Sire, give me your aid."

"Be it so," said Thurston, loath to lose Horn, but glad to hear of a
knight waiting to wed the lady Reynild. Straightway a levy of knights
was made, and Horn set forth in a ship with a brave body of fighting
men. The wind blew favourably, and ere long they came to Westerness.
Even as they touched the shore, the bells ceased ringing for the
marriage of Rimenhild to King Modi.

Horn saw how late they had arrived, and that he must needs act warily,
if he would save Rimenhild in the midst of the rejoicings over her
wedding. He left his men on board ship, and landed alone, setting out
to walk to the palace, where the wedding-feast was about to be held.
As he walked thus, he met a palmer [Footnote: A pilgrim], clad in
pilgrim's weeds. "Whither go you, sir palmer?" he asked.

"I have just come from a wedding," he answered, "from the wedding of
Rimenhild, the king's daughter; and sad and sorrowful she seemed to
be, in truth, on this wedding day."

"Now Heaven help me, palmer, but I will change clothes with you. Take
you my robe, and give me your long cloak. To-day I will drink at that
wedding feast, and some shall rue the hour that I sit at the board
with them."

Without more ado he changed clothes with the palmer, taking also his
staff and scrip, and staining his face till it was like that of a
toil-worn traveller. Then he set out for the palace once more.

He came soon to the gates, where a porter strove to bar his
entrance. But Horn broke in the wicket-gate, and entered, and threw
the man over the drawbridge, so that his ribs were broken. None other
stood in Horn's way, and he went into the great hall, and took his
place in a lowly seat among the beggars and poor men.

As he looked about him, he saw, at a little distance, Rimenhild,
weeping and lamenting sorely. Athulf he did not see, for he was still
keeping watch in the tower for Horn's return. Before long Rimenhild
rose from her seat and began to minister to the guests, according to
custom, pouring them out wine and ale in horn beakers. When she came
low down among the guests, Horn spoke to her.

"Fair queen," he said, "serve us also; we beggars are athirst."

She laid down the vessel she bore, and took a great gallon cup, and
filled it with brown ale, and offered it him, thinking him a
glutton. "Take this cup," she said, "and drink your fill. Never saw I
so forward a beggar."

"I will not drink your ale, lady," answered Horn, for he was minded to
let her know who he was, and yet to hide himself from all others at
the feast. "Give me wine; I am no beggar. I am a fisherman, come
hither to search my nets, and see what I have caught. Pledge me now
yourself and drink to Horn of horn."

Thus by his strange words he thought to recall to her that dream she
had formerly dreamed, of a great fish that escaped from her net.

Rimenhild looked on him, and hope and fear sprang up in her heart
together. She knew not what his saying about his nets and "Horn of
horn" might mean. With a steadfast look, she took her drinking-horn,
and filled it with wine, and gave it to Horn.

"Drink your fill, friend," she said, "and tell me if you have seen
aught of this Horn of whom you seem to speak."

Horn drained the beaker, and as he put it down dropped into it the
ring that Rimenhild had given him so long ago. When Rimenhild saw the
ring she knew it at once. She made an excuse, and left the feast, and
went to her bower. In a little time she sent for the palmer secretly,
and asked him where he got the ring.

"Queen," said Horn, "in my travels I met one named Horn. He gave me
this ring to bring to you; it was on shipboard I met him, and he lay
dying."

He said this to prove if her love were still constant to him. But
Rimenhild believed him, and when she heard him say that Horn was dead,
became as one mad with grief. Then Horn, seeing how strong was her
love, threw off his palmer's cloak, and showed her the false stain on
his face, and told her that he was in very truth Horn, her lover.

When their first joy at meeting again was over, Horn told the princess
of the men he had brought with him in his ship. Secretly they sent for
Athulf, and when he too had learnt all Horn's tidings, a message was
sent to the men in the ship, who came to the palace speedily, and were
admitted by a private door. Then all the company of them broke
suddenly into the banquet-hall, and fell upon those there, and slew
many; but Modi and Fikenhild escaped and fled from Westerness.




THE KING OF SUDDENNE

Retold by F. J. H. Barton


When they had made an end of slaying, Horn revealed himself to Aylmer,
and reproached him for giving his daughter in marriage to Modi, whom
she did not love; and Aylmer, when he heard of Horn's deeds--for the
fame which Horn had won under the name of Cuthbert had gone into many
lands--could not but feel sorrow that he had sent Horn away in anger
seven years ago; and he begged Horn to stay at his court and wed
Rimenhild, for the marriage with Modi was not fully complete when Horn
and his men broke up the feast.

"Nay, I am of royal blood," answered Horn. "You thought me a
foundling and despised me. For that insult you formerly put upon me,
I vow I will not take Rimenhild for my wife until I have won my
kingdom of Suddenne back from the Saracens, and avenged my father King
Murry, whom they slew. I am a king's son; I will be a king before my
wife shall come to me."

Aylmer could not gainsay Horn in his purpose, and once more Horn set
out on his wanderings. With him went Sir Athulf and a band of brave
knights. They took ship and for five days sailed the sea with a
favouring wind, till at last, late at night on the fifth day, they
came to the shores of Suddenne.

Horn and Athulf landed, to spy out the country. A little way inland
they came upon an old knight sleeping by the wayside; on his shield
was the device of a cross. Horn woke him gently. "Tell me, sir knight,
who are you?" he asked. "Your shield shows that you are a Christian;
but this land is ruled by pagans."

"I am a Christian, truly," said the old knight. "But I serve the
pagans perforce. They hold the power, and I must needs fight for them,
against my will. This land is in a sorry case. If King Murry's son,
Horn, were here, perchance we might drive the pagans out. But I know
not where to find him, nor where my own son is; for Athulf, my son,
was Horn's dearest companion."

Such changes had the long absence wrought in Horn and Athulf and the
old knight that they did not recognise one another. But at these words
Horn and Athulf knew for certain that they were indeed in
Suddenne. They told the old knight who they were, and learnt that
Horn's mother, the Queen Godhild, was still alive, and many knights in
the land besides, desirous of driving the Saracens out, but unable to
fulfil their desire through lack of a leader and of men.

Horn forthwith summoned his men from the ships, and blew his trumpet
for battle, and attacked the Saracens. There was a great fight, but
before long the heathen were defeated, and those who were not slain
were driven altogether out of the land.

Thus Horn came into his kingdom again; but he had yet to punish
Fikenhild the traitor, who first separated him from Rimenhild (for
this Aylmer had told him), and King Modi, who had sought to wed her
against her will.

Fikenhild, when Horn came back to Westerness in time to save Rimenhild
from Modi, had fled; but he still plotted deep treachery in his
heart. By bribes and favours he won many knights to follow him; and he
built himself a great castle of stone, set on a rock, surrounded on
all sides with water, so that none could come at it easily. Then by
stealth one night he carried off Rimenhild, and married her in this
castle, holding a great feast at sunrise to celebrate the marriage.

Horn knew nought of this by word of mouth or letter. But in a dream he
beheld Rimenhild: she seemed to him as though shipwrecked, calling
upon his name; but when she tried to swim to him, Fikenhild appeared
and prevented her.

When he awoke, Horn told Athulf this vision; and when they had thought
upon the lore of dreams, they agreed that it meant that Rimenhild was
in Fikenhild's sea-girt castle, the fame of which was known to all
men. Straightway they took a ship and sailed to the land hard by where
the castle lay.

There a certain knight named Arnoldin, cousin of Athulf, met them, and
told them that Fikenhild had just wedded Rimenhild, arid the
wedding-feast was now beginning.

They could not come nigh the castle openly as enemies, for none could
approach it across the water unless those within were willing to let
him enter. But Horn and some of his knights disguised themselves as
harpers, hiding their swords under long cloaks.

They took a boat and rowed under the walls of the banqueting-hall, and
there they played and sang merrily, till Fikenhild heard them, and
called them in to the feast.

When they had come into the hall, they began to sing again, at
Fikenhild's bidding. But soon Horn looked once more upon his ring, and
then, with a shout, he and his companions fell upon Fikenhild and his
men and slew every one of them.

The tale is soon told. Horn made Arnoldin king in Fikenhild's
castle. Athulf he sent to Thurston's court, where in a little time he
married the princess Reynild; and Horn went back to his kingdom of
Suddenne, and there made Rimenhild his queen. Long and happily they
reigned in true love and in fear of God.




HAVELOK HID FROM THE TRAITOR

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


In former days there was a King of England called Athelwold; the very
flower of England was he, and he ruled justly and well. All things in
his realm he ordered strictly, and maintained truth and right
throughout the land. Under his rule robbers and traitors were put
down; men bought and sold freely, without fear, and wrongdoers were so
hard pressed that they could but lurk and creep in secret corners.
Athelwold set up justice in his kingdom. There was mercy for the
fatherless in his day; his judgments could not be turned aside by
bribes of silver and gold. If any man did evil, the king's arm reached
him to punish him, were he never so wary and strong.

This Athelwold had no heir, save only one daughter, very fair to look
upon, named Goldborough. But ere she grew up, the king fell ill of a
dire sickness. He knew well that his time was come, and that death was
nigh him. "What shall I do now?" he said in his heart. "How shall my
daughter fare when I am dead? My heart is troubled for her: I think
nought of myself. She cannot yet speak or walk: if she were of age to
ride, she could rule England, and I would care nothing about dying."

But it was idle to lament. The king was sure in his mind that he must
die, and he sent messengers to all his vassals, to his earls, and his
barons, rich and poor, from Roxburgh to Dover, bidding them come to
him speedily where he lay sick.

All those who heard his message were sad at the tidings, and prayed
that he might be delivered from death. They came with all speed to the
king at Winchester.

"Welcome," said he, when they entered the hall of his dwelling. "Full
glad am I that you are come. You see in what sorry case I lie. I have
bidden you here that you may know that my daughter shall be your lady
when I, your lord, am dead. But she is yet a child, and I am fain to
make some true man her guardian till she be a woman grown: I will that
Godrich, Earl of Cornwall, do guard her and bring her up. He is a true
man, wise in counsel and wise in deed, and men have him in awe."

They brought a holy book to the king. On it he made Earl Godrich swear
a solemn oath to keep Goldborough well and truly, till she was of age
to rule and to order the realm of England wisely. Then the little
maid was given to the earl, her new guardian. Athelwold thanked the
earl, and bade him to be true to his charge; and in a little while
death took the good king.

When King Athelwold was dead, Godrich ruled England. In every castle
he set some knight of his own, whom he could trust: all the English
folk he caused to take an oath to be faithful to him; and in a little
while Athelwold's realm was altogether in his power.

In the meantime Goldborough was kept at Winchester, and brought up as
befitted a king's daughter. Every day she seemed to grow in wisdom and
fairness, till when she was twenty years old there was none like her
in the land. But Godrich, when he saw how good and how fair she was,
grew jealous of her. "Shall she be queen over me?" he thought. "Must I
give up my kingdom and my power to her? She has waxed all too proud; I
have treated her with too great gentleness. She shall not be queen. I
will rule, and after me my son shall be king."

As that treason crept into his mind, he forgot his oath to Athelwold,
caring not a straw for it. Without more ado he sent for Goldborough
from Winchester and took her to Dover. There he set her in a strong
castle, and clad her meanly, and guarded her so strictly that no man
could see her or come at her without his leave.

Now it chanced that about this time the same thing came to pass in
Denmark as in England. Birkabeyn, King of Denmark, died, and at his
death gave to one Earl Godard the charge of his kingdom and of his son
Havelok and his two daughters, Swanborough and Elfled. Godard stood by
his oath no better than Godrich, but cast all three children into
prison, and well-nigh starved them to death. But when they had lain in
prison for a little time, and were nearly dead of hunger, he went to
see them.

"How do you fare?" he asked, for Havelok ran to him, and crept upon
his knees when he sat down, and looked up joyfully into his face. "I
hear that you moan and cry: why is this?"

"We hunger sore," answered Havelok. "We have nought to eat, and no man
has brought us meat or drink. We are nigh dead of hunger."

Godard heard his words, but felt no pity; he cared not a straw for
their misery. He took Swanborough and Elfled by the hand, and slew
them then and there. Then he turned to Havelok and would have slain
him also. But the boy in terror cried for mercy. "Have pity," he said.
"Spare me and I will give you all Denmark, and will vow never to take
up arms against you. Let me live, and I will flee from Denmark this
very day, and never more come back; I will take oath that Birkabeyn
was not my father."

At that some touch of doubt came into Godard's mind. He put up his
knife, and looked at Havelok. "If I let him go alive," he thought,
"he might work me much woe. He shall die, but not now; I will cast him
in the sea and drown him."

He went thence, and sent for a fisherman named Grim. "Grim," he said,
"you are my thrall; do my will and to-morrow I will give you your
freedom. Take the boy Havelok at night to the sea and cast him
therein."

Grim took the boy, and bound him with strong cords, and bore him on
his back to his cottage, and showed him to his wife Leve. "You see
this boy, wife," said he. "I am to drown him in the sea; when I have
done it, I shall be made a free man, and much gold will be ours; so
has our Lord Godard promised."

When Dame Leve heard that, she started up, and threw Havelok down so
roughly that he hurt his head on a great stone that lay on the ground.
"Alas that ever I was a king's son!" he moaned in his pain; and he lay
there where he fell till night-time.

When night fell Grim made ready for his task. "Rise up, wife, blow
the fire," said he. "Light a candle. I must keep my word to my lord."

Leve rose to tend the fire. Her eyes fell on Havelok, who still lay on
the ground. Round him, she marvelled to see, shone a bright light, and
out of his mouth proceeded light as it were a sunbeam.

"What is that light?" quoth Dame Leve. "Grim, look what it means;
what is this light?"

Grim went to Havelok, and unbound him. He rolled back the shirt from
the boy's shoulder. There he saw, bright and clear, a king's
birthmark.

"Heaven help us," said Grim, "this is the heir to Denmark, who should
be king and lord of us all. He will work Godard great harm." Then he
fell on his knees before Havelok. "Lord king," he said, "have mercy on
me and on Leve here. We are both yours, lord, both your servants. We
will keep you and nurture you till you can ride and bear shield and
spear; Godard shall know nought of it. Some day I will take my freedom
at your hands, not at his."

Then was Havelok blithe and glad. He sat up and asked for bread. "I am
well-nigh dead," he said, "with hunger and hardship."

They fed him and cared for him, and lastly put him to bed; and he
slept soundly. On the morrow Grim went to the traitor Godard. "I have
done your will on the boy, lord," he said. "He is drowned in the
sea. Now I pray you give me gold for a reward, and grant me my
freedom, as you vowed."

Godard looked at him, fierce and cruel of mien. "Will you not rather
be made an earl, proud knave?" he asked. "Go home, fool; go, and be
evermore a thrall and churl, [Footnote: An Ignorant laborer of the
lowest rank.] as you have ever been; no other reward shall be
yours. For very little I would lead you to the gallows for your wicked
deed."

Grim went away. "What shall I do?" he thought as he hurried home. "He
will assuredly hang me on the gallows-tree. It were better to flee out
of the land altogether."

He came home and told Leve all; and they took counsel together. Soon
Grim sold all his possessions. Only his boat he kept; and that he
made ready for a voyage, till there was not so much as a nail wanting
to make it better. Then he took on board his wife and his three sons,
Robert the Red, William Wendat, and Hugh Raven, and his two fair
daughters, Gunnild and Levive, and Havelok; and they set sail.

The wind blew fair behind them, and drove them out to sea. Long did
they sail, and came at last to England, to Lindsey at the mouth of the
Humber. They landed safely; and before long Grim began to make a
little house of clay and turf for them to dwell in. He named the place
after himself, Grimsby; and so men call it now, and shall call it
forever, from now even to doomsday.




HAVELOK MARRIED AGAINST HIS WILL

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


Grim was a skilful fisherman, and caught many good fish. Great baskets
did he make, and others his sons made; and they carried the fish
inland in these baskets, and sold them. All over the country did Grim
go with his fish, and came home always with store of bread, or corn,
or beans, against their need. Much he sold in the fair town of
Lincoln, and counted many a coin after his sales there.

Thus Grim fared for many winters; and Havelok worked with the rest,
thinking it no shame to toil like any thrall, though he was a king's
son born.

There came at last a year of great dearth. Corn was so scarce that all
men were in poverty, and Grim did not know how to feed all his
family. For Havelok he had great dread, for he was strong and lusty,
and would eat more than he could earn. And soon the fish in the sea
also began to fail them, so that they were in sore straits. But Grim
cared more for Havelok than for all his own family; all his thoughts
ran on Havelok.

"Dear son Havelok," he said at last, "we shall die of hunger anon; all
our food is gone. It is better for you to go hence, and strive for
yourself only, and not try to help us here. You are stout and strong;
go to Lincoln; there is many a man of substance there, who might take
you in service. It were better for you to serve there than to see us
starve here and to starve along with us. Would that I could clothe you
fitly! Alas I am too poor. Yet for your sake I will cut up the sail
of my boat and make you a cloak of it to cover your rags."

He took the sail from his boat, and cut it up rudely into a cloak for
Havelok. Then Havelok bade him God-speed, and set out, and came in
time to the city of Lincoln.

He had no friend in Lincoln, and knew no man. For two days he went to
and fro, fasting; no man had work or food for him. But on the third
day he heard a cry, "Porters, porters, hither quickly!" He sprang
forward like a spark from coal, and thrust aside all who stood in his
path; sixteen stout lads did he knock down, and came to where fish was
being laden into carts for Earl Godrich of Cornwall. There stood the
earl's cook, calling for men to load the carts; and Havelok fell to
work with a will at his bidding.

When all was done, "Will you take service with me?" said the cook to
Havelok. "I will pay you good hire and feed you well."

"Give me enough to eat, good sir," answered Havelok, "and I care not
what you pay me. I will blow your fire, and fetch wood and water; I
can wash dishes, and cleave faggots, and clean eels, and do all that
you need."

"You shall be my man," answered the cook.

So Havelok took service in Earl Godrich's household, and drew water
and cut wood. Strong and large was he of body, and fair to look on.

Earl Godrich was lord of all England; it lay as it were in his
hand. Many men were wont to come to him at Lincoln to talk of great
things; and they held a parliament there, and came thither with a
great train of men-at-arms and followers, so that the town was always
full of folk coming and going.

It chanced one day that eight or ten young men began to play together
near where Havelok was at work; they fell to throwing a great stone,
huge and heavy. He must needs be a stout man who could so much as lift
it to his knee. But those who threw it now were champions, and could
cast it many a foot.

Havelok looked on and longed to throw against them; and his master,
seeing his looks, bade him go and try what he could do. He took the
stone and poised it well; and at the first effort he threw it twelve
feet or more farther than any other man.

"We have been here too long," said the rest. "This lad is mightier
than any of us; it is time for us to go hence."

They went away, and spread the news that there was at Lincoln a lad
mightier than any man of that day; and Havelok's fame grew and was
known far and wide. It came at last to Earl Godrich's ears.

"This is a stout knave," thought the earl, when he heard of Havelok's
strength. "I would that he were wedded to Goldborough; he is the
fairest and strongest man in England, and if I gave Goldborough to
him, I should keep my word to Athelwold in some sort, for there is
none like Havelok: no better man could she desire. And if she were
wedded to him, she would be out of my way, and I should be secure in
my rule, and my son should reign in England after me."

Thus he thought and planned secretly. Anon he sent for Goldborough,
and brought her to Lincoln. At her coming he caused bells to be rung,
and there was great rejoicing; but he was nevertheless full of
craft. "You shall have the fairest man alive for husband," he said to
Goldborough; "therefore have I sent for you."

"I will wed no man but a king or a king's son, be he ever so fair,"
she answered boldly.

"Would you gainsay me as if you were queen and lady over me?" cried
Godrich in great wrath. "You shall have a churl for husband, and no
other. My cook's knave shall wed you; he shall be your lord. To-morrow
shall you be wedded to him."

Goldborough wept and prayed his mercy, but it was of no avail. On the
morrow the church-bell was rung, and Godrich sent for Havelok. "Master,
are you minded to marry?" he asked.

"Nay, by my life," quoth Havelok. "What should I do with a wife? I
cannot feed her or clothe her; I have no house and no possessions. The
very clothes I wear are the cook's, and I am his servant."

"If you do not take to wife her whom I will give you," said Godrich,
"I will hang you high aloft, or thrust out your eyes."

At that Havelok was sore afraid, and granted all that Godrich
bade. Then Godrich sent for Goldborough. "You will take this man for
husband," he said, "or you go to the gallows, unless rather I burn you
at the stake."

She was afraid at his threats, and dared not refuse, though she liked
it ill. So they two were wedded perforce, and neither took joy in it.




HAVELOK WINS BACK HIS KINGDOM

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


When they were married, Havelok knew not what to do. He had no home
whereto he might take Goldborough. Godrich had such hatred for
Athelwold's daughter that he would do nought to aid them; and Havelok
was in sore straits till he bethought himself of Grimsby.

Straightway he took Goldborough to Grimsby. But Grim himself was
dead. Nevertheless his sons welcomed Havelok gladly.

"Welcome, dear lord, and welcome to your fair lady," they said. "We
have here horses and nets and ships, gold and silver, and much else
that Grim our father bequeathed. But he bade us give them to you; take
them, dear lord; they are all yours. You shall be our lord, and we
will be your servants in all things."

So Havelok came back to Grimsby. But on the night of his coming
Goldborough was sad and sorrowful as she lay beside him, and she could
not sleep. Her wakeful eyes fell on Havelok, and she was aware
suddenly of a wondrous sight. A bright light, clear and flaming,
issued from his mouth, and lit up all the chamber. "What may this
mean?" she said to herself in sore dread. "Does it show me that some
high fortune shall come upon Havelok?"

She looked again, and saw a new wonder. On Havelok's shoulder a king's
mark shone, a noble cross of red gold; and as she looked, an angel's
voice spoke to her:

"Goldborough, let your sorrow be; Havelok, your husband, is a king's
son and a king's heir. The golden cross signifies that he shall
possess all Denmark and England, and shall be king of both realms."

When she heard the angel's voice Goldborough could not contain her
joy, but turned and kissed Havelok as he slept. Havelok had not heard
the angel, but he started out of his sleep at Goldborough's kiss.

"Dear lady, are you awake?" he said. "A strange dream have I just
dreamed. I thought I was in Denmark, on the highest hill that ever I
came to; it was so high that I could see, it seemed, all the world
spread out. As I sat there, I began to possess Denmark, with all its
towns and strong castles; and my arms were so long that I surrounded
in one grasp all Denmark, and drew it towards me till every man
therein cleaved to me. Another dream I dreamed also, that I flew over
the salt sea to England, and with me went all the folk of Denmark.
When I came to England, I took it all into my hand, and, Goldborough,
I gave it to you. Dear wife, what may this be?"

"May these dreams turn to joy, Havelok, as I deem they will," answered
Goldborough. "I say to you that you shall wear the crown of England in
time to come, and Denmark shall kneel at your feet. Within a year this
shall come to pass. Let us two go to Denmark speedily; and do you
pray Grim's sons that they go with you, all three."

On the morrow Havelok went to church and besought aid of God. Then he
betook himself to Grim's three sons, Robert, and William, and Hugh.
"Listen now to me," he said, "and I will tell you a thing concerning
myself. My father was king of the Danish land, and I should have been
his heir; but a wicked man seized the kingdom when my father died, and
slew my two sisters, and gave me to Grim to drown, but Grim spared me
and brought me hither, as you know. Now I am come to an age when I can
wield weapons and deal stout blows; and never will I take comfort till
I see Denmark again. I pray you come thither with me; I will reward
you well and will give each of you ten castles, with the land and
towns and woods that belong thereto."

"We will follow you whithersoever you bid us, Havelok," they answered,
"and we will, if it please God, win back your kingdom for you."

Havelok gave them due thanks, and began straightway to prepare all
things for his going to Denmark. Soon he had made ready, and they set
sail.

Their voyage prospered, and they landed safely in Denmark, in the
dominions of one Ubbe, a rich earl, who had been a friend of King
Birkabeyn, Havelok's father.

When Havelok heard who was lord of that part of Denmark, he was glad,
and set out to go to Ubbe's castle in good hope. He dared not say yet
that he was Birkabeyn's son, for if Earl Godard heard of it, he would
come against him and slay him before he could win any followers. But
he went to Ubbe and spoke him fair and courteously, and gave him a
gold ring, and asked leave to settle in that land to be a merchant;
and Ubbe, seeing how strong and comely Havelok was, gladly gave him
leave, and thereafter bade him to a great feast. Havelok went to the
feast, and Goldborough with him, and Grim's sons also; and Ubbe grew
to love him so well that when the feast was ended, he sent him with
ten knights and sixty men-at-arms to the magistrate of those parts,
Bernard Brun, a man of might and substance.

Bernard was a trusty man, and entertained Havelok and Goldborough and
all their company well.

But as they sat at meat, there came tidings that a band of sixty
thieves, well armed and fierce, was at the gate, demanding entrance.

At that news Bernard started up and took a good axe in his hand, and
went to the gate; and Havelok followed him.

"What do you here, rascals?" cried Bernard, "If I open the door to
you, some of you will rue it."

"What say you?" answered one of the thieves. "Think you that we are
afraid of you? We shall enter by this gate for all that you can do."
Thereupon he seized a great boulder, and cast it mightily against the
gate, and broke it.

Havelok saw what befell, and went to the gate. He drew therefrom the
great cross-bar, and threw the gate wide open. "I abide here," he
cried. "Flee, you dogs."

"Nay," quoth one, "you shall pay for waiting;" and he came running at
Havelok, and the two others close behind with him. But Havelok lifted
up the door-beam, and at one blow slew all three. Then he turned upon
others, and in a moment overthrew four more. But a host of them beset
him with swords, and all his skill could not prevent them from
wounding him: full twenty wounds had he, from crown to toe. But he
began so to mow with the beam that the robbers soon felt how hard he
could smite. There was none who could escape him, and in a little
while he had felled twenty of them.

Then a great din began to arise, for the rest of the thieves set upon
Havelok and Bernard with all their might. But Hugh and his brothers
heard the noise, and came running with many other men; and before long
there was not one of the thieves left alive.

On the morrow tidings came to Ubbe that Havelok had slain with a club
more than a score of stout rogues. He went down to Bernard and asked
him what had come to pass; and Bernard, sore wounded from the fight,
showed him his wounds, and told him how sixty robbers had attacked his
house, and how Havelok had slain great plenty of them; but Havelok
also, he said, was grievously wounded.

Others also of Bernard's men told the like true tale; and Ubbe sent
for Havelok, and when he had seen his wounds, called for a skilful
leech, and took Havelok into his house and cared for him.

The first night that Havelok lay in Ubbe's house, Ubbe slept nigh him
in a great chamber, with places boarded off for each man. About
midnight he awoke, and saw a great light in the place where Havelok
lay, as bright as if it were day. "What may this be?" he thought. "I
will go myself and see. Perchance Havelok secretly holds revel with
his friends, and has lit many lights. I vow he shall do no such
sottishness in my castle."

He stood up, and peeped in between the boards that shut Havelok from
him. He saw him sleeping fast, as still as any stone; and he was aware
of a great light coming as it were from Havelok's mouth.

He was aghast at that sight, and called secretly to his knights and
sergeants and men-at-arms, more than five score of them, and bade them
come and see the strange light; and the light continued to issue from
Havelok's mouth, and to grow in strength till it was as bright as two
hundred wax-candles.

Havelok's right shoulder was towards Ubbe and his men.

Suddenly, as they looked at the light, they saw the king's mark on the
shoulder, a bright cross, brighter than gold, sparkling like a
carbuncle stone. Then Ubbe knew that Havelok was a king's son, and he
guessed that he must be Birkaheyn's son, the rightful king.

When Havelok awoke, he fell at his feet and did obeisance, he and all
his men. "Dear lord," he said, "I know you to be Birkabeyn's son. You
shall be King of Denmark; right soon shall every lord and baron come
and do you homage." Then was Havelok glad and blithe, and gave thanks
to God for His goodness.

Before long Ubbe dubbed Havelok knight; and as soon as he was knighted
all the barons and lords of those parts came to him and swore fealty;
and anon they crowned him King of Denmark, and set themselves in array
to attack the false Earl Godard.

But Godard's knights, being weary of his rule, had all gone over to
Havelok; and Grim's son, Robert, sufficed to meet him in combat.
Robert wounded him in the right arm, and they bound him and brought
him before Havelok.

Sorry now was Godard's lot; all his greatness was gone from him. He
came before Havelok and his nobles, and they gave sentence upon him,
that he should be flayed alive, and then hanged. And so he came to his
end in great misery and torment.

When Godrich in England heard that Havelok was king of all Denmark,
and purposed (for Havelok had given out that this was his intent) to
come to England and set Goldborough on her throne, he set to work to
gather a great host to meet Havelok when he should come; and he spread
lying tales to make the English hate and fear Havelok, saying that he
would burn and destroy, and oppress them; and by these means he got
together many and led them to Grimsby.

Afron came Havelok and his men, and landed at Grimsby; and they fought
a great battle. All that day Havelok's men fought with Godrich's men;
and on the morrow they fought again, and Godrich came face to face
with Havelok himself.

"Godrich," Havelok cried, "you have taken Athelwold's kingdom for
yourself; I claim it for his daughter Goldborough. Yield it up, and I
will forgive you, for you are a doughty knight."

"Never will I yield," answered Godrich: "I will slay you here."

He gripped his sword, and smote at Havelok, and clove his shield in
twain. But Havelok drew his own good sword, and with one blow felled
him to the earth. Yet Godrich started up again, and dealt him such a
stroke on the shoulder that his armour was broken, and the blade bit
into the flesh. Then Havelok heaved up his sword in turn, and struck
fiercely, and shore off Godrich's hand, so that he could smite no
more, but yielded as best he might.

They seized Godrich and fettered him; and all the English took the
oath of fealty to Goldborough, and swore to be her men. Then they
passed judgment on Godrich, and sentenced him to be burnt to death.

So Havelok and Goldborough came again into their kingdoms; and Havelok
rewarded Grim's sons and made them barons. Havelok was crowned King of
England as well as of Denmark; and full sixty winters did he reign
with Goldborough in great joy and prosperity.




THE FAIR UNKNOWN

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


Sir Gawain had a son, and he was fair to look on, bright of face and
well-favoured in body. He was named Geynleyn. But for love of his fair
face his mother called him Beau-fys, and no other name; and he never
asked her what he was truly called, for Sir Gawain had wedded this
lady secretly, and none knew that he was Geynleyn's father. On a
certain day Geynleyn went to the woods to hunt the deer, and there he
found a knight in gay armour, lying slain. Geynleyn wondered thereat;
but in a little time he took off the knight's garments, and clad
himself in the rich armour; and when he had done this, he went to
Glastonbury, where King Arthur lay at that time. He came into the hall
before the knights and greeted them.

"King Arthur, my lord," he said, "grant that I may speak a word, I
pray you. I would fain be made a knight."

"Tell me your name," answered King Arthur, "for since I was born I
never saw before me one so fair to look on."

"I know not what is my true name," answered the lad. "While I was at
home, my mother, jesting, called me Beau-fys, and nought else."

Then said Arthur the king, "This is a wondrous thing, that the boy
should know not his name when he would become a knight; and yet he is
full fair of face. Now will I give him a name before you all. Let him
be called Le Beau Disconus, which is to say, 'The fair unknown': so is
he to be named." Thereupon King Arthur made him a knight, and gave
him bright arms, and girt him with a sword, and hung round him a
shield wrought with the design of a griffin. Sir Gawain took charge of
him to teach him knightly ways.

When Le Beau Disconus had been made a knight, he asked yet another
boon of the king. "My lord," he said, "I should be right glad in heart
if I might have the first fight that is asked of you."

"I grant your asking," answered Arthur the king, "whatsoever the
combat be. But you seem too young to do well in a great fight."

Then they sat down to feast. Not long had they feasted ere there came
a maiden riding, and a dwarf beside her, in a great heat as though
with haste. This maid was called Elene the bright and gentle; no
countess or queen could be her equal in loveliness. She was richly
clad, and the saddle and bridle of her milk-white steed were full of
diamonds. Her dwarf wore silk of India; a stout and bold man was he,
and his beard, yellow as wax, hanged down to his girdle. His shoes
were decked with gold, and truly seemed a knight that felt no poverty.
His name was Teondelayn; he was skilled in playing all musical
instruments.

The dwarf spoke to the maiden, and bade her tell her errand, and lose
no time. She knelt in the hall before all the knights, and greeted
them with honour, and said, "Never was sadder tidings than I bring. My
lady of Synadown is brought into a strong prison; she prays King
Arthur to send her a knight of stout courage, to win her out of
prison."

Up started the young knight Le Beau Disconus; his courage was stout
and high. "Arthur, my lord," he said, "I shall take up this combat,
and win the lady bright, if you are true to your word."

"Certain it is that I have promised even so," said King Arthur. "God
grant you grace and might."

Then Elene began to complain, and said, "Alas that I was ever sent
hither! Now will the word go forth that Arthur's manhood is lost, if
you send a witless and wild child to deal doughty blows, when there
are here knights of proved valour, Launcelot, Percevale, and Gawain."
Le Beau Disconus answered, "Never yet was I afraid of any man; I have
learned to fight with spear and sword. I will take the battle, and
never forsake it, as is Arthur's law."

Then said Arthur, "Maiden, you get no other knight of me. If you think
him not man enough, go get another of greater might where you can."
The maid said no more; but for wrath she would neither drink nor eat
at their feast, but sat down with her dwarf till the tables were taken
away.

King Arthur bade four of the best knights of the Round Table arm Le
Beau Disconus straightway in arms true and perfect. "Through the help
of Christ, he shall hold to his word, and be a good champion to the
lady of Synadown, and uphold all her rights," he said.

When he was armed Sir Le Beau Disconus sprang on his horse and
received the king's blessing, and set forth a-riding with the maiden
and the dwarf. Till the third day she railed at the young knight
continually; and on the third day, when they came to a certain place,
she said, "Caitiff, now is your pride undone. This vale before us is
kept by a knight who will fight every man that comes; and his fame is
gone far abroad. William Selebranche is he named, and he is a mighty
warrior. Through heart or thigh of all those who come against him he
thrusts his spear."

"Does he fight so mightily then?" asked Le Beau Disconus. "Has he
never been hit? Whatsoever betides me, against him will I ride and
prove how he fights."

On they rode all three till they came to a castle in a vale. There
they saw a knight in bright armour. He bore a shield of green, with a
device of three lions: and he was that William Selebranche of whom
maid Elene had spoken. When the knight had sight of them he rode
towards them, and said, "Welcome, fair brother. He that rides here,
day or night, must fight with me, or leave his arms here shamefully."

"Now let us pass," said Sir Le Beau Disconus, "We have far to go to
our friends, I and this maid; we must needs speed on our way."

"You shall not escape so," answered William. "Ere you go we will
fight."

Then said Le Beau Disconus, "Now I see that it must be so. Make ready
quickly and do your best. Take a course with the spear, if you are a
knight of skill, for I am in haste."

No longer did they wait, but rode together in arms. Le Beau Disconus
smote William in the side with his spear; but William sat firm in his
saddle. Nevertheless so mightily was he struck that his stirrup
leathers were broken, and he swayed over the horse's crupper and fell
to the ground. His steed galloped away, but William started up
speedily. "By my faith, never met I so stout a man," he said. "Now
that my steed is gone, let us fight on foot." They fell to on foot
with falchions. [Footnote: Broad, short swords.] So hard they struck
that sparks flew from their helmets. But William drove his sword
through Le Beau Disconus's shield, and a piece of it fell to the
ground; and thereat Le Beau Disconus was wroth. He smote with his
sword downwards from the crest of William's helmet even to his
hawberk, and shaved off with the point of his blade the knight's
beard, and well-nigh cut the flesh also. Then William smote back so
great a blow that his sword brake in two.

"Let me go alive," cried William at that, seeing himself reft of his
arms. "It were great villainy to do to death an unarmed knight."

"I will spare you," said Le Beau Disconus, "if you swear a vow ere we
go from one another. Kneel down, and swear on my sword to go to King
Arthur, and say to him, 'Lord of renown, a knight sent me hither,
defeated and a prisoner: his name is Le Beau Disconus, of unknown kith
and kin.'"

William went upon his knees and took a vow as Le Beau Disconus bade
him, and thus they departed each on his way. William took the road to
Arthur's court; and it chanced that as he went, he met, on that
self-same day, three proud knights, his own sister's sons. "William
our uncle," said they when they saw his wounds and his sorry array,
"who has done you this shame?"

"The man is not to blame," answered William. "He was a knight stout
and stern. One thing only grieves me sorely, that I must at his
bidding go to King Arthur's court." And he told them of his vow.

"You shall be full well avenged," said they. "He alone against us
three is not worth a straw. Go your way, uncle, and fulfil your vow;
and we will assail the traitor ere he be out of this forest." Then
William went on his way to the court of King Arthur.

But the three knights his nephews armed themselves, and leapt on their
steeds, and without more tarrying went after Le Beau Disconus.

Le Beau Disconus knew nought of this, but rode on with the fair maid,
and made great mirth with her, for she had seen that he was a true and
doughty knight. She asked pardon for the ill things she had said
against him at the king's court, and he forgave her this trespass; and
the dwarf was their squire, and served them in all their needs.

At morning when it was day, as they rode on towards Synadown, they saw
three knights in bright mail. They cried to him straightway, "Thief,
turn again and fight."

"I am ready to ride against you all," quoth Le Beau Disconus. He
pricked his horse towards them. The eldest brother (Sir Gower was his
name) ran against him with a spear; but Le Beau Disconus smote him
such a blow that he broke his thigh, and ever thereafter was lame. The
knight groaned for pain, but Le Beau Disconus with might and main
felled him altogether.

The next brother came riding fierce as a lion, as if to cast Le Beau
Disconus down. Like a warrior out of his wits he smote Le Beau
Disconus on his helmet with his sword; he struck so hard that the
blade drove through the helmet and touched the young knight's head.

Then Le Beau Disconus, when he felt the sword touch him, swung his
sword as a madman, and all that he struck he clove through. Though two
were against him--for the third brother also came riding to the
fray--they saw that they had no might to withstand him in his
fury. They yielded up their spears and shields to Le Beau Disconus,
and cried mercy.

"Nay," answered Le Beau Disconus, "you escape not, unless you plight
me your faith to go to King Arthur, and tell him that I overcame you
and sent you to him. If you do not so, I will slay you all three." The
knights swore to go to King Arthur, and plighted their troth upon
it. Then they departed, and Le Beau Disconus and the fair maid rode on
towards Synadown. All that day they rode, and at night they made their
lodges in the wood out of green leaves and boughs, for they came nigh
no town or castle; and thus for three days they pricked ever
westwards.




THE FIGHT WITH THE TWO GIANTS

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


As they slept at night the dwarf woke, fearing that thieves might
steal their horses. Suddenly his heart began to quake, for less than
half a mile away he saw a great fire. "Arise, young knight," he
cried. "Arm yourself, and to horse! I doubt there is danger here: I
hear a great sound, and smell burning afar off."

Le Beau Disconus leapt on his war-horse and took his arms, and rode
towards the fire. When he drew nigh he saw there two giants, one red
and loathly to look upon, the other swarthy as pitch. The black giant
held in his arms a maiden as bright as a flower, while the red giant
was burning a wild boar on a spit before the flaming fire.

The maiden cried aloud for help. "Alas," she said, "that ever I saw
this day!"

Then said Le Beau Disconus, "It were a fair venture to save this
maiden from shame. To fight with giants so grim is no child's game."

He rode against them with his spear, and at the first course smote the
black giant clean through the body and overthrew him, so that never
could he rise again. The maiden his prisoner fled from his grasp, and
betook herself to maid Elene; and they went to the lodge of leaves in
the wood, and prayed for victory for Le Beau Disconus.

But the red giant, seeing his brother fall, smote at Le Beau Disconus
with the half-roasted boar, like a madman; and he laid on so sore that
Le Beau Disconus's horse was slain. But Le Beau Disconus leapt out of
the saddle, like a spark from a torch, and drove at him with his
falchion, fierce as a lion. The giant fought with his spit till it
broke in two; then he caught up a tree by the roots, and smote Le Beau
Disconus so mightily that his shield was broken into three pieces. But
before the giant could heave up the tree again, Le Beau Disconus
struck off his right arm; and at that sore wound he fell to the
ground, and Le Beau Disconus cut off his head.

Then Le Beau Disconus turned to the two maidens; and he learned that
she whom he had saved was called Violette, and her father was Sir
Autore, an earl in that country. Long had the two giants sought to
take her; and the day before at eventide they had sprung out upon her
suddenly and carried her off.

Le Beau Disconus took the giants' heads, and when he had escorted the
maidens to the castle of Sir Autore, he sent the heads to King Arthur.
Sir Autore wished to give him Violette to wife; but Le Beau Disconus
refused, saying that he was upon a quest with fair Elene. And with
that they set forth once more on their journey.

Presently they came to the fair city of Kardevyle, and saw there in a
park a castle stout and stark, royally built: never such a castle had
they seen. "Oh," said Le Beau Disconus, "here were a worthy thing for
a man to win."

Then laughed maid Elene. "The best knight in all the country round
owns that castle, one Giffroun," she said. "He that will fight with
him, be it day or night, is bowed down and laid low. For love of his
lady, who is wondrous fair, he has proclaimed that he will bestow a
gerfalcon, white as a swan, on him who brings a fairer lady. But if
she be not so bright and fair as his lady, he must fight this knight
Giffroun, who is a mighty warrior. Giffroun slays him, and sets his
head on a spear, that it may be seen afar abroad; and you may see on
the castle walls a head or two set thus."

"I will fight this Giffroun," said Sir Le Beau Disconus, "and try for
the gerfalcon; I will say that I have in this town a lady fairer than
his; and if he would see her I will show him you."

"That were a great peril," said the dwarf. "Sir Giffroun beguiles many
a knight in combat."

"Heed not that," answered Le Beau Disconus. "I will see his face ere
I go westward from this city."

Without more ado they went to the town, and dwelt there in the inn for
the night. In the morn Le Beau Disconus rose and armed himself, and
rode with the dwarf towards Giffroun's palace.

Sir Giffroun, when he came out of his house, saw Le Beau Disconus
advancing as proudly as a prince. He rode out to him, and cried in a
loud voice, "Come you for good or for ill?"

"I should have a great delight in fighting you," answered Le Beau
Disconus, "for you say a grievous thing, that there is no woman so
fair as your lady. I have in this town one fairer, and therefore I
shall take your gerfalcon and give it to Arthur the king."

"Gentle knight," said Giffroun, "how shall we prove which of the two be
fairer?"

"Here in Kardevyle city," said Le Beau Disconus, "they shall both be
set in the market-place where all men may look on them. If my lady be
not esteemed so fair as yours, I will fight with you to win the
gerfalcon."

"All this I grant," said Sir Giffroun. "This day shall it be done."
And he held up his glove for a proof.

Sir Le Beau Disconus rode to his lodging, and bade maid Elene put on
her seemliest robes. Then he set her on a dappled palfrey, and they
rode forth to the market-place. Presently came also Sir Giffroun
riding, with his lady and two squires. And the lady was so lovely
that no man could describe her. All, young and old, judged that she
was fairer than Elene; she was as sweet as a rose in an arbour, and
Elene seemed but a laundry-maid beside her.

Then said Sir Giffroun, "Sir Le Beau Disconus, you have lost the
gerfalcon."

"Nay," said Le Beau Disconus, "we will joust for it. If you bear me
down, take my head and the falcon; and if I bear you down, the falcon
shall go with me."

They rode to the lists, and many people with them. At the first course
each smote the other on the shield, so that their lances were broken;
and the sound of their onset was as thunder. Sir Giffroun called for a
lance that would not break. "This young knight is as firm in his
saddle as a stone in the castle wall," quoth he. "But were he as bold
a warrior as Alexander or Arthur, Launcelot or Percevale, I will shake
him out over his horse's crupper."

Together they charged again. Le Beau Disconus smote Giffroun's shield
from his arm at the shock: never yet had man been seen to joust so
stoutly. Giffroun, like a madman, struck furiously back at him, but Le
Beau Disconus sat so firm that Giffroun was thrown, horse and all, and
broke his leg.

All men said that Giffroun had lost the white gerfalcon; and they bore
him into the town upon his shield. But Le Beau Disconus sent the white
gerfalcon to King Arthur for a gift, and the king sent him a hundred
pounds' weight of florins. And thereafter he feasted forty days in
Kardevyle.

At the end of this feasting, Le Beau Disconus and maid Elene took
their leave of Kardevyle, and rode towards Synadown. As they were
riding, they heard horns blowing hard under a hill, and the noise of
hounds giving tongue in the vale. "To tell truth," said the dwarf
Teondelayn, "I know that horn well. One Sir Otes de Lyle blows it; he
served my lady some while, but in great peril fled into Wirral."

As they rode talking, a little hound came running across their way;
never man saw hound so gay; it was of all colours of flowers that
bloom between May and midsummer.

"Never saw I jewel," said maid Elene, "that so pleased me. Would I had
him!"

Le Beau Disconus caught the hound, and gave him to her. And they went
on their way. They had scarce ridden a mile before they saw a hind
fleeing, and two greyhounds close upon it. They stopped and waited
under a linden tree to watch; and they saw riding behind the hounds a
knight clad in silk of India, upon a bay horse. He began to blow his
bugle, so that his men should know where he was. But when he saw Le
Beau Disconus, and the dog in maid Elene's arms, he drew rein and
said. "Sir, that hound is mine; I have had him these seven years
past. Friends, let him go."

"That shall never be," said Le Beau Disconus, "for with my two hands I
gave him to this maiden."

Straightway answered Sir Otes de Lyle (for it was he), "Then you are
in peril."

"Churl," said Le Beau Disconus, "I care not for whatever you say."

"Those are evil words, sir," said Sir Otes. "Churl was never my name.
My father was an earl and the Countess of Karlyle my mother. Were I
armed now, even as you are, we would fight. If you give me not the
hound, you shall play a strange game ere evening."

"Whatsoever you do," answered Le Beau Disconus, "this hound shall go
with me."

Then they took their way westward once more. But Sir Otes rode home to
his castle, and sent for his friends, and told them that one of
Arthur's knights had used him shamefully and taken his little hound.
They armed themselves, and when all was ready, rode out after Le Beau
Disconus. Upon a high hill they saw him riding slowly. "Traitor, you
shall die for your trespass," they cried to him, when they came a
little distance from him.

Sir Le Beau Disconus beheld how full of knights the vale was. "Maid
Elene," he said, "we are come into a sorry case for the sake of this
little hound. It were best that you go into the greenshaws and hide
your heads. For though I be slain, yet will I abide combat with these
knights."

Into the woods they rode; but Le Beau Disconus stayed without, as
beseems an adventurous knight. They shot at him with bows and
arbalists, [Footnote: A crossbow] but he charged with his horse, and
bore down horse and man and spared none; whosoever Le Beau Disconus
struck, after the first blow that man slept for evermore.

But soon Le Beau Disconus was beset as in a net. Twelve knights came
riding through the forest, in arms clear and bright: all day they had
rested, and thought thereby to slay Le Beau Disconus. One of them was
Sir Otes himself and they smote at Le Beau Disconus all at once, and
thought to fell him.

Fierce was the fight; sword rang on steel, sparks sprang from shield
and helmet. Le Beau Disconus slew three, and four flew. But Sir Otes
and his four sons stayed to sell their lives there.

Le Beau Disconus against those five fought like a madman. His sword
brake, and he took a great blow on his helmet that bore him down. Then
the foeman thought to slay him outright; but Le Beau Disconus was
minded suddenly of his axe that was at his hinder saddle-bow. He
quitted himself like a true knight: three steeds he hewed down in
three strokes.

Sir Otes saw that sight, and turned his horse and fled. Le Beau
Disconus stood no longer on defence, but pursued him, and caught him
under a chestnut tree and made him yield.

Le Beau Disconus sent this knight also to King Arthur for a sign of
his powers; and himself and maid Elene went to Sir Otes's castle, and
there rested and were refreshed.




IN THE CASTLE OF THE SORCERERS

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


When they had tarried at this castle a certain time, they rode forth
again. It was the month of June, when the days are long and birds'
songs are merry. Sir Le Beau Disconus and maid Elene and the dwarf
Teondelayn came riding by a river-side, and saw a great and proud
city, with high strong castles and many gates. Le Beau Disconus asked
the name of this city.

"They call it Golden Isle," answered maid Elene. "Here hath been more
fighting than in any country, for a lady of price, fair as a rose, has
put this land in peril. A giant named Maugis, whose like is nowhere on
earth, has laid siege to her. He is as black as pitch, stern and stout
indeed. He that would pass the bridge into her castle must lay down
his arms and do a reverence to the giant."

Then said Le Beau Disconus, "I shall not turn aside for him. If God
give me grace, ere this day's end I will overthrow him."

They rode all three towards the fair city. On a wooden bridge they saw
Maugis, as bold as a wild boar. His shield was black, and all his
armour black also. When he saw Le Beau Disconus, he cried, "Tell me,
fellow in white, what are you? Turn home again for your own profit."

"Arthur made me a knight," said Le Beau Disconus, "and to him I made a
vow that I would never turn back. Therefore, friend in black, make
ready."

They rode forthright at one another. Their lances brake at the first
blows. But they drew swords in a fury and rushed at one another. Le
Beau Disconus smote the giant's shield so that it fell from him; but
Maugis in turn slew Le Beau Disconus's steed with a great blow on its
head. Le Beau Disconus said nought, but started up from his dead
charger and took his axe: a great blow he struck, that shore the head
of Maugis's horse clean from its body.

Then they fell to on foot, and no man can tell of the blows that
passed from one to the other; and they fought till evening drew nigh.

Sir Le Beau Disconus thirsted sore, and said, "Maugis, let me go to
drink. I will grant you what boon you ask of me in like case. Great
shame would it be to slay a knight by thirst."

Maugis granted it, but when Le Beau Disconus went to the river and
drank, Maugis struck him unawares such a blow that he fell into the
river. "Now am I truly refreshed," cried Le Beau Disconus, as he
climbed out. "I will repay you for this."

Then a new fight was begun, and they continued till darkness grew
apace. At length Le Beau Disconus struck such a blow that the giant's
right arm was shorn off. Thereupon Maugis fled, but Le Beau Disconus
ran swiftly after him and with three stern strokes clove his backbone.
Then Le Beau Disconus smote off the giant's head, and went into the
town; and all the folk welcomed him.

A fair lady came down to meet him, called Le Dame d'Amour; and she
thanked him for his aid against the giant, and led him to her
palace. There he was clad in clean raiment, and feasted, and the lady
would have had him be lord of her city and castle.

Le Beau Disconus granted her prayer, and gave her his love, for she
was indeed fair and bright. Alas that he did not refrain! Twelve
months and more he dwelt there; and fair Elene was afraid lest he
might never go thence, for the lady of the castle knew much of
sorcery, and put a charm upon Le Beau Disconus so that he wished never
to leave her.

But it fell on a day that Le Beau Disconus met maid Elene by chance
within the castle. "Sir knight," she said, "you are false of faith to
King Arthur. For love of a sorceress you do great dishonour. The lady
of Synadown lies in prison yet!"

At her words Le Beau Disconus thought his heart would break for sorrow
and shame. By a postern-gate he crept away from the lady of the
castle, and took with him his horse and his armour and rode forth with
maid Elene and the dwarf and a squire named Gyfflet. Fast they rode
without ceasing till on the third day they came in sight of the strong
city of Synadown.

But Le Beau Disconus wondered at a custom he saw as he descried the
town. For all the waste and refuse that was cast outside the town was
gathered again by the folk and kept.

"What means this?" asked Sir Le Beau Disconus.

"This it is," said maid Elene. "No knight may abide here without leave
of a steward called Sir Lambard. Ride to that eastern gate yonder, and
ask his leave to enter fairly and well; ere he grants it, he will
joust with you. And if he bears you down, he will blow his trumpets,
and all through Synadown, at the sound thereof, the maidens and boys
will throw on you this filth and mud that they have gathered; and so
to your life's end will you be known as a coward, and King Arthur
shall lose his honour through you."

"That were great shame for any man living," said Sir Le Beau Disconus.
"I will meet this man. Gyfflet, make me ready." Then they made ready
and rode to the castle gate, and asked where knights might find
lodging. The porter let them in and asked, "Who is your overlord?"

"King Arthur, the well of courtesy and flower of chivalry, is my
lord," answered Le Beau Disconus.

The porter went and told Sir Lambard of the knight, and Sir Lambard
was glad, and vowed to joust with him. Thereupon the porter came again
to Le Beau Disconus, and said, "Adventurous knight, ride to the field
without the castle gate, and arm you speedily, for my lord would joust
with you."

Sir Le Beau Disconus rode to the field and made ready. Presently there
came the steward all armed for the fight, and they fell to. Long and
fierce was the fray, but at the last Le Beau Disconus struck Sir
Lambard so fiercely that he was borne clean out of his saddle
backwards.

"Will you have more?" asked Sir Le Beau Disconus.

"Nay," answered Sir Lambard. "Never since I was born came I against
such a knight. If you will fight for my lady, you are welcome, sir
knight."

"Nay," said Sir Le Beau Disconus, "but I fight for a lady even now."
Then they went into Sir Lambard's castle and feasted and were right
merry. Sir Lambard and Sir Le Beau Disconus spoke much of adventures,
and at last Sir Le Beau Disconus asked him concerning his quest. "What
is the knight's name who holds in prison the gentle lady of Synadown?"

"Nay, sir, knight is he none. Two magicians are her foes, false in
flesh and bone: Mabon and Irayn are their names, and they have made
this town a place of strange magic arts. They hold this noble lady in
prison, and often we hear her cry, but have no power to come to
her. They have sworn to slay her if she will not do their will, and
give up to them all her rights in this fair dukedom which is hers."

They took their rest. On the morrow Le Beau Disconus clad himself in
his best armour, and rode forth to the gate of the great palace of
Synadown; and with him for escort came Lambard and his knights.

They found the gate open, but no further durst any man go save Le Beau
Disconus and his squire Gyfflet; and Le Beau Disconus made Gyfflet
also turn back with the rest.

Then he rode alone into the palace, and alighted at the great hall. He
saw minstrels before the dais, and a fire burning brightly, but no
lord of the palace was there. Le Beau Disconus paced through all the
chambers, and saw no one but minstrels who made merry. Le Beau
Disconus went further, seeking those whom he should fight. He peered
into all the corners, and looked on wondrous pillars of jasper and
fine crystal; but never a foe did he see.

At last he sat him down at the dais in the great hall. As he sat, the
minstrels ceased their music and vanished, and the torches were
extinguished; doors and windows shook like thunder, and the very
stones of the walls fell round him. The dais began to quake, and the
roof above opened.

As he sat thus dismayed, believing that he was betrayed by magic, he
heard horses neigh. "Yet may I hope to joust," he said, better
pleased. He looked out into a field, and there he saw two knights come
riding with spear and shield; their armour was of rich purple, with
golden garlands. One of the knights rode into the hall. "Sir knight,"
he cried, "proud though you be, you must fight with us."

"I am ready to fight," answered Le Beau Disconus, and he leapt into
his saddle, and rode against the knight. His might bore Mabon (for it
was he) over his horse's tail: the hinder saddle-bow broke, and he
fell. With that rode in Irayn fully armed, fresh for the fight, and
meaning with main and might to assail Sir Le Beau Disconus. But Le
Beau Disconus was aware of him, and bore down on him with his spear,
leaving Mabon where he had fallen. They broke their lances at the
first stroke, and fell to with swords. As they fought, Mabon rose up
from the ground, and ran to aid Irayn. But Le Beau Disconus fought
both, and kept himself back warily.

When Irayn saw Mabon, he smote fiercely at Le Beau Disconus and struck
his steed. But Sir Le Beau Disconus returned his blow, and shore off
his thigh, skin and bone and all: of no avail were his arms or his
enchantments then!

Then Le Beau Disconus turned swiftly again to Mabon; and Mabon with a
great blow broke the knight's sword. But Le Beau Disconus ran to
Irayn, where he lay dying, and drew from him his sword, and rushed
fiercely upon Mabon once more, and smote off his left arm with the
shield.

"Hold, gentle knight," said Mabon, "and I will yield that to your
will, and will take you to the fair lady. Through the wound from that
sword I am undone, for I poisoned both it and mine, to make certain of
slaying you."

"I will have none of your gifts, were I to win all this world by
them," said Le Beau Disconus. "Lay on. One of us shall die."

Then they fell to again, and so fiercely did Le Beau Disconus fight
that in a little while he cleft Mabon's head and helmet in twain.

When Mabon was slain, he ran to where he had left Irayn, meaning to
cleave his head also. But Irayn was not there; he had been borne away,
whither Le Beau Disconus did not know. He sought him everywhere, and
when he found him not, he believed that he was caught in a snare, and
fell on his knees and prayed. As he prayed a marvel came to pass. In
the stone wall a window opened, and a great dragon issued therefrom.
It had the face of a woman, fair and young, her body and wings shone
like gold; her tail was loathly, and her paws grim and great.

Le Beau Disconus's heart sank within him, and he trembled. Ere he
could think, the dragon clasped him by the neck and kissed him; and
lo! as it kissed him, the tail and wings fell from it, and he saw
before him the fairest lady that ever he looked upon.

"Gentle knight," she said, "you have slain the two magicians, my
foes. They changed me into a dragon, and bade me keep that shape till
I had kissed Sir Gawain or some other knight of kin to Sir Gawain. You
have saved my life: I will give you fifteen castles and myself for
wife, if it be King Arthur's will."

Then was Le Beau Disconus glad and blithe, and leapt on his horse and
rode back to Sir Lambard to bring him these good tidings; and
presently there came to him from the palace the lady herself, richly
clad, and all the people of the town made a fair procession in her
train. Every knight in Synadown did her homage and fealty as was due
to her. Seven nights did they abide in the castle with Lambard, and
then Sir Le Beau Disconus returned with the fair lady to King Arthur,
and at his court gave thanks to God for their adventures. King Arthur
gave the lady to Le Beau Disconus for wife; and the joy of that bridal
can be told in no tale or song.




TALES TOLD BY CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS


Geoffrey Chaucer, born about 1340, was the first great English poet.
The immense popularity of the Canterbury Tales is shown by the number
of manuscript copies still in existence. It was one of the first books
printed in England.

The vividness with which the author describes scenes and events and
people, as if he had them before his eyes, is one of his greatest
charms as a writer. Those who know him best place him second only to
Shakespeare as a writer of delightful English.

The spelling of Chaucer's time differs so much from ours that the
difficulty of reading it discourages a great many people. The few
stories here given are retold in the language of to-day.




THE OLD WOMAN AND THE KNIGHT

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


In the old days of King Arthur all the land was filled with fairies,
and the elf queen and her merry company held many a dance in the green
meadows where now you will see never one of them. But that was many
hundred years ago.

It happened that there was at King Arthur's court a young knight, in
the full vigour and pride of his strength, who one day, as he was
riding out, came upon a maiden walking all alone. She was very
beautiful, and the sight of her made him forget his knighthood.

He went up to her, and tried to carry her off with him by force; but
before he could succeed help came, and he was seized and taken before
the king.

The king sentenced him to die, according to the law at that time, and
he would surely have been put to death if the queen and her ladies had
not long and earnestly prayed for mercy. The king at last relented and
granted him his life, and left it to the queen to say what punishment
should be given him.

When the queen had thanked King Arthur she sent for the knight. She
did not wish to let him go wholly free.

"You are still in danger of losing your life," she said to him; "but I
will give you your freedom on one condition: you must find me the
answer to the question--'What is it that women most desire?' If you
cannot now give me the answer that I have in my mind you shall have a
year and a day in which to learn it. Do your best, and take great
care, for if at the end of that time you still cannot answer, you must
die."

The knight pondered awhile, but he could not guess the answer at once.

So he pledged himself to return to the court at the end of a year and
a day, and went away very sorrowfully.

How was he to find the answer to the riddle? He thought for a long
time by himself, and then asked every one he met what it was that
women loved best. But nowhere could he discover two people who agreed
in saying the same thing. Some told him the answer was honour; some,
riches; others, fine clothing; others, again, flattery. But none of
these replies pleased the knight, and he could not guess anyhow what
it was that the queen had in her mind as the right answer.

He wandered far and wide in his mournful search for some one wise
enough to help him. At length the time came when he had to turn
homewards again, in order to return to the queen by the appointed
day. His way lay through a forest, and he was riding along sadly
enough when suddenly he saw a strange sight. In a little glade just in
front of him was a ring of fair ladies dancing, four-and-twenty or
more of them; but as he drew nigh eagerly to look at them more
closely, and see if by chance lie might gain an answer from them, they
all vanished.

In the place where they had been not a living thing remained except an
old woman sitting on the grass. When he came near to her he saw that
she was withered and ugly, and as horrible a sight as could be
imagined,

"Sir knight," she said to him, standing up, "this road leads to no
place. Whither are you going? Tell me your errand, and perchance I
can help you. We old folk have knowledge of many things."

"Old mother," he said, "my trouble is this: I am as good as dead if I
cannot discover what it is that women love best. If you could help me
I would reward you well." And he told her the conditions on which his
life was spared.

"Give me your word here and now that you will do the next thing that I
ask of you, whatever it is, if it is in your power," said the hag when
she heard the story, "and I will tell you the answer."

"I give my word," the knight replied.

"Then your life is safe. I promise you that my answer will be that
which the queen wishes to have, and the proudest lady of all her court
will not dare gainsay it. Let us go on our journey without any more
talking."

She whispered a word or two in his ear, and bade him pluck up heart;
and together they rode to the court.

The knight came before the queen, and said that he was ready to give
his answer, and a great company of noble ladies gathered to hear what
he would reply to the riddle. Silence was proclaimed, and he was
called upon to speak.

"I have kept my word faithfully," he said in a manly voice that was
heard all over the hall, "and I am here on the day appointed, prepared
to answer the queen's question. The answer she desired was that women
love power best, whether it be over husband or lover. If that is not
the right answer do with me as you wish. I am here ready to die if you
so will it."

They all agreed that he had saved his life by his reply. But when
their verdict was made known up started the old hag who had told the
knight the answer.

"Give me justice, lady queen, before your court departs," she
cried. "I told the knight that answer, and he gave me his word that he
would do the first thing that I asked of him if it lay in his
power. Now, before all this court, I ask you, sir knight, to take me
to be your wife; and remember it is I who have saved your life."

"Alas!" said the knight; "truly I gave my word, but will you not ask
some other thing of me? Take all my riches, and let me go."

"No," insisted the old woman. "Though I be old and poor and ugly I
would not let you go for all the gold on earth. I will be your wife
and your love."

"My love!" he cried; "nay, rather my death! Alas that any of my race
should suffer such dishonour."


All the knight's prayers and entreaties were of no avail. He had to
keep his word and marry the hideous old hag; and a mournful wedding he
made of it. He took his new bride home to his house, feeling not at
all like a happy lover; and his woe was increased by her first words
to him.

"Dear husband, will you not kiss me? Is it the custom of the king's
court for every knight to neglect his wife? I am your own love, who
saved you from death, and I have done you no wrong. Yet you act
towards me like a madman who has lost his senses, with your groans and
your glum looks. Tell me what I have done amiss, and I will set it
right."

"You cannot set it right," said the knight sorrowfully. "Do you
wonder that I am ashamed to have married one of such mean birth, so
poor and old and ugly?"

"Is that the cause of your grief?" she asked.

"Yes," answered he.

"I could set it right," said his wife. "But you speak so proudly of
your high birth and old family. Such pride is worth nothing, for
poverty and low birth are no sin. Look rather at him who leads the
best life both in secret and in the open, who strives always to do
gentle and honourable deeds; take him for the truest gentleman, and be
sure that a noble nature like his is not made only by high birth or
the wealth of his fathers. But you say that I am low-born, old, and
ugly. Well, choose now which you would desire me to be--as I am, poor,
old, and ugly, but a true and faithful wife who will obey you always;
or young and fair, but fickle and fond of vain pleasures, always
emptying your purse and wounding your love?"

The knight did not know which to choose. He was moved to shame by his
wife's words, and after long thought he said: "My lady, my dear wife,
I put myself in your hands. Choose for yourself; that will do honour
to you, and what you wish is enough for me."

"Then I have gained the mastery! I have power over you," said she, "if
I may choose as I please."

"Yes, dear wife," he answered, "I think that best."

"Kiss me," she said, "and let us quarrel no longer. I will be both to
you--both fair and true. I will be as good a wife as ever there was
since the beginning of the world; and if I am not as beautiful as any
lady, queen, or empress in the whole earth, from east to west, then
slay me or do with my life as you wish."

The knight looked up at her again. But instead of the withered old
crone he expected to see, his eyes fell upon the most beautiful wife
that could be imagined; for the old woman was a fairy, and had wished
to give him a lesson before he knew her as she really was. No longer
now was he ashamed of her, and they lived together happily to their
lives' end.




DEATH AND THE THREE REVELLERS

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


There was once in Flanders a company of young men who spent much time
in drinking and rioting among the taverns, wasting their lives in
gambling and dancing day and night.

Early one morning a certain three of these revellers were sitting in a
tavern drinking, and making a great noise with their horrible talk. As
they jested idly with one another they heard a bell tolling outside
for a dead man who was about to be buried.

"Run quickly," one of them called to his servant-boy, "and ask the
name of the man whose body is being carried out to burial. Take care
to tell it us aright."

"I need not go, sirs," answered the boy. "I heard two hours before you
came here that this man who is now dead was an old comrade of yours,
slain last night as he lay in a drunken sleep. There came to him a
stealthy old thief named Death, who kills many folk in this country;
he pierced your comrade's heart with a spear, and went his way without
a word. He has slain a thousand or more in the pestilence here. I
think it would be well for you; my masters, to beware of coming into
the presence of such a foe, and to be ready to meet him."

"Yes," said the keeper of the tavern, "the boy speaks truly. Death has
this year slain men, women, and children, pages and peasants,
throughout the whole of a great village a mile from here. I think he
dwells in that place. It would be wise to be prepared before he does
one any evil."

"Is it so great a danger to meet him, then?" cried one of the
revellers with an oath. "I will go myself, and seek him high and low
in the streets and lanes. Listen, comrades: there are three of us; let
us join together and slay this false traitor Death. We will swear to
be true to one another, and before night-time we will slay him who
kills so many others."

The other two agreed, and the three swore to be to one another as
brothers. Up they started, and went forth towards the village where
Death was said by the innkeeper to live.

"Death shall die," they cried, with many a boastful oath, "if we once
lay hold of him!"

They had not gone half a mile on their way when they met an old,
poor-looking man, who greeted them meekly and bade them God-speed.

"Who are you, you ragged old beggar?" cried the proudest of the
rioters to him. "Why are you so well wrapped up, except for your face?
Why is an old man like you allowed to live so long?"

The old man looked him in the face, and said: "I must needs keep my
old age myself. I can find no man anywhere--no, not even if I walked
to India--who would exchange his youth for my age. Death himself
refuses to take my life; so I walk restlessly up and down the world,
old and weary, tapping the ground with my staff early and late, and
begging Mother Earth to take me to her again. 'Look how I am slowly
vanishing,' I cry to her; 'I feel myself wasting, flesh and skin and
blood and all. Receive me into the dust again, Mother Earth, for my
bones are tired.' But the earth will not hear my prayer yet, and I
must wander on. I beseech you, therefore, do not harm an old man, good
sirs, and may the blessing of Heaven be upon you!"

"Nay, old churl," said one of the revellers, "you shall not get off so
lightly. You spoke just now of the traitor Death, who slays all our
friends in this district. Tell us where he is to be seen, or you shall
rue it. I believe that you must be one of his friends yourself, and
anxious to slay us young folk, since you talk so lovingly of him."

"Sirs," answered the old man, "if you are so eager to find Death, turn
up this crooked path. In that grove yonder, upon my faith, I left him,
under a tree. There he will await you. He will not hide himself from
you for all your boasts. Do you see the oak? You shall find Death
there. God save you and make you better men!"

Thus spoke the old stranger. They paid no more heed to him, but ran
off straightway to search for Death by the oak tree. There they found,
not Death himself, but a great heap of fine golden florins piled up,
well-nigh eight bushels of them. No longer had they any thought about
Death, but were so glad at the sight of the fair bright florins that
they sat down there by the precious heap to think what should be done.

The worst of the three was the first to speak. "Listen to me,
brethren. I am no fool, for all that I spend my life in folly. Fortune
has given us this great treasure, so that we can live the rest of our
lives in mirth and jollity. It has come to us easily, and easily we
will spend it. But there is one thing which we must do to make our
happiness sure: we must get the gold away from this place to my house,
or else to one of yours--for, of course, the treasure is ours. But we
cannot do this by day; men would say that we were thieves, and we
should be hanged for stealing our own treasure. It must be done by
night, as secretly and carefully as we can, and we must wait here all
day. Let us therefore draw lots to see which of us shall go to the
town and bring food and drink hither as quickly as he can for the
other two. The others must stay by the treasure, for we cannot leave
it unguarded. Then, when night comes, we will carry it all away
safely."

They agreed to this, and drew lots. The lot fell on the youngest of
them, who left them at once and went towards the town.

As soon as he was gone, one of those who remained with the gold said
to the other: "You know that we have sworn to be true to one another
like brothers. Hear, then, how can we win profit for ourselves: our
comrade is gone, and has left us here with this gold, of which there
is great plenty. We are to divide it among the three of us, by our
agreement. But if I can contrive that we divide it between us two
alone, will not that be doing you a friendly turn?"

"How can it be?" asked the other. "He knows that the gold is with us;
what could we say to him?"

"Will you keep a secret?" said his comrade. "If so, I will tell you in
a few words what we must do."

"Yes," answered the other; "trust me not to betray you."

"Look you, then, there are two of us, and two are stronger than one.
When he comes back and sits down, do you rise and go to him as if for
a friendly wrestling bout. I will stab him in the side as you struggle
in play; see that you also do the like with your dagger. Thus shall
the treasure be divided between us two, dear friend, and we shall live
in ease and plenty for the rest of our lives."

The two rogues agreed on this plan for getting rid of their comrade;
but he, as he went on his way to the town, could not take his mind
away from the bright golden florins.

"If only I could have this treasure all for myself," he thought, "no
man on earth would live so merrily as I." And at last the idea of
poisoning his comrades came into his head.

When he reached the town, he went without hesitating any more to an
apothecary, and asked him to sell him some poison to kill the rats in
his house; and there was a polecat also, he said, which ate his
chickens.

"You shall have a poison," answered the apothecary, "the like of which
is not to be found on earth. It is so strong that if a man does but
taste a little piece of it, the size of a grain of wheat, he shall die
at once; before you can walk a mile he will be dead, so strong and
violent is this poison."

The man took the poison in a box and went into the next street. There
he borrowed three large bottles, and into two he put the poison; the
third he kept clean for his own drink, thinking that he would be
working hard that night, carrying the gold all by himself to his own
house. Then he filled all the bottles up with wine, and went back to
his comrades.

Why should a long tale be made of it? When he came back the other two
set upon him, and killed him as they had planned.

"Now let us eat and drink," said one to the other. "When we have made
merry we will bury him."

With that word, he took one of the bottles; it happened to be one of
those containing the poisoned wine. He drank, and gave it to his
fellow; and in a little while they both fell dead beside the body of
their comrade.

Thus the three revellers met Death, whom they set out to kill.




PATIENT GRISELDA

Retold by F. J. H. Darton


There is on the western side of Italy a large and fertile plain,
wherein lie a tower and town founded long ago by the men of the olden
days. The name of this noble country is Saluzzo. A worthy marquis
called Walter was once lord of it, as his fathers had been before
him. He was young, strong, and handsome, but he had several faults for
which he was to blame; he took no thought for the future, but in his
youth liked to do nothing but hawk and hunt all day, and let all other
cares go unheeded. And the thing which seemed to the people of Saluzzo
to be worst of all was that he would not marry.

At length his subjects came to him in a body to urge him to take a
wife. The wisest of them spoke on behalf of the rest.

"Noble marquis," he said, "you are ever kind to us, and so we now dare
to come to you and tell you our grief. Of your grace, my lord, listen
to our complaint. Bethink you how quickly our lives pass, and that no
man can stop the swift course of time. You are in your youth now, but
age will creep upon you in a day which you cannot foresee. We pray
you therefore to marry, that you may leave an heir to rule over us
when you are gone. If you will do this, lord marquis, we will choose
you a wife from among the noblest in the land. Grant our boon, and
deliver us from our fears, for we could not live under a lord of a
strange race."

Their distress and grief filled the marquis with pity. "My own dear
people," he answered, "you are asking of me that which I thought never
to do. I rejoice to be free, and like not to have my freedom cut short
by marriage. But I see that your prayer is just and truly meant, and
that it is my duty to take a wife. Therefore I consent to marry as
soon as I may. But as for your offer to choose a wife for me, of that
task I acquit you. The will of God must ordain what sort of an heir I
shall have, and be your choice of a wife never so wise, the child may
yet be amiss, for goodness is of God's gift alone. To Him, therefore,
I trust to guide my choice. You must promise also to obey and
reverence my wife, and not to rebel against her so long as she lives,
whosoever she may be."

With hearty goodwill they promised to do as he bade them, and to obey
his wife, but before they went away they begged him to fix a day for
the wedding.

Walter appointed a day for his marriage, saying that this, too, he did
because they wished it; and they fell on their knees and thanked him,
and went away to their homes again, while he gave orders to his
knights and officers to prepare a great wedding-feast, with every kind
of splendour and magnificence. But he told no one who was to be his
bride.

Near the great palace of the marquis there stood a small village,
where a number of poor folk dwelt. Among them lived a man called
Janicola, the poorest of them all. Janicola had a daughter named
Griselda, the fairest maiden under the sun, and the best. She had been
brought up simply, knowing more of labour than of ease, and she worked
hard to keep her father's old age in comfort. All day long she sat
spinning and watching sheep in the fields; when she came home to their
poor cottage in the evening she would bring with her a few herbs,
which she would cut up and cook, to make herself a meal before she lay
down to rest on her hard bed; and she had not a moment idle till she
was asleep.

Walter had often seen this maiden as he rode out a-hunting, and he was
filled with pleasure at the sight of her loveliness and her gentle,
kindly life. In his heart he had vowed to marry none other than her,
if ever he did marry.

The day appointed for the wedding came, but still no one knew who
would be the bride. Men wondered and murmured and gossiped secretly,
But the marquis had ordered all kinds of costly gems, brooches, and
rings to be made ready, and rich dresses were prepared for the bride
(for there was a maid in his service about Griselda's stature, so that
they knew how to measure the cloth and silks and fine linen for the
wedding garments). Yet still, when the very hour for the marriage
arrived, no one but Walter knew who would be the bride.

All the palace was put in array, and the board set for the feast. The
bridal procession started as if to fetch the bride, the marquis at its
head, dressed in gay attire, and attended by all his lords and ladies.

They set out in all their pomp and magnificence, to the sound of
joyful music, and rode until they came to the little village where
Griselda lived.

Griselda, all ignorant of what was to happen, went that morning to the
well to draw water, according to her wont, for she had heard of the
procession which would take place in honour of the wedding.

"I will do my work as soon as I can, and go and stand at the door as
the other maidens do," she thought, "to watch the marquis and his
bride pass, if they come this way to the castle."

Just as she went to the door the procession reached the cottage, and
the marquis called her. She set down her waterpot by the threshold of
the ox's stall (for they were so poor that their one ox lived in the
hut with them), and fell on her knees to hear what the marquis wished
to say to her.

"Where is your father, Griselda?" he asked soberly and gravely.

"My lord, he is within," she answered humbly, and went in and brought
Janicola before him.

Walter took the old man by the hand, and led him aside. "Janicola," he
said, "I can no longer hide the desire of my heart. If you will grant
me your daughter, I will take her with me to be my wife to my life's
end. You are my faithful liege subject, and I know that you love and
obey me. Will you, then, consent to have me for your son-in-law?"

The sudden question so amazed the old man that he turned red and
confused, and stood trembling before the marquis. All he could say
was: "My lord, my will is as your will, and you are my sovereign. Let
it be as you wish."

"Let us talk privately a little," said the marquis, "and afterwards I
will ask Griselda herself to be my wife, and we three will speak of
the matter together." So they went apart to confer privately about
it. Meanwhile the courtiers were in the yard of the mean little
cottage, marvelling at the care and kindness which Griselda showed in
tending her old father. But their wonder was not so great as hers, for
she had never before seen so splendid a sight as these richly-dressed
lords and ladies, nor received such noble guests; and she stood in
their presence pale with astonishment.

But her father and the marquis called her. "Griselda," said Walter,
"your father and I desire that you shall become my wife. I wish to ask
you whether you give your consent now, or whether you would like to
think further of it. If you marry me, will you be ready to love and
obey me, and never to act against my will, even so much as by a word
or a frown?"

"My lord," Griselda answered, fearing and wondering at his words, "I
am all unworthy of so great an honour; but as you wish, so will I do.
Here and now I promise that I will never willingly disobey you in deed
or thought--no, not if I die for it."

"That is enough, my Griselda," said the marquis; and with that he went
gravely to the door, with Griselda following him.

"This is my bride," he cried to all the people. "Honour and love her,
I pray you, if you love me."

Then, that she might not enter his palace poorly dressed in her old
clothes, he bade the women robe her fitly and honourably; and though
these ladies did not like even to touch the old rags which Griselda
wore, still, at his orders, they took them off her, and clad her
afresh from head to foot. They combed her hair, and set a crown on her
head, and decked her with precious stones and jewelled clasps, so that
they hardly knew her again; and in this rich array she seemed more
lovely than ever. The marquis put a ring on her finger, she was set on
a snow-white horse, and they all rode to the palace, where they
feasted and revelled till the sun set.

Thus Griselda was married to Walter. By her marriage her gentleness
and beauty seemed only to increase, so that folk who had known her
many a year would not believe that she was the same Griselda, the
daughter of Janicola, who had lived in a mean hut in a poor
village. Every one who looked on her loved her, and her fame spread
all over Walter's realm, so that young and old used to come to Saluzzo
merely to see her.

Thus for a time Walter and Griselda lived together in great
happiness. At length Griselda had a daughter, and though they would
have liked a son better, Walter and Griselda were very glad and joyful
at the event, and so were all their subjects.

But when the child was still quite young a strange desire came upon
the marquis to try his wife's goodness and obedience, though he had
tested it in many ways times enough already, and had discovered no
faults in her. It was cruel to put her to such pains for no need, but
he could not rid himself of the wish, and he set about carrying it
out.

One night, as she lay alone, he came to her with a stern, grave
face. "Griselda," he said, "I think you have not forgotten the day
when I took you from your poor home and set you high in rank and
nobility. This present dignity which you now enjoy must not make you
unmindful of your former low estate. Take heed to my words, therefore,
now that we are alone, with none to hear what I am going to say. You
must know that you are very dear to me, but not to my people. They say
that it is shameful to be subjects of one of such mean birth; and
since your daughter was born their grumbling has not grown less. Now,
I wish to live my life with them in peace, as I have always done, and
I cannot but give ear to their words. I must deal with your child as
seems best, not for my own sake, but for my people's. Yet I am very
loth to do what must be done, and I will not do it unless you
consent. Show me, therefore, the obedience and patience which you
promised at our marriage."

Griselda never moved when she heard of all this false tale. She did
not reveal her grief in look or word, but simply answered: "My lord,
it is in your power to do as you please; my child and I are yours. Do
with us as you wish. Whatever you do cannot displease me, for all my
desire is to obey you, and no length of time can change it--no, not
even death itself--nor move my heart from you."

Walter was filled with gladness at this gentle answer, but he hid his
joy, and went mournfully out of her room. A little while after this he
told his plan to a faithful servant, a harsh and fierce-looking
officer, whom he had often before trusted greatly; and when this man
understood what was to be done he went to Griselda, and stalked into
her chamber, silent and grim.

"My lady," he said bluntly, "I must obey my lord, and you must forgive
me for doing that which I am ordered to do. I am commanded to take
away your daughter."

Not a word more did he say, but seized the child and made as if to
slay it there and then. Griselda sat obedient to the commands which
she thought to be those of her lord, and uttered no sound. At last she
spoke, and gently prayed him to let her kiss her child before it was
slain; and he granted her prayer. She clasped her little daughter to
her bosom, kissing it and lulling it to rest, and saying softly,
"Farewell, my child; never again shall I see you. May the kind Father
above receive your soul!"

Then she spoke again to the officer, so meekly and humbly that it
would have stirred any mother's heart to see her. "Take the little
child and go and do whatever my lord has bidden you. Only one thing
more I ask you--that, unless my lord forbid it, you bury the babe so
that no birds of prey can reach her little body." But he would promise
nothing. He took the child, and went his way again to Walter, and
told him all that Griselda had said and done.

The marquis was touched a little by remorse when he heard of his
wife's gentle obedience, but none the less he held to his cruel
purpose like a man who is resolved to have his own way. He bade the
officer take the babe with all care and secrecy to his sister, who was
Countess of Bologna, and tell her the whole story, asking her to bring
the child up honourably, without saying whose it was.

But Walter's mind was not yet softened from his wicked intent. He
looked eagerly to see if what he had done would make his wife show in
her face any signs of grief or anger. But Griselda did not seem to be
changed in the least. She was always gentle and kind, and still as
glad, as humble, as ready to obey him as she had ever been; and not a
word either in jest or in earnest did she say of her little daughter.

Thus there passed four years or so more, until Griselda had a little
son, at which Walter and all his subjects were overjoyed, giving
thanks to God because now there was an heir to the kingdom.

But when the boy was some two years old Walter's heart again became
cruel and perverse, and he made up his mind to test his wife's
patience once more. Her gentle obedience seemed only to make him wish
to torment her still further.

"Wife," he said to her. "I have told you that my subjects did not like
our marriage, but now, since our son was born, their murmuring has
been worse than ever before, so that I am greatly afraid of what they
may do. They speak openly of the matter. 'When Walter dies,' they say,
'we shall be ruled by Janicola's grandson.' I cannot but hear their
words, and I fear them. So, in order to live in peace, I am resolved
to serve our son as I did his sister before; and I warn you now, so
that you may have patience to bear his loss when the time comes."

"I have always said, and always will say," answered Griselda, "that I
will do nothing but what you wish. I am not grieved that both my son
and my daughter are slain, if it is you who order it. You are my
lord, and can do with me as you will. When I left my home and my poor
rags I left there my freedom also, and took your clothing, and became
obedient to your commands. Therefore do as you will; if I knew
beforehand what you wished I would do it, and if my death would please
you I would gladly die."

When Walter heard these words he cast down his eyes, wondering at the
patience of his wife. Yet he went away from her with a stern and
cruel face, though his heart was full of joy at her goodness.

The fierce officer came to her again in a little while, and seized her
son. Again she prayed him to give the babe proper burial, and kissed
its little face, and blessed it, without a word of complaint or
bitterness. Again the child was taken to Bologna, to be brought up
there. The marquis watched for signs of grief in his wife, but found
none, and the more he regarded her the more he wondered.

Meanwhile rumours crept about among the people that Walter had
murdered his two children secretly because their mother was nothing
but a poor village maiden of low birth. The report spread far and
wide, so that the marquis began to be hated by the subjects who had
formerly loved him so well. Nevertheless, he did not change his
purpose. He sent a secret message to Rome, asking that a decree from
the Pope should be forged which would allow him, for the good of his
subjects to put away his wife Griselda and wed another.

In due time the false decree arrived. It said that, since great strife
had arisen between the Marquis of Saluzzo and his people because he
had married a poor wife of humble birth, he was to put away this wife,
and be free to marry another if he pleased. The common people believed
these lying orders, but when the news came to Griselda her heart was
full of woe. Yet she resolved to endure patiently whatever was done by
the husband whom she loved so dearly.

Walter now sent a letter secretly to Bologna to the count who had
married his sister asking him to bring to Saluzzo Griselda's son and
daughter, openly and in state, but without saying to any man whose
children they really were, and to proclaim that the young maiden was
soon to be married to the Marquis of Saluzzo.

The count did as he was asked. He set out with a great train of lords
and ladies in rich array, bringing the girl with her brother riding
beside her.

She was decked in bright jewelled robes, as if for marriage, and the
boy, too, was nobly and fittingly dressed.

When all this plan was being carried out, the marquis, according to
his wicked design, put yet another trial upon Griselda's patience by
saying to her boisterously, before all his court: "Griselda, I was
once glad to marry you for your goodness and obedience--not for your
birth or your wealth. But now I know that great rulers have duties
and hardships of many kinds; I am not free to do as every ploughman
may, and marry whom I please. Every day my people urge me to take
another wife, and now I have got leave to do so to stop the strife
between me and them. I must tell you that even now my new wife is on
her way hither. Be brave then, and give place to her, and I will
restore to you again the dowry you brought me when I married
you. Return again to your father's house; remember that no one is
always happy, and bear steadfastly the buffeting of misfortune."

"My lord," answered Griselda patiently, "I knew always how great was
the distance between your high rank and my poverty. I never deemed
myself worthy to be your wife, nor even to be your servant. May Heaven
be my witness that in this house whither you led me as your wife I
have always tried to serve you faithfully, and ever will while my life
lasts. I thank God and you that of your kindness you have so long held
me in honour and dignity when I was so unworthy. I will go to my
father gladly, and dwell with him to my life's end. May God of His
grace grant you and your new wife happiness and prosperity! As for the
dowry which you say I brought with me, I remember well what it was; it
was my poor clothes that I wore in my father's house. Let me, then, go
in my old smock back to him. Though I have lost your love, I will
never in word or deed repent that I gave you my heart."

"You may take the old smock and go," said Walter. Scarcely another
word could he speak, but went away with great pity in his heart.

Before them all Griselda stripped off her fine clothes, and went forth
clad only in her smock, barefoot and bareheaded. The people followed
her weeping and railing at her hard lot, but she made no complaint,
and spoke never a word. Her father met her at his door, lamenting the
day that he saw her cast off thus. So Griselda went home and lived for
a while with Janicola as though she had never left him.

At length the count drew near from Bologna with Griselda's son and
daughter. The news spread among the people, and every one talked of
the grand wife who was coming to be married to the marquis with such
splendour as had never been seen in all West Lombardy.

When Walter heard of their approach he sent for Griselda. She came
humbly and reverently, and knelt before him.

"Griselda," said he, "I desire that the lady whom I am to wed shall be
received to-morrow as royally as may be. I have no woman who can make
all the preparations for this, and arrange that every one shall be
placed according to his proper rank, and I have sent for you to do it,
since you know my ways of old. Your garments are poor and mean, but
you will do your duty as well as you can."

"I am glad always to do your will, my lord," she answered. With that
she turned to her task of setting the house in order for the guests of
the marquis.

The next morning the Count of Bologna arrived with Griselda's son and
daughter. All the people ran out to see the fine sight. She was
younger and even fairer than Griselda, and the fickle people, ever
changeable, as a weathercock, were full of praises for the choice of
the marquis.

Griselda had made everything ready, and went into the courtyard of the
palace with the other folk to greet the marquis and his bride. When
the procession reached the banquet-hall, she took no shame in her torn
old clothes, but went busily about her work with a cheerful face,
showing the guests each to his appointed place.

At length, when they were all sitting down to the feast, Walter called
out to her as she busied herself in the great hall. "Griselda," he
cried, as if in jest, "what think you of my wife?"

"Never have I looked upon a fairer maiden, my lord," she answered. "I
pray that you may have all prosperity to your lives' end. One thing
only I ask of you--that you do not torment her as you did me; for she
is tenderly brought up, and could not bear hardship as well as I, who
was poorly bred."

When Walter heard her gentle answer, and saw that even now she had no
discontent or malice for all the wrong he had done her, he relented at
last, and blamed himself sorely for his cruelty.

"Enough, Griselda," he said; "be not ill at ease any longer. I have
tried and tested your faithfulness and goodness, and I know your true
heart, dear wife."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she was so filled with
wonder that she hardly heard what he said till he spoke again.

"Griselda, you are my wife, and I will have no other. This is your
daughter, who you thought was my new bride, and this your son, who
shall be my heir; they have been kept and brought up secretly at
Bologna. Take them again, and see for yourself that your children are
safe. Let no one think evil of me for my cruelty; I did it but to make
trial of my wife's goodness and show it the more brightly."

Griselda swooned for joy at his words. When she came to her senses
again she thanked Heaven for restoring her children to her. "And I
thank you, too, my lord. Now I fear nothing, not even death itself,
since I have truly won your love. Dear children, God of His mercy has
brought you back to me."

[Illustration: "This is my bride" he cried to all the people. From
the drawing by Hugh Thomson.]

Suddenly she swooned again. Walter raised her up and comforted her
till every one wept at the sight. Then the ladies of the court took
her into a chamber apart, and dressed her in splendid robes again, and
set a golden crown on her head, and brought her back into the
banquet-hall, where she was honoured as she deserved with feasting and
rejoicing that lasted all that day.

Full many a year Walter and Griselda lived together in happiness and
peace. Janicola, too, was brought to the court, and dwelt there with
them. Their daughter was married to one of the greatest lords in all
Italy, and their son succeeded Walter at his death, and ruled well and
prosperously.




TALES FROM FRENCH AND ITALIAN CHRONICLES


As many stories gather round the great name of the French King
Charlemagne as about that of the English King Arthur. Some versions
are in French and some in Italian. The four stories beginning with
"The Treason of Ganelon" make up the great epic song of France, the
"Chanson de Roland" and the battle they celebrate was fought in
788. Roncesvalles is in Spain.

When William the Conqueror fought the battle of Hastings in 1066,
Taillefer, his minstrel, rode ahead of the army and sang of Roland and
Oliver, and of the rear guard which fell at Roncesvalles.

"How the Child of the Sea Was Made Knight" is from Amadis of Gaul,
which is described in Don Quixote as one of the earliest and best of
the Spanish romances. Some critics give it a Portuguese and some a
French origin. Lobeira, its author, died in 1405.




OGIER THE DANE

By Thomas Bulfinch


Ogier the Dane was the son of Geoffroy, who wrested Denmark from the
Pagans, and reigned the first Christian king of that country. In his
education nothing was neglected to elevate him to the standard of a
perfect knight, and render him accomplished in all the arts necessary
to make him a hero.

He had hardly reached the age of sixteen years, when Charlemagne,
whose power was established over all the sovereigns of his time,
recollected that Geoffroy, Ogier's father, had omitted to render the
homage due to him as emperor, and sovereign lord of Denmark. He
accordingly sent an embassy to demand of the King of Denmark this
homage, and on receiving a refusal, sent an army to enforce the
demand. Geoffroy, after an unsuccessful resistance, was forced to
comply, and as a pledge of his sincerity, delivered Ogier, his eldest
son, a hostage to Charles, to be brought up at his court.

Ogier grew up more and more handsome and amiable every day. He
surpassed in form, strength, and address all the noble youths his
companions; he failed not to be present at all tourneys; he was
attentive to the elder knights, and burned with impatience to imitate
them.

Yet his heart rose sometimes in secret against his condition as a
hostage, and as one apparently forgotten by his father.

Ogier's mother having died, the king had married a second wife, and
had a son named Guyon. The new queen had absolute power over her
husband, and fearing that, if he should see Ogier again, he would give
him the preference over Guyon, she had adroitly persuaded him to delay
rendering his homage to Charlemagne, till now four years had passed
away since the last renewal of that ceremony. Charlemagne, irritated
at this delinquency, drew closer the bonds of Ogier's captivity until
he should receive a response from the King of Denmark to a fresh
summons which he caused to be sent to him.

The answer of Geoffroy was insulting and defiant, and the rage of
Charlemagne was roused in the highest degree. He was at first disposed
to wreak his vengeance upon Ogier, his hostage; but consented to spare
his life, if Ogier would swear fidelity to him as his liege-lord, and
promise not to quit his court without his permission. Ogier accepted
these terms, and was allowed to retain all the freedom he had before
enjoyed.

The emperor would have immediately taken arms to reduce his
disobedient vassal, if he had not been called off in another direction
by a message from Pope Leo, imploring his assistance. The Saracens had
landed in the neighborhood of Rome, and prepared to carry fire and
sword to the capital of the Christian world. Charlemagne speedily
assembled an army, crossed the Alps, traversed Italy, and arrived at
Spoleto, a strong place to which the Pope had retired. He stopped but
two days at Spoleto, and learning that the Infidels were besieging the
Capitol, marched promptly to attack them.

The advanced posts of the army were commanded by Duke Namo, on whom
Ogier waited as his squire. He did not yet bear arms, not having
received the order of knighthood. The Oriflamme, the royal standard,
was borne by a knight named Alory, who showed himself unworthy of the
honor.

Duke Namo, seeing a strong body of the Infidels advancing to attack
him, gave the word to charge them. Ogier remained in the rear, with
the other youths, grieving much that he was not permitted to fight.
Very soon he saw Alory lower the Oriflamme, and turn his horse in
flight. Ogier pointed him out to the young men, and, seizing a club,
rushed upon Alory and struck him from his horse. Then, with his
companions, he disarmed him, clothed himself in his armor, raised the
Oriflamme, and, mounting the horse of the unworthy knight, flew to the
front rank, where he joined Duke Namo, drove back the Infidels, and
carried the Oriflamme quite through their broken ranks. The duke,
thinking it was Alory, whom he had not held in high esteem, was
astonished at his strength and valor. Ogier's young companions
imitated him, supplying themselves with armor from the bodies of the
slain; they followed Ogier and carried death into the ranks of the
Saracens, who fell back in confusion upon their main body.

Duke Namo now ordered a retreat, and Ogier obeyed with reluctance,
when they perceived Charlemagne advancing to their assistance. The
combat now became general, and was more terrible than ever.
Charlemagne had overthrown Corsuble, the commander of the Saracens,
and had drawn his famous sword, Joyeuse, to cut off his head, when two
Saracen knights set upon him at once, one of whom slew his horse, and
the other overthrew the emperor on the sand. Perceiving by the eagle
on his casque who he was, they dismounted in haste to give him his
death-blow. Never was the life of the emperor in such peril. But
Ogier, who saw him fall, flew to his rescue. Though embarrassed with
the Oriflamme, he pushed his horse against one of the Saracens and
knocked him down; and with his sword dealt the other so vigorous a
blow that he fell stunned to the earth. Then helping the emperor to
rise, he remounted him on the horse of one of the fallen knights.
"Brave and generous Alory!" Charles exclaimed, "I owe to you my honor
and my life!" Ogier made no answer; but, leaving Charlemagne
surrounded by a great many of the knights who had flown to his succor,
he plunged into the thickest ranks of the enemy, and carried the
Oriflamme, followed by a gallant train of youthful warriors, till the
standard of Mahomet turned in retreat and the Infidels sought safety
in their intrenchments.

As the good Archbishop Turpin took his mitre and his crosier, and
intoned Te Deum, Ogier, covered with blood and dust, came to lay the
Oriflamme at the feet of the emperor. He knelt at the feet of
Charlemagne, who embraced him, calling him Alory, while Turpin, from
the height of the altar, blessed him with all his might. Then young
Orlando, son of the Count Milone and nephew of Charlemagne, no longer
able to endure this misapprehension, threw down his helmet, and ran to
unlace Ogier's, while the other young men laid aside theirs. It would
be difficult to express the surprise, the admiration, and the
tenderness of the emperor and his peers. Charlemagne folded Ogier in
his arms, and the happy fathers of those brave youths embraced them
with tears of joy. "My dear Ogier! I owe you my life! My sword leaps
to touch your shoulder, and those of your brave young friends." At
these words he drew that famous sword, Joyeuse, and, while Ogier and
the rest knelt before him, conferred on them the order of knighthood.
The young Orlando and his cousin Oliver could not refrain from falling
upon Ogier's neck and pledging with him that brotherhood in arms, so
dear and so sacred to the knights of old times; but Charlot, the
emperor's son, at the sight of the glory with which Ogier had covered
himself, conceived the blackest jealousy and hate.

The rest of the day and the next were spent in the rejoicings of the
army. Duke Namo presented them with golden spurs, Charlemagne himself
girded on their swords. But what was his astonishment when he examined
that intended for Ogier! The loving fairy, Morgana, had had the art
to change it, and to substitute one of her own procuring, and when
Charlemagne drew it out of the scabbard, these words appeared written
on the steel: "My name is Cortana, of the same steel and temper as
Joyeuse and Durindana." The emperor saw that a superior power watched
over the destiny of Ogier; he vowed to love him as a father would, and
Ogier promised him the devotion of a son.

The Saracen army had hardly recovered from its dismay when Carahue,
King of Mauritania, who was one of the knights overthrown by Ogier,
determined to challenge him to single combat. With that view, he
assumed the dress of a herald, resolved to carry his own message. He
began by passing the warmest eulogium upon the knight who bore the
Oriflamme on the day of the battle, and concluded by saying that
Carahue, King of Mauritania, respected that knight so much that he
challenged him to the combat.

Ogier had risen to reply, when he was interrupted by Charlot, who said
that the gage of the King of Mauritania could not fitly be received by
a vassal, living in captivity; by which he meant Ogier, who was at
that time serving as hostage for his father. Fire flashed from the
eyes of Ogier, but the presence of the emperor restrained his speech,
and he was calmed by the kind looks of Charlemagne, who said, with an
angry voice, "Silence, Charlot! By the life of Bertha, my queen, he
who has saved my life is as dear to me as yourself. Ogier," he
continued, "you are no longer a hostage. Herald! report my answer to
your master, that never does knight of my court refuse a challenge on
equal terms. Ogier the Dane accepts of his, and I myself am his
security."

Carahue, profoundly bowing, replied, "My lord, I was sure that the
sentiments of so great a sovereign as yourself would be worthy of your
high and brilliant fame; I shall report your answer to my master, who
I know admires you, and unwillingly takes arms against you." Then,
turning to Charlot, whom he did not know as the son of the emperor, he
continued, "As for you, sir knight, if the desire of battle inflames
you, I have it in charge from Sadon, cousin of the King of Mauritania,
to give the like defiance to any French knights who will grant him the
honor of the combat."

Chariot, inflamed with rage and vexation at the public reproof which
he had just received, hesitated not to deliver his gage. Carahue
received it with Ogier's, and it was agreed that the combat should be
on the next day, in a meadow environed by woods and equally distant
from both armies.

During the night Charlot collected some knights unworthy of the name;
he made them swear to avenge his injuries, armed them in black armor,
and sent them to lie in ambush in the wood, with orders to make a
pretended attack upon the whole party, but in fact to lay heavy hands
upon Ogier and the two Saracens.

At the dawn of day Sadon and Carahue, attended only by two pages to
carry their spears, took their way to the appointed meadow; and
Charlot and Ogier repaired thither also, but by different paths. Ogier
advanced with a calm air, saluted courteously the two Saracen knights,
and joined them in arranging the terms of combat.

While this was going on, the perfidious Charlot remained behind and
gave his men the signal to advance. That cowardly troop issued from
the wood and encompassed the three knights. All three were equally
surprised at the attack, but neither of them suspected the other to
have any hand in the treason. Seeing the attack made equally upon them
all, they united their efforts to resist it, and made the most forward
of the assailants bite the dust. Cortana fell on no one without
inflicting a mortal wound, but the sword of Carahue was not of equal
temper and broke in his hands. At the same instant his horse was
slain, and Carahue fell, without a weapon and entangled with his
prostrate horse. Ogier, who saw it, ran to his defence, and, leaping
to the ground, covered the prince with his shield, supplied him with
the sword of one of the fallen ruffians, and would have had him mount
his own horse. At that moment Charlot, inflamed with rage, pushed his
horse upon Ogier, knocked him down, and would have run him through
with his lance if Sadon, who saw the treason, had not sprung upon him
and thrust him back. Carahue leapt lightly upon the horse which Ogier
presented him, and had time only to exclaim, "Brave Ogier, I am no
longer your enemy, I pledge to you an eternal friendship," when
numerous Saracen knights were seen approaching, having discovered the
treachery, and Charlot with his followers took refuge in the wood.

The troop which advanced was commanded by Dannemont, the exiled King
of Denmark, whom Geoffroy, Ogier's father, had driven from his throne
and compelled to take refuge with the Saracens. Learning who Ogier
was he instantly declared him his prisoner, in spite of the urgent
remonstrances and even threats of Carahue and Sadon, and carried him,
under a strong guard, to the Saracen camp. Here he was at first
subjected to the most rigorous captivity, but Carahue and Sadon
insisted so vehemently on his release, threatening to turn their arms
against their own party if it was not granted, while Dannemont as
eagerly opposed the measure, that Corsuble, the Saracen commander,
consented to a middle course, and allowed Ogier the freedom of his
camp, upon his promise not to leave it without permission.

Carahue was not satisfied with this partial concession. He left the
city next morning, proceeded to the camp of Charlemagne, and demanded
to be led to the emperor. When he reached his presence he dismounted
from his horse, took off his helmet, drew his sword, and, holding it
by the blade, presented it to Charlemagne as he knelt before him.

"Illustrious prince," he said, "behold before you the herald who
brought the challenge to your knights from the King of Mauritania. The
cowardly old King Dannemont has made the brave Ogier prisoner, and has
prevailed on our general to refuse to give him up. I come to make
amends for this ungenerous conduct by yielding myself, Carahue, King
of Mauritania, your prisoner."

Charlemagne, with all his peers, admired the magnanimity of Carahue;
he raised him, embraced him, and restored to him his sword. "Prince,"
said he, "your presence and the bright example you afford my knights
consoles me for the loss of Ogier. Would to God you might receive our
holy faith, and be wholly united with us." All the lords of the court,
led by Duke Namo, paid their respects to the King of Mauritania.
Charlot only failed to appear, fearing to be recognized as a traitor;
but the heart of Carahue was too noble to pierce that of Charlemagne
by telling him the treachery of his son.

Meanwhile the Saracen army was rent by discord. The troops of Carahue
clamored against the commander-in-chief because their king was left in
captivity. They even threatened to desert the cause, and turn their
arms against their allies. Charlemagne pressed the siege vigorously,
till at length the Saracen leaders found themselves compelled to
abandon the city and betake themselves to their ships. A truce was
made; Ogier was exchanged for Carahue, and the two friends embraced
one another with vows of perpetual brotherhood. The Pope was
reestablished in his dominions, and Italy being tranquil, Charlemagne
returned, with his peers and their followers, to France.




A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER

By Thomas Bulfinch


Guerin de Montglave held the lordship of Vienne, subject to
Charlemagne. He had quarrelled with his sovereign, and Charles laid
siege to his city, having ravaged the neighboring country. Guerin was
an aged warrior, but relied for his defence upon his four sons and two
grandsons, who were among the bravest knights of the age. After the
siege had continued two months, Charlemagne received tidings that
Marsilius, King of Spain, had invaded France, and, finding himself
unopposed, was advancing rapidly in the Southern provinces. At this
intelligence, Charles listened to the counsel of his peers, and
consented to put the quarrel with Guerin to the decision of Heaven, by
single combat between two knights, one of each party, selected by
lot. The proposal was acceptable to Guerin and his sons. The names of
the four, together with Guerin's own, who would not be excused, and of
the two grandsons, who claimed their lot, being put into a helmet,
Oliver's was drawn forth, and to him, the youngest of the grandsons,
was assigned the honor and the peril of the combat. He accepted the
award with delight, exulting in being thought worthy to maintain the
cause of his family. On Charlemagne's side Roland was the designated
champion, and neither he nor Oliver knew who his antagonist was to be.

They met on an island in the river Rhone, and the warriors of both
camps were ranged on either shore, spectators of the battle. At the
first encounter both lances were shivered, but both riders kept their
seats, immovable. They dismounted, and drew their swords. Then ensued
a combat which seemed so equal, that the spectators could not form an
opinion as to the probable result. Two hours and more the knights
continued to strike and parry, to thrust and ward, neither showing any
sign of weariness, nor ever being taken at unawares. At length Roland
struck furiously upon Oliver's shield, burying Durindana in its edge
so deeply that he could not draw it back, and Oliver, almost at the
same moment, thrust so vigorously upon Roland's breastplate that his
sword snapped off at the handle. Thus were the two warriors left
weaponless. Scarcely pausing a moment, they rushed upon one another,
each striving to throw his adversary to the ground, and failing in
that, each snatched at the other's helmet to tear it away. Both
succeeded, and at the same moment they stood bareheaded face to face,
and Roland recognized Oliver, and Oliver, Roland. For a moment they
stood still; and the next, with open arms, rushed into one another's
embrace. "I am conquered," said Roland. "I yield me," said Oliver.

The people on the shore knew not what to make of all this. Presently
they saw the two late antagonists standing hand in hand, and it was
evident the battle was at an end. The knights crowded round them, and
with one voice hailed them as equals in glory. If there were any who
felt disposed to murmur that the battle was left undecided, they were
silenced by the voice of Ogier the Dane, who proclaimed aloud that all
had been done that honor required, and declared that he would maintain
that award against all gainsayers.

The quarrel with Guerin and his sons being left undecided, a truce was
made for four days, and in that time, by the efforts of Duke Namo on
the one side, and of Oliver on the other, a reconciliation was
effected. Charlemagne, accompanied by Guerin and his valiant family,
marched to meet Marsilius, who hastened to retreat across the
frontier.




THE TREASON OF GANELON

By Sir George W. Cox


Charles the great king had tarried with his host seven years in Spain,
until he conquered all the land down to the sea, and his banners were
riddled through with battle-marks. There remained neither burg nor
castle the walls whereof he brake not down, save only Zaragoz, a
fortress on a rugged mountain top, so steep and strong that he could
not take it. There dwelt the pagan King Marsilius, who feared not God.

King Marsilius caused his throne to be set in his garden beneath an
olive-tree, and thither he summoned his lords and nobles to
council. Twenty thousand of his warriors being gathered about him, he
spake to his dukes and counts saying, "What shall we do? Lo! these
seven years the great Charles has been winning all our lands till only
Zaragoz remains to us. We are too few to give him battle, and, were it
not so, man for man we are no match for his warriors. What shall we do
to save our lands?"

Then up and spake Blancandrin, wily counsellor--"It is plain we must
be rid of this proud Charles; Spain must be rid of him. And since he
is too strong to drive out with the sword, let us try what promises
will do. Send an ambassage and say we will give him great treasure in
gold and cattle, hawk and hound; say we will be his vassals, do him
service at his call; say we will be baptized, forsake our gods and
call upon his God: say anything, so long as it will persuade him to
rise up with his host and quit our land."

And all the pagans said, "It is well spoken."

Charles the emperor held festival before Cordova, and rejoiced, he and
his host, because they had taken the city. They had overthrown its
walls; they had gotten much booty, both of gold and silver and rich
raiment; they had put cables round about its towers and dragged them
down. Not a pagan remained in the city; for they were all either slain
or turned Christian. The emperor sat among his knights in a green
pleasance. Round about him were Roland his nephew, captain of his
host, and Oliver, and Duke Sampson; proud Anseis, Geoffrey of Anjou
the king's standard-bearer, and fifteen thousand of the noblest born
of gentle France. Beneath a pine-tree where a rose-briar twined, sat
Charles the Great, ruler of France, upon a chair of gold. White and
long was his beard; huge of limb and hale of body was the king, and of
noble countenance. It needed not that any man should ask his fellow,
saying, "Which is the king?" for all might plainly know him for the
ruler of his people.

When the messengers of King Marsilius came into his presence, they
knew him straightway, and lighted quickly down from their mules and
came meekly bending at his feet. Then said Blancandrin, "God save the
king, the glorious king whom all men ought to worship. My master King
Marsilius sends greeting to the great Charles, whose power no man can
withstand, and he prays thee make peace with him. Marsilius offers
gifts of bears and lions and leashed hounds, seven hundred camels and
a thousand moulted falcons, of gold and silver so much as four hundred
mules harnessed to fifty chariots can draw, with all his treasure of
jewels. Only make the peace and get thee to Aachen, and my master will
meet thee there at the feast of St. Michael; and he will be thy man
henceforth in service and worship, and hold Spain of thee; thou shalt
be his lord, and thy God shall be his God."

The emperor bowed his head the while he thought upon the purport of
the message; for he never spake a hasty word, and never went back from
a word once spoken. Having mused awhile he raised his head and
answered, "The King Marsilius is greatly my enemy. In what manner
shall I be assured that he will keep his covenant?" The messengers
said, "Great king, we offer hostages of good faith, the children of our
noblest. Take ten or twenty as it seemeth good to thee; but treat them
tenderly, for verily at the feast of St. Michael our king will redeem
his pledge, and come to Aachen to be baptized and pay his homage and
his tribute."

Then the king commanded a pavilion to be spread wherein to lodge them
for the night. On the morrow, after they had taken their journey home,
he called his barons to him and showed them after what manner the
messengers had spoken, and asked their counsel.

With one voice the Franks answered, "Beware of King Marsilius."

Then spake Roland and said, "Parley not with him, trust him not.
Remember how he took and slew Count Basant and Count Basil, the
messengers whom we sent to him aforetime on a peaceful errand. Seven
years have we been in Spain, and now only Zaragoz holds out against
us. Finish what has been so long a-doing and is well nigh done. Gather
the host; lay siege to Zaragoz with all thy might, and conquer the
last stronghold of the pagans; so win Spain, and end this long and
weary war."

But Ganelon drew near to the king and spake: "Heed not the counsel of
any babbler, unless it be to thine own profit. What has Marsilius
promised? Will he not give up his gods, himself, his service and his
treasure? Could man ask more? Could we get more by fighting him? How
glorious would it be to go to war with a beaten man who offers thee
his all! How wise to wage a war to win what one can get without!
Roland is wholly puffed up with the pride of fools. He counsels battle
for his glory's sake. What careth he how many of us be slain in a
causeless fight, if he can win renown? Roland is a brave man; brave
enough and strong enough to save his skin, and so is reckless of our
lives."

Then said Duke Naymes (a better vassal never stood before a king),
"Ganelon has spoken well, albeit bitterly. Marsilius is altogether
vanquished, and there is no more glory in fighting him. Spurn not him
who sues at thy feet for pity. Make peace, and let this long war end."
And all the Franks answered, "The counsel is good."

So Charles said, "Who will go up to Zaragoz to King Marsilius, and
bear my glove and staff and make the covenant with him?"

Duke Naymes said straightway, "I will go;" but the king answered,
"Nay, thou shalt not go. Thou art my right hand in counsel and I
cannot spare thee." Then said Roland, "Send me." But Count Oliver, his
dear companion, said, "What! send thee upon a peaceful errand?
Hot-blooded as thou art, impatient of all parleying? Nay, good Roland,
thou wouldst spoil any truce. Let the king send me."

Charles stroked his long white beard and said, "Hold your peace, both
of you; neither shall go."

Then arose Archbishop Turpin and said, "Let me go. I am eager to see
this pagan Marsilius and his heathen band. I long to baptize them all,
and make their everlasting peace."

The king answered, "All in good time, zealous Turpin; but first let
them make their peace with me: take thy seat. Noble Franks, choose me
a right worthy man to bear my message to Marsilius."

Roland answered, "Send Ganelon, my stepfather." And the Franks said,
"Ganelon is the man, for there is none more cunning of speech than
he."

Now when the coward Ganelon heard these words, he feared greatly, well
knowing the fate of them which had gone aforetime as messengers to
Marsilius; and his anger was kindled against Roland insomuch that the
expression of his countenance changed in sight of all. He arose from
the ground and throwing the mantle of sable fur from his neck, said
fiercely to Roland, "Men know full well that I am thy step-father, and
that there is no love between us; but thou art a fool thus openly to
show thy malice. If God but give me to return alive, I will requite
thee."

Then he came bending to King Charles, "Rightful emperor, I am ready to
go up to Zaragoz, albeit no messenger ever returned thence alive. But
I pray thee for my boy Baldwin, who is yet young, that thou wilt care
for him. Is he not the son of thy sister whom I wedded? Let him have
my lands and honors, and train him up among thy knights if I return no
more."

Charles answered, "Be not so faint-hearted; take the glove and baton,
since the Franks have awarded it to thee, and go, do my bidding."
Ganelon said, "Sire, this is Roland's doing. All my life have I hated
him; and I like no better his companion, Oliver. And as for the twelve
champion peers of France, who stand by him in all he does, and in
whose eyes Roland can do no wrong, I defy them all, here and now."

Charles smoothed his snowy beard and said, "Verily Count Ganelon thou
hast an ill humor. Wert thou as valiant of fight as thou art of
speech, the twelve peers perchance might tremble. But they laugh. Let
them. Thy tongue may prove of better service to us upon this mission
than their swords." Then the king drew off the glove from his right
hand, and held it forth; but Ganelon, when he went to take it, let it
fall upon the ground. Thereat the Franks murmured, and said one to
another, "This is an evil omen, and bodes ill for the message." But
Ganelon picked it up quickly, saying, "Fear not: you shall all hear
tidings of it." And Ganelon said to the king, "Dismiss me, I pray
thee." So the king gave him a letter signed with his hand and seal,
and delivered to him the staff, saying, "Go, in God's name and mine."

Many of his good vassals would fain have accompanied him upon his
journey, but Ganelon answered, "Nay. 'Tis better one should die than
many." Then Ganelon leaped to horse, and rode on until he overtook the
pagan messengers who had halted beneath an olive-tree to rest. There
Blancandrin talked with Ganelon of the great Charles, and of the
countries he had conquered, and of his riches and the splendor of his
court. Ganelon also spake bitterly of Roland and his eagerness for
war, and how he continually drove the king to battle, and was the
fiercest of all the Franks against the pagans. And Blancandrin said to
Ganelon, "Shall we have peace?" Ganelon said, "He that sueth for peace
often seeketh opportunity for war." Blancandrin answered, "He that
beareth peace to his master's enemies often desireth to be avenged of
his own." Then each of the two men knew the other to be a rogue; and
they made friends, and opened their hearts to each other, and each
spake of what was in his mind, and they laid their plans. So it befell
that when they came to Zaragoz, Blancandrin took Ganelon by the hand,
and led him to King Marsilius, saying, "O king! we have borne thy
message to the haughty Charles, but he answered never a word. He only
raised his hands on high to his God, and held his peace; but he has
sent the noble Count Ganelon, at whose mouth we shall hear whether we
may have peace or no."

Then Ganelon, who had well considered beforehand what he should say,
began, "God save the worthy King Marsilius. Thus saith the mighty
Charles through me his messenger: 'So thou wilt become a Christian, I
will give thee the half of Spain to hold of me, and thou shalt pay me
tribute and be my servant. Otherwise I will come suddenly and take the
land away by force, and will bring thee to Aachen, to my court, and
will there put thee to death.'"

When King Marsilius heard this, the color went from his face, and he
snatched a javelin by the shaft, and poised it in his hand. Ganelon
watched him, his fingers playing the while with the sword-hilt
underneath his mantle, and he said, "Great king, I have given my
message and have freed me of my burden. Let the bearer of such a
message die if so it seemeth good to thee. What shall it profit thee
to slay the messenger? Will that wipe out the message, or bring a
gentler one? Or thinkest thou Charles careth not for his barons? Read
now the writing of King Charles the Great." Therewith he gave into
the king's hand a parchment he had made ready in the likeness of his
master's writing. And Marsilius brake the seal, and read: "Before I
will make the peace, I command thee send hither to me thine uncle, the
caliph, that sitteth next thee on the throne, that I may do with him
as I will." Then the king's son drew his scimitar and ran on Ganelon,
saying, "Give him to me; it is not fit this man should live!" But
Ganelon turned, brandished his sword and set his back against a
pine-trunk. Then cried Blancandrin, "Do the Frank no harm; for he has
pledged himself to be our spy, and work for our profit." So
Blancandrin went and fetched Ganelon, and led him by the hand and
brought him against the king. And the king said, "Good Sir Ganelon, I
was wrong to be angry; but I will make amends. I will give thee five
hundred pieces of gold in token of my favor." Ganelon answered, "He
that taketh not counsel to his own profit is a fool. God forbid I
should so ill requite thy bounty as to say thee nay."

Marsilius said, "Charles is very old. For years and years he has
fought and conquered, and put down kings and taken their lands, and
heaped up riches more than can be counted. Is he not yet weary of war,
nor tired of conquest, nor satisfied with his riches?" Ganelon
answered, "Charles has long been tired of war; but Roland, his
captain, is a covetous man, and greedy of possession. He and his
companion Oliver, and the twelve peers of France, continually do stir
up the king to war. Were these but slain, the world would be at
peace. But they have under them full twenty thousand men, the pick of
all the host of France, and they are very terrible in war."

Marsilius spake to him again, saying, "Tell me; I have four hundred
thousand warriors, better men were never seen: would not these suffice
to fight with Charles?"

Ganelon answered, "Nay; what folly is this! Heed wiser counsel. Send
back the hostages to Charles with me. Then will Charles gather his
host together, and depart out of Spain, and go to Aachen, there to
await the fulfilment of thy covenant. But he will leave his rear-guard
of twenty thousand, together with Roland and Oliver and the Twelve, to
follow after him. Fall thou on these with all thy warriors; let not
one escape. Destroy them, and thou mayest choose thy terms of peace,
for Charles will fight no more. The rear-guard will take their journey
by the pass of Siza, along the narrow Valley of Roncesvalles.
Wherefore surround the valley with thy host, and lie in wait for them.
They will fight hard, but in vain."

Then Marsilius made him swear upon the book of the law of Mohammed,
and upon his sword handle, that all should happen as he had said. Thus
Ganelon did the treason. And Marsilius gave Ganelon rich presents of
gold and precious stones, and bracelets of great worth. He gave him
also the keys of his city of Zaragoz, that he should rule it after
these things were come to pass, and promised him ten mules' burden of
fine gold of Arabia. So he sent Ganelon again to Charles, and with
him twenty hostages of good faith.

When Ganelon came before Charles, he told him King Marsilius would
perform all the oath which he sware, and was even now set out upon his
journey to do his fealty, and pay the price of peace, and be baptized.
Then Charles lifted up his hands toward Heaven, and thanked God for
the prosperous ending of the war in Spain.




THE GREAT BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES

By Sir George W. Cox


In the morning the king arose and gathered to him his host to go away
to keep the feast of Saint Michael at Aachen, and to meet Marsilius
there.

And Ogier the Dane made he captain of the vanguard of his army which
should go with him. Then said the king to Ganelon, "Whom shall I make
captain of the rear-guard which I leave behind?" Ganelon answered,
"Roland; for there is none like him in all the host." So Charles made
Roland captain of the rear-guard. With Roland there remained behind,
Oliver, his dear comrade, and the twelve peers, and Turpin the
archbishop, who for love of Roland would fain go with him, and twenty
thousand proven warriors. Then said the king to his nephew, "Good
Roland, behold, the half of my army have I given thee in charge. See
thou keep them safely." Roland answered, "Fear nothing. I shall
render good account of them,"

So they took leave of one another, and the king and his host marched
forward till they reached the borders of Spain. And ever as the king
thought upon his nephew whom he left behind, his heart grew heavy with
an ill foreboding. So they came into Gascoigny and saw their own lands
again. But Charles would not be comforted, for being come into France
he would sit with his face wrapped in his mantle, and he often spake
to Duke Naymes, saying he feared that Ganelon had wrought some
treason.

Now Marsilius had sent in haste to all his emirs and his barons to
assemble a mighty army, and in three days he gathered four hundred
thousand men to Roncesvalles, and there lay in wait for the rearguard
of King Charles.

Now when the rear-guard had toiled up the rocky pass and climbed the
mountain ridge, way-wearied, they looked down on Roncesvalles, whither
their journey lay. And behold! all the valley bristled with spears,
and the valley sides were overspread with them, for multitude like
blades of grass upon a pasture; and the murmur of the pagan host rose
to them on the mountain as the murmur of a sea. Then when they saw
that Ganelon had played them false, Oliver spake to Roland, "What
shall we now do because of this treason? For this is a greater
multitude of pagans than has ever been gathered together in the world
before. And they will certainly give us battle." Roland answered, "God
grant it; for sweet it is to do our duty for our king. This will we
do: when we have rested we, will go forward." Then said Oliver, "We
are but a handful. These are in number as the sands of the sea. Be
wise; take now your horn, good comrade, and sound it; peradventure
Charles may hear, and come back with his host to succor us." But
Roland answered, "The greater the number the more glory. God forbid I
should sound my horn and bring Charles back with his barons, and lose
my good name, and bring disgrace upon us all. Fear not the numbers of
the host; I promise you they shall repent of coming here; they are as
good as dead already in my mind." Three times Oliver urged him to
sound his horn, but Roland would not, for he said, "God and His angels
are on our side." Yet again Oliver pleaded, for he had mounted up
into a pine tree and seen more of the multitude that came against
them; far as the eye could see they reached; and he prayed Roland to
come and see also. But he would not; "Time enough," he said, "to know
their numbers when we come to count the slain. We will make ready for
battle."

Then Archbishop Turpin gathered the band of warriors about him, and
said, "It is a right good thing to die for king and faith; and verily
this day we all shall do it. But have no fear of death. For we shall
meet to-night in Paradise, and wear the martyr's crown. Kneel now,
confess your sins, and pray God's mercy." Then the Franks kneeled on
the ground while the archbishop shrived them clean and blessed them in
the name of God. And after that he bade them rise, and, for penance,
go scourge the pagans.

Roland ranged his trusty warriors and went to and fro among them
riding upon his battle-horse Veillantif; by his side his good sword
Durendal. Small need had he to exhort them in extremity; there was
not a man but loved him unto death and cheerfully would follow where
he led. He looked upon the pagan host, and his countenance waxed
fierce and terrible; he looked upon his band, and his face was mild
and gentle. He said, "Good comrades, lords, and barons, let no man
grudge his life to-day; but only see he sells it dear. A score of
pagans is a poor price for one of us. I have promised to render good
account of you. I have no fear. The battlefield will tell, if we
cannot." Then he gave the word, "Go forward!" and with his golden spurs
pricked Veillantif. So, foremost, he led the rear-guard down the
mountain-side, down through the pass of Siza into the Valley of Death
called Roncesvalles. Close following came Oliver, Archbishop Turpin,
and the valiant Twelve; the guard pressing forward with the shout
"Montjoy!" and bearing the snow-white banner of their king aloft.

Marvellous and fierce was the battle. That was a good spear Roland
bare; for it crashed through fifteen pagan bodies, through brass and
hide and bone, before the trusty ash brake in its hand, or ever he was
fain to draw Durendal from his sheath. The Twelve did wondrously; nay,
every man of the twenty thousand fought with lionlike courage; neither
counted any man his life dear to him. Archbishop Turpin, resting for
a moment to get fresh breath, cried out, "Thank God to see the
rear-guard fight to-day!" then spurred in again among them. Roland saw
Oliver still fighting with the truncheon of his spear and said,
"Comrade, draw thy sword," but he answered, "Not while a handful of
the stump remains. Weapons are precious to-day."

For hours they fought, and not a Frank gave way. Wheresoever a man
planted his foot, he kept the ground or died. The guard hewed down the
pagans by crowds, till the earth was heaped with full two hundred
thousand heathen dead. Of those kings which banded together by oath to
fight him, Roland gave good account, for he laid them all dead about
him in a ring. But many thousands of the Franks were slain, and of the
Twelve there now remained but two.

Marsilius looked upon his shattered host and saw them fall back in
panic, for they were dismayed because of the Franks. But Marsilius
heard the sound of trumpets from the mountain top and a glad man was
he; for twenty strong battalions of Saracens were come to his help,
and these poured down the valley-side. Seeing this, the rest of the
pagans took heart again, and they all massed about the remnant of the
guard, and shut them in on every hand. Nevertheless Roland and his
fast lessening band were not dismayed. So marvellously they fought, so
many thousand pagans hurled they down, making grim jests the while as
though they played at war for sport, that their enemies were in mortal
fear and doubted greatly if numbers would suffice to overwhelm these
men, for it misgave them whether God's angels were not come down to
the battle. But the brave rear-guard dwindled away, and Roland scarce
dared turn his eyes to see the handful that remained.

Then Roland spake to Oliver, "Comrade, I will sound my horn, if
peradventure Charles may hear and come to us." But Oliver was angry,
and answered, "It is now too late. Hadst thou but heeded me in time,
much weeping might have been spared the women of France, Charles
should not have lost his guard, nor France her valiant Roland." "Talk
not of what might have been," said Archbishop Turpin, "but blow thy
horn. Charles cannot come in time to save our lives, but he will
certainly come and avenge them."

Then Roland put the horn to his mouth and blew a great blast. Far up
the valley went the sound and smote against the mountain tops; these
flapped it on from ridge to ridge for thirty leagues. Charles heard it
in his hall, and said, "Listen! what is that? Surely our men do fight
to-day." But Ganelon answered the king: "What folly is this! It is
only the sighing of the wind among the trees."

Weary with battle Roland took the horn again and winded it with all
his strength. So long and mighty was the blast, the veins stood out
upon his forehead in great cords; he blew on till with the strain his
brain-pan brake asunder at the temples. Charles heard it in his
palace and cried, "Hark! I hear Roland's horn. He is in battle or he
would not sound it." Ganelon answered, "Too proud is he to sound it in
battle. My lord the king groweth old and childish in his fears. What
if it be Roland's horn? He hunteth perchance in the woods."

In sore pain and heaviness Roland lifted the horn to his mouth and
feebly winded it again. Charles heard it in his palace, and started
from his seat; the salt tears gathered in his eyes and dropped upon
his snowy beard; and he said, "O Roland, my brave captain, too long
have I delayed! Thou art in evil need. I know it by the wailing of the
horn!' Quick, now, to arms! Make ready, every man! For straightway
we will go and help him." Then he thrust Ganelon away, and said to his
servants, "Take this man, and bind him fast with chains; keep him in
ward till I return in peace and know if he have wrought us treason."
So they bound Ganelon and flung him into a dungeon; and Charles the
Great and his host set out with all speed.

Fierce with the cruel throbbing of his brain, and well nigh blinded,
Roland fought on, and with his good sword Durendal slew the pagan
prince Faldrun and three and twenty redoubtable champions.

The little company that was left of the brave rear-guard cut down
great masses of the pagans, and reaped among them as the reapers reap
at harvest time; but one by one the reapers fell ere yet the harvest
could be gathered in. Yet where each Frank lay, beside him there lay
for a sheaf his pile of slain, so any man might see how dear he had
sold his life. Marganices, the pagan king, espied where Oliver was
fighting seven abreast, and spurred his horse and rode and smote him
through the back a mortal wound. But Oliver turned and swung his sword
Hautclere, and before he could triumph clove him through the helmet to
his teeth. Yet even when the pains of death gat hold on Oliver so
that his eyes grew dim and he knew no man, he never ceased striking
out on every side with his sword and calling "Montjoy!" Then Roland
hasted to his help, and cutting the pagans down for a wide space
about, came to his old companion to lift him from his horse. But
Oliver struck him a blow that brake the helm to shivers on his
throbbing head.

Nevertheless Roland for all his pain took him tenderly down and spake
with much gentleness, saying, "Dear comrade, I fear me thou art in an
evil case." Oliver said, "Thy voice is like Roland's voice; but I
cannot see thee." Roland answered, "It is I, thy comrade." Then he
said "Forgive me, that I smote thee. It is so dark I cannot see thy
face; give me thy hand; God bless thee, Roland; God bless Charles, and
France!" So saying he fell upon his face and died.

A heavy-hearted man was Roland; little recked he for his life since
Oliver his good comrade was parted from him. Then he turned and looked
for the famous rear-guard of King Charles the Great.

Only two men were left beside himself.

Turpin the archbishop, Count Gaulter, and Roland set themselves
together with the fixed intent to sell their lives as dearly as they
might; and when the pagans ran upon them in a multitude with shouts
and cries, Roland slew twenty, Count Gaulter six, and Turpin five.
Then the pagans drew back and gathered together all the remnant of
their army, forty thousand horsemen and a thousand footmen with spears
and javelins, and charged upon the three. Count Gaulter fell at the
first shock. The archbishop's horse was killed, and he being brought
to earth, lay there a-dying, with four wounds in his forehead, and
four in his breast. Yet gat Roland never a wound in all that fight,
albeit the pain in his temples was very sore.

Then Roland took the horn and sought to wind it yet again. Very feeble
was the sound, yet Charles heard it away beyond the mountains, where
he marched fast to help his guard. And the king said, "Good barons,
great is Roland's distress; I know it by the sighing of the horn.
Spare neither spur nor steed for Roland's sake." Then he commanded to
sound all the clarions long and loud; and the mountains tossed the
sound from peak to peak, so that it was plainly heard down in the
Valley of Roncesvalles.

The pagans heard the clarions ringing behind the mountains, and they
said, "These are the clarions of Charles the Great. Behold Charles
cometh upon us with his host, and we shall have to fight the battle
again if we remain. Let us rise up and depart quickly. There is but
one man more to slay." Then four hundred of the bravest rode at
Roland; and he, spurring his weary horse against them, strove still to
shout "Montjoy!" but could not, for voice failed him. And when he was
come within spear-cast, every pagan flung a spear at him, for they
feared to go nigh him, and said, "There is none born of woman can slay
this man." Stricken with twenty spears, the faithful steed,
Veillantif, dropped down dead. Roland fell under him, his armor
pierced everywhere with spear-points, yet not so much as a scratch
upon his body. Stunned with the fall he lay there in a swoon. The
pagans came and looked on him, and gave him up for dead. Then they
left him and made all speed to flee before Charles should come.

Roland lifted his eyes and beheld the pagans filing up the mountain
passes; and he was left alone among the dead. In great pain he drew
his limbs from underneath his horse, and gat upon his feet, but scarce
could stand for the anguish of his brain beating against his
temples. He dragged himself about the valley, and looked upon his dead
friends and comrades, and Roland said, "Charles will see that the
guard has done its duty." He came to where Oliver lay, and lifted the
body tenderly in his arms, saying, "Dear comrade, thou wast ever a
good and gentle friend to me; better warrior brake never a spear, nor
wielded sword; wise wert thou of counsel, and I repent me that once
only I hearkened not to thy voice. God rest thy soul! A sweeter friend
and truer comrade no man ever had than thou." Then Roland heard a
feeble voice, and turned and was ware of Archbishop Turpin. Upon the
ground he lay a-dying, a piteous sight to see; howbeit, he raised his
trembling hands and blessed the brave dead about him in the dear name
of God.

And when Turpin beheld Roland, his eyes were satisfied. He said, "Dear
Roland, thank God the field is thine and mine. We have fought a good
fight." Then joined he his hands as though he fain would pray, and
Roland, seeing the archbishop like to faint for the sharpness of his
distress, took and dragged himself to a running stream that he espied
pass through the valley; and he dipped up water in his horn to bring
to him, but could not, for he fell upon the bank and swooned. And
when he came to himself, and crawled to where the archbishop lay, he
found him with his hands still clasped, but having neither thirst nor
any pain, for he was at rest. A lonesome man in the Valley of Death,
Roland wept for the last of his friends.

And Roland, when he found death coming on him, took his sword Durendal
in one hand, and his horn in the other, and crawled away about a
bowshot to a green hillock whereupon four diverse marble steps were
built beneath the trees.

Then he took Durendal into his hands, and prayed that it might not
fall into the power of his enemies. He said, "O Durendal, how keen of
edge, how bright of blade thou art! God sent thee by his angel to King
Charles, to be his captain's sword. Charles girt thee at my side. How
many countries thou hast conquered for him in my hands! O Durendal,
though it grieves me sore, I had rather break thee than that pagan
hands should wield thee against France." Then he besought that God
would now eke out his strength to break the sword; and lifting it in
his hands he smote mightily upon the topmost marble step. The gray
stone chipped and splintered, but the good blade brake not, neither
was its edge turned. He smote the second step, which was of sardonyx;
the blade bit it, and leaped back, but blunted not, nor brake. The
third step was of gray adamant; he smote it with all his might; the
adamant powdered where he struck, but the sword brake not, nor lost
its edge. And when he could no more lift the sword, his heart smote
him that he had tried to break the holy blade; and he said, "O
Durendal, I am to blame; the angels gave thee; they will keep thee
safe for Charles and France!"

Then Roland lay down and set his face toward Spain and toward his
enemies, that men should plainly see he fell a conqueror. Beneath him
he put the sword and horn; then having made his peace with God, he lay
a-thinking. He thought of his master Charles. He thought of France and
his home that was so dear. He thought of his dear maid, Hilda, who
would weep and cry for him. Then lifted he his weary hands to Heaven
and closed his eyes in death.

Gloom fell; the mists went up, and there was only death and silence in
the valley. The low red sun was setting in the west.




CHARLEMAGNE REVENGES ROLAND

By Sir George W. Cox


Charles and his host rode hard, and drew not rein until they reached
the mountain top, and looked down on the Valley of Roncesvalles. They
blew the clarions, but there was no sound, neither any that answered
save the ringing mountain sides. Then down through gloom and mist they
rode, and saw the field; saw Roland dead, and Oliver; the archbishop
and the twelve valiant peers, and every man of the twenty thousand
chosen guard; saw how fiercely they had fought, how hard they died.

There was not one in all the king's host but lifted up his voice and
wept for pity at the sight they saw.

But Charles the king is fallen on his face on Roland's body, with a
great and exceeding bitter cry. No word lie spake, but only lay and
moaned upon the dead that was so passing dear to him.

Charles was an old man when he took the babe Roland from his mother's
arms. He had brought him up and nourished him, had taught him war, and
watched him grow the bravest knight, the stanchest captain of his
host. Right gladly would he have given Spain and the fruits of all the
seven years' war to have Roland back again. Tears came, but brought no
words; and God sent sleep to comfort him for his heaviness.

Then having watered and pastured their horses, the king left four good
knights in Roncesvalles to guard the dead and set out in chase of the
pagans.

In the Vale of Tenebrus the Franks overtook them, hard by the broad,
swift river Ebro. There being hemmed in, the river in front and the
fierce Franks behind, the pagans were cut to pieces; Not one escaped,
save Marsilius and a little band who had taken another way and got
safe to Zaragoz. Thence Marsilius sent letters to Baligant, King of
Babylon, who ruled forty kingdoms, praying him to come over and help
him. And Baligant gathered a mighty great army and put off to sea to
come to Marsilius.

But King Charles went straightway back to Roncesvalles to bury the
dead. He summoned thither his bishops and abbots and canons to say
mass for the souls of his guard and to burn incense of myrrh and
antimony round about. But he would by no means lay Roland and Oliver
and Turpin in the earth. Wherefore he caused their bodies to be
embalmed, that he might have them ever before his eyes; and he arrayed
them in stuffs of great price and laid them in three coffins of white
marble, and chose out the three richest chariots that he had and
placed the coffins in them, that they might go with him whithersoever
he went.

Now after this Marsilius and Baligant came out to battle with King
Charles before the walls of Zaragoz. But the king utterly destroyed
the pagans there and slew King Baligant and King Marsilius, and brake
down the gates of Zaragoz and took the city. So he conquered Spain and
avenged himself for Roland and his guard.

But when King Charles would go back again to France his heart grew
exceeding heavy. He said, "O Roland, my good friend, I have no more
pleasure in this land which we have conquered. When I come again to
Laon, to my palace, and men ask tidings, they will hear how many
cities and kingdoms we have taken; but no man will rejoice. They will
say, Count Roland our good captain is dead, and great sadness will
fall on all the realm. O Roland, my friend, when I come again to
Aachen, to my chapel, and men ask tidings, they will hear that we have
won a land and lost the best captain in all France; and they will weep
and mourn, and say the war has been in vain. O Roland, my friend,
would God that I had died for thee!"

Now when the people of France heard how King Charles the Great
returned victorious, they gathered together in great multitudes to
welcome him. And when Hilda, the fair maid whom Roland loved, heard
it, she arrayed herself in her richest apparel and proudly decked
herself with her jewels. For she said, "I would be pleasing in the
eyes of my brave true captain who comes home to wed with me. There is
no gladder heart in France than mine." Then she hasted to the palace.
The king's guards all drew back for fear and let her pass, for they
dared not speak to her. Right proudly walked she through them, and
proudly came she to the king, saying,--"Roland, the captain of the
host, where is he?"

And Charles feared exceedingly and scarce could see for tears. He
said, "Dear sister, sweet friend, am I God that I can bring back the
dead? Roland my nephew is dead; Roland my captain and my friend is
dead. Nay, take time and mourn with us all, and when thy heart is
healed I will give thee Louis mine own son, who will sit after me upon
the throne. Take Louis in his stead."

Hilda cried not, nor uttered sound. The color faded from her face, and
straightway she fell dead at the king's feet.




HOW THIERRY VANQUISHED GANELON

By Sir George W. Cox


It is written in the old chronicle, that after these things Charles
sent and summoned many men from many lands to come and try if Ganelon
had done him a treason or no; for the twenty thousand who were
betrayed being dead and the pagans utterly destroyed, there was none
left to bear witness against him. So the king sent and fetched Ganelon
up out of prison and set him on his trial. Howbeit Ganelon contrived
to get thirty of his kinsfolk chosen among his judges, and chief of
them Pinabel, a man of great stature and strength of limb. Moreover,
Pinabel was a ready man to pick a quarrel with any; a man cunning of
tongue and very rich and powerful, so that people feared him greatly.
These thirty Ganelon bribed, with part of the price he took from King
Marsilius for the treason, to give judgment for him. Then Pinabel and
the others went to and fro among the judges and persuaded them,
saying: "We have no witnesses, only Ganelon himself, and what saith
he? He owns he hated Roland, and for that cause he challenged Roland,
in the presence of the king and all his court, to fight when he
returned from his mission. The open challenger is not the betrayer in
secret. Moreover, had he done this thing, would Ganelon have come back
again to King Charles? Besides, would any man betray an army of his
friends to rid himself of a single enemy? Blood enough has been shed.
Slaying Ganelon will not bring Roland back. The Franks are angry since
they have lost their captain, and blindly clamor for a victim. Heed
not their foolish cry, for Ganelon has done no treason." To this the
others all agreed, save Thierry, the son of Duke Geoffrey; and he
would not.

The judges came to King Charles and said, "We find that Ganelon has
done nothing worthy of death. Let him live and take anew the oath of
fealty to France and the king." Then the king was grieved, and said,
"It misgives me you have played me false. In my esteem the judgment is
not just. Nevertheless, it is judgment: only God can alter it."

Then stepped forth the youth Thierry, Geoffrey's son. He was but a
lad, very little and slender of body, and slight of limb. And he said,
"Let not the king be sad. I Thierry do impeach Ganelon as a felon and
a traitor who betrayed Roland and the rear-guard to the pagans, and I
also say that thirty of Ganelon's kinsfolk have wrought treason and
corrupted judgment. And this will I maintain with my sword, and prove
upon the body of any man who will come to defend him or them." Thereto
to pledge himself he drew off his right glove and gave it to the king
for a gage.

Pinabel strode forward, a giant among the throng. He looked down upon
the lad Thierry and despised him; he came to the king and gave his
glove, saying, "I will fight this battle to the death." The Franks
pitied Thierry and feared for him, for they had hoped Naymes or Olger
or some mighty champion would have undertaken the cause, and not a
stripling. But Charles the king said, "God will show the right." So
they made ready the lists; and the king commanded Ganelon and his
thirty kinsmen to be held in pledge against the issue.

The battle was done in a green meadow near to Aachen in presence of
the king and his barons and a great multitude of people. First the men
rode together and tilted till their spears brake and the saddle-girths
gave way; then they left their steeds and fought on foot. Thierry was
wondrous quick and agile, and wearied Pinabel at the outset by his
swift sword-play; but Thierry's hand was weak against his sturdy
adversary, and his sword point pierced not mail nor shield. Pinabel
clave his helm and hewed great pieces off his mail, but could not slay
him. Then said Pinabel, "Fool, why should I kill thee? Give up the
battle and the cause, and I will be thy man henceforth in faith and
fealty. It shall prove greatly for thy profit to reconcile Ganelon and
the king."

Thierry answered, "I will not parley; God will surely show whether of
us twain be right! Guard thyself." So they fell to again, and all men
saw that nothing would now part them till one was dead; and
straightway they gave the lad Thierry up for lost. Pinabel's sword was
heavy, and great the strength of his arm. He smote Thierry a blow upon
the helm that sliced off visor and ventailles. But Thierry lifted up
his sword and struck the brown steel helm of Pinabel. God put His
might into the young man's arm, for the blade cleft steel and skull,
and entered Pinabel's brain, so that he reeled and dropped down
dead. Then all the people shouted, "God hath spoken! Away with Ganelon
and his fellows."

Then King Charles raised up his hands to heaven and gave thanks, and
taking Thierry in his arms embraced him for joy, and with his own
hands took off his armor, and he set the noblest in the land to tend
his wounds.

King Charles sat in judgment in his palace at Aachen.

He said, "Take the thirty kinsmen of Ganelon, perverters of justice,
let not one escape, and hang them." Blithely the Franks obeyed his
word.

But Ganelon he caused to be drawn and quartered; and thus did Charles
the king make an end of his vengeance for his guard.

This is the song which Turold used to sing.




RINALDO AND BAYARD

By Thomas Bulfinch


Charlemagne was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of so many of his
bravest warriors at the disaster of Roncesvalles, and bitterly
reproached himself for his credulity in resigning himself so
completely to the counsels of the treacherous Count Ganelon. Yet he
soon fell into a similar snare when he suffered his unworthy son
Charlot to acquire such an influence over him, that he constantly led
him into acts of cruelty and injustice that in his right mind he would
have scorned to commit. Rinaldo and his brothers, for some slight
offence to the imperious young prince, were forced to fly from Paris,
and to take shelter in their castle of Montalban; for Charles had
publicly said, if he could take them, he would hang them all. He sent
numbers of his bravest knights to arrest them, but all without
success. Either Rinaldo foiled their efforts and sent them back,
stripped of their armor and of their glory, or, after meeting and
conferring with him, they came back and told the king they could not
be his instruments for such a work.

At last Charles himself raised a great army, and went in person to
compel the paladin to submit. He ravaged all the country round about
Montalban, so that supplies of food should be cut off, and he
threatened death to any who should attempt to issue forth, hoping to
compel the garrison to submit for want of food.

Rinaldo's resources had been brought so low that it seemed useless to
contend any longer. His brothers had been taken prisoners in a
skirmish, and his only hope of saving their lives was in making terms
with the king.

So he sent a messenger, offering to yield himself and his castle if
the king would spare his and his brothers' lives. While the messenger
was gone, Rinaldo, impatient to learn what tidings he might bring,
rode out to meet him. When he had ridden as far as he thought prudent
he stopped in a wood, and, alighting, tied Bayard to a tree. Then he
sat down, and, as he waited, he fell asleep. Bayard meanwhile got
loose, and strayed away where the grass tempted him. Just then came
along some country people, who said to one another, "Look, is not that
the great horse Bayard that Rinaldo rides? Let us take him, and carry
him to King Charles, who will pay us well for our trouble." They did
so, and the king was delighted with his prize, and gave them a present
that made them rich to their dying day.

When Rinaldo woke he looked round for his horse, and, finding him not,
he groaned, and said, "O unlucky hour that I was born! how fortune
persecutes me!" So desperate was he, that he took off his armor and
his spurs, saying, "What need have I of these, since Bayard is lost?"
While he stood thus lamenting, a man came from the thicket, seemingly
bent with age. He had a long beard hanging over his breast, and
eyebrows that almost covered his eyes. He bade Rinaldo good
day. Rinaldo thanked him, and said, "A good day I have hardly had
since I was born." Then said the old man, "Signor Rinaldo, you must
not despair, for God will make all things turn to the best." Rinaldo
answered, "My trouble is too heavy for me to hope relief. The king has
taken my brothers, and means to put them to death. I thought to rescue
them by means of my horse Bayard, but while I slept some thief has
stolen him." The old man replied, "I will remember you and your
brothers in my prayers. I am a poor man, have you not something to
give me?" Rinaldo said, "I have nothing to give," but then he
recollected his spurs. He gave them to the beggar, and said, "Here,
take my spurs. They are the first present my mother gave me when my
father, Count Aymon, dubbed me knight. They ought to bring you ten
pounds."

The old man took the spurs, and put them into his sack, and said,
"Noble sir, have you nothing else you can give me?" Rinaldo replied,
"Are you making sport of me? I tell you truly if it were not for shame
to beat one so helpless, I would teach you better manners." The old
man said, "Of a truth, sir, if you did so, you would do a great sin.
If all had beaten me of whom I have begged, I should have been killed
long ago, for I ask alms in churches and convents, and wherever I
can." "You say true," replied Rinaldo, "if you did not ask, none would
relieve you." The old man said, "True, noble sir, therefore I pray if
you have anything more to spare, give it me." Rinaldo gave him his
mantle, and said, "Take it, pilgrim. I give it you for the love of
Christ, that God would save my brothers from a shameful death, and
help me to escape out of King Charles's power."

The pilgrim took the mantle, folded it up, and put it into his
bag. Then a third time he said to Rinaldo, "Sir, have you nothing left
to give me that I may remember you in my prayers?" "Wretch!"
exclaimed Rinaldo, "do you make me your sport?" and he drew his sword,
and struck at him; but the old man warded off the blow with his staff,
and said, "Rinaldo, would you slay your cousin, Malagigi?" When
Rinaldo heard that he stayed his hand, and gazed doubtingly on the old
man, who now threw aside his disguise, and appeared to be indeed
Malagigi. "Dear cousin," said Rinaldo, "pray forgive me. I did not
know you. Next to God, my trust is in you. Help my brothers to escape
out of prison, I entreat you. I have lost my horse, and therefore
cannot render them any assistance." Malagigi answered, "Cousin
Rinaldo, I will enable you to recover your horse. Meanwhile, you must
do as I say."

Then Malagigi took from his sack a gown, and gave it to Rinaldo to put
on over his armor, and a hat that was full of holes, and an old pair
of shoes to put on. They looked like two pilgrims, very old and
poor. Then they went forth from the wood, and, after a little while,
saw four monks riding along the road. Malagigi said to Rinaldo, "I
will go meet the monks, and see what news I can learn."

Malagigi learned from the monks that on the approaching festival there
would be a great crowd of people at court, for the prince was going to
show the ladies the famous horse Bayard that used to belong to
Rinaldo. "What!" said the pilgrim; "is Bayard there?" "Yes," answered
the monks; "the king has given him to Charlot, and, after the prince
has ridden him, the king means to pass sentence on the brothers of
Rinaldo, and have them hanged." Then Malagigi asked alms of the
monks, but they would give him none, till he threw aside his pilgrim
garb, and let them see his armor, when, partly for charity and partly
for terror, they gave him a golden cup, adorned with precious stones
that sparkled in the sunshine.

Malagigi then hastened back to Rinaldo, and told him what he had
learned.

The morning of the feast-day Rinaldo and Malagigi came to the place
where the sports were to be held. Malagigi gave Rinaldo his spurs back
again, and said, "Cousin, put on your spurs, for you will need them."
"How shall I need them," said Rinaldo, "since I have lost my horse?"
Yet he did as Malagigi directed him.

When the two had taken their stand on the border of the field among
the crowd, the princes and ladies of the court began to assemble. When
they were all assembled, the king came also, and Charlot with him,
near whom the horse Bayard was led, in the charge of grooms, who were
expressly enjoined to guard him safely. The king, looking round on the
circle of spectators, saw Malagigi and Rinaldo, and observed the
splendid cup that they had, and said to Chariot, "See, my son, what a
brilliant cup those two pilgrims have got. It seems to be worth a
hundred ducats." "That is true," said Chariot; "let us go and ask
where they got it." So they rode to the place where the pilgrims
stood, and Chariot stopped Bayard close to them.

The horse snuffed at the pilgrims, knew Rinaldo, and caressed his
master. The king said to Malagigi, "Friend, where did you get that
beautiful cup?" Malagigi replied, "Honorable sir, I paid for it all
the money I have saved from eleven years' begging in churches and
convents. The Pope himself has blessed it." Then said the king to
Chariot, "My son, these are right holy men; see how the dumb beast
worships them."

Then the king said to Malagigi, "Give me a morsel from your cup, that
I may be cleared of my sins." Malagigi answered, "Illustrious lord, I
dare not do it, unless you will forgive all who have at any time
offended you. You know that Christ forgave all those who had betrayed
and crucified him." The king replied, "Friend, that is true; but
Rinaldo has so grievously offended me, that I cannot forgive him, nor
that other man, Malagigi, the magician. These two shall never live in
my kingdom again. If I catch them, I will certainly have them
hanged. But tell me, pilgrim, who is that man who stands beside you?"
"He is deaf, dumb, and blind," said Malagigi. Then the king said
again, "Give me to drink of your cup, to take away my sins." Malagigi
answered, "My lord king, here is my poor brother, who for fifty days
has not heard, spoken, nor seen. This misfortune befell him in a house
where we found shelter, and the day before yesterday we met with a
wise woman, who told him the only hope of a cure for him was to come
to some place where Bayard was to be ridden, and to mount and ride
him; that would do him more good than anything else." Then said the
king, "Friend, you have come to the right place, for Bayard is to be
ridden here to-day. Give me a draught from your cup, and your
companion shall ride upon Bayard." Malagigi, hearing these words,
said, "Be it so." Then the king, with great devotion, took a spoon,
and dipped a portion from the pilgrim's cup, believing that his sins
should be thereby forgiven.

When this was done, the king said to Chariot, "Son, I request that you
will let this sick pilgrim sit on your horse, and ride if he can, for
by so doing he will be healed of all his infirmities." Chariot
replied, "That will I gladly do." So saying, he dismounted, and the
servants took the pilgrim in their arms, and helped him on the horse.

When Rinaldo was mounted, he put his feet in the stirrups, and said,
"I would like to ride a little." Malagigi, hearing him speak, seemed
delighted, and asked him whether he could see and hear also. "Yes,"
said Rinaldo, "I am healed of all my infirmities." When the king heard
it, he said to Bishop Turpin, "My lord bishop, we must celebrate this
with a procession, with crosses and banners, for it is a great
miracle."

When Rinaldo remarked that he was not carefully watched, he spoke to
the horse, and touched him with the spurs. Bayard knew that his master
was upon him, and he started off upon a rapid pace, and in a few
moments was a good way off. Malagigi pretended to be in great
alarm. "O noble king and master," he cried, "my poor companion is run
away with; he will fall and break his neck." The king ordered his
knights to ride after the pilgrim, and bring him back, or help him if
need were. They did so, but it was in vain. Rinaldo left them all
behind him, and kept on his way till he reached Montalban. Malagigi
was suffered to depart, unsuspected, and he went his way, making sad
lamentation for the fate of his comrade, who he pretended to think
must surely be dashed to pieces.

Malagigi did not go far, but, having changed his disguise, returned to
where the king was, and employed his best art in getting the brothers
of Rinaldo out of prison. He succeeded; and all three got safely to
Montalban, where Rinaldo's joy at the rescue of his brothers and the
recovery of Bayard was more than tongue can tell.




HOW THE CHILD OF THE SEA WAS MADE KNIGHT

[Footnote: The young Amadis, son of King Perion of Gaul, was called by
his father the Child of the Sea because he was born on the sea.]

By Robert Southey


King Falangiez reigned in Great Britain, and died without children. He
left a brother Lisuarte, of great goodness in arms, and much
discretion, who had married Brisena, daughter of the King of Denmark;
and she was the fairest lady that was to be found in all the islands
of the sea. After the death of the king the chief men of his land sent
for Lisuarte to be their king.

When King Lisuarte heard this embassage he set sail with a great
fleet, and on their way they put into Scotland, where he was honorably
received by King Languines. Brisena, his wife, was with him, and their
daughter Oriana, born in Denmark and then about ten years old, the
fairest creature that ever was seen, wherefore she was called the one
without a peer. And because she suffered much at sea it was determined
to leave her there. Right gladly did King Languines accept this
charge, and his queen said: "Believe me, I will take care of her like
her own mother." So Lisuarte proceeded. * * *

The Child of the Sea was now twelve years old, but in stature and size
he seemed fifteen, and he served the queen; but now that Oriana was
there the queen gave her the Child of the Sea that he should serve
her, and Oriana said that it pleased her; and that word which she said
the child kept in his heart, so that he never lost it from his memory,
and in all his life he was never weary of serving her, and his heart
was surrendered to her, and his love lasted as long as they lasted,
for as well as he loved her did she also love him. But the Child of
the Sea, who knew nothing of her love, thought himself presumptuous to
have placed his thoughts on her, and dared not speak to her; and she
who loved him in her heart was careful riot to speak more with him
than with another; but their eyes delighted to reveal to the heart
what was the thing on earth that they loved best. And now the time
came that he thought he could take arms if he were knighted, and this
he greatly desired, thinking that he could do such things that, if he
lived, his mistress would esteem him. With this desire he went to the
king, who was at that time in the garden, and fell upon his knees
before him, and said, "Sire, if it please you, it is time for me to
receive knighthood." "How, Child of the Sea?" said Languines, "are
you strong enough to maintain knighthood? it is easy to receive, but
difficult to maintain; and he who would keep it well, so many and so
difficult are the things he must achieve, that his heart will often be
troubled; and if, through fear, he forsakes what he ought to do,
better is death to him than life with shame." "Not for this," replied
he, "will I fail to be a knight; my heart would not require it, if it
were not in my will to accomplish what you say. And since you have
bred me up, complete what you ought to do in this; if not, I will seek
some other who will do it." The king, who feared lest he should do
this, replied, "Child of the Sea, I know when this is fitting better
than you can know, and I promise you to do it, and your arms shall be
got ready; but to whom did you think to go?" "To King Perion, who they
say is a good knight, and has married the sister of your queen. I
would tell him how I was brought up by her, and then he would
willingly fulfil my desire." "Now," said the king, "be satisfied, it
shall be honourably done." And he gave orders that the arms should be
made, and sent to acquaint Gandales thereof.

When Gandales heard this, he greatly rejoiced; and sent a damsel with
the sword and the ring and the letter in the wax, which he had found
in the ark. The Child of the Sea was with Oriana and the ladies of
the palace, discoursing, when a page entered and told him there was a
strange damsel without who brought presents for him, and would speak
with him. When she who loved him heard this her heart trembled, and if
any one had been looking at her he might have seen how she changed;
and she told the Child of the Sea to let the damsel come in, that they
might see the presents. Accordingly she entered, and said, "Sir Child
of the Sea, your good friend Gandales salutes you as the man who loves
you much, and sends you this sword and this ring and this wax, and he
begs you will wear this sword while you live for his sake." He took
the presents, and laid the ring and the wax in his lap, while he
unrolled the sword from a linen cloth in which it was wrapt, wondering
that it should be without a scabbard. Meantime Oriana took up the wax,
and said, "I will have this," not thinking that it contained anything:
it would have better pleased him if she had taken the ring, which was
one of the finest in the world. While he was looking at the sword, the
king came in and asked him what he thought of it. "It seems a goodly
one, sir," said he, "but I marvel wherefore it hath no scabbard." "It
is fifteen years," said the king, "since it had one"; and, taking him
by the hand, he led him apart, and said, "You would be a knight, and
you know not whether of right you should be one. I therefore tell you
all that I know concerning you." And with that he told him all that
Gandales had communicated. The Child of the Sea answered, "I believe
this; for the damsel said my good friend Gandales had sent her, and I
thought she had mistaken, and should have called him my father; but am
nothing displeased herewith, except that I know not my parents, nor
they me, for my breast tells me I am well born; and now, sir, it
behoves me more to obtain knighthood, that I may win honour and the
praise of prowess, since I know not my lineage, and am like one whose
kindred are all dead." When the king heard him speak thus, he believed
that he would prove a hardy and good knight.

As they were thus conversing, a knight came to inform the king that
King Perion was arrived. Languines went to welcome him, as one who
knew how to do honour to all, and, after they had saluted, he asked
how it was that he came so unexpectedly. "I come to seek for
friends," replied Perion, "of whom I have more need than ever; for
King Abies of Ireland wars upon me, and is now, with all his power, in
my country; and Daganel, his half-brother, is with him; and both
together have collected such a multitude against me that I stand in
need of all my friends and kinsmen; for I have lost many of my people
in battle already, and others whom I trusted have failed me."
"Brother," replied Languines, "your misfortunes grieve me not a
little, and I shall aid you the best I can." Agrayes, who was already
knighted, now came and knelt before his father, saying, "Sir, I beg a
boon." The which being granted,--for King Languines loved him as
himself,--he pursued, "I request that I may go to defend the queen, my
aunt." "And I grant it," answered Languines; "and you shall be as
honourably and well accompanied as may be."

This while had the Child of the Sea been looking earnestly at Perion,
not as his father, for of that he knew nothing, but because of his
great goodness in arms, of which he had heard the fame; and he desired
to be made a knight by his hand, rather than by any man in the world.
To attain this purpose, he thought best to entreat the queen; but her
he found so sad that he would not speak to her, and going to where
Oriana was, he knelt before her, and said, "Lady Oriana, could I know
by you the cause of the queen's sadness?" Oriana's heart leaped at
seeing him whom she most loved before her, and said to him, "Child of
the Sea, this is the first thing ye ever asked of me, and I shall do
it with a good will."--"Ah, lady! I am neither so bold nor worthy as
to ask anything from one like you, but rather to obey what it pleases
you to command." "What!" said she. "Is your heart so feeble?"--"So
feeble, that in all things towards you it would fail me, except in
serving you like one who is not his own, but yours." "Mine!" said she.
"Since when?"--"Since _it pleased you_." "How _since it pleased
me_?"--"Remember, lady, the day whereon your father departed, the
queen took me by the hand, and leading me before you, said, 'I give
you this child to be your servant'; and you said _it pleased you._ And
from that time I have held and hold myself yours to do your service:
yours only, that neither I nor any other, while I live, can have
command over me." "That word," said she, "you took with a meaning that
it did not bear; but _I am well pleased_ that it is so." Then was he
overcome with such pleasure that he had no power to answer; and
Oriana, who now saw the whole power that she had over him, went to the
queen, and learnt the cause of her sadness, and, returning to the
Child of the Sea, told him that it was for the queen, her sister, who
now was so distressed. He answered, "If it please you that I were a
knight, with your aid, I would go and aid the queen, her sister."
"With my leave! And what without it? Would you not then go?"--"No,"
said he; "for without the favour of her whose it is, my heart could
not sustain itself in danger." Then Oriana smiled, and said, "Since I
have gained you, you shall be my knight, and you shall aid the sister
of the queen." The Child of the Sea kissed her hand--"The king, my
master, has not yet knighted me; and I had rather it should be done by
King Perion at your entreaty." "In that," said she, "I will do what I
can; but we must speak to the Princess Mabilia, for her request will
avail with her uncle."

Mabilia, who loved the Child of the Sea with pure love, readily
agreed. "Let him go," said she, "to the chapel of my mother, armed at
all points, and we and the other damsel will accompany him; and when
King Perion is setting off, which will be before daybreak, I will ask
to see him; and then will he grant our request, for he is a courteous
knight." When the Child of the Sea heard this, he called Gandalin, and
said to him, "My brother, take all my arms secretly to the queen's
chapel, for this night I think to be knighted; and, because it behoves
me to depart right soon, I would know if you wish to bear me company."
"Believe me," quoth Gandalin, "never, with my will, shall I depart
from ye." The tears came in the eyes of the Child at this, and he
kissed him on the face, and said, "Do, now, what I told you." Gandalin
laid the arms in the chapel, while the queen was at supper; and, when
the cloths were removed, the Child of the Sea went there, and armed
himself, all save his head and his hands, and made his prayer before
the altar, beseeching God to grant him success in arms, and in the
love which he bore his lady.

When the queen had retired, Oriana and Mabilia went with the other
damsels to accompany him, and Mabilia sent for Perion as he was
departing; and, when he came, she besought him to do what Oriana, the
daughter of King Lisuarte, should request. "Willingly," said King
Perion, "for her father's sake." Then Oriana came before him; and when
he saw her how fair she was, he thought there could not be her equal
in the world. She begged a boon, and it was granted. "Then," said she,
"make this my gentleman knight." And she showed him to Perion kneeling
before the altar. The king saw him how fair he was, and approaching
him, said, "Would you receive the order of knighthood?"--"I would."--
"In the name of God, then! And may He order it that it be well
bestowed on you, and that you may grow in honour as you have in
person." Then, putting on the right spur, he said, "Now are you a
knight, and may receive the sword." The king took the sword, and gave
it to him, and the Child girded it on. "Then," said Perion, "according
to your manner and appearance, I would have performed this ceremony
with more honours; and I trust in God that your fame will prove that
so it ought to have been done." Mabilia and Oriana then joyfully
kissed the king's hands, and he, commending the Child of the Sea to
God, went his way.




THE SPANISH CHRONICLE OF THE CID


The Cid, who was as actual individual, is the Arthur and Roland of the
Spaniards, the great hero of mediaeval Spain. The Chronicles, based on
heroic songs and national traditions of the struggle with the Moors,
pictures for us the life of an old and haughty nation, proud in arms.
It was compiled in the reign of King Alfonso the Wise, who reigned
between 1252 and 1284, and was translated into English by Robert
Southey in 1808.

In the stories here given, Southey's rich and descriptive English has
been retained, the condensation being secured by omitting long,
tedious passages.




WHY DON SANCHO ATTACKED HIS NEIGHBORS

By Robert Southey


History relates that after the death of King Don Ferrando of Spain,
the three kings, his sons, Don Sancho, Don Alfonso and Don Garcia,
reigned each in his kingdom, according to the division made by their
father. Don Ferrando had divided into five portions (one for each of
the sons and one for each of the two daughters, Donya Urraca and Donya
Elvira) that which should all by right have descended to Don Sancho as
the eldest son.

Now, the kings of Spain were of the blood of the Goths, which was a
fierce blood, for it had many times come to pass among the Gothic
kings, that brother had slain brother. From this blood was King Don
Sancho descended, and he thought that it would be a reproach to him if
he did not join together the three kingdoms under his own dominion,
for he was not pleased with what his father had given him, holding
that the whole ought to have been his. And he went through the land
setting it in order, and what thing soever his people asked, that did
he grant them freely, to the end that he might win their hearts.

When King Don Sancho of Navarre, nephew of Don Ferrando, saw that
there was a new king in Castille, he thought to recover the lands
which had been lost when the king, his father, was defeated and slain
in the mountains of Oca. And now seeing that the kingdom of Ferrando
was divided, he asked help of his uncle Don Ramiro, King of Aragon;
and the men of Aragon and of Navarre entered Castille together. But
King Don Sancho gathered together his host, and put the Cid at their
head; and such account did he give of his enemies, that he of Navarre
was glad to lay no farther claim to what his father had lost. The King
of Castille was wroth against the King of Aragon, that he should thus
have joined against him without cause; and in despite of him he
marched against the Moors of Zaragoza, and laying waste their country
with fire and sword, he came before their city, gave orders to assault
it, and began to set up his engines. The Moors seeing that they could
not help themselves, made such terms with him as it pleased him to
grant, and gave him hostages that they might not be able to prove
false. They gave him gold and silver and precious stones in abundance,
so that with great riches and full honourably did he and all his men
depart from the siege.

Greatly was the King of Aragon displeased at this which King Don
Sancho had done. He required he should yield unto him all the spoil
which the King of Zaragoza had given him, else should he not pass
without battle. King Don Sancho, being a man of great heart, made
answer that he was the head of the kingdoms of Castille and Leon, and
all the conquests in Spain were his. Wherefore he counselled him to
waive his demand, and let him pass in peace. But the King of Aragon
drew up his host for battle, and the onset was made, and heavy blows
were dealt on both sides, and many horses were left without a
master. And while the battle was yet undecided, King Don Sancho riding
right bravely through the battle, began to call out Castille!
Castille! and charged the main body so fiercely that by fine force he
broke them; and when they were thus broken, the Castillians began
cruelly to slay them, so that King Don Sancho had pity, and called to
his people not to kill them, for they were Christians. Then King Don
Ramiro being discomfited, retired to a mountain, and King Don Sancho
beset the mountain round about, and made a covenant with him that he
should depart, and that the King of Zaragoza should remain tributary
to Castille; and but for this covenant the King of Aragon would then
have been slain, or made prisoner.

In all these wars did my Cid demean himself after his wonted manner;
and because of the great feats which he performed the king loved him
well, and made him his Alfarez, [Footnote: A standard bearer] so that
in the whole army he was second only to the king. And because when the
host was in the field it was his office to choose the place for
encampment, therefore was my Cid called the Campeador. [Footnote: One
who is remarkable for his exploits]




DON GARCIA DEFIES DON SANCHO

By Robert Southey


While King Don Sancho was busied in these wars, King Don Garcia of
Galicia took by force from Donya Urraca his sister a great part of the
lands which the king their father had given her. When King Don Sancho
heard what his brother had done he was well pleased thereat, thinking
that he might now bring to pass that which he so greatly desired; and
he assembled together his Ricos-omes [Footnote: Noblemen, grandees.] and
his knights, and said unto them, The king my father divided the
kingdoms which should have been mine, and therein he did unjustly; now
King Don Garcia my brother hath broken the oath and disherited Donya
Urraca my sister; I beseech ye therefore counsel me what I shall do,
and in what manner to proceed against him, for I will take his kingdom
away from him. Upon this Count Don Garcia Ordonez arose and said,
There is not a man in the world, sir, who would counsel you to break
the command of your father, and the vow which you made unto him. And
the king was greatly incensed at him and said, Go from before me, for
I shall never receive good counsel from thee. The king then took the
Cid by the hand and led him apart, and said unto him, Thou well
knowest, my Cid, that when the king my father commended thee unto me,
he charged me upon pain of his curse that I should take you for my
adviser, and whatever I did that I should do it with your counsel, and
I have done so even until this day; and thou hast always counselled me
for the best, and for this I have given thee a county in my kingdom,
holding it well bestowed. Now then I beseech you advise me how best to
recover these kingdoms, for if I have not counsel from you I do not
expect to have it from any man in the world.

Greatly troubled at this was the Cid, and he answered and said, Ill,
sir, would it behove me to counsel you that you should go against the
will of your father. You well know that when I went to him, after he
had divided his kingdoms, how he made me swear to him that I would
always counsel his sons the best I could, and never give them ill
counsel; and while I can, thus must I continue to do. But the king
answered, My Cid, I do not hold that in this I am breaking the oath
made to my father, for I ever said that the partition should not be,
and the oath which I made was forced upon me. Now King Don Garcia my
brother hath broken the oath, and all these kingdoms by right are
mine: and therefore I will that you counsel me how I may unite them,
for from so doing there is nothing in this world which shall prevent
me, except it be death.

Then when the Cid saw that he could by no means turn him from that
course, he advised him to obtain the love of his brother King Don
Alfonso, that he might grant him passage through his kingdom to go
against Don Garcia: and if this should be refused he counselled him
not to make the attempt. And the king saw that his counsel was good,
and sent his letters to King Don Alfonso beseeching him to meet him at
Sahagun. When King Don Alfonso received the letters he marvelled to
what end this might be: howbeit he sent to say that he would meet
him. And the two kings met in Sahagun. And King Don Sancho said,
Brother, you well know that King Don Garcia our brother hath broken
the oath made unto our father, and disherited our sister Donya Urraca:
for this I will take his kingdom away from him, and I beseech you join
with me. But Don Alfonso answered that he would not go against the
will of his father, and the oath which he had sworn. Then King Don
Sancho said, that if he would let him pass through his kingdom he
would give him part of what he should gain: and King Don Alfonso
agreed to this. And upon this matter they fixed another day to meet;
and then forty knights were named, twenty for Castille and twenty for
Leon, as vouchers that this which they covenanted should be faithfully
fulfilled on both sides.

Then King Don Sancho gathered together a great host. He sent Alvar
Fanez, the cousin of the Cid, to King Don Garcia, to bid him yield up
his kingdom, and if he refused to do this to defy him on his part.
When King Don Garcia heard this he was greatly troubled, and he said
to Alvar Fanez, Say to my brother that I beseech him not to break the
oath which he made to our father; but if he will persist to do this
thing I must defend myself as I can. He called his chief captains
together and they advised him that he should recall Don Rodrigo
Frojaz, for having him the realm would be secure, and without him it
was in danger to be lost. So two hidalgos [Footnote: A man belonging
to the lower nobility, a gentleman by birth] were sent after him, and
they found him in Navarre, on the eve of passing into France. But when
he saw the king's letters, and knew the peril in which he then stood,
setting aside the remembrance of his own wrongs, like a good and true
Portuguese, he turned back, and went to the king. In good time did he
arrive, for the captains of King Don Sancho had now gained many lands
in Galicia and in the province of Beira, finding none to resist them.
When Don Rodrigo heard this and knew that the Castillians were
approaching he promised the king either to maintain his cause, or die
for it. He ordered the trumpets to be sounded, and the Portugueze
sallied, and a little below the city the two squadrons met. The
Portugueze fought so well, and especially Don Rodrigo, and his
brothers, that at length they discomfited the Castillians, killing of
them five hundred and forty, of whom three hundred were knights, and
winning their pennons and banners. Howbeit this victory was not
obtained without great loss to themselves; for two hundred and twenty
of their people were left upon the field, and many were sorely
wounded, among whom, even to the great peril of his life, was Don
Rodrigo Frojaz, being wounded with many and grievous wounds.




DON GARCIA TAKES DON SANCHO PRISONER

By Robert Southey


A sorrowful defeat was that for King Don Sancho, and he put himself at
the head of his army and hastened through Portugal to besiege his
brother in Santarem.

The Portugueze and Galegos took counsel together what they should do.
Don Rodrigo Frojaz said unto the king that it behoved him above all
things to put his kingdom upon the hazard of a battle; for his brother
being a greater lord of lands than he, and richer in money and more
powerful in vassals, could maintain the war longer than he could, who
peradventure would find it difficult another year to gather together
so good an army as he had now ready. For this cause he advised him to
put his trust in God first, and then in the hidalgos who were with
him, and without fear give battle to the king his brother, over whom
God and his good cause would give him glorious victory. Now when the
two hosts were ready to join battle, Alvar Fanez came to King Don
Sancho and said to him, Sir, I have played away my horse and arms; I
beseech you give me others for this battle, and I will be a right good
one for you this day; if I do not for you the service of six knights,
hold me for a traitor. And the king ordered that horse and arms should
be given him. So the armies joined battle bravely on both sides, and
it was a sharp onset; many were the heavy blows which were given on
both sides, and many were the horses that were slain at that
encounter, and many the men. Now my Cid had not yet come up into the
field.

Now Don Rodrigo Frojaz and his brethren and the knights who were with
them had resolved to make straight for the banner of the King of
Castille. And they broke through the ranks of the Castillians, and
made their way into the middle of the enemy's host, doing marvellous
feats of arms. Then was the fight at the hottest, for they did their
best to win the banner, and the others to defend it; the remembrance
of what they had formerly done, and the hope of gaining more honours,
heartened them; and with the Castillians there was their king, giving
them brave example as well as brave words. The press of the battle was
here, and the banner of King Don Sancho was beaten down, and the king
himself also, and Don Rodrigo made way through the press and laid
hands on him and took him. But in the struggle he lost much blood, and
perceiving that his strength was failing, he sent to call the King Don
Garcia with all speed. And as the king came, the Count Don Pedro
Frojaz met him and said, An honourable gift, sir, hath my brother Don
Rodrigo to give you, but you lose him in gaining it. And tears fell
from the eyes of the king, and he made answer and said, It may indeed
be that Don Rodrigo may lose his life in serving me, but the good name
which he hath gained, and the honour which he leaveth to his
descendants, death cannot take away. Saying this, he came to the place
where Don Rodrigo was, and Don Rodrigo gave into his hands the King
Don Sancho his brother, and asked him three times if he was discharged
of his prisoner; and when the king had answered Yes, Don Rodrigo said,
For me, sir, the joy which I have in your victory is enough; give the
rewards to these good Portugueze, who with so good a will have put
their lives upon the hazard to serve you, and in all things follow
their counsel, and you will not err therein. Having said this he
kissed the king's hand, and lying upon his shield, for he felt his
breath fail him, with his helmet for a pillow, he kissed the cross of
his sword in remembrance of that on which the Son of God had died for
him, and rendered up his soul into the hands of his Creator. This was
the death of one of the worthy knights of the world, Don Rodrigo
Frojaz. In all the conquests which King Don Ferrando had made from the
Moors of Portugal, great part had he borne, insomuch that that king
was wont to say that other princes might have more dominions than he,
but two such knights as his two Rodrigos, meaning my Cid and this good
knight, there was none but himself who had for vassals.

King Don Garcia being desirous to be in the pursuit himself, delivered
his brother into the hands of six knights that they should guard him,
which he ought not to have done. And when he was gone King Don Sancho
said unto the knights, Let me go and I will depart out of your country
and never enter it again; and I will reward ye well as long as ye
live; but they answered him, that for no reward would they commit such
disloyalty, but would guard him well, not offering him any injury,
till they had delivered him to his brother the King Don Garcia. While
they were parleying Alvar Fanez came up, he to whom the king had given
horse and arms before the battle; and he seeing the king held
prisoner, cried out with a loud voice, Let loose my lord the king: and
he spurred his horse and made at them; and before his lance was broken
he overthrew two of them, and so bestirred himself that he put the
others to flight; and he took the horses of the two whom he had smote
down, and gave one to the king, and mounted upon the other himself,
for his own was hurt in the rescue; and they went together to a little
rising ground where there was yet a small body of the knights of their
party, and Alvar Fanez cried out to them aloud, Ye see here the king
our lord, who is free; now then remember the good name of the
Castillians, and let us not lose it this day. And about four hundred
knights gathered about him. And while they stood there they saw the
Cid Ruydiez coming up with three hundred knights, for he had not been
in the battle, and they knew his green pennon. And when King Don
Sancho beheld it his heart rejoiced, and he said, Now let us descend
into the plain, for he of good fortune cometh: and he said, Be of good
heart, for it is the will of God that I should recover my kingdom, for
I have escaped from captivity, and seen the death of Don Rodrigo
Frojaz who took me, and Ruydiez the fortunate one cometh. And the king
went down to him and welcomed him right joyfully, saying, In happy
time are you come, my fortunate Cid; never vassal succoured his lord
in such season as you now succour me, for the king my brother had
overcome me. And the Cid answered, Sir, be sure that you shall recover
the day, or I will die; for wheresoever you go, either you shall be
victorious or I will meet my death.

By this time King Don Garcia returned from the pursuit, singing as he
came full joyfully, for he thought that the king his brother was a
prisoner, and his great power overthrown. But there came one and told
him that Don Sancho was rescued and in the field again, ready to give
him battle a second time. Bravely was that second battle fought on
both sides; and if it had not been for the great prowess of the Cid,
the end would not have been as it was: in the end the Galegos and
Portugueze were discomfited, and the King Don Garcia taken in his
turn. And the King Don Sancho put his brother in better ward than his
brother three hours before had put him, for he put him in chains and
sent him to the strong castle of Luna.

When King Don Sancho had done this he took unto himself the kingdom of
Galicia and of Portugal, and without delay sent to his brother King
Don Alfonso, commanding him to yield up to him the kingdom of Leon,
for it was his by right. At this was the King of Leon troubled at
heart; howbeit he answered that he would not yield up his kingdom, but
do his utmost to defend it. Then King Don Sancho entered Leon, slaying
and laying waste before him, as an army of infidels would have done;
and King Don Alfonso sent to him to bid him cease from this, for it
was inhuman work to kill and plunder the innocent: and he defied him
to a pitched battle, saying that to whichsoever God should give the
victory, to him also would he give the kingdom of Leon: and the King
of Castille accepted the defiance, and a day was fixed for the battle.
Both kings were in the field that day, and full hardily was the battle
contested, and great was the mortality on either side, for the hatred
which used to be between Moors and Christians was then between
brethren.

Nevertheless the power of King Don Alfonso was not yet destroyed, and
he would not yield up his kingdom: and he sent to his brother a second
time to bid him battle, saying that whosoever conquered should then
certainly remain King of Leon. The two armies met and joined battle,
and they of Leon had the victory, for my Cid was not in the field. And
King Don Alfonso had pity upon the Castillians because they were
Christians, and gave orders not to slay them; and his brother King Don
Sancho fled. Now as he was flying, my Cid came up with his green
pennon; and when he saw that the king his lord had been conquered it
grieved him sorely: howbeit he encouraged him saying, This is nothing,
sir! to fail or to prosper is as God pleases. But do you gather
together your people who are discomfited, and bid them take heart. The
Leonese and Galegos are with the king your brother, secure as they
think themselves in their lodging, and taking no thought of you; for
it is their custom to extol themselves when their fortune is fair, and
to mock at others, and in this boastfulness will they spend the night,
so that we shall find them sleeping at break of day, and will fall
upon them. And it came to pass as he had said. The Leonese lodged
themselves in Vulpegera, taking no thought of their enemies, and
setting no watch; and Ruydiez arose betimes in the morning and fell
upon them, and subdued them before they could take their arms. King
Don Alfonso fled to the town of Carrion, which was three leagues
distant, and would have fortified himself there in the Church of St.
Mary, but he was surrounded and constrained to yield.

Now the knights of Leon gathered together in their flight, and when
they could not find their king they were greatly ashamed, and they
turned back and smote the Castillians; and as it befell, they
encountered King Don Sancho alone and took him prisoner, for his
people considered the victory as their own, and all was in confusion.
And thirteen knights took him in their ward and were leading him
away,--but my Cid beheld them and galloped after them: he was alone,
and had no lance, having broken his in the battle. And he came up to
them and said, Knights, give me my lord and I will give unto you
yours. They knew him by his arms, and they made answer, Ruydiez,
return in peace and seek not to contend with us, otherwise we will
carry you away prisoner with him. And he waxed wroth and said, Give me
but a lance and I will, single as I am, rescue my lord from all of ye:
by God's help I will do it. And they held him as nothing because he
was but one, and gave him a lance. But he attacked them therewith so
bravely that he slew eleven of the thirteen, leaving two only alive,
on whom he had mercy; and thus did he rescue the king. And the
Castillians rejoiced greatly at the king's deliverance: and King Don
Sancho went to Burgos, and took with him his brother prisoner.

Great was the love which the Infanta Donya Urraca bore to her brother
King Don Alfonso, and when she heard that he was made prisoner, she
feared lest he should be put to death: and she took with her the Count
Don Peransures, and went to Burgos. And they spake with the Cid, and
besought him that he would join with them and intercede with the king
that he should release his brother from prison, and let him become a
monk. Full willing was the Cid to serve in any thing the Infanta Donya
Urraca, and he went with her before the king. And she knelt down
before the king her brother, and besought him that he would let their
brother Don Alfonso take the habit of St. Benedict, in the royal
Monastery of Sahagun. And the king took my Cid aside, and asked
counsel of him what he should do; and the Cid said, that if Don
Alfonso were willing to become a monk, he would do well to set him
free upon that condition, and he besought him so to do. Then King Don
Sancho, at my Cid's request, granted to Donya Urraca what she had
asked. And Don Alfonso became a monk in the Monastery at Sahagun, more
by force than of free will. And being in the monastery he spake with
Don Peransures, and took counsel with him, and fled away by night from
the monks, and went among the Moors to King Alimaymon of Toledo. And
the Moorish king welcomed him with a good will, and did great honour
to him, and gave him great possessions and many gifts.

But when King Don Sancho heard how his brother had fled from the
monastery, he drew out his host and went against the city of Leon. The
Leonese would fain have maintained the city against him, but they
could not, and he took the city of Leon, and all the towns and castles
which had been under the dominion of his brother King Don Alfonso. And
then he put the crown upon his head, and called himself king of the
three kingdoms. He was a fair knight and of marvellous courage, so
that both Moors and Christians were dismayed at what they saw him do,
for they saw that nothing which he willed to take by force could stand
against him. And he went forth with his army, and took from the
Infanta Donya Elvira the half of the Infantazgo [Footnote: Inherited
land] which she possessed, and also from Donya Urraca the other half.
And he went against Toro, the city of Donya Elvira, and took it, and
then he went to Zamora to Donya Urraca, bidding her yield him up the
city, and saying that he would give her lands as much as she required
in the plain country. But she returned for answer, that she would in
no manner yield unto him that which the king her father had given her;
and she besought him that he would suffer her to continue to dwell
peaceably therein, saying that no disservice should ever be done
against him on her part.

Then King Don Sancho went to Burgos, because it was the season for
besieging a town, being winter. And he sent his letters through all
the land, calling upon his vassals to assemble together upon the first
day of March in Sahagun, upon pain of forfeiting his favour. And they
assembled together in Sahagun on the day appointed; and when the king
heard in what readiness they were, it gladdened him, and he lifted up
his hands to God and said, Blessed be thy name, O Lord, because thou
hast given me all the kingdoms of my father. And when he had said this
he ordered proclamation to be made through the streets of Burgos, that
all should go forth to protect the host and the body of the king their
lord. They made such speed that in five days they arrived before
Zamora, and pitched their tents upon the banks of the Douro. And he
mounted on horseback with his bidalgos and rode round the town, and
beheld how strongly it was situated upon a rock, with strong walls,
and many and strong towers, and the river Douro running at the foot
thereof; and he said unto his knights, Ye see how strong it is,
neither Moor nor Christian can prevail against it; if I could have it
from my sister either for money or exchange, I should be Lord of
Spain.

Then the king returned to his tents, and sent for the Cid, and said
unto him, Cid, you well know how manifoldly you are bound unto me. I
have ever shown favour unto you, and you have ever served me as the
loyalest vassal that ever did service to his lord. Now therefore I
beseech you as my friend and true vassal, that you go to Zamora to my
sister Donya Urraca, and say unto her again, that I beseech her to
give me the town either for a price, or in exchange, and I will give
to her Medina de Rioseco, with the whole Infantazgo, from Villalpando
to Valladolid, and Tiedra also, which is a good Castle; and I will
swear unto her, with twelve knights of my vassals, never to break this
covenant between us; but if she refuseth to do this I will take away
the town from her by force. And my Cid kissed the hand of the king and
said unto him, This bidding, sir, should be for other messenger, for
it is a heavy thing for me to deliver it; for I was brought up in
Zamora by your father's command, with Donya Urraca and with his sons,
and it is not fitting that I should be the bearer of such bidding. And
the king persisted in requiring of him that he should go, insomuch
that he was constrained to obey his will. And he took with him fifteen
of his knights and rode towards Zamora, and when he drew nigh he
called unto those who kept guard in the towers not to shoot their
arrows at him, for he was Ruydiez of Bivar, who came to Donya Urraca
with the bidding of her brother King Don Sancho. With that there came
down a knight who had the keeping of the gate, and he bade the Cid
enter. It pleased the Infanta well that he should be the messenger,
and she bade him come before her that she might know what was his
bidding. When the Cid entered the palace Donya Urraca advanced to meet
him, and greeted him full well, and they seated themselves both upon
the Estrado. And Donya Urraca said unto him, Cid, you well know that
you were brought up with me here in Zamora, and when my father was at
the point of death he charged you that you should always counsel his
sons the best you could. Now tell me I beseech you what is it which my
brother goes about to do, now that he has called up all Spain in arms,
and to what lands he thinks to go, whether against Moors or
Christians. Then the Cid answered and said, Lady, give me safe
assurance and I will tell unto you that which the king your brother
hath sent me to say. And she said she would do as Don Arias Gonzalo
should advise her. And Don Arias answered that it was well to hear
what the king her brother had sent to say. Donya Urraca then said to
the Cid, that he might speak his bidding safely. Then said my Cid, The
king your brother sends to greet you, and beseeches you to give him
this town of Zamora, either for a price or in exchange; and he will
give to you Medina de Rio-seco, with the whole Infantazgo, from
Villalpando to Valladolid, and the good castle of Tiedra, and he will
swear unto you, with twelve knights his vassals, never to do you hurt
or harm; but if you will not give him the town, he will take it
against your will.

When Donya Urraca heard this she lamented aloud, saying, Wretch that I
am, many are the evil messages which I have heard since my father's
death! He hath disherited my brother King Don Garcia of his kingdom,
and taken him, and now holds him in irons as if he were a thief or a
Moor: and he hath taken his lands from my brother King Don Alfonso,
and forced him to go among the Moors, and live there exiled as if he
had been a traitor; and he hath taken her lands from my sister Donya
Elvira against her will, and now would he take Zamora from me also!
Now then let the earth open and swallow me, that I may not see so many
troubles! I am a woman, and well know that I cannot strive with him in
battle; but I will have him slain either secretly or openly. Then Don
Arias Gonzalo stood up and said, Lady, give order that all the men of
Zamora assemble in St. Salvador's and know of them whether they will
hold with you, seeing that your father gave them to you to be your
vassals. If they will hold with you, then give not up the town,
neither for a price, nor in exchange; but if they will not, let us
then go to Toledo among the Moors, where your brother King Don Alfonso
abideth.

And she did as her foster-father had advised, and it was proclaimed
through the streets that the men of Zamora should meet in council at
St. Salvador's. When they were all assembled, Donya Urraca arose and
said, Don Sancho bids me give him Zamora, either for a price or in
exchange. Now concerning this I would know whereunto ye advise
me. Then by command of the Council there rose up a knight who was
called Don Nuno, a man of worth, aged, and of fair speech; and he
said, We beseech you give not up Zamora, neither for price nor for
exchange, for he who besieges you upon the rock would soon drive you
from the plain. The Council of Zamora will do your bidding, and will
not desert you. Sooner, lady, will we expend all our possessions, and
eat our mules and horses, than give up Zamora, unless by your command.
And they all with one accord confirmed what Don Nuno had said. When
the Infanta Donya Urraca heard this she was well pleased, and praised
them greatly; and she turned to the Cid and said unto him, I beseech
you help me now against my brother, and intreat him that he will not
seek to disherit me; but if he will go on with what he hath begun, say
to him that I will rather die with the men of Zamora and they with me,
than give him up the town, either for price or exchange. And with this
answer did the Cid return unto the king.




THE SIEGE OF ZAMORA

By Robert Southey


When King Don Sancho heard what the Cid said, his anger kindled
against him, and he said, You have given this counsel to my sister
because you were bred with her. And my Cid answered and said,
Faithfully have I discharged your bidding, and as a true vassal.
Howbeit, O king, I will not bear arms against the Infanta your sister,
nor against Zamora, because of the days which are passed;--and I
beseech you do not persist in doing this wrong. But then King Don
Sancho was more greatly incensed, and he said unto him, If it were not
that my father left you commended to me, I would order you this
instant to be hanged. But for this which you have said I command you
to quit my kingdom within nine days. The Cid went to his tent in
anger, and called for his kinsmen and his friends, and bade them make
ready on the instant to depart with him. He set forth with all the
knights and esquires of his table, and with all their retainers horse
and foot, twelve hundred persons, all men of approved worth, a goodly
company;--and they took the road to Toledo, meaning to join King Don
Alfonso among the Moors. That night they slept at Castro Nuno. But
when the counts and Ricos-omes, and the other good men of the host saw
this, they understood the great evil, which might arise to the king
from the departure of the Cid. They went to the king and said unto
him, Sir, wherefore would you lose so good a vassal, who has done you
such great service? If he should go unto your brother Don Alfonso
among the Moors, he would not let you besiege this city thus in peace.
And the king perceived that they spake rightly, and he called for Don
Diego Ordonez and bade him follow the Cid, and beseech him in his name
to return; and whatever covenant he should make it should be confirmed
unto him; and of this he ordered his letters of credence to be made
out. And Don Diego Ordonez rode after the Cid, and delivered the
king's bidding, and said that the king besought him not to bear in
mind the words which he had spoken unto him in anger. Then the Cid
called together his kinsmen and friends, and they counselled him that
he should return to the king, for it was better to remain in his land
and serve God, than to go among the Moors. He held their counsel good,
and called for Don Diego, and said that he would do the will of the
king. And when the Cid drew nigh unto the host, the king went out with
five hundred knights to meet him, and received him gladly, and did him
great honour. And the Cid kissed his hand and asked him if he
confirmed what Don Diego had said; and the king confirmed it before
all the knights who were there present, promising to give him great
possessions. And when they came to the army great was the joy because
of the Cid's return, and great were the rejoicings which were made:
but as great was the sorrow in Zamora, for they who were in the town
held that the siege was broken up by his departure. Nevertheless my
Cid would not bear arms against the Infanta, nor against the town of
Zamora, because of the days which were past.

The king ordered proclamation to be made throughout the host that the
people should make ready to attack the town. They fought against it
three days and three nights so bravely that all the ditches were
filled up, and the barbicans thrown down, and they who were within
fought sword in hand with those without, and the waters of the Douro,
as they past below the town, were all discoloured with blood. And when
Count Don Garcia de Cabra saw the great loss which they were
suffering, it grieved him; and he went unto the king and told him that
many men were slain, and advised him to call off the host that they
should no longer fight against the town, but hold it besieged, for by
famine it might soon be taken. Then the king ordered them to draw
back, and he sent to each camp to know how many men had died in the
attack, and the number was found to be a thousand and thirty. And when
the king knew this he was greatly troubled for the great loss which he
had received, and he ordered the town to be beleaguered round about,
that none could enter into it, neither go out therefrom; and there was
a great famine within the town. And when Don Arias Gonzalo saw the
misery, and the hunger, and the mortality which were there, he said to
the Infanta Donya Urraca, You see, lady, the great wretchedness which
the people of Zamora have suffered, and do every day suffer to
maintain their loyalty; now then call together the Council, and thank
them truly for what they have done for you, and bid them give up the
town within nine days to the king your brother. And we, lady, will go
to Toledo to your brother King Don Alfonso, for we cannot defend
Zamora; King Don Sancho is of so great heart and so resolute, that he
will never break up the siege, and I do not hold it good that you
should abide here longer. And Donya Urraca gave orders that the good
men of Zamora should meet together in council; and she said unto them,
Friends, ye well see the resoluteness of King Don Sancho my brother.
Ye have done enough, and I do not hold it good that ye should perish,
I command ye therefore give up the town to him within nine days, and I
will go to Toledo to my brother King Don Alfonso. The men of Zamora
when they heard this had great sorrow, because they had endured the
siege so long, and must now give up the town at last; and they
determined all to go with the Infanta, and not remain in the town.

When Vellido Dolfos heard this, he went to Donya Urraca and said,
Lady, I came here to Zamora to do you service with thirty knights, all
well accoutred, as you know; and I have served you long time, and
never have I had from you guerdon for my service, though I have
demanded it: but now if you will grant my demand I will relieve
Zamora, and make King Don Sancho break up the siege. Then said Donya
Urraca, Vellido, I do not bid thee commit any evil thing, if such thou
hast in thy thought; but I say unto you, that there is not a man in
the world to whom if he should relieve Zamora, and make the king my
brother raise the siege, I would not grant whatsoever he might
require. And when Vellido heard this he kissed her hand, and went to a
porter who kept one of the gates of the town, saying, that he should
open the gate unto him when he saw him flying toward it, and he gave
him his cloak. Then he armed himself, and mounted his horse, and rode
to the house of Don Arias Gonzalo, and cried with a loud voice, We all
know the reason, Don Arias Gonzalo, why you will not let Donya Urraca
exchange Zamora with her brother; it is because you deal with her like
an old traitor. When Arias Gonzalo heard this, it grieved him to the
heart. Then his sons arose and armed themselves hastily, and went
after Vellido, who fled before them toward the gate of the town. The
porter when he saw him coming opened the gate, and he rode out and
galloped into the camp of the King Don Sancho, and the others followed
him till they were nigh the camp, but farther they did not venture.
And Vellido went to the king and kissed his hand, and said unto him
these false words with a lying tongue: Sir, because I said to the
Council of Zamora that they should yield the town unto you, the sons
of Arias Gonzalo would have slain me, even as you have seen. And
therefore come I to you, sir, and will be your vassal, if I may find
favour at your hands. And I will show you how in a few days you may
have Zamora, if God pleases; and if I do not as I have said, then let
me be slain. And the king believed all that he said, and received him
for his vassal, and did him great honour. And all that night they
talked together of his secrets, and he made the king believe that he
knew a postern by means of which he would put Zamora into his hands.

On the morrow in the morning, one of the knights who were in the town
went upon the wall, and cried out with a loud voice, King Don Sancho,
give ear to what I say; I am a knight, and they from whom I spring
were true men and delighted in their loyalty, and I also will live and
die in my truth. I say unto you, that from this town of Zamora there
is gone forth a traitor to kill you; his name is Vellido Dolfos. Look
to yourself therefore and take heed of him. I say this to you, that if
evil should befall you by this traitor, it may not be said in Spain
that you were not warned against him. And the men of Zamora sent also
to the king to bid him beware of Vellido; nevertheless he gave no heed
to the warning. And Vellido, when he heard this went to the king, and
said, Sir, the old Arias Gonzalo is full crafty, and hath sent to say
this unto you, because he knows that by my means you would have won
the town. And he called for his horse, feigning that he would depart
because of what had been said. But the king took him by the hand and
said, Friend and vassal, take no thought for this; I say unto you,
that if I may have Zamora, I will make you chief therein, even as
Arias Gonzalo is now. Then Vellido kissed his hand and said, God
grant you life, sir, for many and happy years, and let you fulfil what
you desire. But the traitor had other thoughts in his heart.

After this Vellido took the king apart and said to him, If it please
you, sir, let us ride out together alone; we will go round Zamora, and
see the trenches which you have ordered to be made; and I will show
unto you the postern which is called the queen's, by which we may
enter the town, for it is never closed. When it is night you shall
give me a hundred knights who are hidalgos, well armed, and we will go
on foot, and the Zamorans because they are weak with famine and
misery, will let us conquer them, and we will enter and open the gate,
and keep it open till all your host shall have entered in. The king
believed what he said, and they took horse and went riding round the
town, and the king looked at the trenches, and that traitor showed him
the postern. And after they had ridden round the town the king had
need to alight; now he carried in his hand a light hunting spear which
was gilded over, such as the kings from whom he was descended were
wont to bear; and he gave this to Vellido to hold it while he went
aside, to cover his feet. And Vellido Dolfos, when he saw him in that
guise, took the hunting spear and thrust it between his shoulders, so
that it went through him and came out at his breast. And when he had
stricken him he turned the reins and rode as fast as he could toward
the postern. Now it chanced that the Cid saw him riding thus, and
asked him wherefore he fled, and he would not answer; and then the Cid
understood that he had done some treason, and his heart misgave him
and he called in haste for his horse, but while they were bringing it,
Vellido had ridden far away; and the Cid being eager to follow him,
took only his lance and did not wait to have his spurs buckled on. And
he followed him to the postern and had well nigh overtaken him, but
Vellido got in; and then the Cid said in his anger, Cursed be the
knight who ever gets on horseback without his spurs. Now in all the
feats of the Cid never was fault found in him save only in this,
that he did not enter after Vellido into the town; but he did not
fail to do this for cowardice, neither for fear of death, or of
imprisonment; but because he thought that this was a device between
him and the king, and that he fled by the king's command; for certes,
if he had known that the king was slain, there was nothing which would
have prevented him from entering the town, and slaying the traitor in
the streets, thereright.

Now the history saith, that when Vellido Dolfos had got within the
postern, he was in such fear both of those who were in the town and of
those who were without, that he went and placed himself under the
mantle of the Infanta Donya Urraca. And when Don Arias Gonzalo knew
this, he went unto the Infanta and said, Lady, I beseech you that you
give up this traitor to the Castillians, otherwise the Castillians
will impeach all who are in Zamora, and that will be greater dishonour
for you and for us. And Donya Urraca made answer, Counsel me then so
that he may not die for this which he hath done. Don Arias Gonzalo
then answered, Give him unto me, and I will keep him in custody for
three days, and if the Castillians impeach us we will deliver him into
their hands; and if they do not impeach us within that time, we will
thrust him out of the town so that he shall not be seen among us. And
Don Arias Gonzalo took him from thence, and secured him with double
fetters, and guarded him well.

Meantime the Castillians went to seek their king, and they found him
by the side of the Douro, where he lay sorely wounded, even unto
death; but he had not yet lost his speech, and the hunting spear was
in his body, through and through, and they did not dare to take it out
lest he should die immediately. And a master of Burgos came up who was
well skilled in these things, and he sawed off the ends of the spear,
that he might not lose his speech, and said that he should be
confessed, for he had death within him. Then Count Don Garcia de Cabra
said unto him, Sir, think of your soul, for you have a desperate
wound. And the king made answer, The traitor Vellido has killed me,
and I well know that this was for my sins, because I broke the oath
which I made unto the king my father. As the king was saying this the
Cid came up and knelt before him and said, I, sir, remain more
desolate than any other of your vassals, for for your sake have I made
your brethren mine enemies, and all in the world who were against you,
and against whom it pleased you to go. The king your father commended
me to them as well as to you, when he divided his kingdoms, and I have
lost their love for your sake, having done them great evil. And now
neither can I go before King Don Alfonso, your brother, nor remain
among the Christians before Donya Urraca your sister, because they
hold that whatsoever you have done against them was by my counsel. Now
then, sir, remember me before you depart. And the king said, I beseech
all ye who are here present, that if my brother King Don Alfonso
should come from the land of the Moors, ye beseech him to show favour
unto you, my Cid, and that he always be bountiful unto you, and
receive you to be his vassal. Then the Cid arose and kissed his hand,
and all the chief persons who were there present did the like. And the
king said unto them, I beseech ye intreat my brother King Don Alfonso
to forgive me whatever wrong I have done him, and to pray to God to
have mercy upon my soul. And when he had said this he asked for the
candle, and presently his soul departed. And all who were there
present made great lamentation for the king.

Now when the king was dead, the townsmen who were in the camp forsook
their tents and fled, but the noble Castillians would not depart from
Zamora, nor break up the siege thereof, but remained bravely before
it, though they had lost their lord. And they took counsel together
how they should proceed against the men of Zamora for this great
treason which had been committed. Then Count Don Garcia de Cabra arose
and said, Friends, if there be one here who will impeach them for this
thing, we will do whatever may be needful that he may come off with
honour, and the impeachment be carried through. Then Don Diego Ordonez
arose, and he said unto them, If ye will all assent to this which ye
have heard, I will impeach the men of Zamora for the death of the king
our lord: and they all assented. Now my Cid did not make this
impeachment against the people of Zamora, because of the oath which he
had sworn.

Then Don Diego Ordonez went to his lodging and armed himself well and
rode toward Zamora. And when he drew nigh unto the town he began to
cry aloud, asking if Don Arias Gonzalo were there, for he would speak
with him. And Don Arias Gonzalo went with his sons upon the wall to
see who called for him, and he spake to the knight, saying, Friend,
what wouldest thou? And Don Diego Ordonez answered, The Castillians
have lost their lord; the traitor Vellido slew him, being his vassal,
and ye of Zamora have received Vellido and harboured him within your
walls. Now therefore I say that he is a traitor who hath a traitor
with him, if he knoweth and consenteth unto the treason. And for this
I impeach the people of Zamora, the great as well as the little, the
living and the dead. If there be any one in Zamora to gainsay what I
have said, I will do battle with him, and with God's pleasure conquer
him, so that the infamy shall remain upon you. Don Arias Gonzalo
replied, If I were what thou sayest I am, it had been better for me
never to have been born; but in what thou sayest thou liest, and I
will do battle with thee upon this quarrel, or give thee one in my
stead. But know that you have been ill advised in making this
impeachment, for the manner is, that whosoever impeacheth a council
must do battle with five, one after another, and if he conquer the
five he shall be held a true man, but if either of the five conquer
him, the council is held acquitted and he a liar. When Don Diego heard
this it troubled him; howbeit he dissembled this right well, and said
unto Don Arias Gonzalo, I will bring twelve Castillians, and do you
bring twelve men of Zamora, and they shall swear upon the Holy Gospel
to judge justly between us, and if they find that I am bound to do
battle with five, I will perform it. And Don Arias made answer that he
said well, and it should be so. And truce was made for three times
nine days, till this should have been determined and the combat
fought.

Then when the truce was made they chose out twelve alcades on the one
part, and twelve on the other, who should decide in what manner he was
bound to perform combat who impeached a council. Two of them who were
held the most learned in these things arose, the one being a
Castillian and the other of Zamora, and said that they had found the
law as it was written to be this: That whosoever impeacheth the
council of a town which was a bishop's seat, must do battle with five
in the field, one after another; and that after every combat there
should be given unto him fresh arms and horse, and three sops of
bread, and a draught either of wine or of water, as he chose. And in
this sentence which the twain pronounced, the other twenty and two
accorded.

On the morrow the four and twenty alcades marked out the lists upon
the sand beside the river, and in the middle of the lists they placed
a bar, and ordained that he who won the battle should lay hand on the
bar, and say that he had conquered: and then they appointed a term of
nine days for the combatants to come to those lists which had been
assigned. And when all was appointed the Infanta Donya Urraca ordered
a meeting to be called, at which all the men of the town assembled.
And when they were gathered together, Don Arias Gonzalo said unto
them, Friends, I beseech ye, if there be any here among ye who took
counsel for the death of King Don Sancho, or were privy thereunto,
that ye now tell me, and deny it not; for rather would I go with my
sons to the land of the Moors, than be overcome in the field, and held
for a traitor. Then they all replied, that there was none there who
knew of the treason, nor had consented unto it. At this was Don Arias
Gonzalo well pleased, and he went to his house with his sons, and
chose out four of them to do combat, and said that he would be the
fifth himself.




HOW DON DIEGO FOUGHT THE THREE BROTHERS

By Robert Southey


When the day appointed was come, Don Arias Gonzalo early in the
morning armed his sons, and they armed him. As they rode through the
gates of their house, Donya Urraca with a company of dames met them,
and said to Don Arias, weeping, Remember now how my father, King Don
Ferrando, left me to your care, and you swore between his hands that
you would never forsake me; and lo! now you are forsaking me. I
beseech you remain with me. And she took hold on him, and would not
let him go, and made him be disarmed. Then came many knights around
him, to demand arms of him, and request that they might do battle in
his stead; nevertheless he would give them to none. And he called for
his son Pedro Arias, who was a right brave knight, though but of green
years, and Don Arias armed him completely with his own hands, and
instructed him how to demean himself, and gave him his blessing with
his right hand. Then went they into the field, where Don Diego Ordonez
was awaiting them, and Pedro Arias entered the lists, and the judges
placed them each in his place, and divided the sun between them, and
went out, leaving them in the lists.

Then they turned their horses one against the other, and ran at each
other full bravely, like good knights. Five times they encountered,
and at the sixth encounter their spears brake, and they laid hand upon
their swords, and dealt each other such heavy blows that the helmets
failed; and in this manner the combat between them continued till
noon. And when Don Diego Ordonez saw that it lasted so long, and he
could not yet conquer him, he called to mind that he was there
fighting to revenge his lord, who had been slain by a foul treason,
and he collected together all his strength. And he lifted up his sword
and smote Pedro Arias upon the helmet, so that he cut through it, and
through the hood of the mail also, and made a wound in the head. And
Pedro Arias with the agony of death bowed down to the neck of the
horse; yet with all this he neither lost his stirrups, nor let go his
sword. And Don Diego Ordonez seeing him thus, thought that he was
dead, and would not strike him again; and he called aloud, saying, Don
Arias, send me another son, for this one will never fulfil your
bidding. When Pedro Arias heard this, grievously wounded as he was, he
went fiercely against him: and he took the sword in both hands, and
thought to give it him upon his head; but the blow missed, and fell
upon the horse, and the horse immediately ran away because of the
great wound which he had received. And Don Diego had no reins
wherewith to stop him, and perceiving that he should else be carried
out of the lists, he threw himself off. And while he did this, Pedro
Arias fell down dead, just without the mark. And Don Diego Ordonez
laid hand on the bar, and said, Praised be the name of God, one is
conquered. And incontinently the judges came and took him by the hand,
and led him to a tent and disarmed him, and gave him three sops, and
he drank of the wine and rested awhile. And afterwards they gave him
other arms, and a horse that was a right good one, and went with him
to the lists.

Then Don Arias Gonzalo called for another son, whose name was Diego
Arias, gave him his blessing and went with him to the lists. And the
judges took the reins of the two champions and led them each to his
place, and went out and left them in the lists. And they ran against
each other with such force that both shields failed, and in another
career they brake their lances. Then laid they hand on their good
swords, and delivered such blows that their helmets were cut away, and
the sleeves of the mail. And at length Diego Arias received such a
blow near the heart that he fell dead. And Don Diego Ordonez went to
the bar and laid hold on it, and cried out to Don Arias Gonzalo, Send
me another son, for I have conquered two, thanks be to God. Then the
judges came and said that the dead knight was not yet out of the
lists, and that he must alight and cast him out. Don Diego Ordonez did
as they had directed him, and then went and laid hand upon the bar
again. And then the judges came to him, and led him to the tent, and
disarmed him, and gave him the three sops and the wine, as they had
done before.

Then Don Arias Gonzalo, in great rage called for his son Rodrigo
Arias, who was a good knight, right hardy and valiant, the elder of
all the brethren. And Don Arias said unto him, Son, go now and do
battle with Diego Ordonez, to save Donya Urraca your lady, and
yourself, and the Council of Zamora; and if you do this, in happy hour
were you born. Then Rodrigo Arias kissed his hand and answered,
Father, I thank you much for what you have said, and be sure that I
will save them, or take my death. And he took his arms and mounted,
and his father gave him his blessing, and went with him to the lists;
and the judges took his reins and led him in. And when the judges were
gone out, they twain ran at each other, and Don Diego missed his blow,
but Rodrigo Arias, did not miss, for he gave him so great a stroke
with the lance that it pierced through the shield, and broke the
saddle-bow behind, and made him lose his stirrups, and he embraced the
neck of his horse. But albeit that Don Diego was sorely bested with
that stroke, he took heart presently, and went bravely against him,
and dealt him so great a blow that he broke the lance in him; for it
went through the shield and all his other arms, and great part of the
lance remained in his flesh. After this they laid hand to sword, and
gave each to the other great blows, and great wounds with them. And
Rodrigo Arias gave so great a wound to Diego Ordonez, that he cut his
left arm through to the bone. And Don Diego Ordonez, when he felt
himself so sorely wounded, went against Rodrigo Arias and delivered
him a blow upon the head which cut through the helmet and the hood of
the mail, and entered into his head. When Rodrigo Arias felt himself
wounded to death, he let go the reins and took his sword in both
hands, and gave so great a blow to the horse of Don Diego that the
horse ran out of the lists, and carried Don Diego out also, and there
died. And Rodrigo Arias fell dead as he was following him. Then Don
Diego Ordonez would have returned into the field to do battle with the
other two, but the judges would not permit this, neither did they
think good to decide whether they of Zamora were overcome in this
third duel or not. And in this manner the thing was left undecided.
Nevertheless, though no sentence was given, there remained no infamy
upon the people of Zamora. Better had it been for Don Arias Gonzalo if
he had given up Vellido to the Castillians, that he might have died
the death of a traitor; he would not then have lost these three sons,
who died like good men, in their duty. Now what was the end of Vellido
the history sayeth not, but it is to be believed, that because the
impeachment was not made within three days, Don Arias Gonzalo thrust
him out of the town as Donya Urraca had requested, and that he fled
into other lands, peradventure among the Moors.

In the meantime the Infanta Donya Urraca wrote letters secretly and
sent messengers with them to Toledo to King Don Alfonso, telling him
that King Don Sancho his brother was dead, and had left no heir, and
that he should come as speedily as he could to receive the kingdoms.

As soon as King Don Alfonso arrived at Zamora, he took counsel with
his sister. And the Infanta Donya Urraca, who was a right prudent lady
and a wise, sent letters throughout the land, that a cortes should
assemble and receive him for their lord. And when the Leonese and the
Gallegos knew that their lord King Don Alfonso was come, they were
full joyful, and they came to Zamora and received him for their lord
and king. And afterwards the Castillians arrived, and they of
Navarre, and they also received him for their lord and king, but upon
this condition, that he should swear that he had not taken counsel for
the death of his brother King Don Sancho. Howbeit they did not come
forward to receive the oath, and they kissed his hands in homage, all,
save only Ruydiez, my Cid. And when King Don Alfonso saw that the Cid
did not do homage and kiss his hand, he said, Since now ye have all
received me for your lord, and given me authority over ye, I would
know of the Cid Ruydiez why he will not kiss my hand and acknowledge
me. And the Cid arose and said, Sir, all whom you see here present,
suspect that by your counsel the King Don Sancho your brother came to
his death; and therefore, I say unto you that, unless you clear
yourself of this, as by right you should do, I will never kiss your
hand, nor receive you for my lord. Then said the king, Cid, what you
say pleases me well; and here I swear to God and to St. Mary, that I
never slew him, nor took counsel for his death, neither did it please
me, though he had taken my kingdom from me. And I beseech ye therefore
all, as friends and true vassals, that ye tell me how I may clear
myself. And the chiefs who were present said, that he and twelve of
the knights who came with him from Toledo, should make this oath in
the church at St. Gadea at Burgos, and that so he should be cleared.

So the king and all his company took horse and went to Burgos. And
when the day appointed for the oath was come, the king went to hear
mass in the church of Gadea. And the king came forward upon a high
stage that all the people might see him, and my Cid came to him to
receive the oath; and my Cid took the book of the Gospels and opened
it, and laid it upon the altar, and the king laid his hands upon it,
and the Cid said unto him, King Don Alfonso, you come here to swear
concerning the death of King Don Sancho your brother, that you neither
slew him nor took counsel for his death; say now you and these
hidalgos, if ye swear this. And the king and the hidalgos answered and
said, Yea, we swear it. And the Cid said, If ye knew of this thing, or
gave command that it should be done, may you die even such a death as
your brother the King Don Sancho, by the hand of a villain whom you
trust; one who is not a hidalgo, from another land, not a Castillian;
and the king and the knights who were with him said Amen. And the
king's colour changed; and the Cid repeated the oath unto him a second
time, and the king and the twelve knights said Amen to it in like
manner, and in like manner the countenance of the king was changed
again. And my Cid repeated the oath unto him a third time, and the
king and the knights said Amen; but the wrath of the king was
exceeding great, and he said to the Cid, Ruydiez, why dost thou thus
press me, man? To-day thou swearest me, and to-morrow thou wilt kiss
my hand. And from that day forward there was no love towards my Cid in
the heart of the king.

After this was King Don Alfonso crowned King of Castille, and Leon,
and Galicia, and Portugal; and he called himself King and Emperor of
all Spain, even as his father had done before him.




TALES OF ROBIN HOOD


Robin Hood is said to have been born at Locksley in the County of
Nottingham, in the reign of Henry II, about 1160. Some claim that he
came of good family, and was in reality the Earl of Huntingdon.

Public performances of plays based on the tales became so common by
1550 that they had to be forbidden, "but the people would not be
forbidden," said John Knox, the preacher. Bishop Latimer complained
bitterly how, when he was one day ready to preach in a country church,
he was told it was Robin Hood's day, a busy day with them, and they
could not hear him.

You will find a lot about Robin Hood in Scott's Ivanhoe, some of which
is in the volume "The Stories that never Grow Old."




ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT

Retold by Mary Macleod


In the days of Richard I there lived a famous outlaw who was known by
the name of Robin Hood. He was born at Locksley in the county of
Nottingham, and was of noble origin, for he is often spoken of as
"Earl of Huntingdon." Robin was very wild and daring, and having
placed his life in danger by some reckless act, or possibly through
some political offence, he fled for refuge to the greenwood. His chief
haunts were Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire, and Barnsdale in
Yorkshire. Round him soon flocked a band of trusty followers. An old
chronicler states that Robin Hood "entertained an hundred tall men and
good archers." They robbed none but the rich, and killed no man except
in self-defence. Robin "suffered no woman to be oppressed or otherwise
molested; poor men's goods he spared, abundantly relieving them" with
spoils got from abbeys or the houses of rich people.

Robin Hood's exploits were widely known, and although the poorer
classes were all on his side, those in authority were naturally
incensed against him. Many attempts were made to seize him, and large
rewards were offered for his capture. He was often in danger of his
life, and had many narrow escapes, but so daring was his courage, and
so quick and clever his wit and resource that he always contrived to
get clear away.

An old tradition says that the father of Robin was a forester, a
renowned archer. On one occasion he shot for a wager against the three
gallant yeomen of the north country--Adam Bell, Clym-of-the-Clough,
and William of Cloudesly, and the forester beat all three of them.

The mother of Robin Hood was a niece of the famous Guy, Earl of
Warwick, who slew the blue boar; her brother was Gamwel of Great
Gamwel Hall, a squire of famous degree, and the owner of one of the
finest houses in Nottinghamshire.

When the other outlaws flocked to Robin Hood they begged him to tell
them what sort of life they were to lead, and where they were to go,
what they were to take and what to leave, what sort of people they
were to rob, and whom they were to beat and to bind--in short, how
they were to act in every circumstance.

"Have no fear, we shall do very well," answered Robin. "But look you
do no harm to any husbandman that tilleth with his plough, nor to any
good yeoman that walketh in the greenwood, nor to any knight or squire
who is a good fellow. And harm no folk in whose company is any woman.

"But fat rascals, and all who have got rich by pilfering, canting, and
cheating, those you may beat and bind, and hold captive for ransom.
And chiefly the Sheriff of Nottingham--look you, bear him well in
mind."

And his followers promised to pay heed to his words, and carry them
out carefully.

Chief among the band of outlaws known as "Robin Hood's merry men" was
"Little John," so called because his name was John Little, and he was
seven feet high. Robin Hood was about twenty years old when he first
came to know Little John, and they got acquainted in this way. Robin
was walking one day in the forest when coming near a brook he chanced
to spy a stranger, a strong lusty lad like himself. The two met in the
middle of a long narrow bridge, and neither would give way. They
quarrelled as to which should be the master, and finally agreed to
fight with stout staves on the bridge, and whichever fell into the
water the other was to be declared to have won. The encounter was a
stiff one, but finally the stranger knocked down Robin Hood, and
tumbled him into the brook. Robin bore no malice, but owned at once
the other had got the best of it, and seeing what a stout nimble
fellow he was, persuaded him to join his band of archers, and go and
live with them in the greenwood.

Next to Little John the chief man was Will Scarlet, who in reality was
Robin's own cousin or nephew, young Gamwel of Gamwel Hall. Having
slain his father's steward either by accident or in some brawl, young
Will fled to his kinsman, Robin Hood, in Sherwood Forest, where, as in
the case of Little John, he first made his acquaintance by fighting
with him. As young Will on this occasion happened to be dressed very
smartly in silken doublet and scarlet stockings Robin Hood dubbed him
"Will Scarlet," by which name he was always afterwards known.

Besides these two famous outlaws there were many others of lesser note
who from time to time joined the band. Among them may be mentioned
"Gilbert of the white hand" who was almost as good an archer as Robin
himself; Allen-a-Dale, whose bride Robin Hood helped him to secure;
Much, the son of a miller; George-a-Green; Friar Tuck; Will Stutely,
who was taken prisoner by the Sheriff of Nottingham and nearly hanged,
but was rescued from the gallows by the gallant yeomen;
Arthur-a-Bland, the sturdy tanner of Nottingham, who beat Robin when
they fought with staves; the jolly tinker of Banbury who went out to
arrest Robin, but ended by joining his band, and the chief ranger of
Sherwood Forest, who did the same.

Lastly, there was the bonny maid of noble degree, who was known in the
north country as Maid Marian. She had loved Robin Hood when they were
young together, in the days when he was still the Earl of Huntingdon,
but spiteful fortune forced them to part. Robin had to fly for refuge
to the greenwood, and Maid Marian, unable to live without him, dressed
herself like a page, with quiver and bow, sword and buckler, and went
in search of him. Long and wearily she ranged the forest, and when the
lovers met they did not know each other, for Robin, too, had been
obliged to disguise himself. They fought as foes, and so sore was the
fray that both were wounded, but Robin so much admired the valour of
the stranger lad that he bade him stay his hand, and asked him to join
his company. When Marian knew the voice of her lover she quickly made
herself known to him, and great was the rejoicing. A stately banquet
was quickly prepared, which was served in a shady bower, and they
feasted merrily, while all the tall and comely yeomen drank to the
health of Robin Hood's bride. So for many years they dwelt together
with great content in the greenwood.

It happened one day as Robin Hood stood under a tree in Barnsdale that
Little John went up to him, and said:

"Master, if you would dine soon, would it not be well?"

"I do not care to dine," answered Robin, "until I have some bold baron
or stranger guest to eat with us, or else some rich rascal who will
pay for the feast, or else some knight or squire who dwells in these
parts."

"It is already far on in the day; now heaven send us a guest soon, so
that we may get to dinner," said Little John.

"Take thy good bow in thy hand," said Robin, "and let Will Scarlet and
Much go with thee, and walk up to the Sayles and so to Watling Street.
There wait for some strange guest whom it may very well chance you
will meet. Be it earl or baron, or abbot or knight, bring him here to
lodge; his dinner shall be ready for him."

So these three good yeomen, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Much went
off to the great high-road which is known as Watling Street, and there
they looked east and they looked west, but not a man could they see.
But as they looked in Barnsdale, by a little private path there came a
knight riding, whom they soon met. Very dreary and woebegone seemed
this traveller; one foot was in the stirrup, the other dangled
outside; his hood hung down over his eyes; his attire was poor and
shabby; no sorrier man than he ever rode on a summer's day.

Little John bent low in courtesy before him.

"Welcome, sir knight! Welcome to greenwood! I am right glad to see
you. My master hath awaited you fasting these three hours."

"Who is your master?" asked the knight.

"Robin Hood, sir," answered Little John.

"He is a brave yeoman; I have heard much good of him," said the
knight. "I will go in company with you, my comrades. My purpose was to
have dined to-day at Blyth or Doncaster."

So the knight went with the yeomen, but his face was still sad and
careworn, and tears often fell from his eyes. Little John and Will
Scarlet brought him to the door of the lodge in Barnsdale, where the
outlaws were staying at that time, and as soon as Robin saw him he
lifted his hood courteously, and bent low in token of respect.

"Welcome, sir knight, welcome. I am right glad to see you. I have
awaited you fasting, sir, for the last three hours."

"God save thee, good Robin, and all thy fair company," returned the
knight pleasantly.

Robin brought clear water from the well for the guest to wash himself
from the dust of travel, and then they sat down to dinner. The meal
was spread under the trees in the greenwood, and rarely had the
stranger seen a repast so amply furnished. Bread and wine they had in
plenty, and dainty portions of deer, swans and pheasants, plump and
tender, and all kinds of water-fowl from the river, and every sort of
woodland bird that was good for eating.

Robin heaped his guest's plate with choice morsels, and bade him fall
to merrily.

"Eat well, sir knight, eat well," he urged him.

"Thanks, thanks," said the knight. "I have not had such a dinner as
this for three weeks. If I come again into this country, Robin, I will
make as good a dinner for you as you have made for me."

"Thanks for my dinner, good knight, when I have it," returned the
outlaw. "I was never so greedy as to crave for dinner. But before you
go, would it not be seemly for you to pay for what you have eaten? It
was never the custom for a yeoman to pay for a knight."

"I have nothing in my coffers that I can proffer, for shame," said the
knight.

"Go, Little John, and look," said Robin. "Now swear to me that you are
telling the truth," he added to his guest.

"I swear to you, by heaven, I have no more than ten shillings," said
the knight.

"If you have no more than that I will not take one penny," said
Robin. "And if you have need of any more I will lend it you. Go now,
Little John, and tell me the truth. If there be no more than ten
shillings, not one penny of that will I touch."

Little John spread out his mantle on the ground ready to hold any
treasure he might find, but when lie looked in the knight's coifer he
saw nothing but one piece of money of the value of half a pound. He
left it lying where it was, and went to tell his master.

"What tidings, John?" asked Robin.

"Sir, the knight is true enough."

"Fill a cup with the best wine, and hand it first to the knight," said
Robin. "Sir, I much wonder that your clothing is so thin. Tell me one
thing, I pray. I trow you must have been made a knight by force, or
else you have squandered your means by reckless or riotous living?
Perhaps you have been foolish and thriftless, or else have lost all
your money in brawling and strife? Or possibly you have been a usurer
or a drunkard, or wasted your life in wickedness and wrong-doing?"

"I am none of those things, by heaven that made me," declared the
knight. "For a hundred years my ancestors have been knights. It has
often befallen, Robin, that a man may be disgraced, but God who waits
in heaven above can amend his state. Within two or three years, my
neighbours knew it well, I could spend with ease four hundred pounds
of good money. Now I have no goods left but my wife and my
children. God has ordained this until He see fit to better my
condition."

"In what manner did you lose your riches?" asked Robin.

"By my great folly and kindness," was the answer. "I had a son, who
should have been my heir. At twenty years old he could joust right
well in the field. Unhappily the luckless boy slew a knight of
Lancashire, and to pay the heavy penalty exacted from him to save his
rights I was forced to sell all my goods. Besides this, Robin, my
lands are pledged until a certain day to a rich abbot living close by
here at St. Mary's Abbey."

"What is the sum?" asked Robin.

"Sir, four hundred pounds, which the abbot lent me."

"Now, if you lose your land what will become of you?" asked Robin.

"I will depart in haste over the salt sea to Palestine. Farewell,
friend, there is no better way." Tears filled the knight's eyes, and
he made a movement to go. "Farewell, friends, farewell! I have no more
that I can pay you."

But Robin stopped him as he would have gone.

"Where are your friends?" he asked.

"Sir, there are none who will know me now. When I was rich enough at
home they were glad to come and flatter me, but now they all run from
me. They take no more heed of me than if they had never seen me."

The knight's sorrowful story so touched the hearts of Little John and
Will Scarlet that they wept for pity.

"Come, fill of the best wine," cried Robin. "Come, sir, courage!
Never be downcast! Have you any friends from whom you can borrow?"

"None," replied the knight.

"Come forth, Little John, and go to my treasury," said Robin. "Bring
me four hundred pounds, and look that you count it out carefully."

Then forth went Little John, and with him went Will Scarlet, and he
counted out four hundred pounds. But Much, the miller's son, did not
look very well pleased to see all this money going into the hands of a
stranger.

"Is this wisely done?" he muttered.

"What grieves you?" said Little John. "It is alms to help a noble
knight who has fallen into poverty. Master," he went on to Robin Hood,
"his clothing is full thin; you must give the knight a suit of raiment
to wrap himself in. For you have scarlet and green cloth, master, and
plenty of rich apparel. I dare well say there is no merchant in
England who has a finer store."

"Give him three yards of cloth of every colour," said Robin Hood, "and
see that it be well meted out."

Little John took no other measure than his bow, and every handful he
measured he leapt over three feet.

"What devilkin's draper do you think you are?" asked little Much in
half-angry astonishment.

Will Scarlet stood still and laughed.

"John may well give him good measure," he said. "It cost _him_ but
light."

Little John paid no heed to their scoffing, but quietly went on with
his task.

"Master," he said to Robin Hood, when he had put aside a bountiful
store for their guest, "you must give the knight a horse to carry home
all these goods."

"Give him a grey courser, and put a new saddle on it," said Robin.

"And a good palfrey as befits his rank," added little Much.

"And a pair of boots, for he is a noble knight," said Will Scarlet.

"And what will you give him, Little John?" asked Robin.

"Sir, a pair of shining gilt spurs to pray for all this company. God
bring him safely out of all his trouble."

The poor knight scarcely knew how to thank them for all their
goodness.

"When shall the day be for me to pay back the money you have lent me?"
he said. "What is your will?"

"This day twelve-month under this greenwood tree," said Robin. "It
were a great shame," he added, "for a knight to ride alone without
squire, yeomen, or page to walk by his side. I will lend you my man,
Little John, to be your lad. He may stand you in yeoman stead if ever
you are in need."

As the knight went on his way he thought how well matters had happened
for him, and when he looked on Barnsdale be blessed Robin Hood. And
when he thought of Will Scarlet, Much, and Little John he blessed them
for the best company he had ever been in.

"To-morrow I must go to York town to St. Mary's Abbey," he said to
Little John, "and to the abbot of that place I have to pay four
hundred pounds. If I am not there by to-morrow night my lands will be
lost for ever."

The next day he strode out of the abbot's hall, all his care gone; he
flung off his worn raiment, put on his good clothing, and left the
other lying where it fell. He went forth singing merrily, back to his
own home at Wierysdale, and his lady met him at the gate.

"Welcome, my lord," said his wife. "Sir, are all your possessions
lost?"

"Be merry, dame," said the knight, "and pray for Robin Hood that his
soul may always dwell in bliss. He helped me out of my distress; had
it not been for his kindness we should have been beggars. The abbot
and I are in accord; he is served with his money; the good yeoman lent
it me as I came by the way."

* * * * * *

The good knight, whose name was Sir Richard Lee, dwelt in prosperity
at home till he had four hundred pounds all ready to pay back Robin
Hood. He provided himself with a hundred bows made with the best
string, and a hundred sheaves of good arrows with brightly burnished
heads. Every arrow was an ell long, well dressed with peacock's
feathers, and they were all inlaid with silver so that it was a goodly
sight to see. The knight provided himself also with a hundred men,
well armed, and clothed in white and red, and in the same fashion he
attired himself. He bore a lance in his hand, and a man led the horse
which carried his change of apparel. And thus he rode with a light
heart to Barnsdale.

As he drew near a bridge he was forced to tarry awhile, for there was
a great wrestling, and all the best yeomen of the West Country had
flocked to it. A good game had been arranged, and valuable prizes
were offered. A white bull had been put up, and a great courser, with
saddle and bridle all burnished with gold, a pair of gloves, a red
gold ring, and a pipe of wine in prime condition. The man who bore
himself the best would carry off the prize.

Now there was a certain worthy yeoman there who ought by rights to
have been awarded the prize, but because he was a stranger the other
wrestlers were jealous, and all set on him unfairly. As he was far
from home and had no friends there, he would certainly have been slain
if it had not been for the knight who, from the place where he stood,
saw what was going on. He took pity on the yeoman, and swore no harm
should be done to him, for the love he bore to Robin Hood. He pressed
forward into the place, and his hundred archers followed him, with
bows bent and sharp arrows to attack the crowd. They shouldered every
one aside, and made room for Sir Richard Lee to make known what he had
to say.

Then the knight took the yeoman by the hand, and declared he had
fairly won the prize. He bought the wine from him for five marks, and
bade that it should be broached at once, and that every one who wished
should have a draught. Thus good humour and jollity were restored, and
the rest of the sports went on merrily.

The knight tarried till the games were done, and in the meanwhile it
came to be three hours after noon. And all this time Robin had waited
fasting for the coming of the knight to whom twelve months before he
had lent the four hundred pounds.




LITTLE JOHN AND THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM

Retold by Mary Macleod


It will be remembered that when the poor knight left Robin Hood in the
forest Little John went with him to act as his yeoman. He stayed for
some time in Sir Richard's service, and a light and pleasant post he
found it, for he was free to do pretty much as he liked.

It happened one fine day that the young men of Nottingham were eager
to go shooting, so Little John fetched his bow, and said he would meet
them in a trial of skill. While the match was going on, the Sheriff of
Nottingham chanced to pass, and he stood for a while near the marks to
watch the sport.

Three times Little John shot, and each time he cleft the wand.

"By my faith, this man is the best archer that ever I saw," cried the
sheriff. "Tell me now, my fine lad, what is your name? In what county
were you born, and where do you dwell?"

"I was born at Holderness," said Little John, "and when I am at home
men call me Reynold Greenleaf."

"Tell me, Reynold Greenleaf, will you come and live with me? I will
give you twenty marks a year as wages."

"I have a master already, a noble knight," answered Little John. "It
would be better if you would get leave of him."

The sheriff was so pleased with the prowess of Little John that he
wanted to get him into his own service, so he went to the knight, and
it was agreed the sheriff should have him for twelve months. Little
John was therefore given at once a strong horse, well equipped, and
now behold him the sheriff's man.

But Little John had not forgotten Robin Hood's words of warning about
the sheriff; he knew him to be a false and greedy man, and a ruthless
enemy to the outlaws, and Little John was always thinking how he could
pay him out for his treachery.

"By my loyalty and truth," said Little John to himself, "I will be the
worst servant to him that ever he had."

Little John soon found that his new place was little to his liking.
The other servants were not well pleased to see the newcomer; they
were jealous of the favour shown to him at first by his master, and
treated him with rudeness and contempt. The sheriff himself was very
mean; he wished to secure Little John for his service, for he knew
such a comely lad and fine archer would do him credit, but once he was
sure of him he paid no heed to seeing that he was properly lodged and
fed.

It happened one day the sheriff went out hunting, and Little John was
left at home forgotten. No meal was served to him, and he was left
fasting till noon. As he was by this time very hungry he went to the
steward, and asked civilly for something to eat.

"Good sir steward, I pray thee give me to dine," he said. "It is too
long for Greenleaf to be so long fasting, therefore I pray thee,
steward, give me my dinner."

"I've had no orders," said the steward rudely. "Thou shalt have
nothing to eat or to drink till my lord comes back to town."

"Rather than that I'll crack thy head," said Little John.

The steward started forward to the buttery, and shut fast the door,
but Little John gave him such a rap on his back it almost broke in
two--as long as he lived he would be the worse for the blow. Then
Little John put his foot to the door, and burst it open, and Little
John went in and helped himself plentifully to both ale and wine.

"Since you will not dine, I will give you to drink," he said to the
steward; "though you live for a hundred years you shall remember
Little John."

He ate and drank for as long as he chose, and the steward dared say
nothing, for he was still smarting from the blow. But the sheriff had
in his employ a cook, a bold, sturdy man, and he was no coward either.

"A fine sort of fellow you are to dwell in a house and ask for dinner
thus," he cried, and he dealt Little John three good blows.

"I vow I am very well pleased with those strokes of yours," said
Little John, "and before I leave this place you shall be tested
better."

He drew his good sword, and the cook seized another, and they went for
each other then and there. Neither had any thought of giving in, but
both meant to resist stoutly. There they fought sorely for a whole
hour, and neither could in any way harm the other.

"Thou art truly one of the very best swordsmen that ever I saw," said
Little John. "Couldst thou shoot as well with a bow thou shouldst go
with me to the greenwood. Thou wouldst have from Robin Hood twenty
marks a year as wages, and a change of clothing twice a year."

"Put up thy sword, and we will be comrades," said the cook.

He fetched at once for Little John a right good meal--dainty venison,
good bread, and excellent wine--and they both ate and drank heartily.
When they had well feasted they plighted their troth together that
they would be with Robin that self-same night. Then they ran as fast
as they could to the sheriff's treasury, and though the locks were of
good steel they broke them every one. They carried off all the silver
plate--vessels, dishes, gold pieces, cups, and spoons, nothing was
forgotten.

They took also the money--three hundred and three pounds--and then
they went off straight to Robin Hood in the forest.

"God save thee, my dear master," cried Little John.

"Welcome art thou, and also that fair yeoman whom thou bringest with
thee," said Robin Hood. "What tidings from Nottingham, Little John?"

"The proud sheriff greeteth thee well, and sendeth you here by me his
cook and his silver vessels and three hundred and three pounds," said
Little John.

"I dare take my oath it was never by his good will these goods come to
me," laughed Robin.

Thus they all made merry in the greenwood, and said the sheriff had
been rightly paid for the greed and tyranny with which he performed
the duties of his office, for by bribery and oppression he had got his
ill-earned wealth.

Presently Little John bethought him of a shrewd device by which they
could still further get the better of him. He ran into the forest here
and there, and when he had gone about five miles it fell out as he
wished; he came across the sheriff himself hunting with hound and
horn. Little John was mindful of his manners, and went and knelt on
his knee before him, and saluted him courteously.

"Why, Reynold Greenleaf, where hast thou been now?" cried the sheriff.

"I have been in the forest," said Little John, "and there I have seen
a wondrous sight, one of the finest I ever yet saw. Yonder I saw a
right gallant hart; his colour is green. Seven score of deer in a herd
altogether are with him. His antlers are so sharp, master, I durst not
shoot, for dread lest they should slay me."

"By heaven, I would fain see that sight," said the sheriff.

"Turn thy steps thither, then, at once, dear master," said Little
John. "Come with me; I will show you where he lies."

The sheriff rode off, and Little John ran beside him, for he was full
smart of foot. Through the forest they went, and by-and-by they came
to Robin Hood in the midst of his band of yeomen.

"Lo, there is the master hart," said Little John. The sheriff stood
still in dismay, and he was a sorry man.

"Woe worth thee, Reynold Greenleaf, thou hast betrayed me."

"Ye are to blame, master, I swear," said Little John. "When I was at
home with you I was misserved of my dinner."

Then the outlaws made their guest sit down to supper with them, which
he did with no good will, for he would fain have departed to his home
at Nottingham. He was served on his own silver dishes, and when he saw
his beautiful cups and vessels the sheriff for sorrow could not eat.

"Cheer up, sheriff," urged Robin Hood. "For the sake of Little John
thy life is granted thee. What, man, eat and be merry! Here is fine
fat venison served in a goodly vessel."

By the time they had well supped, the day was done. Robin then bade
his men strip the sheriff of his fine clothes, his hose and his shoes,
his kirtle, and the large handsome coat all trimmed with fur--and to
give him in their place a green mantle to wrap himself in. He further
bade his sturdy lads all to lie round the sheriff in a circle under
the greenwood tree, so that he might see them, and know there was no
chance of escape.

It was a sorry night the sheriff passed, cold and shivering, in his
shirt and breeches, on the hard ground; small wonder that his bones
ached, and that he sighed piteously for his soft warm bed at home.

"Come, come, sheriff, cheer up!" said Robin; "for this is our order,
you know, under the greenwood tree."

"This is a harder order than any anchorite or friar!" groaned the
sheriff. "For all the gold in merry England I would not dwell here
long."

"Thou wilt dwell here with me for the next twelve months," said
Robin. "I shall teach thee, proud sheriff, to be an outlaw."

"Before I lie here another night, Robin, smite off my head rather, and
I'll forgive it thee," said the sheriff. "Let me go, for pity's sake!"
he begged, "and I will be the best friend that ever thou hadst."

"Before I let thee go, thou shalt swear me here an oath," said the
outlaw. "Swear on my sword that thou wilt never seek to do me harm by
water or by land. And if thou find any of my men, by night or by day,
thou shalt swear on thy oath to help them all thou canst."

There was no other way to get back his freedom, so the sheriff was
compelled to take the oath demanded by Robin. Then he was allowed to
depart, and he went back to Nottingham a sad and sorry man, feeling
that he had had more than enough of the greenwood to last him a very
long time.




HOW ROBIN HOOD WAS PAID HIS LOAN

Retold by Mary Macleod


Twelve months had come and gone since Robin Hood lent four hundred
pounds to the poor knight to redeem his land, and now the day had
arrived when he had promised to pay back the money.

The sheriff had returned to Nottingham, and Robin Hood and his merry
men were left in the greenwood.

"Let us go to dinner," said Little John.

"Nay, not yet," said Robin. "Now I fear our friend the knight is
likely to prove false, for he comes not to pay back the money,
according to his word."

"Have no doubt, master," said Little John, "for the sun has not yet
gone to rest."

"Take thy bow," said Robin, "and let Much and Will Scarlet go with
you, and walk up into the Sayles, and to Watling Street, and wait
there for some stranger guest, for you may well chance upon one
there. Whether he be messenger or mountebank, rich man or poor man, he
shall share dinner with me."

Forth then started Little John, half-angry and half-troubled, and
under his green mantle he girded on a good sword.

The three yeomen went up to the Sayles; they looked east and they
looked west, and not a man could they see.

But all the time Robin kept thinking of the knight who had promised to
return that day with the borrowed money.

"I marvel much he does not come," he said. "I fear he does not mean to
keep faith."

"Have no doubt, master," said Little John. "You have no need, I say."

Sir Richard Lee, meanwhile, who had tarried to see the wrestling, came
while it was still daylight to fulfil his promise. He went straight to
Barnsdale, and there he found Robin Hood and his band under the
greenwood tree. Directly the knight saw Robin, he dismounted from his
palfrey, and saluted him courteously on one knee.

"God save thee, good Robin Hood, and all this company."

"Welcome, welcome, noble knight," said Robin. "I pray thee tell me
what need driveth thee to greenwood? I am right glad to see thee. Why
hast thou been so long in coming?"

"The abbot and the high justice have been trying to get hold of my
land," said the knight.

"Hast thou thy land again?"

"Yea, and for that I thank God and thee. But take not offence that I
have come so late in the day. On my journey hither I passed by some
wrestling, and there I helped a poor yeoman who was being wrongly put
behind by the others."

"Nay, by my faith, for that I thank thee," said Robin. "The man that
helpeth a good yeoman, his friend will I be."

"Have here the four hundred pounds you lent me," said the knight, "and
here is also twenty marks for your courtesy."

"Nay, keep it and use it well yourself," said Robin, "and thou art
right welcome under my trysting-tree. But what are all those bows for,
and those finely feathered arrows?"

"They are a poor present to thee," said the knight.

Then Robin Hood bade Little John go to his treasury and fetch four
hundred pounds, and he insisted on the knight's accepting this money
as a gift.

"Buy thyself a good horse and harness, and gild thy spurs anew," he
said laughingly. "And if thou lack enough to spend come to Robin Hood,
and by my truth thou shalt never lack while I have any goods of my
own. Keep the four hundred pounds I lent thee, and I counsel thee
never leave thyself so bare another time."

So good Robin Hood relieved the gentle knight of all his care, and
they feasted and made merry under the greenwood tree.




THE GOLDEN ARROW

Retold by Mary Macleod


The knight took his leave and went on his way, and Robin Hood and his
merry men lived on for many a day in Barnsdale.

Now the Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a grand sport to be
held--that all the best archers of the north country should come one
day and shoot at the butts, and that a prize should be given to the
best archer.

The butts were to be set in a glade in the forest and he who shot the
best of all should receive an arrow, the like of which had never been
seen in England, for the shaft was to be of silver, and the head and
feathers of red gold.

Now all this was a device of the sheriff's to try to enthral the
outlaws, for he imagined that when such matches took place Robin
Hood's men without any doubt would be the bowmen there.

Tidings of this came to Robin Hood in the forest, and he said: "Come,
make ready, my lads, we will go and see that sport. Ye shall go with
me, and I will test the sheriff's faith, and see if he be true."

With that a brave young man, called David of Doncaster, stepped
forward.

"Master," he said, "be ruled by me, and do not stir from the
greenwood. To tell the truth I am well informed yonder match is a
wile. The sheriff has devised it to entrap us."

"That sounds like a coward," said Robin; "thy words do not please
me. Come what will of it, I'll try my skill at yonder brave archery."

Then up spoke brave Little John.

"Let us go thither, but come, listen to me, and I will tell you how we
can manage it without being known. We will leave behind us our mantles
of Lincoln green, and we will all dress differently so that they will
never notice us. One shall wear white, another red, a third one
yellow, another blue. Thus in disguise we will go to the sport,
whatever may come of it."

When they had their bows in order and their arrows well feathered
there gathered round Robin seven score of stalwart young men.

When they came to Nottingham they saw the butts set out fair and long,
and many were the bold archers who came to shoot. The outlaws mixed
with the rest to prevent all suspicion, for they thought it more
discreet not to keep together.

"Only six of you shall shoot with me," said Robin to his men. "The
rest must stand on guard with bows bent so that I be not betrayed."

The sheriff looked all round, but amidst eight hundred men he could
not see what he suspected.

The outlaws shot in turn, and they all did so well that the people
said that if Robin Hood had been there, and all his men to boot, none
of them could have surpassed these men.

"Ay," quoth the sheriff ruefully, rubbing his head. "I thought he
would have been here; I certainly thought he would, but though he is
bold he doesn't dare to appear."

His speech vexed Robin Hood to the heart. "Very soon," he thought
angrily, "thou shalt well see that Robin Hood _was_ here."

Some cried blue jacket, another cried brown, and a third cried brave
yellow, but a fourth man said: "Yonder man in red hath no match in the
place."

Now that was Robin Hood himself, for he was clothed in red. Three
times he shot, and each time he split the wand. To him, therefore, was
delivered the golden arrow as being the most worthy. He took the gift
courteously, and would have departed back to the greenwood; but the
Sheriff of Nottingham had by this time marked him, and had no mind to
let him go so easily. The alarm was raised; they cried out on Robin
Hood, and great horns were blown to summon help to capture him.

"Treachery! treason!" cried Robin. "Full evil art thou to know! And
woe to thee, proud sheriff, thus to entertain thy guest! It was
otherwise thou promised me yonder in the forest. But had I thee in the
greenwood again, under my trysting-tree, thou shouldst leave me a
better pledge than thy loyalty and truth."

Then on all sides bows were bent, and arrows flew like hail; kirtles
were rent, and many a stout knave pricked in the side. The outlaws
shot so strong that no one could drive them back, and the sheriff's
men fled in haste.

Robin saw the ambush was broken, and would fain have been back in the
greenwood, but many an arrow still rained on his company. Little John
was hurt full sorely, with an arrow in his knee, and could neither
ride nor walk.

"Master," he cried, "if ever thou loved me, and for the meed of my
service that I have served thee, let never that proud sheriff find me
alive! But take thy sword and smite off my head, and give me deep and
deadly wounds, so that no life be left in me."

"I would not that, John--I would not thou wert slain for all the gold
in merry England!" cried Robin.

"God forbid that thou shouldst part our company, Little John," said
Much.

He took Little John up on his back, and carried him a good mile, and
more. Often he laid him down on the ground, and turned to shoot those
who came after, and then he took him up and carried him on again. So
the outlaws fought their way, step by step, back to the forest.

A little within the wood there was a fair castle, with a double moat,
and surrounded by stout walls. Here dwelt that noble knight, Sir
Richard Lee, to whom Robin Hood had lent the four hundred pounds to
redeem his land.

He saw the little company of outlaws fighting their way along, so he
hastened to call them to come and take shelter in his castle.

"Welcome art thou, Robin Hood! Welcome!" he cried, as he led them
in. "Much I thank thee for thy comfort and courtesy and great kindness
to me in the forest. There is no man in the world I love so much as
thee. For all the proud Sheriff of Nottingham, here thou shalt be
safe!--Shut the gates, and draw the bridge, and let no man come in!"
he shouted to his retainers. "Arm you well; make ready; guard the
walls! One thing, Robin, I promise thee: here shalt thou stay for
twelve days as my guest, to sup, and eat, and dine."

Swiftly and readily tables were laid and cloths spread, and Robin Hood
and his merry men sat down to a good meal.




HOW THE SHERIFF TOOK SIR RICHARD PRISONER

Retold by Mary Macleod


The Sheriff of Nottingham was wroth when he heard that Robin Hood and
his band of outlaws had taken refuge in the knight's castle. All the
country was up in rout, and they came and besieged the castle. From
his post outside the walls the sheriff loudly proclaimed that the
knight was a traitor, and was shielding the king's enemy against the
laws and right.

"I am ready to answer for the deeds I have done here by all the lands
I possess, as I am a true knight," was Sir Richard's answer. "Go on
your way, sirs, and leave me alone in peace until ye know our king's
will, what he will say to you."

The sheriff, having had his answer, curt and to the point, rode forth
at once to London to carry the tale to the king.

He told him of the knight, and of Robin Hood, and of the band of bold
archers which the latter kept up.

"The knight boasts of what he has done to aid these outlaws," said the
sheriff. "He would be lord, and set you at nought through all the
north country."

"I will be at Nottingham within the fortnight," said the king, "and I
will seize Robin Hood, and also that knight. Go home, sheriff, and do
as I bid thee. Get ready enough good archers from all the country
round about."

So the sheriff took his leave, and went home to Nottingham to do as
the king commanded.

Robin meanwhile had left the castle, and had gone back to the
greenwood, and Little John, as soon as he was whole from the
arrow-shot in his knee, went and joined him there. It caused great
vexation to the sheriff to know that Robin Hood once more walked free
in the forest, and that he had failed of his prey; but all the more he
was resolved to be revenged on Sir Richard Lee. Night and day he kept
watch for that noble knight; at last, one morning when Sir Richard
went out hawking by the riverside, the sheriff's men-at-arms seized
him, and he was led bound hand and foot to Nottingham.

When Sir Richard's wife heard that her husband had been taken
prisoner, she lost no time in seeking help. Mounting a good palfrey,
she rode off at once to the greenwood, and there she found Robin Hood
and all his men.

"God save thee, Robin Hood, and all thy company! For the love of
heaven, grant me a boon! Let not my wedded lord be shamefully
slain. He is taken fast bound to Nottingham, all for the love of
thee!"

"What man hath taken him?" asked Robin.

"The proud sheriff," said the lady. "He has not yet passed on his way
three miles."

Up then started Robin as if he were mad.

"Arm, lads! Arm and make ready! By heaven, he that fails me now shall
never more be man of mine!"

Speedily good bows were bent, seven score and more, and away went the
outlaws, full speed over hedge and ditch, in chase of the sheriff's
men, When they came to Nottingham, there in the street they overtook
the sheriff.

"Stay, thou proud sheriff--stay and speak with me!" said Robin. "I
would fain hear from thee some tidings of our king. By heaven, these
seven years have I never gone so fast on foot, and I swear it bodeth
no good for thee."

He bent his bow, and sent an arrow with all the might he could; it hit
the sheriff so that he fell to the ground, and lay there stunned, and
before he could rise to his feet Robin drew his sword and smote off
his head.

"Lie thou there, proud sheriff, traitor and evildoer!" said
Robin. "No man might ever trust to thee whilst thou wert still alive!"

Now they fought hand to hand. Robin Hood's men drew their shining
swords, and laid on so heavily that they drove down the sheriff's men
one after another.

Robin Hood ran to Sir Richard Lee, and cut his bonds in two, and,
thrusting a bow into his hand, bid him stand by him.

"Leave thy horse behind thee, and learn to run on foot," he counselled
him. "Thou shalt go with me to the greenwood through mire and moss and
fen. Thou shalt go with me to the forest, and dwell with me there,
until I have got our pardon from Edward, our king."



HOW THE KING CAME TO SHERWOOD FOREST

Retold by Mary Macleod


Tidings of the sheriff's death were sent to King Edward in London, and
he came to Nottingham with a great array of knights to lay hold of Sir
Richard Lee and Robin Hood, if that were possible. He asked
information from men of all the country round, and when he had heard
their tale and understood the case he seized all the lands belonging
to Sir Richard Lee. He went all through Lancashire, searching far and
wide, till he came to Plumpton Park, and everywhere he missed many of
his deer. There he had always been wont to see herds in large numbers,
but now he could scarcely find one deer that bore any good horn.

The king was furiously wroth at this.

"By heaven I would that I had Robin Hood here before me to see him
with my own eyes," he exclaimed. "And he that shall smite off the
knight's head and bring it here to me shall have all the lands
belonging to Sir Richard Lee. I will give them him with my charter,
and seal it with my hand for him to have and to hold, for evermore."

Then up spoke a good old knight who was very faithful and loyal.

"Ay, my liege lord the king, but I will say one word to you," he
said. "There is no man in this country who will have the knight's
lands as long as Robin can go or ride and carry bow in hand. If any
one try to possess them he will assuredly lose his head. Give them to
no man, my lord, to whom you wish any good."

The king dwelt for many months in Nottingham, but no man came to claim
the knight's lands, nor could he ever hear of Robin Hood in what part
of the country he might be. But always Robin went freely here and
there, roving wherever he chose over hill and valley, slaying the
king's deer, and disposing of it at his will.

Then a head forester, who was in close attendance on the king, spoke
up, and said:

"If you would see good Robin you must do as I tell you. Take five of
the best knights that are in your train, and go down to yonder abbey,
and get you monks' habits. I will be your guide to show you the way,
and before you get back to Nottingham I dare wager my head that you
will meet with Robin if he be still alive. Before you come to
Nottingham you shall see him with your own eyes."

The king hastened to follow the forester's counsel; he and his five
monks went to the abbey, and speedily disguised themselves in the garb
of monks, and then blithely returned home through the greenwood.
Their habits were grey; the king was a head taller than all the rest,
and he wore a broad hat, just as if he were an abbot, and behind him
followed his baggage-horse, and well-laden sumpters, and in this
fashion they rode back to the town.

They had gone about a mile through the forest under the linden trees
when they met with Robin Hood standing in the path with many of his
bold archers.

"Sir abbot, by your leave, ye must bide awhile with us," said Robin,
seizing the king's horse. "We are yeomen of this forest, we live by
the king's deer, and we have no other means. But you have both
churches and rents, and full great plenty of gold; give us some of
your store for charity's sake."

"I brought no more than forty pounds with me to the greenwood," said
the pretended abbot. "I have been staying at Nottingham for a
fortnight with the king, and I have spent a great deal on many of the
fine lords there. I have only forty pounds left, but if I had a
hundred I would give it thee."

Robin took the forty pounds, and divided it into two parts; half he
gave to his men, and bade them be merry with it, and the other half he
returned to the king.

"Sir, have this for your spending," he said courteously. "We shall
meet another day."

"Thanks," said the king. "But Edward our king greeteth you well; he
sends thee here his seal, and bids thee come to Nottingham to dine and
sup there."

He took out the broad seal, and let him see it, and Robin at the sight
of it, knowing what was right and courteous, set him on his knee.

"I love no man in all the world so well as I do my king," he
said. "Welcome is my lord's seal, and welcome art thou, monk, because
of thy tidings. Sir abbot, for love of my king thou shalt dine with
me to-day under my trysting-tree."

Forth he led the king with all gentle courtesy, and many a deer was
slain and hastily dressed for the feast. Then Robin took a great horn
and blew a loud blast and seven score of stalwart young men came ready
in a row, and knelt on their knee before Robin in sign of salutation.

"Here is a brave sight," said the king to himself. "In good faith his
men are more at his bidding than mine are at mine."

Dinner was speedily prepared, and they went to it at once, and both
Robin and Little John served the king with all their might. Good
viands were quickly set before him--fat venison, fish out of the
river, good white bread, good red wine, and fine brown ale. The king
swore he had never feasted better in his life.

Then Robin took a can of ale, and bade every man drink a health to the
king. The king himself drank to the king, and so the toast went round,
and two barrels of strong old ale were spent in pledging that health.

"Make good cheer, abbot," said Robin, "and for these same tidings thou
hast brought thou art doubly welcome. Now before thou go hence thou
shalt see what life we lead here in the greenwood, so that thou mayest
inform the king when ye meet together."

The meal was scarcely over when up started all the outlaws in haste,
and bows were smartly bent. For a moment the king was sorely aghast,
for he thought he would certainly be hurt. But no man intended ill to
him. Two rods were set up, and to them all the yeomen flocked to try
their skill at archery. The king said the marks were too far away by
fifty paces, but he had never seen shooting such as this. On each side
of the rods was a rose garland, and all the yeomen had to shoot within
this circle. Whoever failed of the rose garland had as penalty to lose
his shooting gear, and to hand it to his master, however fine it might
be, and in addition to this he had to stand a good buffet on the
head. All that came in Robin's way he smote therewith right good will.

When his own turn came Robin shot twice, and each time cleft the wand,
so also did the good yeoman Gilbert. Little John and Will Scarlet did
not come off so well, and when they failed to hit within the garland
they each got a good buffet from Robin.

But at his last shot, in spite of the way in which his friends had
fared, Robin, too, failed of the garland by three fingers or more.

"Master, your tackle is lost," said Gilbert. "Stand forth and take
your pay."

"If it be so there is no help for it," said Robin. "Sir abbot, I
deliver thee mine arrow; I pray thee, sir, serve thou me."

"It falleth not within my order, by thy leave, Robin, to smite any
good yeoman, for fear lest I grieve him," said the king.

"Smite on boldly; I give thee full leave," said Robin.

The king at these words at once folded back his sleeves, and gave
Robin such a buffet that it nearly knocked him to the ground.

"By heaven, thou art a stalwart friar," cried Robin. "There is pith in
thine arm; I trow thou canst shoot well."

Then King Edward and Robin Hood looked each other full in the face,
and Robin Hood gazed wistfully at the king. So also did Sir Richard
Lee, and then he knelt down before him on his knee. And all the wild
outlaws, when they saw Sir Richard Lee and Robin Hood kneeling before
the king, also knelt down.

"My lord the King of England, now I know you well," said Robin.
"Mercy, of thy goodness and thy grace, for my men and me! Yes, before
heaven, I crave mercy, my lord the king, for me and for my men."

"Yes, I grant thee thy petition," said the king, "if thou wilt leave
the greenwood, thou and all thy company, and come home with me, sir,
to my court, and dwell with me there."

"I will swear a solemn vow that so it shall be," said Robin. "I will
come to your court to see your service and bring with me seven score
and three of my men. But unless I like well your service, I shall soon
come back to the forest, and shoot again at the dun deer, as I am wont
to do."




HOW ROBIN HOOD WENT BACK TO THE GREENWOOD

Retold by Mary Macleod


"Hast thou any good cloth that thou wilt sell to me now?" said the
king.

"Yes, three and thirty yards," said Robin.

"Then I pray thee, Robin, sell me some of it for me and my company."

"Yes, I will," said Robin. "I should be a fool if I did not, for I
trow another day you will clothe me against Christmas."

So the king speedily cast off his coat, and donned a garment of green,
and so did all his knights. When they were all clad in Lincoln green
and had thrown aside their monks' grey habits, "Now we will go to
Nottingham," said the king.

They bent their bows, and away they went, shooting in the same band,
as if they were all outlaws. The king and Robin Hood rode together,
and they shot "pluck-buffet" as they went by the way--that is to say,
whoever missed the mark at which he aimed was to receive a buffet from
the other; many a buffet the king won from Robin Hood, and good Robin
spared nothing of his pay.

"Faith," said the king, "thy game is not easy to learn; I should not
get a shot at thee though I tried all this year."

When they drew near Nottingham, all the people stood to behold them.
They saw nothing but mantles of green covering all the field; then
every man began saying to another: "I dread our king is slain; if
Robin Hood comes to the town, he will never leave one of us alive.
"They all hastened to make their escape, both men and lads, yeomen and
peasants; the ploughman left the plough in the fields, the smith left
his shop, and old wives who could scarcely walk hobbled along on their
staves.

The king laughed loud and long to see the townsfolk scurry off in this
fashion, and he commanded them to come back. He soon let them
understand that he had been in the forest, and that from that day for
evermore he had pardoned Robin Hood. When they found out the tall
outlaw in the Lincoln green was really the king, they were overjoyed;
they danced and sang, and made great feasting and revelry for gladness
at his safe return.

Then King Edward called Sir Richard Lee, and there he gave him his
lands again, and bade him be a good man. Sir Richard thanked the king,
and paid homage to him as the true and loyal knight he had always
been.

So Robin Hood went back to London with the king, and dwelt at court.
But before many months had gone he found all his money had melted
away, and that he had nothing left. He had spent over a hundred pounds
and now had not enough to pay the fees of his followers. For
everywhere he went he had always been laying down money both for
knights and squires, in order to win renown. When he could no longer
afford to pay their fee, all the new retainers left him, and by the
end of the year he had none but two still with him, and those were his
own faithful old comrades, Little John and Will Scarlet.

It happened one day some young men of the court went out to shoot, and
as Robin Hood stood with a sad heart to watch them, a sudden great
longing for his old life in the greenwood came over him.

"Alas!" he sighed, "my wealth has gone! Once on a time I too was a
famous archer, sure of eye and strong of hand; I was accounted the
best archer in merry England. Oh, to be back once more in the heart of
the greenwood, where the merry does are skipping, and the wind blows
through the leaves of the linden, and little birds sit singing on
every bough! If I stay longer with the king, I shall die of sorrow!"

So Robin Hood went and begged a boon of the king.

"My lord the King of England, grant me what I ask! I built a little
chapel in Barnsdale, which is full seemly to see, and I would fain be
there once again. For seven nights past I have neither slept nor
closed my eyes, nor for all these seven days have I eaten or drunk. I
have a sore longing after Barnsdale; I cannot stay away. Barefoot and
doing penance will I go thither."

"If it be so, there is nothing better to be done," said the
king. "Seven nights--no longer--I give thee leave to dwell away from
me."

Thanking the king, Robin Hood saluted him and took his leave full
courteously, and away he went to the greenwood.

It was a fair morning when he came to the forest. The sun shone, the
soft green turf was strewn with flowers that twinkled like stars, and
all the air rang with the song of birds. The cloud of care and sorrow
rolled away from Robin's spirit, and his heart danced as light as a
leaf on the tree.

"It is long since I was here last," he said, as he looked around
him. "I think I should like to shoot once more at the deer."

He fitted an arrow to his bow, and away it sped to its mark, and down
dropped a fine fat hart. Then Robin blew his horn. And as the blast
rang out, shrill and sweet and piercing, all the outlaws of the forest
knew that Robin Hood had come again. Through the woodland they
gathered together, and fast they came trooping, till in a little space
of time seven score stalwart lads stood ready in order before Robin.
They took off their caps, and fell on their knee in salutation.

"Welcome, our master! Welcome, welcome back to the greenwood!" they
shouted.




ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER

Retold by Mary Macleod


It happened one day when Robin Hood was in the forest that he saw a
jolly butcher with a fine mare, who was going to market to sell his
meat.

"Good morrow, good fellow, what food have you there?" said Robin.
"Tell me what is your trade, and where you live, for I like the look
of you."

"No matter where I live," answered the man. "I am a butcher, and I am
going to Nottingham to sell my flesh."

"What's the price of your flesh?" said Robin. "And tell me, too, the
price of your mare, however dear she may be, for I would fain be a
butcher."

"Oh, I'll soon tell you the price of my flesh," replied the butcher.
"For that, with my bonny mare, and they are not at all dear, you must
give me four marks."

Robin Hood agreed at once to the bargain.

"I will give you four marks. Here is the money; come, count it, and
hand me over the goods at once, for I want to be a butcher."

So the man took the money, and Robin took the mare and the cart of
meat, and went on to Nottingham to begin his new trade. He had a plan
in his mind, and in order to carry it out he went to the sheriff's
house, which was an inn, and took up his lodging there.

When the butchers opened their shops Robin boldly opened his, but he
did not in the least know how to sell, for he had never done anything
of the kind before. In spite of this, however, or rather because of
it, while all the other butchers could sell no meat Robin had plenty
of customers, and money came in quickly. The reason of this was that
Robin gave more meat for one penny than others could do for
three. Robin therefore sold off his meat very fast, but none of the
butchers near could thrive.

This made them notice the stranger who was taking away all their
custom, and they began to wonder who he was, and where he came from.
"This must be surely some prodigal, who has sold his father's land,
and is squandering away his money," they said to each other. They went
up to Robin to get acquainted with him. "Come, brother, we are all of
one trade," said one of them; "will you go dine with us?"

"By all means," answered Robin, "I will go with you as fast as I can,
my brave comrades." So off they hastened to the sheriff's house, where
dinner was served at once, and Robin was chosen to sit at the head of
the table and say grace.

"Come, fill us more wine; let us be merry while we are here," he
cried. "I'll pay the reckoning for the wine and good cheer however
dear it may be. Come, brothers, be merry. I'll pay the score, I vow,
before I go, if it costs me five pounds or more."

"This is a mad blade," said the butchers, but they laughed and made
haste to eat and drink well at Robin's expense.

Now the sheriff, who was of a very shrewd and grasping nature, had not
failed to remark this handsome young butcher lad who was so very
lavish of his money, and who sold his meat in the market so much
cheaper than any one else. If there were good bargains to be made he
determined to make his own profit out of them. "He is some prodigal,"
he said to himself, "who has sold land, and now means to spend all the
money he has got for it." If Robin were able to sell his meat so cheap
it occurred to the sheriff that probably he possessed a great deal of
cattle, and would most likely be ready to part with them for a very
low price. "Hark'ee, good fellow, have you any horned beasts you can
sell me?" he asked in a lordly way.

"Yes, that I have, good master sheriff, two or three hundred,"
answered Robin. "And I have a hundred acres of good free land, if it
would please you to see it. I'll hand it over to you as securely as
ever my father did to me."

The sheriff, quite pleased to think of the fine bargain he was likely
to make, saddled his palfrey, and taking three hundred pounds in gold
in his portmanteau, went off with Robin Hood to see his horned beasts.
Away they rode till they came to the forest of Sherwood, and then the
sheriff began to look about him in some alarm.

"God preserve us this day from a man they call Robin Hood," he said
earnestly.

When they had gone a little further Robin Hood chanced to spy a
hundred head of good fat deer, who came tripping quite close.

"How like you my horned beasts, good master sheriff? They are fat and
fair to see, are they not?"

"I tell you, good fellow, I would I were gone, for I like not your
company," said the sheriff, now very ill at ease.

Robin set his horn to his mouth, and blew three blasts, and
immediately Little John and all his company came flocking up.

"What is your will, master?" asked Little John.

"I have brought hither the Sheriff of Nottingham to dine with thee
to-day."

"He is welcome," said Little John; "I hope he will pay honestly. I
know he has gold enough, if it is properly reckoned, to serve us with
wine for a whole day."

Robin took off his mantle and laid it on the ground and from the
sheriff's portmanteau he counted out three hundred pounds in gold.
Then he led him through the forest, set him on his dapple-grey
palfrey, and sent him back to his own home.




THE JOLLY TANNER

Retold by Mary Macleod


About this time there was living in Nottingham a jolly tanner whose
name was Arthur-a-Bland. Never a squire in Nottingham could beat
Arthur, or bid him stand if he chose to go on. With a long pike-staff
on his shoulder he could clear his way so well he made every one fly
before him.

One summer's morning Arthur-a-Bland went forth into Sherwood Forest to
see the deer, and there he met Robin Hood. As soon as Robin saw him he
thought he would have some sport, so he called to him to stand.

"Why, who art thou, fellow, who rangest here so boldly?" he said. "In
sooth, to be brief, thou lookst like a thief who comes to steal the
king's venison. I am a keeper in the forest; the king puts me in trust
to look after the deer. Therefore I must bid thee stand."

"If you be a keeper in this forest, and have so great authority,"
answered the tanner, "yet you must have plenty of helpers in store
before you can make me stop."

"I have no helpers in store, nor do I need any. But I have good
weapons which I know will do the deed."

"I don't care a straw for your sword or your bow, nor all your arrows
to boot," said Arthur-a-Bland. "If you get a knock on your pate, your
weapons will be no good."

"Speak civilly, good fellow," said Robin, "or else I will correct thee
for thy rudeness, and make thee more mannerly."

"Marry, see how you'll look with a knock on your head!" quoth the
tanner. "Are you such a goodly man? I care not a rush for your looking
so big. Look out for yourself, if you can."

Then Robin Hood unbuckled his belt, and laid down his bow, and took up
a staff of oak, very stiff and strong.

"I yield to your weapons, since you will not yield to mine," said
Robin. "I, too, have a staff, not half a foot longer than yours. But
let me measure before we begin, for I would not have mine to be longer
than yours, for that would be counted foul play."

"The length of your staff is nothing to me," said the tanner. "Mine is
of good stout oak; it is eight feet and a half long, and it will knock
down a calf--and I hope it will knock down you."

At these rude and mocking words, Robin could not longer forbear, but
gave the tanner such a crack on the head that the blood began to flow.
Arthur quickly recovered, and gave Robin in return such a knock that
in a few minutes blood ran trickling down the side of his face. As
soon as he felt himself so badly hurt, Robin raged like a wild boar,
while Arthur-a-Bland laid on so fast it was almost as if he were
cleaving wood. Round about they went, like wild boars at bay, striving
to maim each other in leg or arm or any place. Knock for knock they
dealt lustily, so that the wood rang at every blow, and this they kept
up for two hours or more.

But at last Robin was forced to own that he had met his match, and he
called to the sturdy stranger to stay.

"Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, and let our quarrel drop!" he cried.
"For we may thrash our bones all to smash here, and get no good out of
it. Hold thy hand, and hereafter thou shalt be free in the merry
forest of Sherwood."

"Thank you for nothing!" retorted Arthur. "I have bought my own
freedom. I may thank my good staff for this, and not you."

"What tradesman are you, good fellow, and where do you dwell?"

"I am a tanner, and in Nottingham I have worked for many years. If you
will come there, I vow and protest I will tan your hide for nothing."

"Heaven have mercy, good fellow, since you are so kind and obliging,"
said Robin. "If you will tan my hide for nothing, I'll do as much for
you. But come, if you will forsake your tanner's trade, to live here
with me in the greenwood, my name is Robin Hood, and I swear
faithfully to give you good gold and wages."

"If you are Robin Hood, as I think very well you are, then here's my
hand," said the tanner. "My name is Arthur-a-Bland. We two will never
part. But tell me, where is Little John? I would fain hear of him,
for we are allied, through our mother's family, and he is my dear
kinsman."

Then Robin blew a loud, shrill blast on his bugle, and instantly
Little John came quickly tripping over the hill.

"Oh, what is the matter? Master, I pray you tell me!" cried Little
John. "Why do you stand there with your staff in your hand? I fear all
is not well."

"Yes, man, I do stand here, and this tanner beside me has made me
stand," said Robin. "He is a fine fellow, and master of his trade, for
he has soundly tanned my hide."

"He is to be commended if he can do such a feat," said Little
John. "If he is so sturdy, we will have a bout together, and he shall
tan my hide too."

"Hold your hand," said Robin; "for, as I understand he is a good
yeoman of your own blood; his name is Arthur-a-Bland."

Then Little John flung away his staff as far as he could, and running
up to Arthur-a-Bland, threw his arms around his neck. Both were ready
and eager to be friends, and made no attempt to hide their delight at
the meeting, but wept for joy. Then Robin Hood took a hand of each,
and they danced all round the oak-tree, singing:

  "For three merry men, and three merry men,
    And three merry men we be!

  "And ever hereafter, as long as we live,
    We three will be as one;
  The wood it shall ring, and the old wife sing,
    Of Robin Hood, Arthur, and John."




HOW ROBIN HOOD DREW HIS BOW FOR THE LAST TIME

Retold by Mary Macleod


But there came a day at last when Robin Hood had to bid farewell to
the greenwood where he and his merry men had spent so many happy
years. Word was sent to the king that the outlaws waxed more and more
insolent to his nobles and all those in authority, and that unless
their pride was quelled the land would be overrun.

A council of state was therefore called, to consider what was best to
be done. Having consulted a whole summer's day, at length it was
agreed that some one should be sent to seize Robin Hood and bring him
before the king.

A trusty and most worthy knight, called Sir William, was chosen for
this task.

"Go you hence to that insolent outlaw, Robin Hood," said the king,
"and bid him surrender himself without more ado, or he and all his
crew shall suffer. Take a hundred valiant bowmen, all chosen men of
might, skilled in their art, and clad in glittering armour."

"My sovereign liege, it shall be done," said the knight. "I'll venture
my blood against Robin Hood, and bring him alive or dead."

A hundred men were straightway chosen, as proper men as were ever
seen, and on midsummer day they marched forth to conquer the bold
outlaw.

With long yew-bows and shining spears they marched in pomp and pride,
and they never halted nor delayed till they came to the forest.

"Tarry here, and make ready your bows, that in case of need you may
follow me," said the knight to his archers. "And look you observe my
call. I will go first, in person, with the letters of our good king,
duly signed and sealed, and if Robin Hood will surrender we need not
draw a string."

The knight wandered about the forest, till at length he came to the
tent of Robin Hood. He greeted the outlaw, and showed him the king's
letter, whereupon Robin sprang to his feet and stood on guard.

"They would have me surrender, then, and lie at their mercy?" quoth
Robin. "Tell them from me that shall never be while I have seven score
of good men."

Sir William, who was a bold and hardy knight, made an attempt to seize
Robin then and there, but Robin was too quick to be caught, and bade
him forbear such tricks. Then he set his horn to his mouth, and blew a
blast or two; the knight did the same.

Instantly from all sides archers came running, some for Robin Hood,
some for the knight.

Sir William drew up his men with care, and placed them in battle
array. Robin Hood was no whit behind with his yeomen. The fray was
stern and bloody. The archers on both sides bent their bows, and
arrows flew in clouds. In the very first flight the gallant knight,
Sir William, was slain; but nevertheless the fight went on with fury,
and lasted from morning until almost noon. They fought till both
parties were spent, and only ceased when neither side had strength to
go on. Those of the king's archers that still remained went back to
London with right good will, and Robin Hood's men retreated to the
depths of the greenwood.

But Robin Hood's last fight was fought, and of all the arrows that
ever he shot, there was but one yet to fly. As he left the field of
battle he was taken ill, and he felt his strength fail, and the fever
rise in his veins.

His life was ebbing fast away, and now he was too weak to go on.

Then he remembered his little bugle-horn, which still hung at his
side, and setting it to his mouth, he blew once, twice, and again--a
low, weak blast.

Away in the greenwood, as he sat under a tree, Little John heard the
well-known call, but so faint and feeble was the sound it struck like
ice to his heart.

"I fear my master is near dead, he blows so wearily!"

Never after hart or hind ran Little John as he ran that day to answer
his master's dying call. He raced like the wind till he came to where
Robin was, and fell on his knee before him.

"Give me my bent bow in my hand," said Robin Hood, "and I will let fly
a broad arrow, and where this arrow is taken up, there shall you dig
my grave.

  "Lay me a green sod under my head,
     And another at my feet;
   And lay my bent bow at my side,
     Which was my music sweet;
   And make my grave of gravel and green,
     Which is most right and meet."

So Robin Hood drew his bow for the last time, and there where the
arrow fell, under a clump of the greenwood trees, they dug the grave
as he had said, and buried him.




DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA


This masterpiece of humor was first published in 1605, and is, of
course, a work of fiction. It is unsurpassed as a picture of Spanish
life.

Millions have laughed over the adventures of that upright,
unconquered, unafraid Don Quixote, the wisest of madmen.

Cervantes set out to make fun of the romances of chivalry, which had
become ridiculous because of their extravagance, but while writing the
book he fell in love with Don Quixote for wanting to be a chivalrous
knight, and with Sancho Panza for wanting to be a loyal squire, and it
is this love for them that he makes us see on every page.

The condensed version of the stories, by Judge Parry, well preserves
the flavor of the best translation, Thomas Shelton's.




AN INTRODUCTION TO THAT SPANISH GENTLEMAN

Retold by Judge Parry


Once upon a time there lived in a certain village in a province of
Spain called the Mancha, a gentleman named Quixada or Queseda, whose
house was full of old lances, halberds, and other weapons. He was,
besides, the owner of an ancient target or shield, a raw-boned steed,
and a swift greyhound. His food consisted daily of common meats, some
lentils on Fridays, and perhaps a roast pigeon for Sunday's
dinner. His dress was a black suit with velvet breeches, and slippers
of the same colour, which he kept for holidays, and a suit of homespun
which he wore on week-days.

On the purchase of these few things he spent the small rents that came
to him every year. He had in his house a woman-servant about forty
years old, a niece not yet twenty, and a lad that served him both in
field and at home, and could saddle his horse or manage a
pruning-hook.

The master himself was about fifty years old, a strong, hard-featured
man with a withered face. He was an early riser, and had once been
very fond of hunting. But now for a great portion of the year he
applied himself wholly to reading the old books of knighthood, and
this with such keen delight that he forgot all about the pleasures of
the chase, and neglected all household matters. His mania and folly
grew to such a pitch that he sold many acres of his lands to buy books
of the exploits and adventures of the knights of old. These he took
for true and correct histories, and when his friends the curate of the
village, or Mr. Nicholas the worthy barber of the town, came to see
him, he would dispute with them as to which of the knights of romance
had done the greatest deeds.

So eagerly did he plunge into the reading of these books that he many
times spent whole days and nights poring over them; and in the end,
through little sleep and much reading, his brain became tired, and he
fairly lost his wits. His fancy was filled with those things that he
read, of enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings,
loves, tempests, and other impossible follies, and those romantic
tales so firmly took hold of him that he believed no history to be so
truthful and sincere as they were.

Finally he was seized with one of the strangest whims that ever madman
stumbled on in this world, for it seemed to him right and necessary
that he himself should become a knight-errant, and ride through the
world to seek adventures and practise in person all that he had read
about the knights of old. Therefore he resolved that he would make a
name for himself by revenging the injuries of others, and courting all
manner of dangers and difficulties, until in the end he should be
rewarded for his valour in arms by the crown of some mighty
empire. And first of all he caused certain old rusty arms that
belonged to his great-grandfather, and had lain for many years
neglected and forgotten in a corner of his house, to be brought out
and well scoured. He fixed them up as well as he could, and then saw
that they had something wanting, for instead of a proper helmet they
had only a morion or headpiece, like a steel bonnet without any
visor. This his industry supplied, for he made a visor for his helmet
by patching and pasting certain papers together, and this pasteboard
fitted to the morion gave it all the appearance of a real helmet.
Then, to make sure that it was strong enough, he out with his sword
and gave it a blow or two, and with the very first blow he spoiled
that which had cost him a week to make. To make things better he
placed certain iron bars within it, and feeling sure it was now sound
and strong, he did not put it to a second trial.

He next examined his horse, who though he had nothing on him but skin
and bone, yet he seemed to him a better steed than Bucephalus, the
noble animal that carried Alexander the Great when he went to
battle. He spent four days inventing a name for his horse, saying to
himself that it was not fit that so famous a knight's horse, and so
good a beast, should want a known name. Therefore he tried to find a
name that should both give people some notion of what he had been
before he was the steed of a knight-errant, and also what he now was;
for, seeing that his lord and master was going to change his calling,
it was only right that his horse should have a new name, famous and
high-sounding, and worthy of his new position in life. And after
having chosen, made up, put aside, and thrown over any number of names
as not coming up to his idea, he finally hit upon Rozinante, a name in
his opinion sublime and well-sounding, expressing in a word what he
had been when he was a simple carriage horse, arid what was expected
of him in his new dignity.

The name being thus given to his horse, he made up his mind to give
himself a name also, and in that thought laboured another eight
days. Finally he determined to call himself Don Quixote, and
remembering that the great knights of olden time were not satisfied
with a mere dry name, but added to it the name of their kingdom or
country, so he like a good knight added to his own that of his
province, and called himself Don Quixote of the Mancha, whereby he
declared his birthplace and did honour to his country by taking it for
his surname.

His armour being scoured, his morion transformed into a helmet, his
horse named, and himself furnished with a new name, he considered that
now he wanted nothing but a lady on whom he might bestow his service
and affection. "For," he said to himself, remembering what he had read
in the books of knightly adventures, "if I should by good hap
encounter with some giant, as knights-errant ordinarily do, and if I
should overthrow him with one blow to the ground, or cut him with a
stroke in two halves, or finally overcome and make him yield to me, it
would be only right and proper that I should have some lady to whom I
might present him. Then would he, entering my sweet lady's presence,
say unto her with a humble and submissive voice: 'Madam, I am the
Giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island called Malindrania, whom the
never-too-much-praised knight Don Quixote of the Mancha hath overcome
in single combat. He hath commanded me to present myself to your
greatness, that it may please your highness to dispose of me according
to your liking."

You may believe that the heart of the knight danced for joy when he
made that grand speech, and he was even more pleased when he had found
out one whom he might call his lady. For, they say, there lived in the
next village to his own a hale, buxom country girl with whom he was
sometime in love, though for the matter of that she had never known of
it or taken any notice of him whatever. She was called Aldonca
Lorenso, and her he thought fittest to honour as the Lady of his
Fancy. Then he began to search about in his mind for a name that
should not vary too much from her own, but should at the same time
show people that she was a princess or lady of quality. Thus it was
that he called her Dulcinea of Toboso, a name sufficiently strange,
romantic, and musical for the lady of so brave a knight. And now,
having taken to himself both armour, horse, and lady fair, he was
ready to go forth and seek adventures.




HE SETS FORTH ON HIS ADVENTURES

Retold by Judge Parry


All his preparations being made, he could no longer resist the desire
of carrying out his plans, his head being full of the wrongs he
intended to put right, and the evil deeds he felt called upon to
punish. Without telling any living creature, and unseen of anybody,
somewhat before daybreak--it being one of the warmest days in July--he
armed himself from head to foot, mounted on Rozinante, laced on his
strange helmet, gathered up his target, seized his lance, and through
the back door of his yard sallied forth into the fields, marvellously
cheerful and content to see how easily he had started on his new
career. But scarcely was he clear of the village when he was struck by
a terrible thought, and one which did well-nigh overthrow all his
plans. For he recollected that he had never been knighted, and
therefore, according to the laws of knighthood, neither could he nor
ought he to combat with any knight. And even if he were a knight, he
remembered to have read that as a new knight he ought to wear white
armour without any device upon his shield until he should win it by
force of arms.

He journeyed all that day, and at night both he and his horse were
tired and hungry, and looking about him on every side to see whether
he could discover any castle to which he might retire for the night,
he saw an inn near the highway, which was as welcome a sight to him as
if he had seen a guiding star. Spurring his horse he rode towards it
and arrived there about nightfall.

There stood by chance at the inn door two jolly peasant women who were
travelling towards Seville with some carriers, who happened to take up
their lodging in that inn the same evening. And as our knight-errant
believed all that he saw or heard to take place in the same manner as
he had read in his books, he no sooner saw the inn than he fancied it
to be a castle with four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, with
a drawbridge, a deep moat, and all such things as belong to grand
castles. Drawing slowly towards it, he checked Rozinante with the
bridle when he was close to the inn, and rested awhile to see if any
dwarf would mount on the battlements to give warning with the sound of
a trumpet how some knight did approach the castle; but seeing they
stayed so long, and Rozinante was eager to get to his stable, he went
to the inn door, and there beheld the two women, whom he supposed to
be two beautiful damsels or lovely ladies. At that moment it happened
that a certain swineherd, as he gathered together his hogs, blew the
horn which was used to call them together, and at once Don Quixote
imagined it was some dwarf who gave notice of his arrival; and he rode
up to the inn door with marvellous delight. The ladies, when they
beheld one armed in that manner with lance and target, made haste to
run into the inn; but Don Quixote, seeing their fear by their flight,
lifted up his pasteboard visor, showed his withered and dusky face,
and spoke to them thus: "Let not your ladyships fly nor fear any harm,
for it does not belong to the order of knighthood which I profess to
wrong anybody, much less such high-born damsels as your appearance
shows you to be."

The women looked at him very earnestly, and sought with their eyes for
his face, which the ill-fashioned helmet concealed; but when they
heard themselves called high-born damsels, they could not contain
their laughter, which was so loud that Don Quixote was quite ashamed
of them and rebuked them, saying: "Modesty is a comedy ornament of the
beautiful, and too much laughter springing from trifles is great
folly; but I do not tell you this to make you the more ashamed, for my
desire is none other than to do you all the honour and service I may."

This speech merely increased their laughter, and with it his anger,
which would have passed all bounds if the innkeeper had not come out
at this instant. Now this innkeeper was a man of exceeding fatness,
and therefore, as some think, of a very peaceable disposition; and
when he saw that strange figure, armed in such fantastic armour, he
was very nearly keeping the two women company in their merriment and
laughter. But being afraid of the owner of such a lance and target, he
resolved to behave civilly for fear of what might happen, and thus
addressed him: "Sir knight! if your worship do seek for lodging, we
have no bed at liberty, but you shall find all other things in
abundance."

To which Don Quixote, noting the humility of the constable of the
castle--for such he took him to be--replied: "Anything, sir constable,
may serve me, for my arms are my dress, and the battlefield is my
bed."

While he was speaking, the innkeeper laid hand on Don Quixote's
stirrup and helped him to alight. This he did with great difficulty
and pain, for he had not eaten a crumb all that day. He then bade the
innkeeper have special care of his horse, saying he was one of the
best animals that ever ate bread.

The innkeeper looked at Rozinante again and again, but he did not seem
to him half so good as Don Quixote valued him. However, he led him
civilly to the stable, and returned to find his guest in the hands of
the high-born damsels, who were helping him off with his armour. They
had taken off his back and breast plates, but they could in no way get
his head and neck out of the strange, ill-fashioned helmet which he
had fastened on with green ribands.

Now these knots were so impossible to untie that the women would have
cut them, but this Don Quixote would not agree to. Therefore he
remained all the night with his helmet on, and looked the drollest and
strangest figure you could imagine. And he was now so pleased with
the women, whom he still took to be ladies and dames of the castle,
that he said to them: "Never was knight so well attended on and served
by ladies as was Don Quixote. When he departed from his village,
damsels attended on him and princesses on his horse. O ladies!
Rozinante is the name of my steed, and I am called Don Quixote, and
the time shall come when your ladyships may command me and I obey, and
then the valour of mine arm shall discover the desire I have to do you
service."

The women could make nothing of his talk, but asked him if he would
eat, and Don Quixote replying that such was his desire, there was
straightway laid a table at the inn door. The host brought out a
portion of badly boiled haddocks, and a black, greasy loaf, which was
all the inn could supply. But the manner of Don Quixote's eating was
the best sport in the world, for with his helmet on he could put
nothing into his mouth himself if others did not help him to find his
way, and therefore one of the women served his turn at that, and
helped to feed him. But they could not give him drink after that
manner, and he would have remained dry for ever if the innkeeper had
not bored a cane, and putting one end in his mouth, poured the wine
down the other. And all this he suffered rather than cut the ribands
of his helmet.

And as he sat at supper the swineherd again sounded his horn, and Don
Quixote was still firm in the belief that he was in some famous
castle, where he was served with music, and that the stale haddock was
fresh trout, the bread of the finest flour, the two women high-born
damsels, and the innkeeper the constable of the castle. Thus he
thought his career of knight-errant was well begun, but he was still
greatly troubled by the thought that he was not yet dubbed knight, and
could not therefore rightly follow his adventures until he received
the honour of knighthood.




THE KNIGHTING OF DON QUIXOTE

Retold by Judge Parry


When he had finished his sorry supper, he took his host with him to
the stable, and shutting the door threw himself down upon his knees
before him, saying: "I will never rise from this place where I am. sir
constable, until your courtesy shall grant unto me a boon that I mean
to demand of you, something which will add to your renown and to the
profit of all the human race."

The innkeeper, seeing his guest at his feet, and hearing him speak
these words, stood confounded at the sight, not knowing what he would
say or do next, and tried to make him arise. But all was in vain until
he had promised him that he would grant him any gift that he sought at
his hands.

"Signor," said Don Quixote, rising from his knees, "I did never expect
less from your great magnificence, and now I will tell you that the
boon which I demanded of you, and which you have so generously
granted, is that to-morrow in the morning you will dub me knight. This
night I will watch mine armour in the chapel of your castle, and in
the morning, as I have said, the rest of my desires shall be
fulfilled, that I may set out in a proper manner throughout the four
parts of the world to seek adventures to the benefit of the poor and:
needy, as is the duty of knighthood and of knights-errant."

The innkeeper, who was a bit of a jester, and had before thought that
the wits of his guest were none of the best, was sure that his
suspicions were true when he heard him speak in this manner. And in
order to enjoy a joke at his expense, he resolved to fall in with his
humour, and told him that there was great reason in what he desired,
which was only natural and proper in a knight of such worth as he
seemed to be. He added further that there was no chapel in his castle
where he might watch his arms, for he had broken it down to build it
up anew. But, nevertheless, he knew well that in a case of necessity
they might be watched in any other place, and therefore he might watch
them that night in the lower court of the castle, where in the morning
he, the innkeeper, would perform all the proper ceremonies, so that he
should be made not only a dubbed knight, but such a one as should not
have an equal in the whole universe.

The innkeeper now gave orders that Don Quixote should watch his armour
in a great yard near one side of the inn, so he gathered together all
his arms, laid them on a cistern near a well, and buckling on his
target he laid hold of his lance and walked up and down before the
cistern very demurely, until night came down upon the scene.

In the meantime the roguish innkeeper told all the rest that lodged in
the inn of the folly of his guest, the watching of his arms, and the
knighthood which he expected to receive. They all wondered very much
at so strange a kind of folly, and going out to behold him from a
distance, they saw that sometimes he marched to and fro with a quiet
gesture, other times leaning upon his lance he looked upon his armour
for a good space of time without beholding any other thing save his
arms.

Although it was now night, yet was the moon so clear that everything
which the knight did was easily seen by all beholders. And now one of
the carriers that lodged in the inn resolved to give his mules some
water, and for that purpose it was necessary to move Don Quixote's
armour that lay on the cistern.

Seeing the carrier approach, Don Quixote called to him in a loud
voice: "O thou, whosoever thou art, bold knight, who dares to touch
the armour of the bravest adventurer that ever girded sword, look well
what thou doest, and touch them not if thou meanest not to leave thy
life in payment for thy meddling!"

The carrier took no notice of these words, though it were better for
him if he had, but laying hold of the armour threw it piece by piece
into the middle of the yard.

When Don Quixote saw this, he lifted up his eyes towards heaven, and
addressing his thoughts, as it seemed, to his Lady Dulcinea, he said:
"Assist me, dear lady, in this insult offered to thy vassal, and let
not thy favour and protection fail me in this my first adventure!"

Uttering these and other such words, he let slip his target or shield,
and lifting up his lance with both hands he gave the carrier so round
a knock on his head that it threw him to the ground, and if he had
caught him a second he would not have needed any surgeon to cure
him. This done, he gathered up his armour again, and laying the pieces
where they had been before, he began walking up and down near them
with as much quietness as he did at first.

Soon afterwards another carrier, without knowing what had happened
(for his companion still lay on the ground), came also to give his
mules water, and started to take away the armour to get at the
cistern, Don Quixote let slip again his target, and lifting his lance
brought it down on the carrier's head, which he broke in several
places.

All the people in the inn, and amongst them the innkeeper, came
running out when they heard the noise, and Don Quixote seeing them
seized his target, and, drawing his sword, cried aloud: "O lady of all
beauty, now, if ever, is the time for thee to turn the eyes of thy
greatness on thy captive knight who is on the eve of so marvellous
great an adventure."

Saying this seemed to fill him with so great a courage, that if he had
been assaulted by all the carriers in the universe he would not have
retreated one step.

The companions of the wounded men, seeing their fellows in so evil a
plight, began to rain stones on Don Quixote from a distance, who
defended himself as well as he might with his target, and durst not
leave the cistern lest he should appear to abandon his arms.

The innkeeper cried to them to let him alone, for he had already told
them that he was mad. But Don Quixote cried out louder than the
innkeeper, calling them all disloyal men and traitors, and that the
lord of the castle was a treacherous and bad knight to allow them to
use a knight-errant so basely; and if he had only received the order
of knighthood he would have punished him soundly for his treason. Then
calling to the carriers he said: "As for you, base and rascally
ruffians, you are beneath my notice. Throw at me, approach, draw near
and do me all the hurt you may, for you shall ere long receive the
reward of your insolence."

These words, which he spoke with great spirit and boldness, struck a
terrible fear into all those who assaulted him, and, partly moved by
his threats and partly persuaded by the innkeeper, they left off
throwing stones at him, and he allowed them to carry away the wounded
men, while he returned to his watch with great quietness and gravity.

The innkeeper did not very much like Don Quixote's pranks, and
therefore determined to shorten the ceremony and give him the order of
knighthood at once before any one else was injured. Approaching him,
therefore, he made apologies for the insolence of the base fellows who
had thrown stones at him, and explained that it was not with his
consent, and that he thought them well punished for their
impudence. He added that it was not necessary for Don Quixote to watch
his armour any more, because the chief point of being knighted was to
receive the stroke of the sword on the neck and shoulder, and that
ceremony he was ready to perform at once.

All this Don Quixote readily believed, and answered that he was most
eager to obey him, and requested him to finish everything as speedily
as possible. For, he said, as soon as he was knighted, if he was
assaulted again, he intended not to leave one person alive in all the
castle, except those which the constable should command, whom he would
spare for his sake.

The innkeeper, alarmed at what he said, and fearing lest he should
carry out his threat, set about the ceremony without delay. He brought
out his day-book, in which he wrote down the accounts of the hay and
straw which he sold to carriers who came to the inn, and attended by a
small boy holding the end of a candle and walking before him, and
followed by the two women who were staying at the inn, he approached
Don Quixote, He solemnly commanded him to kneel upon his knees, while
he mumbled something which he pretended to read out of the book that
he held in his hand. Then he gave him a good blow on the neck, and
after that another sound thwack over the shoulders with his own sword,
always as he did so continuing to mumble and murmur as though he were
reading something out of his book. This being done, he commanded one
of the damsels to gird on his sword, which she did with much grace and
cleverness. And it was with difficulty that they all kept from
laughing during this absurd ceremony, but what they had already seen
of Don Quixote's fury made them careful not to annoy him even by a
smile.

When she had girded on his sword, the damsel said: "May you be a
fortunate knight, and meet with good success in all your adventures."

Don Quixote asked her how she was called, that he might know to whom
he was obliged for the favours he had received. She answered with
great humility that she was named Tolosa, and was a butcher's daughter
of Toledo. Don Quixote replied requesting her to call herself from
henceforth the Lady Tolosa, which she promised to perform. The other
damsel buckled on his spurs, and when Don Quixote asked her name she
told him it was Molinera, and that she was daughter of an honest
miller of Antequera. Don Quixote entreated her also to call herself
Lady Molinera, and offered her new services and favours.

These strange and never-before-seen ceremonies being ended, Don
Quixote could not rest until he was mounted on horseback that he might
go to seek adventures. He therefore caused Rozinante to be instantly
saddled, leaped on his back, and embracing the innkeeper, thanked him
in a thousand wild and ridiculous ways for the great favour he had
done him in dubbing him knight. The innkeeper, who was only eager to
be rid of him without delay, answered him in the same fashion, and let
him march off without demanding from him a single farthing for his
food or lodging.




THE GREADFUL ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS

Retold by Judge Parry


Don Quixote persuaded a certain labourer, his neighbour, an honest
man, but one of very shallow wit, to go away with him and serve him as
squire. In the end he gave him so many fair words and promises that
the poor fellow determined to go with him. Don Quixote, among other
things, told him that he ought to be very pleased to depart with him,
for at some time or other an adventure might befall which should in
the twinkling of an eye win him an island and leave him governor
thereof. On the faith of these and other like promises, Sancho Panza
(for so he was called) forsook his wife and children and took service
as squire to his neighbour.

Whilst they were journeying along, Sancho Panza said to his master: "I
pray you have good care, sir knight, that you forget not that
government of the island which you have promised me, for I shall be
able to govern it be it never so great."

And Don Quixote replied: "Thou must understand, friend Sancho, that it
was a custom very much used by the ancient knights-errant, to make
their squires governors of the islands and kingdoms they conquered,
and I am resolved that so good a custom shall be kept up by me. And if
thou livest and I live it may well be that I might conquer a kingdom
within six days, and crown thee king of it."

"By the same token," said Sancho Panza, "if I were a king, then should
Joan my wife become a queen and my children princes?"

"Who doubts of that?" said Don Quixote.

"That do I," replied Sancho Panza, "for I am fully persuaded that
though it rained kingdoms down upon the earth, none of them would sit
well on my wife Joan. She is not worth a farthing for a queen. She
might scrape through as a countess, but I have my doubts of that."

As they were talking, they caught sight of some thirty or forty
windmills on a plain. As soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his
squire: "Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could
desire. For behold, friend Sancho, how there appear thirty or forty
monstrous giants with whom I mean to do battle, and take all their
lives. With their spoils we will begin to be rich, for this is fair
war, and it is doing great service to clear away these evil fellows
from off the face of the earth."

"What giants?" said Sancho amazed.

"Those thou seest there," replied his master, "with the long arms."

"Take care, sir," cried Sancho, "for those we see yonder are not
giants but windmills, and those things which seem to be arms are their
sails, which being whirled round by the wind make the mill go."

"It is clear," answered Don Quixote, "that thou art not yet
experienced in the matter of adventures. They are giants, and if thou
art afraid, get thee away home, whilst I enter into cruel and unequal
battle with them."

So saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, without heeding the cries by
which Sancho Panza warned him that he was going to encounter not
giants but windmills. For he would neither listen to Sancho's
outcries, nor mark what he said, but shouted to the windmills in a
loud voice: "Fly not, cowards and vile creatures, for it is only one
knight that assaults you!"

A slight breeze having sprung up at this moment, the great sail-arms
began to move, on seeing which Don Quixote shouted out again:
"Although you should wield more arms than had the giant Briareus, I
shall make you pay for your insolence!"

Saying this, and commending himself most devoutly to his Lady
Dulcinea, whom he desired to aid him in this peril, covering himself
with his buckler, and setting his lance in rest, he charged at
Rozinante's best gallop, and attacked the first mill before
him. Thrusting his lance through the sail, the wind turned it with
such violence that it broke his weapon into shivers, carrying him and
his horse after it, and having whirled them round, finally tumbled the
knight a good way off, and rolled him over the plain, sorely damaged.

Sancho Panza hastened to help him as fast as his ass could go, and
when he came up he found the knight unable to stir, such a shock had
Rozinante given him in the fall.

"Bless me," said Sancho, "did I not tell you that you should look well
what you did, for they were windmills, nor could any think otherwise
unless he had windmills in his brains!"

"Peace, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for the things of war are
constantly changing, and I think this must be the work of the same
sage Freston who robbed me of my library and books, and he hath
changed these giants into windmills to take from me the glory of the
victory. But in the end his evil arts shall avail but little against
the goodness of my sword."

"May it prove so," said Sancho, as he helped his master to rise and
remount Rozinante, who, poor steed, was himself much bruised by the
fall.

The next day they journeyed along towards the Pass of Lapice, a
romantic spot, at which they arrived about three o'clock in the
afternoon.

"Here," said Don Quixote to his squire, "we may hope to dip our hands
up to the elbows in what are called adventures. But take note of this,
that although thou seest me in the greatest dangers of the world, thou
art not to set hand to thy sword in my defence, unless those who
assault me be base or vulgar people. If they be knights thou mayest
not help me."

"I do assure you, sir," said Sancho, "that herein you shall be most
punctually obeyed, because I am by nature a quiet and peaceful man,
and have a strong dislike to thrusting myself into quarrels."

Whilst they spoke thus, two friars of the order of St. Benedict,
mounted on large mules--big enough to be dromedaries--appeared coming
along the road. They wore travelling masks to keep the dust out of
their eyes and carried large sun umbrellas. After them came a coach
with four or five a-horseback travelling with it, and two lackeys ran
hard by it. In the coach was a Biscayan lady who was going to
Seville. The friars were not of her company, though all were going the
same way.

Scarcely had Don Quixote espied them than he exclaimed to his squire:
"Either I much mistake, or this should be the most famous adventure
that hath ever been seen; for those dark forms that loom yonder are
doubtless enchanters who are carrying off in that coach some princess
they have stolen. Therefore I must with all my power undo this
wrong."

"This will be worse than the adventure of the windmills," said
Sancho. "Do you not see that they are Benedictine friars, and the
coach will belong to some people travelling?"

"I have told thee already, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that thou
art very ignorant in the matter of adventures. What I say is true, as
thou shalt see."

So saying he spurred on his horse, and posted himself in the middle of
the road along which the friars were coming, and when they were near
enough to hear him he exclaimed in a loud voice: "Monstrous and
horrible crew! Surrender this instant those exalted princesses, whom
you are carrying away in that coach, or prepare to receive instant
death as a just punishment of your wicked deeds."

The friars drew rein, and stood amazed at the figure and words of Don
Quixote, to whom they replied: "Sir knight, we are neither monstrous
nor wicked, but two religious men, Benedictines, travelling about our
business, and we know nothing about this coach or about any
princesses."

"No soft words for me," cried Don Quixote, "for I know you well,
treacherous knaves."

And without waiting for their reply he set spurs to Rozinante; and
laying his lance on his thigh, charged at the first friar with such
fury and rage, that if he had not leaped from his mule he would have
been slain, or at least, badly wounded.

The second friar, seeing the way his companion was treated, made no
words but fled across the country swifter than the wind itself.

Sancho Panza, on seeing the friar overthrown, dismounted very speedily
off his ass and ran over to him, and would have stripped him of his
clothes, But two of the friars' servants came up and asked him why he
was thus despoiling their master. Sancho replied that it was his due
by the law of arms, as lawful spoils gained in battle by his lord and
master, Don Quixote.

The lackeys, who knew nothing of battles or spoils, seeing that Don
Quixote was now out of the way, speaking with those that were in the
coach, set both at once upon Sancho and threw him down, plucked every
hair out of his beard and kicked and mauled him without mercy, leaving
him at last stretched on the ground senseless and breathless.

As for the friar, he mounted again, trembling and terror-stricken, all
the colour having fled from his face, and spurring his mule, he joined
his companion, who was waiting for him hard by.

While this was happening, Don Quixote was talking to the lady in the
coach, to whom he said: "Dear lady, you may now dispose of yourself as
you best please. For the pride of your robbers is laid in the dust by
this my invincible arm. And that you may not pine to learn the name of
your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote of the Mancha,
knight-errant, adventurer, and captive of the peerless and beauteous
Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. And in reward for the benefits you have
received at my hands, I demand nothing else but that you return to
Toboso, there to present yourself in my name before my lady, and tell
her what I have done to obtain your liberty."

All this was listened to by a Biscayan squire who accompanied the
coach. He hearing that the coach was not to pass on but was to return
to Toboso, went up to Don Quixote, and, laying hold of his lance, said
to him: "Get away with thee, sir knight, for if thou leave not the
coach I will kill thee as sure as I am a Biscayan."

"If," replied Don Quixote haughtily, "thou wert a gentleman, as thou
art not, I would ere this have punished thy folly and insolence,
caitiff creature."

"I no gentleman?" cried the enraged Biscayan. "Throw down thy lance
and draw thy sword, and thou shalt soon see that thou liest."

"That shall be seen presently," replied Don Quixote; and flinging his
lance to the ground he drew his sword, grasped his buckler tight, and
rushed at the Biscayan.

The Biscayan, seeing him come on In this manner, had nothing else to
do but to draw his sword. Luckily for him he was near the coach,
whence he snatched a cushion to serve him as a shield, and then they
fell on one another as if they had been mortal enemies.

Those that were present tried to stop them, but the Biscayan shouted
out that if he were hindered from ending the battle he would put his
lady and all who touched him to the sword.

The lady, amazed and terrified, made the coachman draw aside a little,
and sat watching the deadly combat from afar.

The Biscayan, to begin with, dealt Don Quixote a mighty blow over the
target, which, if it had not been for his armour, would have cleft him
to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this tremendous blow
which had destroyed his visor and carried away part of his ear, cried
out aloud: "O Dulcinea, lady of my soul, flower of all beauty, help
thy knight, who finds himself in this great danger!" To say this, to
raise his sword, to cover himself with his buckler, and to rush upon
the Biscayan was the work of a moment. With his head full of rage he
now raised himself in his stirrups, and, gripping his sword more
firmly in his two hands, struck at the Biscayan with such violence
that he caught him a terrible blow on the cushion, knocking this
shield against his head with tremendous violence. It was as though a
mountain had fallen on the Biscayan and crushed him, and the blood
spouted from his nose and mouth and ears. He would have fallen
straightway from his mule if he had not clasped her round the neck;
but he lost his stirrups, then let go his arms, and the mule,
frightened at the blow, began to gallop across the fields, so that
after two or three plunges it threw him to the ground.

Don Quixote leaped off his horse, ran towards him, and setting the
point of his sword between his eyes, bade him yield, or he would cut
off his head.

The lady of the coach now came forward in great grief and begged the
favour of her squire's life.

Don Quixote replied with great stateliness: "Truly, fair lady, I will
grant thy request, but it must be on one condition, that this squire
shall go to Toboso and present himself in my name to the peerless Lady
Dulcinea, that she may deal with him as she thinks well."

The lady, who was in great distress, without considering what Don
Quixote required, or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that he
should certainly perform this command.

"Then," said Don Quixote, "on the faith of that pledge I will do him
no more harm."

Seeing the contest was now over, and his master about to remount
Rozinante, Sancho ran to hold his stirrups, and before he mounted,
taking him by his hand he kissed it and said: "I desire that it will
please you, good my lord Don Quixote, to bestow on me the government
of that island which in this terrible battle you have won."

To which Don Quixote replied: "Brother Sancho, these are not the
adventures of islands, but of cross roads, wherein nothing is gained
but a broken pate or the loss of an ear. Have patience awhile, for the
adventures will come whereby I can make thee not only a governor, but
something higher."

Sancho thanked him heartily, and kissed his hand again and the hem of
his mailed shirt. Then he helped him to get on Rozinante, and leaped
upon his ass to follow him.

And Don Quixote, without another word to the people of the coach, rode
away at a swift pace and turned into a wood that was hard by, leaving
Sancho to follow him as fast as his beast could trot.




DON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERDS

Retold by Judge Parry


As they rode along, Don Quixote turned to his squire and said to him:
"Tell me now in very good earnest, didst thou ever see a more valorous
knight than I am throughout the face of the earth? Didst thou ever
read in histories of any other that hath or ever had more courage in
fighting, more dexterity in wounding, or more skill in overthrowing?"

"The truth is," replied Sancho, "that I have never read any history
whatever, for I can neither read nor write. But what I dare wager is,
that I never in my life served a bolder master than you are, and I
only trust that all this boldness does not land us within the four
walls of the gaol."

"Peace, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "when didst thou read of a
knight-errant that was brought before the judge though he killed ever
so many people?"

"I have read nothing, as you know, good master; but a truce to all
this, let me attend to your wound, for you are losing a good deal of
blood in that ear, and I have got some lint and a little white
ointment in my wallet."

"That," said Don Quixote, "would have been unnecessary if I had
remembered to make a bottleful of the balsam of Fierabras, for with
only one drop of it both time and medicines are saved."

"What balsam is that, then?" asked Sancho Panza.

"It is a balsam, the receipt of which I have in my memory, and whoever
possesses it need not fear death nor think to perish by any
wound. Therefore after I have made it and given it unto thee, thou
hast nothing else to do but when thou shalt see that in any battle I
be cloven in twain, than deftly to take up the portion of the body
which is fallen to the ground and put it up again on the half which
remains in the saddle, taking great care to fix it exactly in the
right place. Then thou shalt give me two draughts of the balsam I have
mentioned, and I shall become as sound as an apple."

"If that be true," said Sancho, "I renounce from now the government of
the promised island, and will demand nothing else in payment of my
services but only the receipt of this precious liquor. But tell me, is
it costly in making?"

"With less than three _reals_" said Don Quixote, "a man may make
three gallons of it. But I mean to teach thee greater secrets than
this, and do thee greater favours also. And now let me dress my wound,
for this ear pains me more than I would wish."

Sancho took out of his wallet his lint and ointment to cure his
master. But before he could use them Don Quixote saw that the visor of
his helmet was broken, and he had like to have lost his senses.
Setting his hand to his sword, he cried: "I swear an oath to lead the
life which was led by the great Marquis of Mantua when he swore to
revenge the death of his nephew Baldwin, which was not to eat off a
tablecloth, nor to comb his hair, nor to change his clothes, nor to
quit his armour, and other things which, though I cannot now remember,
I take as said, until I have had complete revenge on him that hath
done this outrage."

"Look, your worship, Sir Don Quixote." said Sancho, when he heard
these strange words, "you must note that if the Biscayan has done what
you told him, and presented himself before my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso,
then he has fully satisfied his debt, and deserves no other penalty
unless he commits a new fault."

"Thou hast spoken well and hit the mark truly," answered Don Quixote;
"and, therefore, in respect of that, I set the oath aside. But I make
it and confirm it again, that I will lead the life I have said, until
I take by force another helmet as good as this from some other
knight."

"Such oaths are but mischief," said Sancho discontentedly, "for tell
me now, if by chance we do not come across a man armed with a helmet,
what are we to do? Do but consider that armed men travel not these
roads, but only carriers and waggoners, who not only wear no helmets,
but never heard them named all the days of their life."

"Thou art mistaken in this," said Don Quixote, "for we shall not have
been here two hours before we shall see more knights than went up
against Albraca to win Angelica the Fair."

"So be it," said Sancho, "and may all turn out well for us, that the
time may come for the winning of that island which is costing me so
dear."

"Have no fear for thine island, Sancho Panza," said Don Quixote; "and
now look if thou hast aught to eat in thy wallet, for soon we should
go in search of some castle where we may lodge the night and make the
balsam of which I have spoken, for in truth this ear of mine pains me
greatly."

"I have got here an onion and a bit of cheese and a few crusts of
bread, but such coarse food is not fit for so valiant a knight as your
worship."

"How little dost thou understand the matter," replied Don Quixote,
"for it is an honour to knights-errant not to eat more than once a
month, and if by chance they should eat, to eat only of that which is
next at hand! And all this thou mightest have known hadst thou read as
many books as I have done. For though I studied many, yet did I never
find that knights-errant did ever eat but by mere chance, or at some
costly banquets that were made for them. And the remainder of their
days they lived on herbs and roots. Therefore, friend Sancho, let not
that trouble thee which is my pleasure, for to a knight-errant that
which comes is good."

"Pardon me, sir," said Sancho, "for since I can neither read nor
write, as I have already told you, I have not fallen in rightly with
the laws of knighthood. But from henceforth my wallet shall be
furnished with all sorts of dried fruits for your worship, because you
are a knight, and for myself, seeing I am none, I will provide fowls
and other things, which are better eating."

So saying he pulled out what he had, and the two fell to dinner in
good peace and company.

But being desirous to look out for a lodging for that night, they cut
short their meagre and sorry meal, mounted at once a-horseback, and
made haste to find out some dwellings before night did fall.

But the sun and their hopes did fail them at the same time, they being
then near the cabins of some goatherds. Therefore they determined to
pass the night there. And though Sancho's grief was great to lie out
of a village, yet Don Quixote was more joyful than ever, for he
thought that as often as he slept under the open heaven, so often did
he perform an act worthy of a true knight-errant.

They were welcomed by the goatherds very cordially, and Sancho, having
put up Rozinante and his ass the best way he could, made his way
towards the smell given out by certain pieces of goat's flesh which
were boiling in a pot on the fire. And though he longed that very
instant to see if they were ready, he did not do so, for he saw the
goatherds were themselves taking them off the fire and spreading some
sheep-skins on the ground, and were laying their rustic table as
quickly as might be. Then with many expressions of good will they
invited the two to share in what they had. Those who belonged to the
fold, being six in number, sat round on the skins, having first with
rough compliments asked Don Quixote to seat himself upon a trough
which they placed for him turned upside down.

Don Quixote sat down, but Sancho remained on foot to serve him with
the cup which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his master said:
"That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good which is in knight-errantry,
and how fair a chance they have who exercise it to arrive at honour
and position in the world, I desire that here by my side, and in
company of these good people, thou dost seat thyself, and be one and
the same with me that am thy master and natural lord. That thou dost
eat in my dish and drink in the same cup wherein I drink. For the
same may be said of knight-errantry as is said of love, that it makes
all things equal."

"Thanks for your favour," replied Sancho, "but I may tell your worship
that provided I have plenty to eat I can eat it as well and better
standing and by myself, than if I were seated on a level with an
emperor. And, indeed, if I speak the truth, what I eat in my corner
without ceremony, though it be but a bread and onion, smacks much
better than turkeycocks at other tables, where I must chaw my meat
leisurely, drink but little, wipe my hands often, nor do other things
that solitude and liberty allow."

"For all that," said Don Quixote, "here shalt thou sit, for the humble
shall be exalted," and taking him by the arm, he forced his squire to
sit down near himself.

The goatherds did not understand the gibberish of squires and
knights-errant, and did nothing but eat, hold their peace, and stare
at their guests, who with great relish were gorging themselves with
pieces as big as their fists. The course of flesh being over, the
goatherds spread on the skins a great number of parched acorns and
half a cheese, harder than if it had been made of mortar. The horn in
the meantime was not idle, but came full from the wineskins and
returned empty, as though it had been a bucket sent to the well.

After Don Quixote had satisfied his appetite, he took up a fistful of
acorns, and beholding them earnestly, began in this manner: "Happy
time and fortunate ages were those which our ancestors called Golden:
not because gold--so much prized in this our Iron Age--was gotten in
that happy time without any labours, but because those who lived in
that time knew not these two words, _Thine_ and _Mine_. In
that holy age all things were in common. No man needed to do aught but
lift up his hand and take his food from the strong oak, which did
liberally invite them to gather his sweet and savoury fruit. The clear
fountains and running rivers did offer them transparent water in
magnificent abundance, and in the hollow trees did careful bees erect
their commonwealth, offering to every hand without interest the
fertile crop of their sweet labours." Thus did the eloquent knight
describe the Golden Age, when all was peace, friendship, and concord,
and then he showed the astonished goatherds how an evil world had
taken its place, and made it necessary for knights-errant like himself
to come forward for the protection of widows and orphans, and the
defence of distressed damsels. All this he did because the acorns that
were given him called to his mind the Golden Age. The goatherds sat
and listened with grave attention, and Sancho made frequent visits to
the second wine-skin during his discourse. At length it was ended, and
they sat round the fire, drinking their wine and listening to one of
the goat herds singing, and towards night, Don Quixote's ear becoming
very painful, one of his hosts made a dressing of rosemary leaves and
salt, and bound up his wound. By this means being eased of his pain,
he was able to lie down in one of the huts and sleep soundly after his
day's adventures.

Don Quixote spent several days among the goatherds, and at length,
when his wound was better, he thanked them for their hospitality, and
rode away in search of new adventures, followed by the faithful
Sancho.

They came to a halt in a pleasant meadow rich with beautiful grass, by
the side of a delightful and refreshing stream, which seemed to invite
them to stop and spend there the sultry hours of noon, which were
already becoming oppressive.

Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and leaving Rozinante and Dapple
loose, to feed on the grass that was there in plenty, they ransacked
the wallet, and without any ceremony fell to eating what they found in
it.

Sancho had neglected to tie up Rozinante, and, as luck would have it,
a troop of Galician ponies belonging to some Yanguesian carriers,
whose custom it is to rest at noon with their teams in spots and
places where grass and water abound, were feeding in the same valley.

It must be believed that Rozinante supposed that the grass the ponies
were feeding on was better than his own; but be that as it may, he
started off at a little swift trot to feed among them. They resented
his appearance, and, as he sought to enter their ranks and feed among
them, they received him with their heels and teeth, with such vigour
that in a trice he had burst his girth, and his saddle was stripped
from his back. But the worst of all was that the carriers, taking part
with their own ponies, ran up with stakes and so belaboured him that
they brought him to the ground in a sore plight.

Upon this Don Quixote and Sancho, who witnessed the basting of
Rozinante, came running up all out of breath, and Don Quixote said to
Sancho: "From what I see, friend Sancho, these be no knights, but
base, rascally fellows of low breeding. I say this, that thou mayest
freely aid me in taking vengeance for the wrong which they have done
to Rozinante before our eyes."

"What vengeance can we take," replied Sancho, "when there are more
than twenty, and we are but two--nay, perhaps but one and a half?"

"I count for a hundred," said Don Quixote, and without further parley
he drew his sword and flew upon the Yanguesians, boldly followed by
Sancho Panza.

With his first blow Don Quixote pierced a buff coat that one of them
wore, wounding him grievously in the shoulder. Then the Yanguesians,
finding themselves so rudely handled by two men only, they being so
many, betook themselves to their stakes, and hemming in their
adversaries in the midst of them, they laid on with great fury. In
fact the second thwack brought Sancho to the ground, and the same fate
soon befell Don Quixote, whose dexterity and courage availed him
nothing, for he fell at the feet of his unfortunate steed, who had not
yet been able to arise.

Then, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesians loaded their
team with as much haste as possible, and went their way, leaving the
adventurers in a doleful plight and a worse humour.




HOW DON QUIXOTE ARRIVED AT AN INN WHICH HE IMAGINED TO BE A CASTLE

Retold by Judge Parry


For some time after the Yanguesian carriers had gone on their way Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza lay on the ground groaning and saying
nothing.

The first that came to himself was Sancho Panza, who cried in a weak
and pitiful voice: "Sir Don Quixote! O Sir Don Quixote!"

"What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?" answered Don Quixote in the same
faint and grievous tone as Sancho.

"I would, if it were possible," said Sancho Panza, "that your worship
should give me a couple of mouthfuls of that balsam of Fierabras, if
so be that your worship has it at hand. Perhaps it will be as good for
broken bones as for wounds."

"If I had it here," sighed Don Quixote, "we should lack nothing. But I
swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, that
before two days pass, unless fortune forbids, I will have it in my
possession."

"I pray you," asked Sancho, "in how many days do you think we shall be
able to move our feet?"

"I cannot say," said the battered knight; "but I take on myself the
blame of all, for I should not have drawn my sword against men that
are not knights. Therefore, brother Sancho, take heed of what I tell
thee, for it mightily concerns the welfare of us both; and it is this,
that when thou seest such rabble offer us any wrong, wait not for me
to draw sword upon them, for I will not do it in any wise, but put
thou thy hand to thy sword and chastise them at thy pleasure."

But Sancho Panza did not much relish his master's advice, and replied:
"Sir, I am a peaceable, sober, and quiet man, and can let pass any
injury whatever, for I have a wife and children to take care
of. Therefore, let me also say a word to your worship, that by no
manner of means shall I put hand to sword either against clown or
against knight. And from this time forth I forgive whatever insults
are paid to me, whether they are or shall be paid by persons high or
low, rich or poor, gentle or simple."

On hearing this his master said: "Would that I had breath enough to be
able to speak easily, and that the pain I feel in this rib were less,
that I, might make thee understand, Sancho, the mistake thou art
making! How can I appoint thee governor of an island when thou wouldst
make an end of all by having neither valour nor will to defend thy
lands or revenge thine injuries?"

"Alas!" groaned Sancho. "I would that I had the courage and
understanding of which your worship speaks, but in truth at this
moment I am more fit for plasters than preachments. See if your
worship can rise, and we will help Rozinante, although he deserves it
not, for he was the chief cause of all this mauling."

"Fortune always leaves one door open in disasters, and your Dapple
will now be able to supply the want of Rozinante and carry me hence to
some castle where I may be healed of my wounds. Nor shall I esteem
such riding a dishonour, for I remember to have read that old Silenus,
tutor and guide of the merry god of Laughter, when he entered the city
of a hundred gates, rode very pleasantly, mounted on a handsome ass."

"That may be," replied Sancho, "but there is a difference between
riding a-horseback and being laid athwart like a sack of rubbish."

"Have done with your replies," exclaimed Don Quixote, "and rise as
well as thou art able and sit me on top of thine ass, and let us
depart hence before the night comes and overtakes us in this
wilderness."

Then Sancho, with thirty groans and sixty sighs and a hundred and
twenty curses, lifted up Rozinante--who if he had had a tongue would
have complained louder than Sancho himself--and after much trouble set
Don Quixote on the ass. Then tying Rozinante to his tail, he led the
ass by the halter, and proceeded as best he could to where the
highroad seemed to lie.

And Fortune, which had guided their affairs from good to better, led
him on to a road on which, he spied an inn, which to his annoyance and
Don Quixote's joy must needs be a castle. Sancho protested that it was
an inn, and his master that it was a castle; and their dispute lasted
so long that they had time to arrive there before it was finished; and
into this inn or castle Sancho entered without more parley with all
his team.

The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote laid athwart of the ass, asked
Sancho what ailed him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that
he had fallen down from a rock, and had bruised his ribs somewhat. The
innkeeper's wife was by nature charitable, and she felt for the
sufferings of others, so she hastened at once to attend to Don
Quixote, and made her daughter, a comely young maiden, help her in
taking care of her guest. There was also serving in the inn an
Asturian woman, broad-cheeked, flat-pated, with a snub nose, blind of
one eye and the other not very sound. This young woman, who was called
Maritornes, assisted the daughter, and the two made up a bed for Don
Quixote in a garret which had served for many years as a
straw-loft. The bed on which they placed him was made of four roughly
planed boards on two unequal trestles; a mattress which, in thinness,
might have been a quilt, so full of pellets that if they had not
through the holes shown themselves to be wool, they would to the touch
seem to be pebbles. There was a pair of sheets made of target leather;
and as for the coverlet, if any one had chosen to count the threads of
it he could not have missed one in the reckoning.

On this miserable bed did Don Quixote lie, and presently the hostess
and her daughter plastered him over from head to foot, Maritornes
holding the candle for them.

While she was plastering him, the hostess, seeing that he was in
places black and blue, said that it looked more like blows than a
fall. Sancho, however, declared they were not blows, but that the rock
had many sharp points, and each one had left a mark; and he added:
"Pray, good mistress, spare some of that tow, as my back pains are not
a little."

"In that case," said the hostess, "you must have fallen, too."

"I did not fall," said Sancho Panza, "but with the sudden fright I
took on seeing my master fall, my body aches as if they had given me a
thousand blows, and I now find myself with only a few bruises less
than my master, Don Quixote."

"What is this gentleman's name?" asked Maritornes.

"Don Quixote of the Mancha," answered Sancho Panza; "and he is a
knight-errant, and one of the best and strongest that have been seen
in the world these many ages."

"What is a knight-errant?" asked the young woman.

"Art thou so young in the world that thou knowest it not?" answered
Sancho Panza. "Know then, sister mine, that a knight-errant is a thing
which in two words is found cudgelled and an emperor. To-day he is
the most miserable creature in the world, and the most needy;
to-morrow he will have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give to his
squire."

"How is it, then," said the hostess, "that thou hast not gotten at
least an earldom, seeing thou art squire to this good knight?"

"It is early yet," replied Sancho, "for it is but a month since we set
out on our adventures. But believe me, if my master, Don Quixote, gets
well of his wounds--or his fall, I should say--I would not sell my
hopes for the best title in Spain."

To all this Don Quixote listened very attentively, and sitting up in
his bed as well as he could, he took the hostess's hand and said:
"Believe me, beautiful lady, that you may count yourself fortunate in
having entertained me in this your castle. My squire will inform you
who I am, for self-praise is no recommendation; only this I say, that
I will keep eternally written in memory the service you have done to
me, and I will be grateful to you as long as my life shall endure."

The hostess, her daughter, and the good Maritomes remained confounded
on hearing the words of the knight-errant, which they understood as
well as if he had spoken in Greek, but yet they believed they were
words of compliment, and so they thanked him for his courtesy and
departed, leaving Sancho and his master for the night.

There happened to be lodging in the inn that night one of the officers
of the Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, whose duty it was to travel the
roads and inquire into cases of highway robbery. He hearing some time
later that a man was lying in the house sorely wounded must needs go
and make an examination of the matter. He therefore lighted his lamp
and made his way to Don Quixote's garret.

As soon as Sancho Panza saw him enter arrayed in a shirt and a
nightcap with the lamp in his hand, which showed him to be a very ugly
man, he asked his master: "Will this by chance be some wizard Moor
come to torment us?"

"A wizard it cannot be," said Don Quixote, "for those under
enchantment never let themselves be seen."

The officer could make nothing of their talk, and came up to Don
Quixote, who lay face upwards encased in his plasters. "Well," said
the officer roughly, "how goes it, my good fellow?"

"I would speak more politely if I were you," answered Don Quixote. "Is
it the custom in this country, lout, to speak in that way to a
knight-errant?"

The officer, finding himself thus rudely addressed, could not endure
it, and, lifting up the lamp, oil and all, gave Don Quixote such a
blow on the head with it that he broke his lamp in one or two places,
and, leaving all in darkness, left the room.

"Ah!" groaned Sancho, "this is indeed the wizard Moor, and he must be
keeping his treasures for others, and for us nothing but blows."

"It is ever so," replied Don Quixote; "and we must take no notice of
these things of enchantment, nor must we be angry or vexed with them,
for since they are invisible, there is no one on whom to take
vengeance. Rise, Sancho, if thou canst, and call the constable of this
fortress, and try to get him to give me a little wine, oil, salt, and
rosemary to prepare the health-giving balsam, of which I have grievous
need, for there comes much blood from the wound which the phantom hath
given me."

Sancho arose, not without aching bones, and crept in the dark to where
the innkeeper was, and said to him: "My lord constable, do us the
favour and courtesy to give me a little rosemary, oil, wine, and salt
to cure one of the best knights-errant in the world, who lies yonder
in bed sorely wounded at the hands of a Moorish enchanter." When the
innkeeper heard this he took Sancho Panza for a man out of his wits,
but nevertheless gave him what he wanted, and Sancho carried it to Don
Quixote. His master was lying with his hands to his head, groaning
with pain from the blows of the lamp, which, however, had only raised
two big lumps; what he thought was blood being only the perspiration
running down his face.

He now took the things Sancho had brought, of which he made a
compound, mixing them together and boiling them a good while until
they came to perfection.

Then he asked for a bottle into which to pour this precious liquor,
but as there was not one to be had in the inn, he decided to pour it
into a tin oil-vessel which the innkeeper had given him.

This being done, he at once made an experiment on himself of the
virtue of this precious balsam, as he imagined it to be, and drank off
a whole quart of what was left in the boiling-pot.

The only result of this was that it made him very sick indeed, as well
it might, and, what with the sickness and the bruising and the
weariness of body, he fell fast asleep for several hours, and at the
end of his sleep awoke so refreshed and so much the better of his
bruises that he took himself to be cured and verily believed he had
hit upon the balsam of Fierabras.

Sancho Panza, to whom his master's recovery seemed little short of a
miracle, begged that he might have what was left in the boiling-pot,
which was no small quantity. Don Quixote consenting, he took the pot
in both hands, and tossed it down, swallowing very little less than
his master had done.

It happened, however, that Sancho's stomach was not so delicate as his
master's and he suffered such terrible pains and misery before he was
sick that he thought his last hour was come, and cursed the balsam and
the thief who had given it to him.

Don Quixote, seeing him in this bad way, said: "I believe, Sancho,
that all this evil befalleth thee because thou art not dubbed knight,
for I am persuaded that this balsam may not benefit any one that is
not."

"If your worship knew that," replied poor Sancho "bad luck to me and
mine, why did you let me taste it?"

Before Don Quixote could reply to this, Sancho became so terribly sick
that he could only lie groaning and moaning for two hours, at the end
of which he felt so shaken and shattered that he could scarcely stand,
and sadly wished that he had never become squire to a knight-errant.




HOW SANCHO PAID THE RECKONING AT THE INN

Retold by Judge Parry


Now whilst Sancho Panza lay groaning in his bed, Don Quixote, who, as
we have said, felt somewhat eased and cured, made up his mind to set
off in search of new adventures. And full of this desire he himself
saddled Rozinante and put the pack-saddle on his squire's beast, and
helped Sancho to dress and to mount his ass. Then getting a-horseback
he rode over to the corner of the inn and seized hold of a pike which
stood there, to make it serve him instead of a lance.

All the people that were staying at the inn, some twenty in number,
stood staring at him, and among these was the innkeeper's
daughter. Don Quixote kept turning his eyes towards her and sighing
dolefully, which every one, or at least all who had seen him the night
before, thought must be caused by the pain he was in from his bruises.

When they were both mounted and standing by the inn gate, he called to
the innkeeper and said in a grave voice: "Many and great are the
favours, sir constable, which I have received in this your castle,
arid I shall remain deeply grateful for them all the days of my
life. If I am able to repay you by avenging you on some proud
miscreant that hath done you any wrong, know that it is my office to
help the weak, to revenge the wronged, and to punish traitors. Ransack
your memory, and if you find anything of this sort for me to do, you
have but to utter it, and I promise you, by the Order of Knighthood
which I have received, to procure you satisfaction to your heart's
content,"

"Sir knight," replied the innkeeper with equal gravity, "I have no
need that your worship should avenge me any wrong, for I know how to
take what revenge I think good when an injury is done. All I want is
that your worship should pay me the score you have run up this night
in mine inn, both for the straw and barley of your two beasts, and
your suppers and your beds."

"This then is an inn?" exclaimed Don Quixote.

"Ay, that it is, and a very respectable one, too," replied the
innkeeper.

"All this time then I have been deceived," said Don Quixote, "for in
truth I thought it was a castle and no mean one. But since it is
indeed an inn and no castle, all that can be done now is to ask you to
forgive me any payment, for I cannot break the laws of knights-errant,
of whom I know for certain that they never paid for lodging or
anything else in the inns where they stayed. For the good
entertainment that is given them is their due reward for the
sufferings they endure, seeking adventures both day and night, winter
and summer, a-foot and a-horseback, in thirst and hunger, in heat and
cold, being exposed to all the storms of heaven and the hardships of
earth."

"All that is no business of mine," retorted the innkeeper. "Pay me
what you owe me, and keep your tales of knights-errant for those who
want them. My business is to earn my living."

"You are a fool and a saucy fellow," said Don Quixote angrily, and,
spurring Rozinante and brandishing his lance, he swept out of the inn
yard before any one could stop him, and rode on a good distance
without waiting to see if his squire was following.

The innkeeper, when he saw him go without paying, ran up to get his
due from Sancho Panza, who also refused to pay, and said to him: "Sir,
seeing I am squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and reason for
not paying at inns and taverns hold as good for me as for my master."

The innkeeper grew angry at these words, and threatened that if he did
not pay speedily he would get it from him in a way he would not like.

Sancho replied that by the Order of Knighthood which his lord and
master had received, he would not pay a penny though it cost him his
life.

But his bad fortune so managed it, that there happened to be at the
inn at this time four woolcombers of Segovia, and three needlemakers
of Cordova, and two neighbours from Seville, all merry fellows, very
mischievous and playsome. And as if they were all moved with one
idea, they came up to Sancho, and pulling him down off his ass, one of
them ran in for the innkeeper's blanket, and they flung him into
it. But looking up and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower than
they needed for their business, they determined to go out into the
yard, which had no roof but the sky, and there placing Sancho in the
middle of the blanket, they began to toss him aloft and to make sport
with him by throwing him up and down. The outcries of the miserable
be-tossed squire were so many and so loud that they reached the ears
of his master, who, standing awhile to listen what it was, believed
that some new adventure was at hand, until he clearly recognised the
shrieks to come from poor Sancho. Immediately turning his horse, he
rode back at a gallop to the inn gate, and finding it closed, rode
round the wall to see if he could find any place at which he might
enter. But he scarcely got to the wall of the inn yard, which was not
very high, when he beheld the wicked sport they were making with his
squire. He saw him go up and down with such grace and agility, that,
had his anger allowed him, I make no doubt he would have burst with
laughter. He tried to climb the wall from his horse, but he was so
bruised and broken that he could by no means alight from his saddle,
and therefore from on top of his horse he used such terrible threats
against those that were tossing Sancho that one could not set them
down in writing.

But in spite of his reproaches they did not cease from their laughter
or labour, nor did the flying Sancho stop his lamentations, mingled
now with threats and now with prayers. Thus they carried on their
merry game, until at last from sheer weariness they stopped and let
him be. And then they brought him his ass, and, helping him to mount
it, wrapped him in his coat, and the kind-hearted Maritornes, seeing
him so exhausted, gave him a pitcher of water, which, that it might be
the cooler, she fetched from the well.

Just as he was going to drink he heard his master's voice calling to
him, saying: "Son Sancho, drink not water, drink it not, my son, for
it will kill thee. Behold, here I have that most holy balsam,"--and he
showed him the can of liquor,--"two drops of which if thou drinkest
thou wilt undoubtedly be cured."

At these words Sancho shuddered, and replied to his master: "You
forget surely that I am no knight, or else you do not remember the
pains I suffered last evening. Keep your liquor to yourself, and let
me be in peace."

At the conclusion of this speech he began to drink, but finding it was
only water he would not taste it, and called for wine, which
Maritornes very kindly fetched for him, and likewise paid for it out
of her own purse.

As soon as Sancho had finished drinking, he stuck his heels into his
ass, and the inn gate being thrown wide open he rode out, highly
pleased at having paid for nothing, even at the price of a tossing.
The innkeeper, however, had kept his wallet, but Sancho was so
distracted when he departed that he never missed it.

When Sancho reached his master, he was almost too jaded and faint to
ride his beast. Don Quixote, seeing him in this plight, said to him:
"Now I am certain that yon castle or inn is without doubt enchanted,
for those who made sport with thee so cruelly, what else could they
be but phantoms, and beings of another world? And I am the more sure
of this, because when I was by the wall of the inn yard I was not able
to mount it, or to alight from Rozinante, and therefore I must have
been enchanted. For if I could have moved, I would have avenged thee
in a way to make those scoundrels remember the jest for ever, even
although to do it I should have had to disobey the rules of
knighthood."

"So would I also have avenged myself," said Sancho, "knight or no
knight, but I could not. And yet I believe that those who amused
themselves with me were no phantoms or enchanted beings, but men of
flesh and bones as we are, for one was called Pedro, and another
Tenorio, and the innkeeper called a third Juan. But what I make out of
all this, is that those adventures which we go in search of, will
bring us at last so many misadventures that we shall not know our
right foot from our left. And the best thing for us to do, in my
humble opinion, is to return us again to our village and look after
our own affairs, and not go jumping, as the saying is, 'out of the
frying-pan into the fire.'"

"How little dost thou know of knighthood, friend Sancho," replied Don
Quixote. "Peace, and have patience, for a day will come when thou
shalt see with thine own eyes how fine a thing it is to follow this
calling. What pleasure can equal that of winning a battle or
triumphing over an enemy?"

"I cannot tell," answered Sancho; "but this I know, that since we are
knights-errant, we have never won any battle, unless it was that with
the Biscayan, and even then your worship lost half an ear. And ever
after that time it has been nothing but cudgels and more cudgels,
blows and more blows,--I getting the tossing in the blanket to boot.
And all this happens to me from enchanted people on whom I cannot take
vengeance."

"That grieves me," replied Don Quixote; "but who knows what may
happen? Fortune may bring me a sword like that of Amadis, which did
not only cut like a razor, but there was no armour however strong or
enchanted which could stand before it."

"It will be like my luck," said Sancho, "that when your worship finds
such a sword it will, like the balsam, be of use only to those who are
knights, whilst poor squires will still have to sup sorrow."

"Fear not that, Sancho," replied his master; and he rode ahead, his
mind full of adventures, followed at a little distance by his unhappy
squire.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES

Retold by Judge Parry


Whilst they were riding on their way, Don Quixote saw a large, dense
cloud of dust rolling towards them, and turning to Sancho said: "This
is the day on which shall be shown the might of my arm and on which I
am to do deeds which shall be written in the books of fame. Dost thou
see the dust which arises there? Know then that it is caused by a
mighty army composed of various and numberless nations that are
marching this way." "If that be so," replied Sancho, "then must there
be two armies, for on this other side there is as great a dust."

Don Quixote turned round to behold it, and seeing that it was so, he
was marvellous glad, for he imagined that there were indeed two armies
coming to fight each other in the midst of that spacious plain. For at
every hour and moment his fancy was full of battles, enchantments, and
adventures, such as are related in the books of knighthood, and all
his thoughts and wishes were turned towards such things.

As for the clouds he had seen, they were raised by two large flocks of
sheep which were being driven along the same road from two opposite
sides, and these by reason of the dust could not be seen until they
came near.

Don Quixote was so much in earnest when he called them armies that
Sancho at once believed it, asking: "What then shall we do, good
master?"

"What!" cried Don Quixote. "Why, favour and help those who are in
distress and need. Thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes on
our front is led by the mighty Emperor Alifamfaron, lord of the great
island of Trapobana. This other which is marching at our back is the
army of his foe, the King of the Garamantes, Pentapolin of the Naked
Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare."

"But why do these two princes hate each other so much?" asked Sancho.

"They are enemies," replied Don Quixote, "because Alifamfaron is a
furious pagan and is deeply in love with Pentapolin's daughter, who is
a beautiful and gracious princess and a Christian. Her father refuses
to give her to the pagan king until he abandons Mahomet's false
religion and becomes a convert to his own."

"By my beard," said Sancho, "Pentapolin does right well, and I will
help him all I can."

"Then thou wilt but do thy duty," said Don Quixote, "for it is not
necessary to be a dubbed knight to engage in battles such as these."

"Right!" replied Sancho, "but where shall we stow this ass that we may
be sure of finding him after the fight is over, for I think it is not
the custom to enter into battle mounted on such a beast."

"That is true," said Don Quixote; "but thou mayest safely leave it to
chance whether he be lost or found, for after this battle we shall
have so many horses that even Rozinante runs a risk of being changed
for another. And now let us withdraw to that hillock yonder that we
may get a better view of both those great armies."

They did so, and standing on the top of a hill gazed at the two great
clouds of dust which the imagination of Don Quixote had turned into
armies. And then Don Quixote, with all the eloquence he could muster,
described to Sancho the names of the different knights in the two
armies, with their colours and devices and mottoes, and the numbers of
their squadrons, and the countries and provinces from which they came.

But though Sancho stood and listened in wonder he could see nothing as
yet of knights or armies, and at last he cried out: "Where are all
these grand knights, good my master? For myself, I can see none of
them. But perhaps it is all enchantment, as so many things have been."

"How! Sayest them so?" said Don Quixote. "Dost thou not hear the
horses neigh and the trumpets sound and the noise of the drums?"

"I hear nothing else," said Sancho, "but the great bleating of sheep."

And so it was, indeed, for by this time the two flocks were
approaching very near to them.

"The fear thou art in," said Don Quixote, "permits thee neither to see
nor hear aright, for one of the effects of fear is to disturb the
senses and make things seem different from what they are. If thou art
afraid, stand to one side and leave me to myself, for I alone can give
the victory to the side which I assist."

So saying he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and, setting his lance in
rest, rode down the hillside like a thunderbolt.

Sancho shouted after him as loud as he could: "Return, good Sir Don
Quixote! Return! For verily all those you go to charge are but sheep
and muttons. Return, I say! Alas that ever I was born! What madness is
this? Look, there are neither knights, nor arms, nor shields, nor
soldiers, nor emperors, but only sheep. What is it you do, Wretch that
I am?"

For all this Don Quixote did not turn back, but rode on, shouting in a
loud voice: "So ho! knights! Ye that serve and fight under the banner
of Pentapolin of the Naked Arm, follow me, all of you. Ye shall see
how easily I will revenge him on his enemy Alifamfaron of Trapobana!"

With these words he dashed into the midst of the flock of sheep, and
began to spear them with as much courage and fury as if he were
fighting his mortal enemies.

The shepherds that came with the flock cried to him to leave off, but
seeing their words had no effect, they unloosed their slings and began
to salute his head with stones as big as one's fist.

But Don Quixote made no account of their stones, and galloping to and
fro everywhere cried out: "Where art thou, proud Alifamfaron? Where
art thou? Come to me, for I am but one knight alone, who desires to
prove my strength with thee, man to man, and make thee yield thy life
for the wrong thou hast done to the valorous Pentapolin."

At that instant a stone gave him such a blow that it buried two of his
ribs in his body. Finding himself so ill-treated he thought for
certain that he was killed or sorely wounded, and recollecting his
balsam, he drew out his oil pot and set it to his mouth to drink. But
before he could take as much as he wanted, another stone struck him
full on the hand, broke the oil pot into pieces, and carried away with
it three or four teeth out of his mouth, and sorely crushed two
fingers of his hand. So badly was he wounded by these two blows that
he now fell off his horse on to the ground.

The shepherds ran up, and believing that they had killed him, they
collected their flocks in great haste, and carrying away their dead
muttons, of which there were seven, they went away without caring to
inquire into things any further.

Sancho was all this time standing on the hill looking at the mad
pranks his master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing
the hour when they had first met. Seeing, however, that he was fallen
on the ground, and the shepherds had gone away, he came down the hill
and went up to his master, and found him in a very bad way, although
not quite insensible.

"Did I not tell you, Sir Don Quixote," said Sancho mournfully, "did I
not tell you to come back, for those you went to attack were not
armies but sheep?"

"That thief of an enchanter, my enemy, can alter things and make men
vanish away as he pleases. Know, Sancho, that it is very easy for
those kind of men to make us seem what they please, and this malicious
being who persecutes me, envious of the glory that I was to reap from
this battle, hath changed the squadrons of the foe into flocks of
sheep. If thou dost not believe me, Sancho, get on thine ass and
follow them fair and softly, and thou shalt see that when they have
gone a little way off they will return to their original shapes, and,
ceasing to be sheep, become men as right and straight as I painted
them to you at first."

At this moment the balsam that Don Quixote had swallowed began to make
him very sick, and Sancho Panza ran off to search in his wallet for
something that might cure him. But when he found that his wallet was
not upon his ass, and remembered for the first time that it was left
at the inn, he was on the point of losing his wits. He cursed himself
anew, and resolved in his heart to leave his master and return to his
house, even though he should lose his wages and the government of the
promised island.

Don Quixote had now risen, and with his left hand to his mouth that
the rest of his teeth might not fall out, with the other he took
Rozinante by the bridle, and went up to where his squire stood leaning
against his ass with his head in his hand, looking the picture of
misery.

Don Quixote, seeing him look so miserable, said to him: "Learn,
Sancho, not to be so easily downcast, for these storms that befall us
are signs that the weather will soon be fair. Therefore thou shouldst
not vex thyself about my misfortunes, for sure thou dost not share in
them."

"How not?" replied Sancho; "mayhap he they tossed in a blanket
yesterday was not my father's son? And the wallet which is missing
to-day with all my chattels, is not that my misfortune?"

"What, is the wallet missing, Sancho?" said Don Quixote,

"Yes, it is missing," answered Sancho.

"In that case we have nothing to eat to-day," said Don Quixote.

"It would be so," said Sancho, "should the herbs of the field fail us,
which your worship says you know of, and with which you have told me
knights-errant must supply their wants."

"Nevertheless," answered Don Quixote, "I would rather just now have a
hunch of bread, or a cottage loaf and a couple of pilchards' heads,
than all the herbs that Dioscorides has described. But before thou
mountest thine ass, lend me here thy hand and see how many teeth are
lacking on this right side of my upper jaw, for there I feel the
pain."

Sancho put his fingers in, and, feeling about, asked: "How many teeth
did your worship have before, on this side?"

"Four," replied Don Quixote, "besides the wisdom tooth, all whole and
sound."

"Mind well what you say, sir," answered Sancho.

"Four, say I, if not five," said Don Quixote, "for in all my life I
never had tooth drawn from my mouth, nor has any fallen out or been
destroyed by decay."

"Well, then, in this lower part," said Sancho, "your worship has but
two teeth and a half, and in the upper, neither a half nor any, for
all is as smooth as the palm of my hand."

"Unfortunate I!" exclaimed Don Quixote, "for I would rather they had
deprived me of my arm, as long as it were not my sword arm. Know,
Sancho, that a mouth without teeth is like a mill without a
grindstone, and a tooth is more to be prized than a millstone. But all
this must we suffer who profess the stern rule of knights-errant.
Mount, friend, and lead the way, for I will follow thee what pace thou
pleasest."




DON QUIXOTE DOES PENANCE AS DID THE KNIGHTS OF OLD

Retold by Judge Parry


Don Quixote mounted once again on Rozinante, and commanded Sancho to
follow him. Dapple, the ass, had been stolen from them one night while
they slept, and Sancho was now obliged to walk. They travelled slowly
through the thickest and roughest part of the mountains. "What is it
that your worship intends to do in this out of the way spot?" asked
Sancho.

"I will keep you no longer in the dark," replied Don Quixote. "You
must know that Amadis of Gaul was the most perfect of all
knights-errant. And as he was the morning star and the sun of all
valiant knights, so am I wise in imitating all he did. And I remember
that when his lady Oriana disdained his love, he showed his wisdom,
virtue, and manhood by changing his name to Beltenebros and retiring
to a wild country, there to perform a penance. And as I may more
easily imitate him in this than in staying giants, beheading serpents,
killing monsters, destroying armies, and putting navies to flight, and
because this mountain seems fit for the purpose, I intend myself to do
penance here."

By this time they had arrived at the foot of a lofty mountain, which
stood like a huge rock apart from all the rest. Close by glided a
smooth river, hemmed in on every side by a green and fertile
meadow. Around were many fine trees and plants and flowers, which made
the spot a most delightful one.

"Here!" cried Don Quixote in a loud voice, "I elect to do my
penance. Here shall the tears from my eyes swell the limpid streams,
and here shall the sighs of my heart stir the leaves of every mountain
tree. O Dulcinea of Toboso, day of my night and star of my fortunes,
consider the pass to which I am come, and return a favourable answer
to my wishes!"

With this he alighted from Rozinante, and, taking off his saddle and
bridle, gave him a slap on his haunches, and said: "He gives thee
liberty that wants it himself, O steed, famous for thy swiftness and
the great works thou hast done!"

When Sancho heard all this he could not help saying: "I wish Dapple
were here, for he deserves at least as long a speech in his praise;
but truly, sir knight, if my journey with your letter, and your
penance here are really to take place, it would be better to saddle
Rozinante again, that he may supply the want of mine ass that was
stolen from me."

"As thou likest about that," said Don Quixote; "but thou must not
depart for three days as yet, during which time thou shalt see what I
will say and do for my lady's sake, that thou mayest tell her all
about it."

"But what more can I see," asked Sancho, "than what I have already
seen?"

"Thou art well up in the matter, certainly," replied his master, "for
as yet I have done nothing, and if I am to be a despairing lover, I
must tear my clothes, and throw away mine armour, and beat my head
against these rocks, with many other things that shall make thee
marvel."

"For goodness' sake," cried Sancho, "take care how you go knocking
your head against rocks, for you might happen to come up against so
ungracious a rock that it would put an end to the penance
altogether. If the knocks on the head are necessary, I should content
yourself, seeing that this madness is all make-believe, with striking
your head on some softer thing, and leave the rest to me, for I will
tell your lady that I saw you strike your head on the point of a rock
that was harder than a diamond."

"I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good will," replied the knight, "but
the rules of knighthood forbid me to act or to speak a lie, and
therefore the knocks of the head must be real solid knocks, and it
will be necessary for thee to leave me some lint to cure them, seeing
that fortune has deprived us of that precious balsam."

"It was worse to lose the ass," said Sancho, "seeing that with him we
lost lint and everything; but pray, your worship, never mention that
horrible balsam again, for the very name of it nearly turns me inside
out. And now write your letter, and let me saddle Rozinante and
begone, for I warrant when I once get to Toboso I will tell the Lady
Dulcinea such strange things of your follies and madness, that I shall
make her as soft as a glove even though I find her harder than a
cork-tree. And with her sweet and honied answer I will return as
speedily as a witch on a broom-stick, and release you from your
penance."

"But how shall we write a letter here?" said Don Quixote.

"And how can you write the order for the handing over to me of the
ass-colts?" asked Sancho.

"Seeing there is no paper," said the knight, "we might, like the
ancients, write on waxen tablets, but that wax is as hard to find as
paper. But now that I come to think of it, there is Cardenio's
pocket-book. I will write on that, and thou shalt have the matter of
it written out in a good round hand at the first village wherein thou
shalt find a schoolmaster."

"But what is to be done about the signature?" asked Sancho.

"The letters of Amadis were never signed," replied Don Quixote.

"That is all very well," said Sancho, "but the paper for the three
asses must be signed, for if it be copied out they shall say it is
false, and then I shall not get the ass-colts."

"Well, then, the order for the ass-colts shall be signed in the book,"
said Don Quixote; "and as for the love-letter, thou shalt put this
ending to it, 'Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance.' And it will be no great matter that it goes in a
strange hand, for as well as I remember Dulcinea can neither read nor
write, nor has she ever seen my handwriting. For indeed, during the
twelve years I have been loving her more dearly than the light of my
eyes, I have only seen her four times, and I doubt if she hath ever
noticed me at all, so closely have her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and
her mother Aldonza brought her up."

"Ha! ha!" cried Sancho, "then the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso is the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, and is called Aldonza Corchuelo?"

"That is she," said Don Quixote, "and a lady worthy to be the empress
of this wide universe."

"I know her very well," replied Sancho, "and can tell you that she can
throw an iron bar with the strongest lad in our village. She is a girl
of mettle, tall and stout, and a sturdy lass that can hold her own
with any knight-errant in the world. Out upon her, what an arm she
hath! Why, I saw her one day stand on top of the church belfry, to
call her father's servants from the fields, and, though they were half
a league off, they heard her as though she were in the next field; and
the best of her is there is nothing coy about her, but she jokes with
all and makes game and jest of everybody. To be frank with you, Sir
Don Quixote, I have been living under a great mistake, for, really and
truly, I thought all this while that the lady Dulcinea was some great
princess with whom your worship was in love."

"I have told thee, Sancho, many times before now," said Don Quixote,
"that thou art a very great babbler. Understand, then, that my lady
Dulcinea is to me as good and beautiful as any princess in the world,
and that is enough."

With these words; he took out the pocket-book, and, going aside, began
to write with great gravity. When he had ended, he called Sancho to
him and read him the following letter:--


"SOVEREIGN LADY,

"The sere wounded one, O sweetest Dulcinea of Toboso, sends thee the
health which he wants himself. If thy beauty disdain me, I cannot
live. My good Squire Sancho will give thee ample account, O ungrateful
fair one, of the penance I do for love of thee. Should it be thy
pleasure to favour me, I am thine. If not, by ending my life I shall
satisfy both thy cruelty and my desires.

"Thine until death,

"KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE."


"By my father's life," said Sancho, "it is the noblest thing that ever
I heard in my life; and now will your worship write the order for the
three ass-colts?"

"With pleasure," answered Don Quixote, and he did as he was desired.

"And now," said Sancho, "let me saddle Rozinante and be off. For I
intend to start without waiting to see those mad pranks your worship
is going to play. There is one thing I am afraid of, though, and that
is, that on my return I shall not be able to find the place where I
leave you, it is so wild and difficult."

"Take the marks well, and when thou shouldst return I will mount to
the tops of the highest rocks. Also it will be well to cut down some
boughs and strew them after you as you go, that they may serve as
marks to find your way back."

Sancho did this, and, not heeding his master's request to stay and see
him go through some mad tricks in order that he might describe them to
Dulcinea, he mounted Rozinante and rode away.

He had not got more than a hundred paces when he returned and said:
"Sir, what you said was true, and it would be better for my conscience
if I saw the follies you are about to do before I describe them to
your lady."

"Did I not tell thee so?" said Don Quixote; "wait but a minute."

Then stripping himself in all haste of most of his clothes, Don
Quixote began cutting capers and turning somersaults in his shirt
tails, until even Sancho was satisfied that he might truthfully tell
the Lady Dulcinea that her lover was mad, and so, turning away, he
started in good earnest upon his journey.




SANCHO'S JOURNEY TO THE LADY DULCINEA

Retold by Judge Parry


Don Quixote, left to himself, climbed to the top of a high mountain,
and spent his days making poems about the beautiful Dulcinea, which he
recited to the rocks and trees around him. In this, and in calling
upon the nymphs of the streams, and the satyrs of the woods, to hear
his cries, did he pass his time while Sancho was away.

As for his squire, turning out on the highway, he took the road which
led to Toboso, and arrived the next day at the inn where he had been
tossed in a blanket. He no sooner saw it than he imagined that he was
once again flying through the air, and he half made up his mind that
he would not enter the inn, although it was now dinner-hour and he
felt a marvellous longing to taste some cooked meat again, as he had
eaten nothing but cold fare for a good many days.

This longing made him draw near to the inn, remaining still in some
doubt as to whether he should enter it or not.

As he stood musing, there came out of the inn two persons who
recognised him at once, and the one said to the other: "Tell me, sir
curate, is not that horseman riding there Sancho Panza, who departed
with Don Quixote to be his squire?"

"It is," said the curate, "and that is Don Quixote's horse."

They knew him well enough, for they were Don Quixote's friends, the
curate and the barber, who not so long ago had helped to burn his
books and wall up his library; so, wanting to learn news of Don
Quixote, they went up to him and said: "Friend Sancho Panza, where
have you left your master?"

Sancho Panza knew them instantly, but wanted to conceal the place and
manner in which the knight remained, and answered that his master was
kept in a certain place by affairs of the greatest importance of which
he must say nothing.

"That will not do, friend Sancho," said the barber. "If thou dost not
tell us where he is, we shall believe that thou hast robbed and slain
him, seeing that thou art riding his horse. Verily thou must find us
the owner of the steed, or it will be the worse for thee."

"Your threats do not trouble me, for I am not one who would rob or
murder anybody, and, for my master, he is enjoying himself doing
penance in the Brown Mountains, where I have just left him."

Then Sancho told them from beginning to end how his master was
carrying out his penance, and of the mad pranks he intended to
perform, and how he, Sancho, was bearing a letter to the Lady Dulcinea
of Toboso, who was none other than the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo,
with whom the knight was head and ears in love.

Both of them were amazed at what they heard, although they knew
something of Don Quixote's madness already. They asked Sancho to show,
them the letter he was carrying to the Lady Dulcinea. Sancho told
them it was written in the pocket-book, and that he was ordered to get
it copied out at the first village he came to.

The curate told him that if he would show it to them, he would make a
fair copy of it for him. Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosom
to search for the little book, but he could not find it, nor would he
have found it if he had hunted until Doomsday, for he had left it with
Don Quixote, who had quite forgotten to give it to him, nor had he
remembered to ask for it when he came away. When Sancho discovered
that the book was lost, his face grew as pale as death, and feeling
all over his body he saw clearly that it was not to be found. Without
more ado he laid hold of his beard, and with both his fists plucked
out half his hair and gave himself half a dozen blows about his face
and nose, so that he was soon bathed in his own blood.

Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what was the matter,
that he should treat himself so ill.

"What is the matter?" cried poor Sancho. "Why, I have let slip
through my fingers three of the finest ass-colts you ever saw."

"How so?" asked the barber.

"Why, I have lost the pocket-book," replied Sancho, "which had in it
not only the letter for Dulcinea, but also a note of hand signed by my
master addressed to his niece, ordering her to give me three ass-colts
of the four or five that were left at his house." So saying, he told
them the story of his lost Dapple.

The curate comforted him by telling him that as soon as they had found
his master they would get him to write out the paper again in proper
form. With this Sancho took courage, and said if that could be done
all would be right, for he cared not much for the loss of Dulcinea's
letter, as he knew it by heart.

"Say it then, Sancho," said the barber, "and we will write it out."

Then Sancho stood still and began to scratch his head and try to call
the letter to memory. He stood first on one leg and then on the other,
and looked first to heaven and then to earth, while he gnawed off half
his nails, and at the end of a long pause said: "I doubt if I can
remember all, but it began, 'High and unsavoury lady.'"

"I warrant you," interrupted the barber, "it was not 'unsavoury' but
'sovereign lady.'"

"So it was," cried Sancho; "and then there was something about the
wounded one sending health and sickness and what not to the ungrateful
fair, and so it scrambled along until it ended in 'Yours till death,
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'"

They were both much amused at Sancho's good memory, and praised it
highly, asking him to repeat the letter once or twice more to them, so
that they might be able to write it down when they got a chance. Three
times did Sancho repeat it, and each time he made as many new
mistakes. Then he told them other things about his master, but never a
word about being tossed in a blanket, although he refused, without
giving any reason, to enter the inn, though he begged them to bring
him something nice and hot to eat, and some barley for Rozinante, when
they had finished their own repast.

With that they went into the inn, and after a while the curate brought
him some meat, which Sancho was very glad to see.

Now whilst the curate and the barber were in the inn they discussed
together the best means of bringing Don Quixote back to his home, and
the curate hit upon a plan which fitted in well with Don Quixote's
humour, and seemed likely to be successful. This plan was, as he told
the barber, to dress himself like a wandering damsel, while the barber
took the part of her squire, and in this disguise they were to go to
where Don Quixote was undergoing his penance, and the curate,
pretending that he was an afflicted and sorely distressed damsel, was
to demand of him a boon, which as a valiant knight errant he could not
refuse.

The service which the damsel was to ask was that Don Quixote would
follow her where she should lead him, to right a wrong which some
wicked knight had done her. Besides this, she was to pray him not to
command her to unveil herself or inquire as to her condition, until he
had done her right against the wicked knight. And thus they hoped to
lead Don Quixote back to his own village, and afterwards to cure him
of his mad ideas.

The curate's notion pleased the barber well, and they resolved to
carry it out. They borrowed of the innkeeper's wife a gown and a
head-dress, leaving with her in exchange the curate's new cassock. The
barber made for himself a great beard of a red ox's tail in which the
innkeeper used to hang his horse-comb.

The innkeeper's wife asked them what they wanted these things for, and
the curate told her shortly all about Don Quixote's madness, and how
this disguise was necessary to bring him away from the mountains where
he had taken up his abode.

The innkeeper and his wife then remembered all about their strange
guest, and told the barber and the curate all about him and his
balsam, and how Sancho had fared with the blanket. Then the
innkeeper's wife dressed up the curate so cleverly that it could not
have been better done. She attired him in a stuff gown with bands of
black velvet several inches broad, and a bodice and sleeves of green
velvet trimmed with white satin, both of which might have been made in
the days of the Flood. The curate would not consent to wear a
headdress like a woman's, but put on a white quilted linen nightcap,
which he carried to sleep in. Then with two strips of black stuff he
made himself a mask and fixed it on, and this covered his face and
beard very neatly. He then put on his large hat, and, wrapping himself
in his cloak, seated himself like a woman sideways on his mule, whilst
the barber mounted his, with a beard reaching down to his girdle,
made, as was said, from a red ox's tail.

They now took their leave, and all at the inn wished them a good
success; but they had not gone very far when the curate began to dread
that he was not doing right in dressing up as a woman and gadding
about in such a costume, even on so good an errand. He therefore
proposed to the barber that he should be the distressed damsel, and
he, the curate, would take the part of the squire and teach him what
to say and how to behave. Sancho now came up to them, and, seeing them
in their strange dresses, could not contain his laughter.

The curate soon threw off his disguise, and the barber did the same,
and both resolved not to dress up any more until they should come
nearer to Don Quixote, when the barber should be the distressed damsel
and the curate should be the squire.

Then they pursued their journey towards the Brown Mountains, guided by
Sancho, to whom they explained that it was necessary that his master
should be led away from his penance, if he was ever to become an
emperor and be in a position to give Sancho his desired island.




THE STORY OF CARDENIO

Retold by Judge Parry


The next day they arrived at the place where Sancho had left the
boughs strewn along his path, and there he told them they were near to
Don Quixote, and that they had better get dressed. For they had told
Sancho part of their plan to take away his master from this wretched
penance he was performing, and warned him not to tell the knight who
they were. They also said that if Don Quixote asked, as they were sure
he would, whether he had delivered his letter to Dulcinea, he was to
say that he had done so; but as his lady could not read, she had sent
a message that he was to return to her. Sancho listened to all this
talk, and said he would remember everything, for he was anxious that
his master should give up penances and go forth again in search of
islands. He also suggested that it were best he should go on in
advance, as perhaps the message from Dulcinea would of itself be
enough to bring Don Quixote away from the mountains.

With that, Sancho went off into the mountain gorges, leaving the other
two behind by a stream overhung with pleasant trees and rocks.

It was one of the hottest days of August, when in those parts the heat
is very great, and it was about three in the afternoon when Sancho
left them. The two were resting in the shade at their ease when they
heard the sound of a voice, not accompanied by any instrument, but
singing very sweetly and melodiously. The song surprised them not a
little, for this did not seem the place in which to find so good a
singer.

The singer finished his song, and the barber and curate, in wonder and
delight, listened for more. But as silence continued, they agreed to
go in search of this strange musician. As they were moving away he
again burst into song, and at the end of this, uttered a deep sigh,
and the music was changed into sobs and heartrending moans.

They had not gone far in their search when, in turning the corner of a
rock, they saw a man with a black and matted beard, his hair long and
untangled, his feet unshod and his legs bare. The curate at once went
up to him and the man returned his greeting in a hoarse tone but with
great courtesy.

"Whoever you may be, good sirs, I see clearly that, unworthy as I am,
there are yet human beings who would show me kindness. My name is
Cardenio; the place of my birth one of the best cities in Andalusia;
my lineage noble, my parents rich, and my misfortunes so great that I
think no one was ever to be pitied as I am. A terrible madness masters
me to live in these mountains and many blame my outrageous conduct
rather than pity my misery. But if you will listen to my story, you
will know why I have been driven here, what has made me mad, and will
understand how far I ought to be blamed and how much I may be pitied."

The curate and the barber, who wanted nothing better than to learn the
cause of his woe from his own lips, asked him to tell his story.

Upon this Cardenio began in the middle of his story and progressed
rapidly in spite of repeated questioning until he came to the book
that his beloved Lucinda had borrowed about Amadis Gaul.

There was no interruption from any one on this occasion, so Cardenio
went on to tell them how, when Lucinda returned the book he found in
it a letter full of tender wishes beautifully expressed.

"It was this letter," continued Cardenio, "that moved me to again ask
Lucinda for wife; it was this letter also which made Don Fernando
determine to ruin me before my happiness could be complete. I told
Don Fernando how matters stood with me, and how her father expected
mine to ask for Lucinda, and how I dared not speak to my father about
it for fear he should refuse his consent; not because he was ignorant
of the beauty and worth of Lucinda, but because he did not wish me to
marry so soon, or at least not until he had seen what the Duke Ricardo
would do for me. I told Don Fernando that I could not venture to speak
to my father about it, and he offered to speak on my behalf, and
persuade my father to ask for Lucinda's hand.

"How could I imagine that with a gentleman like Fernando, my own
friend, such a thing as treachery was possible? But so it was! And my
friend, as I thought him, knowing that my presence was a
stumbling-block to his plans, asked me to go to his elder brother's to
borrow some money from him to pay for six horses which Fernando had
bought in the city. It never entered my thoughts to imagine his
villainy, and I went with a right good will to do his errand. That
night I spoke with Lucinda, and told her what had been arranged
between me and Fernando, telling her to hope that all would turn out
well. As I left her, tears filled her eyes, and we both seemed full of
misery and alarm, tokens, as I now think, of the dark fate that
awaited me. I reached the town to which I was sent, and delivered my
letters to Don Fernando's brother. I was well received, but there
seemed no haste to send me back again, and I was put off with many
excuses about the difficulty of raising the money that Don Fernando
needed. In this way I rested several days, much to my disgust, and it
seemed to me impossible to live apart from Lucinda for so long a time.

"But on the fourth day after I had arrived, there came a man in search
of me with a letter, which, by the handwriting, I knew to be
Lucinda's. I opened it, not without fear, knowing that it must be some
serious matter which would lead her to write to me, seeing she did it
so rarely. I asked the bearer, before I read the letter, who had given
it to him, and how long it had been on the way. He answered that,
passing by chance at midday through a street in my native city, a very
beautiful lady had called to him from a window. Poor thing, said he,
her eyes were all bedewed with tears, and she spoke hurriedly, saying:
'Brother, if thou art a good man, as thou seemest to be, I pray thee
take this letter to the person named in the address, and in so doing
thou shalt do me a great service. And that thou mayest not want money
to do it, take what thou shalt find wrapped in that handkerchief.'

"'So saying she threw out of the window a handkerchief in which was
wrapped a hundred _reals_, this ring of gold which I carry here,
and this letter which I have given you. I made signs to her that I
would do what she bade, and as I knew you very well I made up my mind
not to trust any other messenger, but to come myself, and so I have
travelled this journey, which you know is some eighteen leagues, in
but sixteen hours.'

"Whilst the kind messenger was telling his story, I remained trembling
with the letter in my hand, until at last I took courage and opened
it, when these words caught my eyes:--

"'The promise Don Fernando made to you to persuade your father to
speak to mine, he has kept after his own fashion. Know, then, that he
has himself asked me for wife, and my father, carried away by his rank
and position, has agreed to his wishes, so that in two days we are to
be privately married. Imagine how I feel, and consider if you should
not come at once. Let me hope that this reaches your hand ere mine be
joined to his who keeps his promised faith so ill.'

"Such were the words of her letter, and they caused me at once to set
out on my journey without waiting for the despatch of Don Fernando's
business, for now I knew that it was not a matter of buying horses,
but the pursuit of his own wretched pleasure, that had led to my being
sent to his brother. The rage which I felt for Don Fernando, joined to
the fear I had of losing the jewel I had won by so many years of
patient love, seemed to lend me wings, and I arrived at my native city
as swiftly as though I had flown, just in time to see and speak with
Lucinda. I entered the city secretly, and left my mule at the house of
the honest man who had brought my letter, and went straight to the
little iron gate where I had so often met Lucinda.

"There I found her, and as soon as she saw me she said in deep
distress: 'Cardenio, I am attired in wedding garments, and in the hall
there waits for me the traitor, Don Fernando, and my covetous father,
with other witnesses, who shall see my death rather than my wedding.
Be not troubled, dear friend, for if I cannot persuade them to give me
my freedom, I can at least end my life with this dagger.'

"I answered her in great distress, saying: 'Sweet lady, if thou
carriest a dagger, I also carry a sword to defend thy life, or to kill
myself, should fortune be against us.'

"I believe she did not hear all I said, for she was hastily called
away, and I aroused myself from my grief, as best I could, and went
into the house, for I knew well all the entrances and exits. Then,
without being seen, I managed to place myself in a hollow formed by
the window of the great hall, which was covered by two pieces of
tapestry drawn together, whence I could see all that went on in the
hall without any one seeing me.

"The bridegroom entered the hall, wearing his ordinary dress. His
groomsman was a first cousin of Lucinda's, and no one else was in the
room but the servants of the house. In a little while Lucinda came out
of her dressing-room with her mother and two of her maids. My anxiety
gave me no time to note what she wore. I was only able to mark the
colours, which were crimson and white; and I remember the glimmer with
which the jewels and precious stones shone in her head-dress. But all
this was as nothing to the singular beauty of her fair golden hair.

"When they were all stood in the hall, the priest of the parish
entered, and, taking each by the hand, asked: 'Will you, Lady Lucinda,
take the Lord Don Fernando for your lawful husband?' I thrust my head
and neck out of the tapestry to hear what Lucinda answered. The priest
stood waiting for a long time before she gave it, and then, when I
expected, nay, almost hoped, that she would take out the dagger to
stab herself, or unloose her tongue to speak the truth, or make some
confession of her love for me, I heard her say in a faint and
languishing voice, 'I will.'

"Then Don Fernando said the same, and, giving her the ring, the knot
was tied. But when the bridegroom approached to embrace her, she put
her hand to her heart and fell fainting in her mother's arms.

"It remains only for me to tell in what a state I was, when in that
'Yes!' I saw all my hopes at an end. I burned with rage and jealousy.
All the house was in a tumult when Lucinda fainted, and, her mother
unclasping her dress to give her air, found in her bosom a paper,
which Fernando seized and went aside to read by the light of a torch.
Whilst he read it he fell into a chair and covered his face with his
hands in melancholy discontent.

"Seeing every one was in confusion I ventured forth, not caring where
I went, not having even a desire to take vengeance on my enemies. I
left the house, and came to where I had left my mule, which I caused
to be saddled. Then without a word of farewell to any one I rode out
of the city, and never turned my head to look back at it again.

"All night I travelled, and about dawn I came to one of the entrances
to these mountains, through which I wandered three days at random. I
then left my mule, and such things as I had, and took to living in
these wilds. My most ordinary dwelling is in the hollow of a
cork-tree, which is large enough to shelter this wretched body. The
goatherds who live among these mountains give me food out of charity.
They tell me, when they meet me in my wits, that at other times I rush
out at them and seize with violence the food they would offer me in
kindness.

"I know that I do a thousand mad things, but without Lucinda I shall
never recover my reason, and I feel certain that my misery can only be
ended by death."




THE STORY OF DOROTHEA

Retold by Judge Parry


As soon as Cardenio had finished his melancholy story, the curate was
about to offer him some consolation, when he was stopped by hearing a
mournful voice calling out: "Oh that I could find an end to this life
of misery! Alas, how much more agreeable to me is the company of these
rocks and thickets than the society of faithless man! Would that I had
any one to advise me in difficulty, to comfort me in distress, or to
avenge my wrongs!" This was overheard by the curate and all who were
with him, and thinking that the person who spoke must be hard by, they
went to search, and had not gone twenty paces when they saw behind a
large rock a boy sitting under an ash-tree. He wore a peasant's dress,
but as he was bending down to wash his feet in the brook, his head was
turned from them. They approached softly and without speaking, while
his whole attention was employed in bathing his legs in the stream.
They wondered at the whiteness and beauty of his feet, that did not
seem formed to tread the furrows, or follow the cattle or the plough,
as his dress seemed to suggest. The curate, who was ahead of the rest,
made signs to them to crouch down, or hide themselves behind a rock.
This done, they all gazed at the beautiful youth, who was clad in a
grey jacket, and wore breeches and hose of the same cloth, with a grey
hunting-cap on his head. Having washed his delicate feet, he wiped
them with a handkerchief which he took out of his cap, and in doing so
he raised his head, showing to those who were looking at him a face of
such exquisite beauty that Cardenio murmured: "Since this is not
Lucinda, it can be no earthly but some celestial being."

The youth took off his cap, and, shaking his head, a wealth of hair,
that Apollo might have envied, fell down upon his shoulders, and
discovered to them all that the peasant was not only a woman, but one
of the most delicate and handsome women they had ever seen. Even
Cardenio had to admit to himself that only Lucinda could rival her in
beauty. Her golden locks fell down in such length and quantity that
they not only covered her shoulders, but concealed everything except
her feet, and the bystanders more than ever desired to know who this
mysterious beauty might be. Some one advanced, and at the noise the
beauteous phantasy raised her head, and thrust aside her locks with
both hands, to see what it was that had startled her. No sooner did
she perceive them than she started up, and, without staying to put on
her shoes or tie up her hair, seized her bundle, and took to flight
full of alarm, but she had not run six yards when her delicate feet,
unable to bear the roughness of the stones, failed her, and she fell
to the ground.

They all ran to her assistance, and the curate, who was first, said:
"Stay, madam, whosoever you are; those you see here have no desire to
harm you, and there is therefore no necessity whatever for flight."

To this she made no reply, being ashamed and confused, but the curate,
taking her hand, continued in a kindly manner: "Madam, it can be no
slight cause that has hidden your beauty in such an unworthy disguise,
and brought you to this lonely place where we have found you. Let us
at least offer you our advice and counsel in your distress, for no
sorrow can be so great that kind words may not be of service. Therefore,
madam, tell us something of your good or evil fortune, that we may
help you in your troubles as best we can."

At first, while the curate spoke, the disguised damsel stood rapt in
attention, and gaped and gazed at them all as if she were some stupid
villager, who did not understand what was said; but finding that the
curate understood something of her secret, she sighed deeply, and
said: "Since these mountains cannot conceal me, and my poor hair
betrays my secret, it would be vain for me to pretend things which you
could not be expected to believe. Therefore I thank you all,
gentlemen, for your kindness and courtesy, and I will tell you
something of my misfortunes, not to win your pity, but that you may
know why it is I wander here alone and in this strange disguise."

All this was said in such a sweet voice, and in so sensible a manner,
that they again assured her of their wish to serve her, and begged
that she would tell them her story.

To this she replied by putting on her shoes and binding up her hair,
and seating herself upon a rock in the midst of her three hearers.
Then, brushing away a few tears from her eyes, she began in a clear
voice the story of her life.

"In the Province of Andalusia there is a certain town from which a
great duke takes his name, which makes him one of our grandees, as
they are called in Spain. He has two sons. The elder is heir to his
estates, the younger is heir to I know not what, unless it be his
father's evil qualities. To this nobleman my parents are vassals, of
humble and low degree, but still so rich that if nature had gifted
them with birth equal to their wealth, I should have been nobly born,
nor should I now have suffered these strange misfortunes. They are but
farmers and plain people, and what they mostly prized was their
daughter, whom they thought to be the best treasure they had. As they
had no other child, they were almost too affectionate and indulgent,
and I was their spoilt child. And as I was the mistress of their
affection, so also was I mistress of all their goods. I kept the
reckoning of their oil-mills, their wine-presses, their cattle and
sheep, their beehives--in a word, of all that a rich farmer like my
father could possess. I engaged and dismissed the servants, and was
the stewardess of the estate. The spare hours that were left from the
management of the farm I spent with the needle, the lace cushion, and
the distaff, or else I would read some good hook or practise upon my
harp.

"This was the life that I led in my father's house. And though I
seldom went abroad except to church, yet it seems I had attracted the
eyes of the duke's younger son, Don Fernando, for so he was called."

No sooner did she mention the name of Don Fernando than Cardenio's
face changed colour, and the curate and barber noticing it, feared
that he would burst out into one of his mad fits. But he did nothing
but tremble and remain silent, and the girl continued her story.

"No sooner, then, had Don Fernando seen me than he was smitten with
love for me, and from that moment I had no peace. I could not sleep
for his serenades. I had numerous letters from him, full of
declarations of love, and at last at his earnest entreaty we had many
meetings. But though he talked much of love, yet I knew that his
father would not allow him to marry the daughter of one of his own
vassals, and my parents both assured me that the duke would never
consent to our marriage.

"One evening Don Fernando gave me a beautiful ring, and promised that
he would always be true to me, and from that moment I felt that I was
betrothed to him, and that he really intended, in spite of the duke's
opposition, to make me his wife. For some days I lived in the
greatest joy, and Don Fernando came constantly to see me, but after a
while his visits grew less frequent, and at last ceased altogether,
and I heard that he had gone on a visit to another city.

"I waited in hopes of receiving a letter from him, but none came. Ah,
how sad and bitter those days and hours were to me, when I first began
to doubt and even to disbelieve in my lover's faith! I had to keep
watch on my tears, and wear a happy face for fear my parents should
find out the reason of my unhappiness. All this time of doubt,
however, came to an end at an instant. For at last it was announced in
the town that Don Fernando had married, in the city where he was
visiting, a damsel of exceeding beauty and of very noble birth called
Lucinda, and there were many strange tales told of their wedding."

Cardenio, hearing the name of Lucinda, did nothing but shrug his
shoulders, bow his head, and shed bitter tears. But yet, for all that,
Dorothea, for such was the maiden's name, did not interrupt the thread
of her story, but continued.

"When this doleful news reached my ears, I was inflamed with rage and
fury. I ordered one of my father's shepherds to attend me, and without
saying a word to my parents, I packed up some dresses and some money
and jewels, and set off on foot for the city where Don Fernando had
gone, that I might get from him at least some explanation of his
wickedness. In two days and a half I arrived at my journey's end, and
the first person I asked told me the whole story of Don Fernando's
wedding. He told me that at the time of the wedding, after Lucinda
had uttered her consent to be Fernando's wife, she had fainted, and
there fell from her bosom a letter written in her own hand, in which
she said that she could not be the wife of Don Fernando, because she
was betrothed to Cardenio, a gentleman of that city. The letter went
on to say that she intended to kill herself at the end of the
ceremony, and upon her was found a dagger, which seemed to bear out
what she said. Don Fernando seeing this, and thinking that Lucinda had
mocked him, would have stabbed her with the dagger had her parents not
prevented him. After this, I was told, Don Fernando fled, and I
learned that this Cardenio had been present at the wedding, and,
hearing her words, had vanished from the city in despair, leaving a
letter behind, declaring the wrongs Lucinda had done to him. The whole
city were talking of these terrible things, and they talked the more
when it was known that Lucinda was missing from her father's house,
and that her parents had almost lost their reason in their distress.
When I heard all these things I made up my mind I would find Don
Fernando, married or unmarried. But before I left the city on my
search, I was told there was a proclamation made by the public crier,
offering a large reward for any one who should bring me back to my
parents. Fearing that this might tempt the shepherd to betray my
whereabouts, I made my escape from the city, and in this disguise came
to the Brown Mountains, where I have lived for some months with an old
goatherd, and I help him to tend his goats. Here I have managed to
pass as a peasant lad until my hair betrayed me to you gentlemen as
what I am, a distressed and unfortunate maiden. This is indeed the
true story of my tragedy, for which consolation is in vain, and
relief, I fear me, impossible."




THE END OF THE PENANCE

Retold by Judge Parry

When the unfortunate Dorothea had finished her story, she remained
silent, her face flushed with sorrow; and as the priest was about to
comfort her, Cardenio took her by the hand and said: "Lady, thou art
the beautiful Dorothea, daughter unto rich Cleonardo."

Dorothea was amazed when she heard her father's name spoken by a
person of such wretched appearance as Cardenio, and answered: "Who art
thou, friend, that knowest so well my father's name? For, unless I am
mistaken, I did not once name him throughout all my story."

"I am," said Cardenio, "the unlucky one to whom Lucinda was betrothed;
and I, too, had thought that I was without hope of comfort. But now I
hear that Lucinda will not marry Fernando because she is mine, and
Fernando cannot marry Lucinda because he is yours, it seems to me that
there is yet some consolation for both of us. And I vow, on the faith
of a gentleman, not to forsake you until I see you in the possession
of Don Fernando."

The curate now told them both the nature of his errand, and begged
that they would join him in his travels, and stay as long as they
pleased at his village. By this time they heard the voice of Sancho
Panza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling out
as loudly as he might.

They went to meet him, and asked for Don Quixote. Sancho told them
that he had found him almost naked to his shirt, lean and yellow, half
dead with hunger, and sighing for the Lady Dulcinea; and although he
had told him that she commanded him to journey to Tohoso, yet he
declared that he had made up his mind not to appear before her until
he had done feats worthy of her great beauty.

The curate now returned and told Dorothea of their plan, and she at
once offered to act the part of the distressed damsel, for she had a
lady's dress in the bundle which she carried.

"The sooner, then, we set about our work the better," said the barber.

Dorothea retired to put on her robe of a fine rich woollen cloth, a
short mantle of another green stuff, and a collar and many rich jewels
which she took from a little casket. With these things she adorned
herself so gorgeously that she appeared to be a princess at
least. When Sancho saw her he was amazed, and asked the curate with
great eagerness to tell him who the lady was, and what she was doing
in these out of the way places.

"This beautiful lady, brother Sancho," replied the curate, "is the
heiress in direct line of the mighty Kingdom of Micomicon, who has
come in search of thy master, to ask of him a boon, which is to avenge
her of a wrong done by a wicked giant. And, owing to the great fame
of thy master which has spread through all lands, this beautiful
princess has come to find him out."

"A happy searcher and a happy finding," cried Sancho; "my master shall
soon slay the great lubber of a giant, unless he turn out to be a
phantom, for he has no power over those things. And when this is done,
my lord shall marry the princess, whose name, by the bye, you have not
yet told me, and by this means shall he become an emperor, and have
islands to give away."

"Her name," replied the curate, "is the Princess Micomicona, and as to
your master's marriage, I will do what I can to help."

Sancho was quite satisfied with these answers, and, when Dorothea had
mounted the mule, he guided them towards the spot where Don Quixote
was to be found. And as they went along, the barber told Sancho he
must in no way pretend to know who he was, for if he did, Don Quixote
would never leave the mountains and would never become an emperor. The
curate and Cardenio remained behind, promising to join them again on
the first opportunity.

Having travelled about three-quarters of a league, they found Don
Quixote clothed, though still unarmed, sitting amidst the rocks. No
sooner did Sancho tell Dorothea that this was his master than she
whipped up her palfrey, closely followed by the well-bearded barber,
who jumped from his mule, and ran to help his lady alight.

Quickly dismounting, she threw herself on her knees before Don
Quixote, and refusing his efforts to raise her, spoke as follows:
"Never will I rise from this position, most valiant and invincible
knight, until you grant me a boon which will not only add to your
honour and renown, but also assist the most injured and unfortunate
damsel that ever the sun beheld. And if the valour of your mighty arm
be equal to what I have heard of your immortal fame, you can indeed
render aid to a miserable being who comes from a far-distant land to
seek your help."

"Beauteous lady," replied Don Quixote, "I will not answer one word,
nor hear a jot of your affairs, until you rise from the ground."

"I will not rise, my lord," answered the unfortunate maiden, "until I
have obtained from you the boon I beg."

"Dear lady," replied Don Quixote, "it is granted, so that it be not
anything that touches my duty to my king, my country, or the chosen
queen of my heart."

"Your kindness shall in no way affect them," replied Dorothea.

At this moment Sancho came up and whispered softly in his master's
ear: "Sir, you may very well grant the request she asketh, for it is a
mere nothing; it is only to kill a monstrous giant, and she that
demands it is the Princess Micomicona, Queen of the great Kingdom of
Micomicon in Ethiopia."

"Let her be what she will," said Don Quixote, "I will do my duty
towards her." And then turning to the damsel, he said: "Rise, most
beautiful lady, for I grant you any boon you shall please to ask of
me."

"Why, then," said Dorothea, "what I ask of you is, that you will at
once come away with me to the place where I shall guide you, and that
you promise me not to undertake any new adventure, until you have
revenged me on a traitor who has driven me out of my kingdom."

"I grant your request," said Don Quixote, "and therefore, lady, you
may cast away from this day forward all the melancholy that troubles
you, for this mighty arm shall restore you to your kingdom."

The distressed damsel strove with much ado to kiss his hand, but Don
Quixote, who was a most courteous knight, would not permit it, and,
making her arise, treated her with the greatest respect.

He now commanded Sancho to saddle Rozinante and help him to arm
himself, and this done the knight was ready to depart. The barber, who
had been kneeling all the while, had great difficulty to stop laughing
aloud at all this, and his beard was in danger of falling off. He was
glad to get up and help his lady to mount the mule, and when Don
Quixote was mounted, and the barber himself had got upon his beast,
they were ready to start. As for Sancho, who trudged along on foot,
he could not help grieving for the loss of his Dapple; but he bore it
all with patience, for now he saw his master on the way to marry a
princess, and so become at least King of Micomicon, though it grieved
him to think that that country was peopled by blackamoors, and that
when he became a ruler his vassals would all be black.

While this was going on, the curate and Cardenio had not been
idle. For the curate was a cunning plotter, and had hit on a bright
idea. He took from his pocket a pair of scissors, and cut off
Cardenio's rugged beard and trimmed his hair very cleverly. And when
he had thrown his riding-cloak over Cardenio's shoulders, he was so
unlike what he was before, that he would not have known himself in a
looking-glass. This finished, they went out to meet Don Quixote and
the others.

When they came towards them, the curate looked earnestly at the knight
for some time, and then ran towards him with open arms, saying: "In a
good hour is this meeting with my worthy countryman, the mirror of
knighthood, Don Quixote of the Mancha, the champion of the
distressed."

Don Quixote did not at first know him, but when he remembered the
curate he wanted to alight, saying: "It is not seemly, reverend sir,
that I should ride whilst you travel on foot."

But the curate would not allow him to dismount and give him his horse,
but suggested that he might ride behind the lady's squire on his mule.

"I did not think of that, good master curate," said Don Quixote; "but
I know my lady the princess will for my sake order her squire to lend
you the use of his saddle."

"That I will," said the princess; "and I know my squire is the last
man to grudge a share of his beast to this reverend father."

"That is most certain," said the barber, and got off his steed at
once.

The curate now mounted, but the misfortune was that when the barber
tried to get up behind, the mule, which was a hired one, lifted up her
legs and kicked out with such fury that she knocked Mr. Nicholas to
the ground, and, as he rolled over, his beard fell off and lay upon
the earth. Don Quixote, seeing that huge mass of beard torn from the
jaw without blood, and lying at a distance from the squire's face,
said: "This, I vow, is one of the greatest miracles I ever saw in my
life. The beard is taken off as clean by the heel of the mule as if it
had been done by the hand of a barber."

The curate, seeing the risk they ran of their plan being found out,
came to where Master Nicholas was lying, and with one jerk clapped it
on again, muttering as he did so some Latin words, which he said were
a charm for fixing on beards.

By this means, to Don Quixote's amazement, the squire was cured again,
and he asked the curate to tell him this charm, which, he said, since
it could heal a wound of this kind, must be good for even more
dangerous injuries.

The curate agreed to tell him the secret some other day, and, having
mounted the mule, the party rode slowly away towards the inn.




THE JOURNEY TO THE INN

Retold by Judge Parry


The curate rode first on the mule, and with him rode Don Quixote and
the princess. The others, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza,
followed on foot.

And as they rode, Don Quixote said to the damsel: "Madam, let me
entreat your highness to lead the way that most pleaseth you."

Before she could answer, the curate said: "Towards what kingdoms would
you travel? Are you for your native land of Micomicon?"

She, who knew very well what to answer, being no babe, replied: "Yes,
sir, my way lies towards that kingdom."

"If it be so," said the curate, "you must pass through the village
where I dwell, and from thence your ladyship must take the road to
Carthagena, where you may embark. And, if you have a prosperous
journey, you may come within the space of nine years to the Lake
Meona, I mean Meolidas, which stands on this side of your highness's
kingdom some hundred days' journey or more."

"You are mistaken, good sir," said she, "for it is not yet fully two
years since I left there, and, though I never had fair weather, I have
arrived in time to see what I so longed for, the presence of the
renowned Don Quixote of the Mancha, whose glory was known to me as
soon as my foot touched the shores of Spain."

"No more," cried Don Quixote. "I cannot abide to hear myself praised,
for I am a sworn enemy to flattery. And though I know what you speak
is but truth, yet it offends mine ears. And I can tell you this, at
least, that whether I have valour or not, I will use it in your
service, even to the loss of my life. But let me know, master curate,
what has brought you here?"

"You must know, then," replied the curate, "that Master Nicholas, the
barber, and myself travelled towards Seville to recover certain sums
of money which a kinsman of mine in the Indies had sent me. And
passing yesterday through this way we were set upon by four robbers,
who took everything that we had. And it is said about here, that those
who robbed us were certain galley slaves, who they say were set at
liberty, almost on this very spot, by a man so valiant that in spite
of the guard he released them all. And doubtless he must be out of his
wits, or else he must be as great a knave as they, to loose the wolf
among the sheep, and rebel against his king by taking from the galleys
their lawful prey."

Sancho had told the curate of an adventure they had had with galley
slaves, and the curate spoke of it to see what Don Quixote would say.
The knight, however, durst not confess his part in the adventure, but
rode on, changing colour at every word the curate spoke.

When the curate had finished, Sancho burst out: "By my father, master
curate, he that did that deed was my master, and that not for want of
warning, for I told him beforehand that it was a sin to deliver them,
and that they were great rogues who had been sent to the galleys to
punish them for their crimes."

"You bottlehead!" replied Don Quixote. "It is not the duty of
knights-errant to examine whether the afflicted, enslaved, and
oppressed whom they meet by the way are in sorrow for their own
default; they must relieve them because they are needy and in
distress, looking at their sorrow and not at their crimes. And if any
but the holy master curate shall find fault with me on this account, I
will tell him that he knows nought of knighthood, and that he lies in
his throat, and this I will make him know by the power of my sword."

Dorothea, who was discreet enough to see they were carrying the jest
too far, now said: "Remember, sir knight, the boon you promised me,
never to engage in any other adventure, be it ever so urgent, until
you have seen me righted. And had master curate known that it was the
mighty arm of Don Quixote that freed the galley slaves, I feel sure he
would have bit his tongue through ere he spoke words which might cause
you anger."

"That I dare swear," said the curate.

"Madam," replied Don Quixote, "I will hold my peace and keep my anger
to myself, and will ride on peaceably and quietly until I have done
the thing I promised. Tell me, therefore, without delay, what are your
troubles and on whom am I to take revenge."

To this Dorothea replied: "Willingly will I do what you ask, so you
will give me your attention."

At this Cardenio and the barber drew near to hear the witty Dorothea
tell her tale, and Sancho, who was as much deceived as his master, was
the most eager of all to listen.

She, after settling herself in her saddle, began with a lively air to
speak as follows: "In the first place, I would have you know,
gentlemen, that my name is--" Here she stopped a moment, for she had
forgotten what name the curate had given her.

He, seeing her trouble, said quickly: "It is no wonder, great lady,
that you hesitate to tell your misfortunes. Great sufferers often lose
their memory, so that they even forget their own names, as seems to
have happened to your ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called
the Princess Micomicona, heiress of the great Kingdom of Micomicon."

"True," said the damsel, "but let me proceed. The king, my father,
was called Tinacrio the Sage, and was learned in the magic art. By
this he discovered that my mother, the Queen Xaramilla, would die
before him, and that I should soon afterwards be left an orphan. This
did not trouble him so much as the knowledge that a certain giant,
called Pandafilando of the Sour Face, lord of a great island near our
border, when he should hear that I was an orphan, would pass over with
a mighty force into my kingdom and take it from me. My father warned
me that when this came to pass I should not stay to defend myself, and
so cause the slaughter of my people, but should at once set out for
Spain, where I should meet with a knight whose fame would then extend
through all that kingdom. His name, he said, should be Don Quixote,
and he would be tall of stature, have a withered face, and on his
right side, a little under his left shoulder, he should have a tawny
spot with certain hairs like bristles."

On hearing this, Don Quixote said: "Hold my horse, son Sancho, and
help me to strip, for I would know if I am the knight of whom the sage
king spoke."

"There is no need," said Sancho, "for I know that your worship has
such a mark near your backbone."

"It is enough," said Dorothea, "for among friends we must not be too
particular, and whether it is on your shoulder or your backbone is of
no importance. And, indeed, no sooner did I land in Osuna than I heard
of Don Quixote's fame, and felt sure that he was the man."

"But how did you land in Osuna, madam," asked Don Quixote, "seeing
that it is not a sea town?"

"Sir," said the curate, "the princess would say that she landed at
Malaga, and that Osuna was the first place wherein she heard tidings
of your worship."

"That is so," said Dorothea; "and now nothing remains but to guide you
to Pandafilando of the Sour Face, that I may see you slay him, and
once again enter into my kingdom. For all must succeed as the wise
Tinacrio, my father, has foretold, and if the knight of the prophecy,
when he has killed the giant, so desires, then it will be my lot to
become his wife, and he will at once possess both me and my kingdom."

"What thinkest thou of this, friend Sancho? Did I not tell thee this
would come about? Here we have a kingdom to command and a queen to
marry."

When Sancho heard all this he jumped for joy, and running to Dorothea
stopped her mule, and asking her very humbly to give him her hand to
kiss, he kneeled down as a sign that he accepted her as his queen and
lady.

All around could scarcely hide their laughter at the knight's madness
and the squire's simplicity, and when Dorothea promised Sancho to make
him a great lord, and Sancho gave her thanks, it roused their mirth
anew.

"Madam," continued Don Quixote, who appeared to be full of thought, "I
repeat all I have said, and make my vow anew, and when I have cut off
the head of Pandafilando I will put you in peaceable possession of
your kingdom, but since my memory and will are captive to another, it
is not possible for me to marry."

So disgusted was Sancho with what he heard that he cried out in a
great rage: "Surely, Sir Don Quixote, your worship is not in your
right senses. Is it possible your worship can refuse to marry a
princess like this? A poor chance have I of getting a countship if
your worship goes on like this, searching for mushrooms at the bottom
of the sea. Is my Lady Dulcinea more beautiful? She cannot hold a
candle to her. Marry her! Marry at once, and when you are king make me
a governor."

Don Quixote, who heard such evil things spoken of his Lady Dulcinea,
could not bear them any longer, and therefore, lifting up his lance,
without speaking a word to Sancho, gave him two blows that brought him
to the earth, and if Dorothea had not called to the knight to spare
him, without doubt he would have taken his squire's life.

"Think you, miserable villain," cried Don Quixote, "that it is to be
all sinning on thy side and pardoning on mine? Say, scoffer with the
viper's tongue, who dost thou think hath gained this kingdom and cut
off the head of this giant and made thee marquis--for all this I take
to be a thing as good as completed--unless it be the worth and valour
of Dulcinea using my arm as her instrument? She fights in my person,
and I live and breathe in her. From her I hold my life and being. O
villain, how ungrateful art thou that seest thyself raised from the
dust of the earth to be a nobleman, and speakest evil of her who gives
thee such honours!"

Sancho was not too much hurt to hear what his master said. He jumped
up nimbly and ran behind Dorothea's palfrey, and from there said to
his master: "Tell me, your worship, if you are not going to marry this
great princess, how this kingdom will become yours, and how you can do
me any favours. Pray marry this queen now we have her here. I say
nothing against Lady Dulcinea's beauty, for I have never seen her."

"How, thou wicked traitor, thou hast not seen her!" cried Don
Quixote. "Didst thou not but now bring me a message from Her?"

"I mean," replied Sancho, "not seen her for long enough to judge of
her beauty, though, from what I did see, she appeared very lovely."

"Ah!" said Don Quixote, "then I do excuse thee, but have a care what
thou sayest, for, remember, the pitcher may go once too often to the
well."

"No more of this," said Dorothea. "Run Sancho, kiss your master's
hand, and ask his pardon. Henceforth speak no evil of the Lady
Dulcinea, and trust that fortune may find you an estate where you may
live like a prince."

Sancho went up hanging his head and asked his lord's hand, which he
gave him with a grave air, and, after he had kissed it, the knight
gave him his blessing, and no more was said about it.

While this was passing, they saw coming along the road on which they
were a man riding upon an ass, and when he drew near he seemed to be a
gipsy.

But Sancho Panza, whenever he met with any asses, followed them with
his eyes and his heart, and he had hardly caught sight of the man when
he knew him to be an escaped robber, Gines of Passamonte, and the ass
to be none other than his beloved Dapple.

Gines had disguised himself as a gipsy, but Sancho knew him, and
called out in a loud voice: "Ah! thief Gines, give up my jewel, let go
my life, give up mine ass, give up the comfort of my home. Fly,
scoundrel! Begone, thief! Give back what is none of thine."

He need not have used so many words, for Gines leaped off at the first
and raced away from them all as fast as his legs could carry him.

Sancho then ran up to Dapple, and, embracing him, cried: "How hast
thou been cared for, my darling and treasure, Dapple of mine eyes, my
sweet companion?" With this he stroked and kissed him as if he had
been a human being. But the ass held his peace, and allowed Sancho to
kiss and cherish him without answering a word.




SANCHO PANZA'S STORY OF HIS VISIT TO THE LADY DULCINEA

Retold by Judge Parry


"Friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "let us bury all our differences,
and tell me when, how, and where didst thou find Dulcinea. What was
she doing? What saidst thou to her? What answer made she? How did she
look when she read my letter? Who copied it for thee? Tell me all,
without adding to it or lying, for I would know everything."

"Master," replied Sancho, "if I must speak the truth, nobody copied
out the letter, for I carried no letter at all."

"Thou sayest true," said Don Quixote, "for I found the pocket-book,
wherein it was written, two days after thy departure, and I did expect
that thou wouldst return for it."

"I had done so," said Sancho, "if I had not carried it in my memory
when you read it to me, so that I could say it to a parish clerk, who
copied it out of my head, word for word, so exactly that he said that
in all the days of his life he had never read such a pretty letter."

"And hast thou it still by heart, Sancho?" asked Don Quixote.

"No, sir, for after I gave it, seeing that it was to be of no more
use, I let myself forget it. If I remember, it began, _Scrubby Queen,
Sovereign Lady_, and the ending--_yours till death, the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance_--but between these things I put in three hundred
_hearts_, and _loves_, and _dear eyes_."

"All this I like to hear, therefore say on," said Don Quixote. "Thou
didst arrive; and what was the Queen of Beauty doing then? I daresay
thou foundest her threading pearls or embroidering some curious device
with golden threads for this her captive knight."

"No, that I did not," said Sancho, "but winnowing two bushels of wheat
in the yard of her house."

"Why, then," said Don Quixote, "thou mayest reckon that each grain of
wheat was a pearl, seeing they were touched by her hands. But tell me,
when thou didst deliver my letter, did she kiss it? Did she use any
ceremony worthy of such a letter? Or what did she?"

"When I went to give it to her," said Sancho, "she was all in a bustle
with a good lot of wheat in her sieve, and said to me: 'Lay down that
letter there on the sack, for I cannot read it until I have winnowed
all that is here.'"

"O discreet lady!" said Don Quixote; "she must have done that, so that
she might read and enjoy it at leisure. Go on, then, Sancho, and tell
all she said about me, and what thou saidst to her."

"She asked me nothing," replied the squire, "but I told her the state
which I left you in for her sake, doing penance, and I told her how
you slept on the ground and never combed your beard, but spent your
time weeping and cursing your fortune."

"There thou saidst ill," said Don Quixote, "for I do not curse my
fortune, but rather bless it, seeing that it hath made me worthy to
merit the love of so beautiful a lady as Dulcinea of Toboso. But tell
me, after she had sifted her corn and sent it to the mill, did she
then read my letter?"

"The letter," replied Sancho, "she did never read, for she said she
could neither read nor write, and therefore she tore it into small
pieces, and would allow no one to read it lest the whole village might
know her secrets. Lastly, she told me that I was to say to your
worship that she kissed your hands, and that she had a greater desire
to see you than to write to you. Therefore she begged, as you loved
her, that you should quit these bushes and brambles, and leave off
these mad pranks, and set out for Toboso, for she had a great longing
to see your worship. She laughed a good deal when I told her they
called your worship the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. I asked her
whether the beaten Biscayan came there. She said yes, and that he was
a very good fellow. I asked also after the galley slaves you sent; but
she told me that she had seen none of them as yet."

"All goes well, then," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, what jewel did
she bestow on thee at thy departure for reward of the tidings thou
hadst brought? For it is a usual and ancient custom among
knights-errant and their ladies to give to their squires, damsels, or
dwarfs who bring good tidings, some rich jewel as a reward for their
welcome news."

"It may well be," replied Sancho; "and I think it was a most excellent
custom, but I doubt if it exists nowadays, for it would seem to be the
manner of our age only to give a piece of bread and cheese; for this
was all that my Lady Dulcinea bestowed on me when I took my leave,
and, by the way, the cheese was made of sheep's milk."

"She is marvellous liberal," said the knight; "and if she gave thee
not a jewel of gold, it was doubtless because she had none then about
her. But that will be put right some day. Knowest thou, Sancho, at
what I am astonished? It is at thy sudden return, for it seems to me
thou wast gone and hast come back again in the air, for thou hast been
away but a little more than three days, although Toboso is more than
thirty leagues from hence. Therefore I do believe that the wise
enchanter, who takes care of my affairs and is my friend, must have
helped thee to travel without thy being aware of it. For there are
sages that take up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and, without
knowing how or in what manner, he awakes the next day more than a
thousand leagues from the place where he fell asleep. For otherwise
knights-errant could not help one another in perils as they do
now. For it may be that one is fighting in the mountains of Armenia
with some dragon or fierce serpent, and is at the point of death, and,
just when he least expects it, he sees on a cloud, or in a chariot of
fire, some other knight, his friend, who a little before was in
England, who helps him and delivers him from danger. And all this is
done by the craft and wisdom of those sage enchanters who take care of
valorous knights. But, leaving all this apart, what dost thou think I
should do about my lady's commands to go and see her?"

"Tell me, good your worship," replied Sancho, "do you intend to
journey to Toboso and lose so rich and noble a prize as this princess
we have just met at the inn? Peace! take my advice and marry her in
the first village that hath a parish priest, or let the curate do it,
for he is here, and remember the old saying, 'A bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush.'"

"Look you, Sancho," said his master, "if you counsel me to marry, to
the end that I may be king when I have slain the giant and be able to
give you an island, know that I can do that without marrying, for I
will make it a condition that upon conquering this monster they shall
give me a portion of the kingdom, although I marry not the princess,
and this I will bestow upon thee."

"Let it be so, then," said Sancho. "And trouble not your mind, I pray
you, to go and see the Lady Dulcinea at this moment, but go away and
kill the giant and let us finish off this job, for I believe it will
prove of great honour and greater profit."

"I believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou art in the right,
and I will follow thy advice in going first with the princess rather
than visiting Dulcinea."




DON QUIXOTE WAGES A BATTLE AGAINST A GIANT

Retold by Judge Parry


When they had finished their dinner, they saddled and went to horse
once more, and travelled all that day and the next without any
adventure of note, until they arrived at the inn, which was the dread
and terror of Sancho Panza, and though he would rather not have
entered it, yet he could not avoid doing so. The innkeeper, the
hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and Sancho
return, went out to meet them with tokens of great love and joy. The
knight returned their compliments with grave courtesy, and bade them
prepare a better bed than they gave him the last time.

"Sir," said the hostess, "if you would pay us better than the last
time, we would give you one fit for a prince."

Don Quixote answered that he would, and they prepared a reasonable
good bed for him in the same room where he lay before. Then he went
off to bed at once, because he was tired and weary, both in body and
mind.

Don Quixote was still asleep when the dinner was served, and during
dinner--the innkeeper, his wife, his daughter, and Maritornes being
there, as well as all the travellers--they talked of Don Quixote's
strange craze, and of the state in which they had found him. The
hostess told them of what had happened between him and the carrier,
and glancing round to see if Sancho were present, and not seeing him,
she told them the story of his being tossed in the blanket, to the no
small entertainment of all the company.

The curate told him it was the books of knighthood that Don Quixote
had read that had turned his head.

"I know not how that can be," said the innkeeper, "for to my thinking,
there is no finer reading in the world; and when it is harvest-time,
the reapers here often collect during the midday heat, and one who can
read takes one of these books in hand, while some thirty of us get
round him, and sit listening with so much delight that I could find it
in my heart to be hearing such stories day and night."

"And I think well of them, too," said the hostess, "for when the
reading is going on, you are so full of it that you forget to scold
me, and I have a good time of it."

"Ah," said her daughter, "I too listen, and though I like not the
fights which please my father, yet the lamentations which the knights
make when they are away from their ladies make me weep for pity, and I
enjoy that."

"We have need here," said the curate, "of our friends, the old woman
and the niece. Beware, my good host, of these books, and take care
that they carry you not on the road they have taken Don Quixote."

"Not so," said the innkeeper, "I shall not be such a fool as to turn
knight-errant; for I see well enough that it is not the fashion now to
do as they used to do in the times when these famous knights roamed
about the world. All that is of no use nowadays."


Sancho came in in the midst of this, and was amazed to hear them say
that knights-errant now were of no use, and that books of knighthood
were full of follies and lies, and he made up his mind to see the end
of this voyage of his master, and if that did not turn out as happily
as he expected, to return home to his wife and children and to his
former labours.

At this moment a noise came from the room where Don Quixote was lying,
and Sancho went hastily to see if his master wanted anything.

In a few moments he returned, rushing wildly back, and shouting at the
top of his voice: "Come, good sirs, quickly, and help my master, who
is engaged in one of the most terrible battles my eyes have ever
seen. I swear he has given the giant, the enemy of my lady, the
Princess Micomicona, such a cut, that he has sliced his head clean off
like a turnip."

"What sayest thou, friend?" said the curate. "Art thou in thy wits,
Sancho? How can it be as you say, when the giant is at least two
thousand leagues from here?"

By this time they heard a marvellous great noise within the chamber,
and Don Quixote shouting out: "Hold, thief, scoundrel, rogue! now I
have thee, and thy scimitar shall not avail thee!"

And it seemed as if he were striking a number of mighty blows on the
walls.

"Do not stand there listening," cried Sancho, "but go in and part the
fray, or aid my master. Though I think it will not now be necessary,
for doubtless the giant is dead by now, and giving an account of the
ill life he led; for I saw his blood was all about the house and his
head cut off, which is as big as a great wine-bag."

"May I be hewed in pieces," cried the innkeeper on hearing this, "if
Don Quixote has not been slashing at one of the skins of red wine that
are standing filled at his bed head, and the wine that is spilt must
be what this fellow takes for blood."

So saying he ran into the room, and the rest followed him, and found
Don Quixote in the strangest guise imaginable. He was in his shirt,
which did not reach to his knees. His legs were very long and lean. On
his head he wore a greasy red nightcap which belonged to the inkeeper.
Round his left arm he had folded the blanket from off his bed, at
which Sancho gazed angrily, for he owed that blanket a grudge. In his
right hand he gripped his naked sword, with which he laid round about
him with many a thwack, shouting out as if indeed he was at battle
with some terrible giant. The best sport of all was that his eyes
were not open, for he was indeed asleep, and dreaming that he was
fighting a giant. For his imagination was so full of the adventure in
front of him that he dreamed that he had already arrived at Micomicon,
and was there in combat with his enemy; and he had given so many blows
to the wine-bags, supposing them to be the giant, that the whole
chamber flowed with wine.

When the innkeeper saw this, he flew into such a rage that he set upon
Don Quixote with his clenched fist, and began to pummel him, so that
if Cardenio and the curate had not pulled him off, he would have
finished the battle of the giant altogether. In spite of this, the
poor knight did not awake until the barber got a great kettleful of
cold water from the well, and threw it right over him, when Don
Quixote woke up, but even then did not understand where he was.

As for Sancho, he went up and down the floor, searching for the
giant's head, and seeing he could not find it, said: "Now I know that
everything I see in this house is enchanted, for this head is not to
be seen here, though I myself saw it cut off with my own eyes, and the
blood running from the body as from a fountain."

"What blood or what fountain dost thou cackle of here?" cried the
innkeeper. "Thou thief! dost thou not see that the blood and the
fountain is no other thing but the wine-bags which are ripped open,
and the red wine which swims up and down the room?"

"I know nothing but this," replied Sancho, "that if I cannot find the
giant's head, my earldom will dissolve like salt cast into water." For
indeed Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, so greatly had
his master's promises turned his brain.

The innkeeper was at his wits' end at seeing the stupidity of the
squire and the mischief done by his master, but he determined that
they should not as before go away without paying; that knighthood
should be no excuse for this, and he would make them pay for the very
patches in the wine-skins that had been ruined.

All this time the curate was holding Don Quixote's hands, who,
believing that he had finished the adventure and was in the presence
of the Princess Micomicona herself, fell on his knees before the
curate, and said: "Your highness, exalted and beautiful lady, may live
from henceforth secure from any danger that this wretched giant might
have done to you; and I am also freed this day from the promise I made
to you, seeing that I have with the assistance of her through whose
favour I live and breathe, so happily completed my labour."

"Did I not say so?" cried Sancho, hearing his master. "I was not
drunk. My master has salted the giant down this time, and my earldom
is secure."

Who could help laughing at the follies of the two, master and man? All
of them laughed except the innkeeper, who burst out into fits of anger
ten times worse than before.

At length the barber, Cardenio, and the curate managed, not without
much ado, to get Don Quixote to bed again, and presently left him
sleeping, with every sign of being worn out. They let him sleep, and
went out to comfort Sancho Panza, whose grief was great at not finding
the giant's head. But they had more to do to pacify the innkeeper, who
was almost out of his wits at the sudden death of his wine-skins.

His wife, too, was running up and down, scolding and crying out:
"Alas, the unlucky hour when this knight-errant came to my house!
Would that mine eyes had never seen him, for he has cost me dear. The
last time he was here he went away scot free for his supper, bed,
straw, and barley for himself, his man, his horse, and his ass,
because he said he was a knight-errant. Then for his sake the other
gentlemen came and took away my good tail, and have returned it
damaged, and now he breaks my wine-skins and spills the wine. I wish I
may see as much of his blood spilt." And backed up by Maritornes, the
good innkeeper's wife continued her lamentations with great fury.

At length the curate quelled the storm, promising to satisfy them for
the wine and the skins, and also for the damage to the tail, about
which there was so much fuss. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling him
that as soon as ever it was made certain that his master had slain the
giant, and placed her safely in her kingdom, she would give him the
best earldom she had.

With this he was consoled, and told her that he himself had seen the
giant's head cut off, and that it had a beard which reached down to
his girdle, and that if the beard could not now be found it was
because the affairs of this house were all guided by enchantment, as
he knew to his cost by what had happened to himself in his last visit.

Dorothea replied that she was of the same opinion, and bade him be of
good cheer, since all would be well ended to his heart's desire.




ADVENTURES AT THE INN

Retold by Judge Parry


Later in the day the innkeeper, who was standing at the door, cried
out: "Here is a fine troop of guests coming. If they stop here, we may
sing and rejoice."

"Who are they?" asked Cardenio.

"Four men on horseback," answered the innkeeper, "with lances and
targets, and all with black masks on their faces. With them comes a
woman dressed in white, on a side-saddle, and her face also masked,
and two lackeys that run with them on foot."

"Are they near?" asked the curate.

"So near," replied the innkeeper, "that they are now arriving."
Hearing this, Dorothea veiled her face, and Cardenio went into Don
Quixote's room; and they had hardly time to do this when the whole
party, of whom the innkeeper had spoken, entered the inn. The four who
were on horseback were of comely and gallant bearing, and, having
dismounted, went to help down the lady on the side-saddle; and one of
them, taking her in his arms, placed her upon a chair that stood at
the door of the room into which Cardenio had entered. All this while
neither she nor they took off their masks, or said a word, only the
lady, as she sank into the chair, breathed a deep sigh, and let fall
her arms as one who was sick and faint. The lackeys led away the
horses to the stable.

The curate, seeing and noting all this, and curious to know who they
were that came to the inn in such strange attire and keeping so close
a silence, went after one of the lackeys, and asked of him what he
wanted to learn.

"Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who these are, but they seem to be
persons of good quality, especially he who went to help the lady
dismount. The rest obey him in all things."

"And the lady--who is she?" asked the curate.

"I cannot tell you that neither," replied the lackey, "for I have not
once seen her face during all the journey, though I have often heard
her groan and utter deep sighs."

"And have you heard the name of any of them?" asked the curate.

"Not I, indeed," replied the man; "they travel in silence, and nothing
is heard but the sighs and sobs of the poor lady, and it is our firm
belief that, wherever she is going, she is going against her."

"May be it is so," said the curate, and he returned to the inn.

Dorothea, who heard the disguised lady sigh so mournfully, moved by
pity, drew near to her and asked: "What ails you, good madam, for I
offer you my service and good-will, and would help you as much as lies
in my power?"

To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea again
spoke kindly to her, yet she sat silent and spoke not a word.

At length the masked gentleman came across and said to Dorothea:
"Lady, do not trouble yourself to offer anything to that woman; she is
of a most ungrateful nature, and not wont to return any courtesy."

"I have never spoken," said the silent lady, "since I am too unhappy
to do so, and am almost drowned in my misfortunes."

Cardenio overheard these words very clearly and distinctly, for he was
close to her who uttered them, the door of Don Quixote's room being
the only thing that separated them, and he cried aloud: "What is this
I hear? What voice is this that hath touched mine ear?"

The lady, moved with a sudden passion, turned her head at these cries,
and as she could not see who uttered them, she rose to her feet and
would have entered the room, but the gentleman stopped her and would
not let her move a step.

This sudden movement loosened the mask, which fell from her face,
discovering her marvellous beauty.

But her countenance was wan and pale, and she turned her eyes from
place to place as one distracted, which caused Dorothea and the rest
to behold her with a vast pity.

The gentleman held her fast by the shoulders, and was so busied that
he could not hold up his own mask, which fell from his face, and, as
it did so, Dorothea looked up and discovered that it was her lover,
Don Fernando.

Scarce had she known him than, breathing out a long and most pitiful
"Alas!" from the bottom of her heart, she fell backward in a
swoon. And if the barber had not been by good chance at hand, she
would have fallen on the ground with all the weight of her body.

The curate removed the veil from her face, and cast water thereon, and
Don Fernando, as soon as he looked upon her, turned as pale as death.
Cardenio, who had heard the moan which Dorothea uttered, as she fell
fainting on the floor, came out of the room, and saw Don Fernando
holding his beloved Lucinda.

All of them held their peace and beheld one another; Dorothea looking
on Don Fernando, Don Fernando on Cardenio, Cardenio on Lucinda, and
Lucinda on Cardenio, all stood dumb and amazed, as folk that knew not
what had befallen them.

Lucinda was the first to break the silence. "Leave me, Don Fernando,"
she cried, "for the sake of what is due to yourself. Let me cleave to
the wall whose ivy I am, to his support from whom neither your threats
nor your promises could part me."

By this time Dorothea had come to herself, and seeing that Don
Fernando did not release Lucinda, she arose, and casting herself at
his feet, shed a flood of crystal tears as she thus addressed him: "If
the sun of Lucinda's beauty hath not blinded thine eyes, know that she
who is kneeling at thy feet is the hapless and miserable Dorothea. I
am that lowly country girl to whom thou didst promise marriage. Know,
my dear lord, that the matchless love I bear thee may make amends for
the beauty and nobility of her for whom thou dost abandon me. Thou
canst not be the beautiful Lucinda's, because thou art mine; nor she
thine, for she belongs to Cardenio. And all this being so, as in truth
it is, and seeing that thou art as good as thou art noble, wherefore
put off making me once more happy again? Do not vex the declining
years of my parents, who have ever been loyal vassals to thine. For
remember, whether thou wilt or no, thou must ever remain my promised
husband."

These and many other reasons did the grieved Dorothea use, with so
much feeling and so many tears, that all who were present, even those
who had come with Don Fernando, could not help from giving her their
sympathy.

As for Don Fernando, he stood gazing fixedly at Dorothea for some
time, and at last, overwhelmed with remorse and admiration, he took
her to his arms, saying: "Thou hast vanquished, O beautiful
Dorothea. Thou hast vanquished!"

At the same moment, Cardenio, who had stood close to Don Fernando,
started forward to catch the fainting Lucinda, who threw both her arms
around his neck, crying: "Thou, and thou only, art my lord and
master."

Thus were the true lovers all united, and the good curate, the barber,
and even Sancho Panza joined in their tears, delighted that so much
joy had taken the place of so much misery. As for Sancho, he excused
himself afterwards for his tears, saying he wept only because he saw
that Dorothea was not the Queen of Micomicona as he had imagined, from
whom he hoped to have received such mighty gifts and favours.

Each in turn told his or her story, and Don Fernando gave an account
of all that had befallen him in the city, after he had found the
scroll that Lucinda had written in which she declared her love for
Cardenio.

And it appeared that, the day after the interruption of the wedding,
Lucinda had secretly departed from her father's house, and had fled no
one knew whither; but within a few months Don Fernando had learned
that she was in a certain convent, intending to remain there all the
days of her life, if she could not pass them with Cardenio. As soon as
he had learned that, choosing three gentlemen to aid him, he went to
the place where she was. One day he surprised her walking with one of
the nuns in the cloisters, and carried her off without giving her a
chance to resist. From there they brought her to a certain village,
where they disguised themselves, and so rode on until they came to the
inn. But Lucinda, after she was in his power, did nothing but weep and
sigh without speaking a word.

Thus in silence and tears had they reached this inn, which to him and
all of them would always remain the most beautiful place in the world,
since it had seen the end of so many troubles, and brought him back to
his own true love.




THE PRINCESS MICOMICONA

Retold by Judge Parry


Sancho gave ear to what he heard with no small grief of mind, seeing
that all hopes of his earldom vanished away like smoke, and the fair
Princess Micomicona was turned into Dorothea, whilst his master was
sound asleep, careless of all that happened. Dorothea could not
believe that the happiness she enjoyed was not a dream. Cardenio and
Lucinda were of a similar mind, and Don Fernando was truly thankful
that he was free from the dangerous path he had taken, which must have
ended in loss of all honour and credit.

In a word, all were contented and happy. The curate, like a man of
sense, congratulated every one on his good fortune; but she that kept
greatest jubilee and joy was the hostess, because Cardenio and the
curate had promised to pay all the damages done by Don Quixote.

Only Sancho, as has been said, was unhappy and sorrowful. And thus he
went with a melancholy face to his master, who was then just awaking,
and said: "Your worship, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, may
well sleep on as long as you please, without troubling yourself to
kill any giant, or restore to the princess her kingdom, for all that
is done and finished already."

"That I well believe," replied Don Quixote, "for I have had the most
monstrous and terrible battle with that giant that ever I had all the
days of my life; and yet with one back stroke, swish, I tumbled his
head to the ground, and his blood gushed forth, so that streams of it
ran along the earth as if it had been water."

"As if it had been red wine, your worship might have said," replied
Sancho, "for I would have you know, if you do not know already, that
the dead giant is no other than a ruined wine-bag, and the blood
six-and-twenty gallons of red wine."

"What sayest thou, madman?" cried Don Quixote. "Art thou in thy right
wits?"

"Get up, sir," said Sancho, "and you shall see yourself the fine piece
of work you have done, and what we have to pay. You shall behold the
queen turned into a private lady, called Dorothea, with many other
things that may well astonish you."

"I should marvel at nothing," replied Don Quixote, "for if thou
rememberest right, I told thee, the other time that we were here, how
all that happened here was done by enchantment, and it would be no
wonder if it were the same now."

"I should believe it all," replied Sancho, "if my tossing in the
blanket had been a thing of that sort. Only it was not so, but very
real and certain. And I saw the innkeeper, who is here to this day,
hold one end of the blanket and toss me up to the sky with very good
grace and strength, and as much mirth as muscle. And where it comes to
knowing persons, I hold, though I may be a simpleton and a sinner,
that there is no enchantment, but only bruising and bad luck."

"Well," cried Don Quixote, "time will show; but give me my clothes,
for I would see these wonders that thou speakest of for myself."

Sancho gave him his clothes, and, whilst he was making him ready, the
curate told Don Fernando and the rest, of Don Quixote's mad pranks,
and the plan he had used to get him away from the Brown Mountains,
where he imagined he was exiled through the disdain of his lady.

The curate told them further, that since the good fortune of the Lady
Dorothea prevented them carrying out their scheme, they must invent
some other way of taking him home to his village.

Cardenio offered to continue the adventure, and let Luanda take
Dorothea's part.

"No," cried Don Fernando. "It shall not be so, for I will have
Dorothea herself carry out her plan, and if the good knight's home is
not far from here, I shall be very glad to help in his cure."

"It is not more than two days' journey," said the curate.

"Even if it were more," replied Don Fernando, "I should be happy to
make the journey in so good a cause."

At this moment Don Quixote sallied out, completely armed with
Mambrino's helmet, which had a great hole in it, on his head, his
shield on his arm, and leaning on his lance. His grotesque appearance
amazed Don Fernando and his companions very much, who wondered at his
gaunt face so withered and yellow, the strangeness of his arms, and
his grave manner of proceeding.

All stood silent to see what he would do, whilst the knight, casting
his eyes on the beautiful Dorothea, with great gravity and calmness
spoke as follows: "I am informed, beautiful lady, by this my squire,
that your greatness has come to an end, and your condition is
destroyed. For, instead of being a queen and a mighty princess, you
are now become a private damsel. If this has been done by the special
order of that sage magician, the king your father, because he dreaded
that I could not give you all necessary help, I say that he does not
know half his art, and has never understood the histories of knightly
adventures. For if he had read them with the attention that I have, he
would have found how many knights of less fame than myself have ended
far more desperate adventures than this, for it is no great matter to
kill a giant, be he ever so proud. For in truth it is not so many
hours since I myself fought with one; but I will be silent, lest they
tell me I lie. Time, the detecter of all things, will disclose it when
we least expect."

"Thou foughtest with two wine-bags, not with a giant," cried the
innkeeper.

Don Fernando told him to be silent and not to interrupt Don Quixote,
who continued his speech thus: "In fine, I say, high and disinherited
lady, do not trouble if your father has made this change in you, for
there is no peril so great on earth but my sword shall open a way
through it, and by overthrowing your enemies' head to the ground I
shall set your crown on your own head within a few days."

Don Quixote said no more, but waited for the princess's answer. She
knowing Don Fernando's wish that she should continue to carry out
their plan, answered with a good grace and pleasant manner, saying:
"Whosoever informed you, valorous Knight of the Rueful Countenance,
that I have altered and transformed my being, hath not told you the
truth, for I am the very same to-day as I was yesterday. True it is
that my fortunes have somewhat changed, and given me more than I hoped
for or could wish for, but for all that I have not ceased to be what I
was before, and I still hope to have the aid of your valorous and
invincible arm. Therefore, good my lord, restore to my father his
honour, and believe him to be both wise and sagacious, for by his
magic he has found me a remedy for all my misfortunes. For I believe
that had it not been for you, I should never have attained the
happiness I now enjoy, and that I speak the truth these good gentlemen
will bear witness. All that is now wanted is that to-morrow morning we
set out on our journey. As for the conclusion of the good success I
hourly expect, that I leave to the valour of your invincible arm."

Thus spoke the witty Dorothea, and Don Quixote, having heard her,
turned to Sancho with an air of great indignation, and said: "Now, I
say unto thee, Sancho, thou art the veriest little rascal in all
Spain. Tell me, thief and vagabond, didst thou not tell me that this
princess was turned into a damsel, and that she was called Dorothea?
And that the head that I slashed from a giant's shoulders, was a
wine-skin, with a thousand other follies, that threw me into the
greatest confusion I was ever in in my life? I vow," he continued,
looking up to the heavens and crashing his teeth together, "I vow that
I am about to make such a havoc of thee, as shall beat some wit into
the pates of all the lying squires that shall hereafter ever serve
knights-errant in this world.

"I pray you have patience, good my lord," answered Sancho, "for it may
well befall me to be deceived touching the change of the lady and
Princess Micomicona. But in what touches the giant's head, or at least
the cutting of the winebags, and that the blood was but red wine, I am
not deceived, I swear. For the bags lie wounded there at your own
bed-head, and the red wine hath made a lake in your room: and all this
you will know, when his honour the landlord asks you to pay the
damages."

"I tell thee, Sancho, thou art a blockhead," said Don Quixote. "Pardon
me, we have had enough of it."

"Enough, indeed," said Don Fernando, "and let me entreat you to say no
more of it. Seeing my lady the princess says she will go away
to-morrow, as it is too late to depart to-day, let us agree to spend
this evening in pleasant discourse."

It was now time for supper, and they all sat down at a long table, for
there was not a square or round one in the whole house. And they gave
the principal end to Don Quixote, though he did all he could to refuse
it; but when he had taken it, he commanded that the Lady Micomicona
should sit at his elbow, as he was her champion. The others being
placed in due order, they all enjoyed a pleasant supper, listening to
the wise, strange discourse that Don Quixote held upon his favourite
subject of knightly adventures.




THE LAST OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURES OF OUR GOOD KNIGHT

Retold by Judge Parry


Don Quixote, as soon as he found himself free from all the quarrels by
which he had been surrounded, held it high time to begin his voyage
and bring to an end the great adventure unto which he was called and
chosen.

Therefore, having made up his mind to depart, he went and cast himself
upon his knees before Dorothea and said: "I cannot but think, high and
worthy lady, that our abode in this castle is nothing profitable, and
may turn out to our disadvantage. For who knows but that your enemy
the giant hath learned by spies or other secret means how I intend to
come and destroy him, and he may by now have fortified himself in some
impregnable castle or fortress, against the strength of which even the
force of mine invincible arm will be of little use. Therefore, dear
lady, let us by our diligence hinder his plans, and let us depart to
the place where fortune calls us."

Don Quixote said no more but awaited the answer of the beautiful
princess, who, with a lordly air and in a style not unworthy of Don
Quixote himself, replied as follows:

"I thank you, sir knight, for the desire you show to assist me in this
my great need, and I trust your desires and mine may succeed, that I
may show you that there are some thankful women on earth. As for my
departure, let it be as you wish." * * *

Two days passed, when it seemed to all the noble company at the inn
that it was time to depart, and they considered how, without putting
Dorothea and Don Fernando to the pain of turning back with Don Quixote
to his village, the curate and the barber could carry him home as they
desired, and leave him cured of his folly in his own home.

This was the plan they decided on. They made a bargain with a wagoner,
who chanced to pass by that way with a team of oxen, to carry him in
the following manner:--

They made a thing like a cage of timber, so big that Don Quixote might
sit or lie in it at his ease, and presently Don Fernando, Cardemo,
their companions, and the innkeeper did all, by master curate's
directions, cover their faces and disguise themselves as well as they
could, so that they might seem to Don Quixote to be different persons
to any he had seen in the castle. This being done, they entered
silently into the place where he slept, reposing after his recent
battles. They went up to him as he was sleeping peacefully, not
fearing any such accident, and, laying hold of him forcibly, they tied
his hands and feet very strongly, so that when he started out of his
sleep he could not move, nor do anything else but stare and wonder at
the strange faces that he saw before him.

And immediately he fell into the idea, which his wild imagination had
at once suggested to him, that all these strange figures were spirits
and phantoms of that enchanted castle, and he believed that he himself
was without doubt enchanted, seeing that he could neither move nor
defend himself.

All happened as the curate who plotted the jest expected; and after
they had brought him to the cage, they shut him within, and afterwards
nailed the bars thereof so well that they could not easily be broken.

Sancho all this time looked on in wonder to see what would happen to
his master.

Then the phantoms mounted him upon their shoulders, and as he was
carried out of his chamber door the barber called out in as terrible a
voice as he could muster: "O Knight of the Rueful Countenance, be not
grieved at thine imprisonment, for so it must be that thine adventures
be more speedily ended. And thou, O most noble and obedient squire
that ever had sword at girdle, beard on a face, or dent in a nose, let
it not dismay thee to see carried away thus the flower of all
knighthood. For I assure thee that all thy wages shall be paid to
thee, if thou wilt follow in the steps of this valorous and enchanted
knight. And as I am not allowed to say more, farewell!"

Don Quixote listened attentively to all this prophecy, and said: "O
thou, whatsoever thou beest, I desire thee to request in my name that
I may not perish in this prison before my work is ended. And as
concerns my squire Sancho Panza, I trust in his goodness that he will
not abandon me in good or bad fortune. For, though it should fall out
through his or my hard lot that I shall not be able to bestow on him
an island, as I have promised, his wages cannot be lost to him, for in
my will, which is made already, I have set down what he is to have for
his many good services."

Sancho Panza bowed his head with great reverence when he heard this,
and kissed both his master's hands, which were bound tightly together.
Then the phantoms lifted up the cage and hoisted it on to the wagon
that was drawn by the team of oxen.

After bidding farewell to all their friends, the procession
started. First went the cart guided by the carter, then the troopers,
then followed Sancho upon his ass leading Rozinante by the bridle, and
last of all the curate and the barber, riding their mighty mules, with
masks on their faces.

Don Quixote sat with his hands tied and his legs stretched out,
leaning against a bar of the cage, with such a silence and such
patience that he seemed rather to be a statue than a man. And thus at
an alderman-like pace, such as suited the slow steps of the heavy
oxen, they journeyed home.

At the end of two days they arrived at Don Quixote's village, into
which they entered about noon. This was on a Sunday, when all the
people were in the market-place, through the midst of which Don
Quixote's cart passed. All drew near to see what was in it, and when
they knew their neighbour they were greatly astounded. A little boy
ran home before, to tell the old woman and the niece that their lord
and uncle was returned. It would have moved one to pity to have heard
the cries and lamentations the two good women made, and the curses
they poured out against all books of knighthood, when they saw Don
Quixote enter the gates of his own house again in so strange a
carriage.

Sancho Panza's wife, when she heard of his return, ran forward to meet
her husband, and the first question she asked was whether the ass were
in health or no.

Sancho answered that he was come in better health than his master.

"Tell me, then," cried his wife, "what profit hast thou reaped by this
squireship? What petticoat hast thou brought me home? What shoes for
the little boys?"

"I bring none of these things, good wife," replied Sancho, "though I
bring things better thought of and of greater moment."

"I am glad of that," said his wife, "for I should like to see them, to
the end that my heart may be cheered, which hath been swollen and
sorrowful for so long, all the time of thine absence."

"Thou shalt see them at home," said Sancho, "therefore rest
satisfied. For when we travel once again to seek adventures, thou
shalt see me shortly afterwards an earl or governor of an island, one
of the best in the world."

"I pray that it may be so," replied his wife; "but what means that
island, for I understand not the word?"

"Honey is not made for the ass's mouth," said Sancho, "but thou shalt
know all in good time. Do not busy thyself, Joan, to know all things
in a sudden. It is enough that I will tell thee all the truth, and
therefore close thy mouth. I will only say this much unto thee as yet,
that there is nothing in the world so pleasant as for an honest man to
be the squire of a knight that seeks adventures."

Now, if I were to tell you that Don Quixote got quite well and lived
quietly at home after all these adventures, and never went abroad
again, I should tell you what is not true. For some day, and I hope at
no great distance of time, you may read all that the great Cervantes
has written, not only of the adventures of which I have told you the
story, but of others. You will then learn how Sancho Panza became at
last governor of an island for a short space, and may read of the
great wisdom and shrewdness with which he ruled.








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