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KING ARTHUR'S KNIGHTS:

THE TALES RE-TOLD FOR BOYS & GIRLS

By

HENRY GILBERT.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR
By
WALTER CRANE

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
NEW YORK, EDINBURGH, LONDON
TORONTO, AND PARIS

In tholdè dayès of the King Arthour,

Of which that Britons speken great honour,

All was this land fulfilled of faery.

The Canterbury Tales.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PREFACE

This book is an attempt to tell some of the stories of King Arthur and his Knights in a way which will be interesting to every boy and girl who loves adventures.

Although tales of these old British heroes have been published before in a form intended for young people, it is believed that they have never been related quite in the same spirit nor from the same point of view; and it is hoped that the book will fill a place hitherto vacant in the hearts of all boys and girls.

No doubt many of you, my young readers, have at some time or another taken down the Morte D'Arthur from your father's bookshelves and read a few pages of it here and there. But I doubt if any of you have ever gone very far in the volume. You found generally, I think, that it was written in a puzzling, old-fashioned language, that though it spoke of many interesting things, and seemed that it ought to be well worth reading, yet somehow it was tedious and dry.

In the tales as I have retold them for you, I hope you will not find any of these faults. Besides writing them in simple language, I have chosen only those episodes which I know would appeal to you. I have added or altered here and there, for in places it struck me that there was just wanting a word or two to make you feel the magic that was everywhere abroad in those days. It seemed to me that some mysterious adventure might easily be waiting in the ruined and deserted Roman town on the desolate moor, or even just round the mossy trunk of the next oak in the forest-drive, through which the knight was riding; or that any fair lady or questing dog which he might meet could turn out to be a wizard seeking to work woe upon him. Nevertheless, I was always sure that in those bright days when the world was young, whatever evil power might get the mastery for a little while, the knight's courage, humility, and faith would win through every peril at the end.

In this book, besides reading of wonderful adventures and brave fighting, you will learn just what sort of man a perfect knight was required to be in the chivalrous times when men wore armour and rode on errantry. The duties of a 'good and faithful knight' were quite simple, but they were often very hard to perform. They were—to protect the distressed, to speak the truth, to keep his word to all, to be courteous and gentle to women, to defend right against might, and to do or say nothing that should sully the fair name of Christian knighthood.

Although, therefore, these stories of King Arthur and his men treat of knights and their ladies, of magical trolls and wonder-working wizards, and it might seem for that reason that they can have little or nothing in common with life of the present day, it will be seen that the spirit in which they are told conveys something which every boy can learn.

Indeed, the great and simple lesson of chivalry which the tales of King Arthur teach is, in a few words, to merit 'the fine old name of gentleman.'

The history of King Arthur and his Knights is contained in two books, one being the Morte D'Arthur, written by Sir Thomas Malory, the other being the Mabinogion, a collection of old Welsh stories, first translated by Lady Charlotte Guest in 1838. I have selected thirteen tales from the number which these two books contain; but there are many more, equally as interesting, which remain.

Little is known about Sir Thomas Malory, who lived in the fifteenth century. We only learn that he was a Welshman, a man of heroic mind who, as an old writer relates, 'from his youth, greatly shone in the gifts of mind and body.' Though much busied with cares of state, his favourite recreation was said to be the reading of history, and in this pursuit 'he made selections from various authors concerning the valour and the victories of the most renowned King Arthur of the Britons.' We know, further, that these selections or tales were translated mostly from poems about Arthur written by old French poets in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and that Sir Thomas Malory finished his translation in the ninth year of King Edward the Fourth (1469). This, of course, was before printing was introduced into England, but no doubt many written copies were made of the book, so as to enable the stories to be read to the lords and ladies and other rich people who would desire to hear about the flower of kings and chivalry, the great King Arthur. When, in 1477, Caxton set up his printing press at Westminster, the Morte D'Arthur was one of the books which then saw the light of day.

The Mabinogion, which contains other tales about King Arthur, is a collection of old Welsh romances. Though our earliest collection of them is to be found in a manuscript written in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, some of them are probably as old as the time when Welshmen clothed themselves in the skins of the beaver and the bear, and used stone for their tools and weapons.

It may be that, when you get older, you will go back to the two books I have mentioned, and you will find them so fascinating that you will be impatient of any other book which pretends to tell you the same tales. But until that time arrives, I hope you will find the stories as I have told them quite interesting and exciting.

HENRY GILBERT.

June 1911.

CONTENTS

KING ARTHUR'S KNIGHTS

[ ]

I

HOW ARTHUR WAS MADE KING AND WON HIS KINGDOM

In the hall of his Roman palace at London, King Uther, Pendragon of the Island of Britain, lay dying. He had been long sick with a wasting disease, and forced to lie in his bed, gnawing his beard with wrath at his weakness, while the pagan Saxons ravened up and down the fair broad lands, leaving in their tracks the smoking ruin of broken towns and desolated villages, where mothers lay dead beside their children on the hearths, fair churches stood pillaged and desecrated, and priests and nuns wandered in the wilds.

At length, when the pagans, bold and insolent, had ventured near London, the king had been able to bear his shame and anguish no longer. He had put himself, in a litter, at the head of his army, and meeting the fierce, brave pagans at Verulam (now called St. Albans) he had, in a battle day-long and stubborn, forced them at length to fly with heavy slaughter.

That was three days ago, and since then he had lain in his bed as still as if he were dead; and beside him sat the wise wizard Merlin, white with great age, and in his eyes the calmness of deep learning.

It was the third night when the king suddenly awoke from his stupor and clutched the hand of Merlin.

'I have dreamed!' he said in a low shaken voice. 'I have seen two dragons fighting—one white, the other red. First the white dragon got the mastery, and clawed with iron talons the red one's crest, and drove him hither and thither into holes and crannies of the rocks. And then the red one took heart, and with a fury that was marvellous to see, he drove and tore the white dragon full terribly, and anon the white one crawled away sore wounded. And the red dragon walked up and down in the place of his triumph, and grew proud, and fought smaller red dragons and conquered. Thus for a long time he stayed, and was secure and boastful. Then I saw the white dragon return with a rage that was very terrible, and the red dragon fought with him; but his pride had softened him, so he drew off. Then other red dragons came upon him in his wounds and beat him sore, which seeing, the white dragon dashed upon them all—and I awoke. Merlin, tell me what this may mean, for my mind is sore distraught with the vision.'

Then Merlin looked at the trembling king, wasted with disease, and in his wise heart was great pity.

'It means, lord,' he said in slow grave tones, 'that thy people shall conquer—that a red dragon shall rise from thy kin, who shall drive out the loathsome pagan and shall conquer far and wide, and his fame shall go into all lands and for all time.'

'I thank thee, Merlin, for thy comfort,' sighed the wearied king. 'I have feared me these last years that the pagan will at the last drive my people into the western sea, and that the name of Christ shall die out of this fair land, and the foul pagan possess it. But thy words give me great heart.'

'Nay, sir,' said Merlin, 'take comfort. Great power will come to this people in a near time, and they shall conquer all their enemies.'

Anon the king slept, and lay thus for three further days, neither speaking nor moving. Many great lords and barons came craving to speak with Merlin, asking if the king were not better. But, looking into their crafty eyes, and seeing there the pride and ambitions of their hearts, Merlin knew that they wished the king were already dead; for all thought that King Uther had no son to take the kingdom after him, and each great baron, strong in men, plotted to win the overlordship when the king should be gone.

'If he dieth and sayeth not which he shall name to succeed him,' some asked, 'say, Merlin, what's to be done?'

'I shall tell you,' said Merlin. 'Come ye all into this chamber to-morrow's morn, and, if God so wills, I will make the king speak.'

Next morn, therefore, came all the great barons and lords into the high hall of the palace, and many were the proud and haughty glances passing among them. There was King Lot of Orkney, small and slim, with his dark narrow face and crafty eyes under pent eyebrows; King Uriens of Reged, tall and well-seeming, with grim eyes war-wise, fresh from the long harrying of the fleeing pagans; King Mark of Tintagel, burly of form, crafty and mean of look; King Nentres of Garlot, ruddy of face, blusterous of manner, who tried to hide cunning under a guise of honesty; and many others, as Duke Cambenet of Loidis, King Brandegoris of Stranggore, King Morkant of Strathclyde, King Clariance of Northumberland, King Kador of Cornwall, and King Idres of Silura.

Now, when all these were assembled about the bed of Uther, Merlin went to the side of the sleeping king, and looked long and earnestly upon his closed eyes. Anon he passed his hands above the face of the king, and Uther instantly awoke, and looked about him as if startled.

'Lord,' said Merlin, 'God's hand is drawing you to Him, and these your lords desire you to name your successor ere you pass from life. Is it not your desire that your son Arthur shall take the kingdom after you, with your blessing?'

Those who craned towards the bed started and looked darkly at Merlin and then at each other; for none had heard of the son whom the wizard named Arthur. Then in the deep silence the dying king raised his hand in the sign of blessing, and in a hollow whisper said:

'Such is my desire. With God's blessing I wish my son Arthur to take this kingdom after me, and all that love me must follow him.'

His eyes closed, a shiver passed down the tall frame as it lay beneath the clothes, and with a sigh the soul of Uther sped.

In a few days the king was buried in all solemnity with the dead of his kindred in the Roman temple that had been made a church, where now stands St. Paul's. Thereafter men waited and wondered, for the land was without a king, and none knew who was rightfully heir to the throne.

As the days went by, men gathered in groups in the market-place of London, whispering the rumours that mysteriously began to fly from mouth to mouth,—how King Lot of Orkney and Lothian was gathering his knights and men-at-arms; and King Uriens and Duke Cambenet of Loidis had got together a great host, although the remnant of the pagans had fled the country. The faces of the citizens went gloomy as they thought of the griefs of civil war, of the terrors of the sack of cities, the ruin of homes, the death of dear ones, and the loss of riches. Nevertheless, some were already wagering which of the great lords would conquer the others, and take to himself the crown of Britain and the title of Pendragon.

As it neared the feast of Christmas, men heard that the Archbishop of London, who was then chief ruler of the Church, had sent his letters to each and all the great nobles, bidding them come to a great council to be holden at the church of St. Paul at Christmas.

When men heard that this was done by the advice of Merlin, faces lightened and looked more joyful.

'Now shall things go right,' said they, 'for the old, old Merlin hath the deepest wisdom of all the earth.'

On Christmas Eve the city throbbed with the clank of arms and the tramp of the great retinues of princes, kings and powerful lords who had come at the archbishop's summons, and by day and night the narrow ways were crowded with armed men. Long ere the dawn of Christmas Day, the lords and the common people betook themselves along the wide road which led across to the church, which then stood in a wide space amid fields, and all knelt therein to mass.

While it was yet dark a great strange cry rang out in the churchyard. Some ran forth, and there by the wall behind the high altar they saw a vast stone, four-square, that had not been there before, and in the middle thereof was stuck a great wedge of steel, and sticking therefrom by the point was a rich sword. On the blade were written words in Latin, which a clerk read forth, which said, 'Whoso pulleth this sword out of this stone and wedge of steel is rightwise born King of all Britain.'

The clerk ran into the church and told the archbishop, and men were all amazed and would have gone instantly to see this marvel, but the archbishop bade them stay.

'Finish your prayers to God,' he said, 'for no man may touch this strange thing till high mass be done.'

When mass was finished, all poured forth from the church and thronged about the stone, and marvelled at the words on the sword. First King Lot, with a light laugh, took hold of the handle and essayed to pull out the point of the sword, but he could not, and his face went hot and angry. Then King Nentres of Garlot took his place with a jest, but though he heaved at the sword with all his burly strength, till it seemed like to snap, he could not move it, and so let go at last with an angry oath. All the others essayed in like manner, but by none was it moved a jot, and all stood about discomfited, looking with black looks at one another and the stone.

'He that is rightwise born ruler of Britain is not here,' said the archbishop at length, 'but doubt not he shall come in God's good time. Meanwhile, let a tent be raised over the stone, and do ye lords appoint ten of your number to watch over it, and we will essay the sword again after New Year's Day.'

So that the kings and lords should be kept together, the archbishop appointed a great tournament to be held on New Year's Day on the waste land north of the city, which men now call Smithfield.

Now when the day was come, a certain lord, Sir Ector de Morven, who had great lands about the isle of Thorney, rode towards the jousts with his son, Sir Kay, and young Arthur, who was Sir Kay's foster-brother. When they had got nearly to the place, suddenly Sir Kay bethought him that he had left his sword at home.

'Do you ride back, young Arthur,' he said, 'and fetch me my sword, for if I do not have it I may not fight.'

Willingly Arthur turned his horse and rode back swiftly. But when he had arrived at the house, he found it shut up and none was within, for all had gone to the jousts. Then was he a little wroth, and rode back wondering how he should obtain a sword for his foster-brother.

Suddenly, as he saw the tower of St. Paul's church through the trees, he bethought him of the sword in the stone, about which many men had spoken in his hearing.

'I will ride thither,' said he, 'and see if I may get that sword for my brother, for he shall not be without a sword this day.'

When he came to the churchyard, he tied his horse to the stile, and went through the grave-mounds to the tent wherein was the sword. He found the place unwatched, and the flashing sword was sticking by the point in the stone.

Lightly he grasped the handle of the sword with one hand, and it came forth straightway!

Then, glad that his brother should not be without a sword, he swiftly gat upon his horse and rode on, and delivered the sword to Sir Kay, and thought no more of aught but the splendid knights and richly garbed lords that were at the jousts.

But Sir Kay looked at the sword, and the writing, and knew it was the sword of the stone, and marvelled how young Arthur had possessed himself thereof; and being of a covetous and sour mind he thought how he might make advantage for himself. He went to his father, Sir Ector, and said:

'Lo, father, this is the sword of the stone, and surely am I rightful king.'

Sir Ector knew the sword and marvelled, but his look was stern as he gazed into the crafty eyes of his son.

'Come ye with me,' he said, and all three rode to the church, and alit from their horses and went in.

Sir Ector strode up the aisle to the altar, and turning to his son, said sternly:

'Now, swear on God's book and the holy relics how thou didst get this sword.'

Sir Kay's heart went weak, and he stammered out the truth.

'How gat you this sword?' asked Sir Ector of Arthur.

'Sir, I will tell you,' said Arthur, and so told him all as it had happened.

Sir Ector marvelled what this should mean; for Arthur had been given to him to nourish and rear as a week-old child by Merlin, but the wizard had only told him that the babe was a son of a dead lady, whose lord had been slain by the pagans.

Then Sir Ector went to the stone and bade Arthur put back the sword into the wedge of steel, which the young man did easily.

Thereupon Sir Ector strove with all his strength to draw the sword forth again, but though he pulled till he sweated, he could not stir the sword.

'Now you essay it,' he said to his son. But naught that Sir Kay could do availed.

'Now do you try,' he bade Arthur.

Arthur lightly grasped the handle with one hand, and the sword came out without hindrance.

Therewith Sir Ector sank to his knees, and Sir Kay also. And they bared their heads.

'Alas,' said Arthur, 'my own dear father and brother, why kneel ye so to me?'

'Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so,' said Sir Ector, 'for I was never your father. I wot well ye are of higher blood than I weened. For Merlin delivered you to me while yet ye were a babe.'

The tears came into Arthur's eyes when he knew that Sir Ector was not his father, for the young man had loved him as if he were of his own blood.

'Sir,' said Ector unto Arthur, 'will ye be my good and kind lord when ye are king?'

'Ah, if this be true as ye say,' cried Arthur, 'ye shall desire of me whatsoever ye may, and I shall give it you. For both you and my good lady and dear mother your wife have kept and loved me as your own.'

'Sir,' said Sir Ector, 'I crave a boon of you, that while you live, your foster-brother, Sir Kay, shall be high seneschal of all your lands.'

'That shall be done, and never man shall have that office but him, while he and I live,' replied Arthur.

Then hastily Sir Ector rode to the archbishop, and told him how and by whom the sword had been achieved from the stone. Thereupon the archbishop let call a great meeting on Twelfth Day of all the kings and barons.

So on the day appointed, all men gathered in the churchyard of St. Paul's, and the tent was removed from about the stone. From day dawn to the evening the kings and princes and lords strove each in his turn to draw the sword from the stone. But none of them availed to move it.

While they stood about, dark of look, gnawing their lips with rage and disappointment, the archbishop turned privily to Sir Ector and bade him bring Arthur.

The young man came, quietly clad in a tunic of brown samite, of medium height, with curly hair above a fair face of noble, though mild mien. As he came among the richly clad nobles, they looked haughtily at him, and wondered who he was and why he came, for as yet none had been told that the sword had been drawn by him.

The archbishop, tall, white-haired and reverend, called Arthur to him and said in grave tones:

'My son, I have heard a strange tale of thee, and whether it be true or false, God shall decide. Now, therefore, do ye take hold upon this sword and essay to draw it from the stone.'

The proud barons, some with looks amazed and others with sneering laughter, pressed about the young man as he stepped towards the stone. Arthur took the handle of the sword with his right hand, and the sword seemed to fall into his grasp.

Thereat arose great cries of rage, and angry looks flashed forth, and many a hand went to dagger haft.

'Ho, archbishop!' cried King Lot, fiercely striding towards the tall ecclesiastic, 'what wizard's brat are you foisting upon us here to draw the sword by magic?'

''Tis a trick!' cried Nentres of Garlot, his bluff manner falling from him, and all the savage anger gleaming from his eyes. 'A trick that shall not blind men such as we!'

'Who is this beggar's boy that is put forth to shame us kings and nobles?' said King Mark, and his hand sought his dagger as he disappeared among the crowd and wormed his way towards where stood young Arthur. But Sir Ector and Sir Kay, seeing the threatening looks of all, had quickly ranged themselves beside young Arthur, and with them went Sir Bedevere, Sir Baudwin and Sir Ulfius, three noble lords who had loved King Uther well.

'Peace, lords!' said the old archbishop, calmly meeting the raging looks about him. 'Ye know what words are about the sword, and this youth hath drawn the sword. I know naught of tricks or wizardry, but I think high Heaven hath chosen this way of showing who shall be lord of this land, and I think this young man is rightful King of us all.'

''Tis some base-born churl's son that the wizard Merlin would foist upon us!' cried the barons. 'We will have none of him!'

'A shame and dishonour it is, so to try to overrule us, kings and lords of high lineage, with an unknown youth,' cried others.

'We will have the sword put back and set a watch over it,' cried King Uriens, 'and we will meet here again at Candlemas, and essay the sword. And at that time, my lord archbishop, thou shalt do the proper rites to exorcise all evil powers, and then we will try the sword once more.'

So was it agreed by all, and ten knights watched day and night about the stone and the sword.

But it befell at Candlemas as it had befallen at Twelfth Day, that for all their strength and might, none of the kings or barons could draw forth the sword; but into the hand of the unknown Arthur the weapon seemed to fall.

Whereat they were all sore aggrieved and rageful, and resolved that they would have yet another trial at Easter. It befell at the feast of Easter as it had befallen before, and this time the kings and lords for angry spite would have fallen upon Arthur and slain him, but the archbishop threatened them with the most dreadful ban of Holy Church. They forbore, therefore, and went aside, and declared that it was their will to essay the sword again at the high feast of Pentecost.

By Merlin's advice the young Arthur went never about, unless the five friends of Uther were with him, that is to say, Sir Ector and his son Sir Kay, Sir Bedevere, Sir Baudwin and Sir Ulfius. And though at divers times men were found skulking or hiding in the horse-stall, the dark wood by the hall, or the bend in the lane, in places where Arthur might pass, no harm came to him by reason of the loving watch of those noble knights.

Again at the feast of Pentecost men gathered in the churchyard of St. Paul's, and the press of people was such that no man had ever seen the like. Once more the kings and princes and great barons, to the number of forty-nine, came forward, and each in turn pulled and drew at the sword in the stone until the sweat stood on their brows. Nevertheless, though the sword point was but the width of a palm in the stone, not the mightiest of them could move it by the breadth of a hair.

King Mark of Tintagel was the last of them who had to stand back at length, baffled and raging inwardly. Many were the evil looks that would have slain Arthur as he stood among his friends.

Then a cry came from among the common people, and so strong was it that the nobles looked as if they hated to hear it.

'Let Arthur draw the sword!' was the call from a thousand throats.

The venerable archbishop came and took Arthur by the hand, and led him towards the sword. Again the young man held the rich pommel with his single hand, and that which none of the forty-nine great men could do, he did as easily as if he but plucked a flower.

A fierce cry leaped from among the thousands of the common people.

'Arthur shall be our King!' they cried. 'Arthur is our King! We will no longer deny him!'

Many of the princes and barons cried out with the commons that this was their will also; but eleven of the most powerful and ambitious showed by their arrogant and angry gestures that they refused to own Arthur as their lord.

For a long time the uproar raged, the cries of the common folk becoming fiercer and more menacing against the counter cries of the eleven kings and their adherents.

At length from among the people there came the governor of London, who, in his rich robes of office, leaped upon the stone where but lately the sword had been.

'My lords, I speak the will of the commons,' he cried, and at his voice all were silent. 'We have taken counsel together, and we will have Arthur for our King. We will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is God's will that he shall be our King, and who that holdeth against him, we will slay.'

With that he got down from the stone, kneeled before Arthur, put the keys of the city in his hands, and rendered homage unto him. The great multitude kneeled likewise, bowing their bare heads, and cried him mercy because they had denied him so long.

Because they feared the great multitude, the eleven kings kneeled with them, but in their hearts was rage and rebellion.

Then Arthur took the sword between his hands and, going into the church, he laid it on the high altar, and the archbishop blessed him. Then, since Arthur was as yet unknighted, King Kador of Cornwall, who was brother of King Uther, made him a knight.

Standing up in the sight of all the people, lords and commons, Arthur laid his left hand upon the holy relics; then, lifting up his right hand, he swore that he would be a true king, to stand forth as their ruler in justice and mercy, to keep them from oppression, to redress their wrongs, and to establish right throughout the length and breadth of his dominions.

Men went forth from the church in great joy, for now they had a king they loved, and they felt that the land was safe from civil strife and the griefs of war.

When Arthur in his palace at London had received the homage of all the lords and princes from the lands south of Humber, he appointed his officers. Sir Kay he made seneschal or steward, and Sir Baudwin was made constable, and Sir Ulfius he named chamberlain of his court. By the counsel of Merlin he made Sir Bedevere Warden of the Northern Marches, for the lands of the eleven kings lay mostly in the country north of Trent, and though those princes had yielded lip service to Arthur, Merlin knew that in their hearts they nurtured the seeds of conspiracy.

King Arthur made a progress through all his territories, staying at the halls of those who did service for the lands they held of him, and he commanded all those who had suffered evil or wrong to come to him, and many came. The king's wrath when he heard a tale of women and orphans wronged or robbed or evilly treated by proud or powerful lords and knights, was terrible to see. Many were the pale captives he released from their deep dungeons, many were the tears he wiped away, and hard and heavy was his punishment of evil lords who thought their power would for ever shield them from penalty for their cruelties and oppression.

When this was done, he caused a proclamation to be uttered, that he would hold his coronation at the city of Caerleon-upon-Usk, at the feast of Hallow-mass then following; and he commanded all his loyal subjects to attend. When the time came, all the countryside on the marches of Wales was filled with the trains of noblemen and their knights and servants gathering towards the city.

As Arthur looked from the window of the palace which the Romans had builded, and which looked far and wide over the crowded roads, word was brought to him that six of the kings who had resented his kingship had come to the city. At this Arthur was glad, for he was full gentle and kindly, and would liefer be friendly with a man than his enemy.

Thinking that these kings and knights had come for love of him, and to do him worship at his feast, King Arthur sent them many and rich presents. But his messengers returned, saying that the kings and knights had received them with insults, and had refused to take the gifts of a beardless boy who had come, they said, of low blood.

Whereat the king's eyes flashed grimly, but at that time he said no word.

In the joustings and knightly games that were part of the festival of the coronation, the six kings ever ranged themselves against King Arthur and his knights, and did him all the despite they could achieve. At that time they deemed themselves not strong enough to hurt the king, and therefore did no open act of revolt.

Now it happened, when the feasting was over and many of the kings and lords had departed home again, that Arthur stood in the door of his hall that looked into the street, and with his three best nobles, Sir Kay, Sir Bedevere and Sir Baudwin, he watched the rich cavalcades of his lords pass out of the town. Suddenly, as he stood there, a little page-boy, fair of face but for the pitiful sorrow and gauntness upon it, dashed from the throng of a lord's retinue which was passing and threw himself along the ground, his hands clutching the feet of the king.

'O King Arthur, save me!' the lad cried, spent of breath, 'or this evil lord will slay me as he hath slain my mother and my brothers.'

From the throng a tall black knight, leaping from his horse, strode towards the boy, and would have torn his hands from their hold upon the king's feet.

'Back, sir knight!' said the king. 'I will hear more of this. Who are you?'

The knight laughed insolently.

'I? Oh, I am one that the last king knew well to his sorrow. I am Turquine, brother to Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower.'

'What is this boy to you?'

'He is Owen, the caitiff son of a brave father, who gave him to my care to train in knightly ways. But 'tis a puling fool, more fitting for the bowers of ladies.'

'Nay, king, he lies!' said the lad who kneeled before the king. 'I am his nephew. His hand slew my dear father treacherously, and he hath starved my mother to her death. For our lands are rich while his are poor, and my father warned me of him ere he died. This man hath kept me prisoner, used me evilly, starving me and wealing me with cruel blows daily. I think he hath my death in his heart.'

'I can speak of this thing,' said a knight, who came forth from the throng. 'I am Sir Miles of Bandon. I know this lad speaks truth, for his father was mine own dear cousin. This Sir Turquine is a felon knight.'

The brow of the king went dark. He looked from the cruel insolent face of the black knight to the wan beseeching face of the lad.

'Hark ye!' said Arthur to Turquine, and his voice was terrible, for all that it was very quiet, 'ye shall answer to me and my justice for any evil you have done this young boy or his people. When I send for thee, come at once, or it will be worse for thee. The boy stays with me. Now begone!'

The big knight looked with hatred and surprise in his eyes, and for a while said naught. Then, with an insolent laugh, he turned and vaulted on his horse.

'I may come when thou dost not expect me, sir king!' he said, mocking, and shot an evil look at the young page.

Thenceforward the young page Owen stayed in the court, doing his services deftly and quietly, with an eye ever on the king to do his bidding. One night, when a storm raged and the town lay dark and quiet, King Arthur sat in his hall. Sir Kay and Sir Bedevere told tales, or the king's bard sang songs to amuse him, while about them moved young Owen, noiseless of step, quick of eye, and as restless as an unquiet spirit.

Anon the lad would pass through the arras, creep to the great outer door, and look at the porter in his room beside it. Then he would stand at the wicket and listen to the rare footsteps pass down the road, and when the rising wind keened and shrilled through the crannies, he would glance about him with quick looks as if in fear of an enemy.

Once he went to Falk, the king's porter, and said:

''Tis a stormy night, Sir Falk. I doubt few are about the streets of Caerleon on such a night.'

'Few indeed,' said Falk.

'Yet methought but now I heard the rattle of a bridle in the distance, as if a steed stood in armour.'

'I heard naught,' said Falk. ''Twould be but the grinding of a chain beside a horseblock.'

Young Owen went away, and sat where the king and his knights listened to the marvellous tales of the wise Gildas, who told of most terrible witches and warlocks in the wizard woods of Brittany.

Again the lad approached the door and listened; then going to the porter he said:

'This drenching storm will tear the last poor leaves from the forest trees, I ween, Sir Falk.'

'Of a truth,' said the porter, ''tis overlate for leaves. They be stuck in the mire of the rides long ere this.'

'They could not be blown so far in this gushing storm,' said the page, 'and therefore I have deceived myself. But I thought I heard the rustle of leaves on the stones before the door but now.'

'It could not be,' said the porter; 'it was doubtless the gouts of water from the roof of the hall thou didst hear.'

Owen went away, but in a little while returned, and softly opened the wicket panel in the door a little way, and looked forth into the roaring darkness of rain and wind.

'Think you, Sir Falk,' he said, going to the porter, 'that the witches from the woods of Denn do send their baleful fires on such a night as this to lead poor houseless wretches into the marsh below the wall?'

The porter laughed.

'Thou'rt over-full of fancies to-night, young sir,' he said. 'Have no fear of witches. We're all safe and sound here till the blessed daylight comes, and none need stir out till then.'

'Methought I saw a flash in the dark but now,' said Owen, 'as if 'twas the gleam of a sword or a wandering marsh fire.'

'Not a doubt 'twas but a lightning flash,' returned the porter. 'Now go ye, for I hear the king moving towards bed. Sleep soundly, lad; no need to fear this night.'

In a little while the palace was sunk in darkness, and in silence save for the smothered cries of sleepers in their dreams. Outside, the rain still sobbed at the eaves, and the wind beat at the narrow casements. Time passed, and for all his weariness young Owen could not sleep.

His spirit had been heavy all the day, and vague and dreadful fears had haunted him. Something told him that the life of the beloved king, who had taken him from the foul and cruel power of Sir Turquine, was threatened. He rose in the dark from his pallet of straw in the hall where lay the other pages, and stole softly out. He would make his way to the king's door, and, wrapped in his cloak, would lie before it.

He felt his way softly along the corridor in the deep darkness. Suddenly he stopped. Something alive was near him in the dark. Even as he turned, a hand seized him by the throat, and a hateful voice which he knew growled in his ear:

'Lead us to the king's room, or this shall sink in thy heart!'

He knew at once that all his fears of the day and the night had been true. He had indeed heard the stealthy footsteps before the door of the hall, and had seen the dull gleam of a sword in the hand of one of those who lay in wait to murder the king.

'Speak!' said the voice again. 'Is the king's room backward or forward?'

'I will not tell thee!' he gasped, and heard a low mocking laugh.

''Tis thee, my caitiff boy!' sneered Sir Turquine, for he it was. 'Then this for thee!'

With the words he thrust his dagger into the body of the struggling boy, who swooned and dropped to the floor.

In a few moments Owen stirred, for his struggles had caused his enemy's dagger to swerve, and though weak from loss of blood, the young page knew that he must act at once to save his hero from the murderous knives.

He heard the stealthy footsteps of the murderers going backwards to the hall, and, filled with joy, he pressed forward. His head was dizzy, he felt as if every moment he must sink in a swoon; but at length he reached the door, turned the handle and fell in.

'The king!' he cried. 'Save the king! Turquine has broken in and seeks his life.'

At his shrill cry there was the rush of men and torches along the corridors and into the room. Sir Bedevere was at the head of them, and in a moment he, with twenty half-dressed knights behind him, was scattering through the palace seeking the murderers, while the king ordered his leech or doctor to attend instantly to Owen's wound.

This was soon found not to be severe, and the lad was laid at the foot of the king's bed, glad and proud to hear the king's words of praise.

Then Sir Bedevere entered, saying that the murderers had fled as soon as they found they were discovered.

'But, my lord king,' he said, 'this is no murderous attempt by one insolent lord. It means, my king, that thou wilt have to fight for thy kingdom. It is civil war!'

'What mean you, Sir Bedevere?'

'Sir Turquine is but one of them, my king,' replied Bedevere. 'He is but the tool of the six kings who have put such great despite upon you. For with them also in this midnight murder-raid I saw King Nentres of Garlot and Duke Cambenet.'

Suddenly, as he spoke, the tall grey form of Merlin took shape before them, for so great and marvellous was the power of this wizard, that he could come and go unseen, except when he willed that men should see him.

'Sir,' said Merlin, 'ye owe your life to this brave lad here, and he shall be a passing good man when he shall have attained his full strength, and he doth deserve your high and gracious favour.'

'That shall he have,' said the king, and smiled at young Owen, and the smile made the lad forget all the burning of his wound for very pride and gladness.

'And now,' said Merlin, 'if ye will gather your men I will lead you to the hold of those murderous kings by a secret way, and ye should give them such a sudden blow as will discomfit them.'

In a little while all was ready, and then, silently, with muffled arms, the men of Arthur were marching forth down the narrow dark lanes of the town to where the place was ruinous with old houses left forsaken by their Roman masters when they had gone from Britain fifty years before.

Merlin led them to a great squat tower which stood beside the wall, wherein a single light gleamed at a high window. Causing some to surround this place, Merlin led others to a broken door, and there they entered in. Then was there a sudden uproar and fierce fighting in the rooms and up the narrow stairs.

In the darkness King Lot, with a hundred knights, burst out through a rear door, and thought to escape; but King Arthur with his knights waylaid them, and slew on the right and on the left, doing such deeds that all took pride in his bravery and might of arms. Fiercely did King Lot press forward, and to his aid came Sir Caradoc, who set upon King Arthur in the rear.

Arthur drew from his side the sword he had so marvellously taken from the stone, and in the darkness it flashed as if it were thirty torches, and it dazzled his enemies' eyes, so that they gave way.

By this time the common people of Caerleon had heard the great outcry and the clang of swords on armour. Learning of the jeopardy of their beloved king from midnight murderers, they ran to the tower, and with clubs and staves and bills they slew many of the men of the evil kings, putting the rest to flight. But the six kings were still unharmed, and with the remnant of their knights fled and departed in the darkness.

A few days later King Arthur journeyed back to London, and on an evening when, in the twilight, he stood upon the roof of the palace overlooking the broad Thames, he was aware of a shadow beside him where no shadow had been before. Before he could cross himself against the evil powers of wizardry and glamour, the steel-blue eyes of Merlin looked out from the cloud, and the magician's voice spoke to him as if from a great distance.

'I stand beneath the shaggy brows of the Hill of Tanyshane,' said the voice, 'and I look down into the courtyard of the castle of King Lot. There I see the gathering of men, the flash of torches on their hauberks, the glitter of helms, and the blue gleams of swords. I have passed through these northern lands, from the windswept ways of Alclwyd to the quaking marshes of the Humber. Eleven castles have I seen, and each is filled with the clang of beating iron, the glow of smiths' fires and the hissing of new-tempered steel. Call thy council, and abide my return, for now you must fight for your kingdom, O king, and for your very life.'

The voice ceased, and the shadow and the vivid eyes it half concealed died away with it.

Into the council-chamber three days later, while men waited for they knew not what, Merlin entered.

'What news do you bring, Merlin?' they cried.

'Of civil war!' he said. 'I warn you all that the six kings ye gave a check to at Caerleon have taken to themselves four others and a mighty duke. They will to thrust Arthur, whom they call base-born, out of his life. Mark you, they are passing strong and as good fighting men as any alive—pity it is that great Uriens is with them, the wisest and noblest fighter of them all!—and unless Arthur have more men of arms and chivalry with him than he can get within this realm, he will be overcome!'

'Oh, but we be big enough!' cried some.

'That ye are not!' said Merlin. 'Which of ye have single-handed beaten back the pagan hordes from your lands? Which of ye can match King Lot for subtlety and craft, or the great Uriens of Reged for wisdom in war?'

'What is to do, then? Tell us your counsel,' said they all.

'This is my advice,' replied the wizard. 'Ye must send an embassy to King Ban of Brittany and King Bors of Gaul, promising to aid them when King Claudas, their common enemy, shall fight them again, if they will come and aid our king in this his fight for life and kingdom.'

In a few weeks this was done. King Ban of Brittany and his brother, King Bors, crossed into Britain with five thousand good knights, sworn to aid Arthur in this great conflict.

With King Ban came his son, young Lancelot, who was later to make more fame and more dole than any knight of Arthur's court.

On a day in early spring, the hosts of Arthur and his two allies were encamped in Sherwood Forest, and the fore-riders or scouts, which Merlin had sent out, came hastening in to say that the host of the eleven kings was but a few miles to the north of Trent water. By secret ways, throughout that night, Merlin led the army of Arthur until they came near where the enemy lay. Then did he order an ambush to be made by some part of their men, with King Ban and King Bors, by hiding in a hollow filled with trees.

In the morning, when either host saw the other, the northern host was well comforted, for they thought King Arthur's force was but small.

With the pealing of trumpets and the shouts of the knights, King Arthur ordered his men to advance, and in their midst was the great silken banner with the fierce red dragon ramping in its folds. This had been blessed by the Archbishop of London at a solemn service held before the host left London.

All day the battle raged. Knight hurled and hurtled against knight, bowmen shot their short Welsh arrows, and men-at-arms thrust and maimed and slashed with the great billhooks and spears.

King Arthur, with his bodyguard of four—Sir Kay, Sir Baudwin, Sir Ulfius, and Sir Bedevere—did feats of arms that it was marvel to see. Often the eleven kings did essay to give deadly strokes upon the king, but the press of fighting kept some of them from him, and others withdrew sore wounded from the attack upon him and his faithful four.

Once the five held strong medley against six of the rebel kings, and these were King Lot, King Nentres, King Brandegoris, King Idres, King Uriens, and King Agwisance; and so fiercely did they attack them that three drew off sore wounded, whilst King Lot, King Uriens and King Nentres were unhorsed, and all but slain by the men-at-arms.

At length it appeared to Arthur that his host was yielding before the weight of numbers of the enemy, and then he bethought him of a strategy. He took counsel of his nobles, and they approved; he sent a trusty messenger to the Kings Ban and Bors, who still lay in ambush; and then, commanding his trumpets to sound, he ordered a retreat.

As had been agreed on, the knights on Arthur's side made their retreat in a confusion that seemed full of fear; and the enemy, joyfully shouting their cries of triumph, pursued them headlong.

King Lot's host, led onward thus unthinking, were sure of victory. But their cries of triumph were short and quickly turned to woe; for when they had passed the place of ambush, they heard cries of terror in their rear, and turning, they found a great host pouring forth from the hollow combe, thick as angry bees from a hive.

Then, indeed, taken in the rear and in the front, there was little hope of victory, and King Lot's men fought for dear life.

Seeing King Bors, where he hewed terribly in the press of battle, King Lot, who knew him well, cried out:

'Ah, Mary, now defend us from death and from horrible maims, for I see well we be in fear of quick death! Yonder is King Bors, one of the most worshipful and best knights in the world; and there is his twin brother, King Ban, as terrible as he. How came they and their host into Britain, and we not know it, alas?'

'By the arts of that wizard Merlin, I doubt not,' said King Uriens. 'And I doubt not we shall all be sped. Look you, Lot,' he went on, 'whoever that Arthur may be, I'll swear by my head he is not of low-born breeding, but a very man and a marvellous fighter.'

'If you lose heart now, why, go and swear fealty to him!' sneered King Lot.

'Keep your sneers,' said Uriens sternly. 'I'll pay the price of rebellion to my last breath, as I have vowed.'

By now the great mass of King Lot's host was either slain or run away, and the evening drew on; but the eleven kings, wounded, spent, and full of anguish at defeat, drew together with a few hundred of their knights, and vowed to die fighting. When they looked to see where they stood, they found that Arthur had penned them upon a little bluff of land that ended steeply over a deep river, and that no way was open for them to escape from the death of swords, unless they chose to leap on the rocks below the cliff.

'See!' said Uriens, with a laugh, 'while we fought like wild boars, and thought of nothing but the killing, this base-born king kept his wits and moved us like pawns on a chessboard, we all unwitting. First, he drew us into ambush, and now he thrusts us into a chasm. We war-wise fighters, grown grey in battle, checkmated by a boy!'

Nevertheless, though wearied, full of dread and shame, and looking death in the eyes, the little band of men withdrew backwards, waiting until Arthur should command his lines of glittering knights to dash upon the remnant of the rebel kings.

'The proud evil men!' said Arthur in anger, looking upon them. 'Though they know death is upon them, they will not crave mercy of me, a base-born king, as they name me!'

'Ah, sir king,' said King Ban, 'blame them not, for they do as brave men ought to do, and they are the best fighting men and the knights of most prowess that ever I saw. And if they were belonging unto you, there would be no king under heaven to compare with you for power and fame and majesty.'

'I cannot love them,' said Arthur sadly, 'for they would destroy me.'

'Now, this is my counsel,' said King Lot to his ten fellows, as he looked over the field strewn with the dead: 'that we stand together in a circle and swear to die together—we and our few knights. We have aimed at a kingdom and a crown, and we have failed. But we will die like kings and warriors. When they press upon us at the last, let no one of us break away. If any see another dress him to flee or to yield, let him slay him. How say ye?'

'It is good!' said they all.

Then, for all their aching wounds, they mended their broken harness hurriedly, and righted their shields, took new spears from the hands of their squires, and set them upright on their thighs, and thus, with the low red light of the westering sun behind them, they stood still and grim, like a clump of tall leafless trees.

Arthur gave the order to advance, and his knights leaped forward over the heap of the slain. But just then Sir Kay came to the king, bringing a knight from the north who had just been captured, bearing messages to the eleven kings, and Arthur asked him who he was and why he came.

'Sir king,' said the man, 'I am Sir Eliot of the March Tower, and I have ill tidings for my master, King Uriens, and his friends, but it seems my news is no worse than their fate. If my great lord is to die, I would lief die with him. Therefore, lord, despatch me now, or let me go stand beside my lord in the last rally.'

'What is thy news?' asked King Arthur.

'It is that the pagans, the savage Saxons, have landed in three places beyond Humber, and all the lands of my lord and his ten fellows shall suffer fire and sword again.'

'But if I slay your master and his fellow-rebels, whose lands are those the pagans overrun?'

'Yours, lord, of a truth, if you can dash the pagans from them.'

'If I and my host have swept these rebel kings from before me, think you I cannot sweep the Saxons from the land?'

'I trow you could, sir king, for on my way hither I have heard of the marvellous deeds this day of yourself and your knights. But, lord, I see the press of knights about my dear lord. Ah, that I might strike a blow for him before I die!'

'Thou shalt strike a-many yet,' said Arthur, and Sir Eliot marvelled.

Arthur commanded his trumpets to blow the retreat, and the knights, wondering and half unbelieving, withdrew them from about the eleven kings.

Then, surrounded by his chief lords, Arthur rode to the group of wearied kings, who, with dented and broken harness, from which the blood oozed in many places, still kept their seats with undaunted mien.

At King Arthur's command Sir Eliot told his news to King Uriens.

'Now this I have to say to ye,' said Arthur, lifting his vizor and showing a stern countenance. 'Ye are in my hands, to slay or spare as I choose. But ye have fought like brave men, and I would that, for your prowess, ye were my friends rather than mine enemies. Now this I have to offer ye. Swear here and now to be my lieges, as ye were to King Uther before me, and I will aid thee to thrust the pagans from your land, and thenceforth we will aid and cherish each other as true subjects and true lords should do. But if ye refuse, then your folly be on your own heads, for then I take your lives and your lands both.'

With that King Uriens threw down his sword and put up his vizor, and turning to the others, said:

'Fellow-rebels, we should be mad to refuse gifts so kingly and kindly offered. We have tried a throw with this young king, and we have been worsted. Better now to own ourselves lesser men than this wise lad here, and try to live in peace with him henceforth.'

The other kings agreed, but King Lot, mean and revengeful, and the Kings Nentres and Brandegoris, suspicious that, as had been too often with themselves, fair words had covered foul intent, held back a little, until the others swore to leave them to the penalty of their folly. Whereupon they all knelt down upon the stricken field, and each put his hands between the hands of King Arthur, and swore upon the honour of their knighthood to be his true and faithful men while they lived.

As they rose from rendering their homage, Merlin came riding on a great black horse.

'Ye have done wisely well, my king,' he said. 'For by this kingly deed you shall rivet the hearts of the good men among these former rebels closer to your own than with rivets of steel. Thus well and wisely have ye won your kingdom and the fealty of these brave men.'

'Now,' he went on to the eleven kings, 'ye doubted whether Arthur was of noble birth, and rightful king. Know ye that he is the son of the noble King Uther, who by my counsel hid him away on his birth. Ye will remember how Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, hated Uther for taking Igraine for wife, whom Gorlois had captured and sworn to wed for her beauty and her wealth. And how all the turbulent lords did cling to Gorlois, and how for years King Uther had much ado to keep those rebels from dismembering the kingdom. Gorlois had vowed to slay by poison or treachery any son of Uther's, and so I took young Arthur into safe keeping. None knew of him until King Uther named him as his rightful heir upon his deathbed in the presence of you all. So, therefore, ye do well to give your homage to this your king, for Arthur is the son right worshipful of the great Pendragon, and the lovely lady, Igraine of Lyonesse.'

All that stood by marvelled, and most of the eleven kings were glad that they had a king so noble in birth and doing as Arthur, the son of Uther Pendragon.

[ ]

II

SIR BALIN AND THE STROKE DOLOROUS

It happened that on a day King Arthur, wandering from his court, had fought and vanquished a valiant knight, but he himself had been sore wounded. Merlin, coming to his aid, had taken him to a hermit's cave, and there with many marvellous salves had searched his wounds, so that in three days the king was whole again.

Riding forth together, Merlin led the king deeper and deeper into a wild and desolate country where he had never been before, and where there were no pathways. Arthur looked to and fro over the waste, but saw no sign of man or beast, and no bird flitted or piped. Great gaunt stones stood upright on the hillsides, solitary or in long lines as if they marched, or else they leaned together as if conspiring; while great heaps or cairns of stone rose here and there from the lichen-covered and rocky soil, in which the grass grew weakly in small crevices.

The mists now rose and drifted before them as they rode, the light was low and sallow, and the wind began to whisper shrilly among the great stones, and in the crannies of the cairns.

The king crossed himself, and looked at the white, old, and wrinkled face of Merlin; but the wizard seemed sunk in thought. Then Arthur bethought him that, in case some fiend-shape or wizard-knight should assail him in that desolate waste, he could not defend himself, inasmuch as his sword—the sword he had drawn from the stone—had snapped when he fought the knight, and he had no other weapon with him.

'Merlin,' he said, 'this is a place of ancient death and terror, and if aught should assail us of evil, I have no sword.'

'For that reason I bring thee here,' replied Merlin, and would not utter another word.

Then, through the mists, which writhed and twisted as if they were fell shapes that would tear down the passing riders, Arthur became aware that their way was leading downwards, and soon the smell of water rose up to him.

He heard the beat and suck of waves upon a shore, and in a little while the mists cleared as if at a word, and there before him Arthur saw a lonely lake or sea, hedged round with salt-rimed reeds and sedges, and stretching out its waters, dull and leaden-hued, to so great a distance that his eye could see no end.

'What is this place?' he asked of Merlin.

'It is the Lake of the Endless Waters,' said the wizard.

'Why bring ye me to this desolate lake in the wilderness?'

'You shall visit it once more—ere you die!' replied Merlin. 'But look you there in the midmost of the lake.'

Looking to where the wizard pointed, Arthur saw a great hand, clothed in white samite, stretched above the lapsing waves, and in its grasp was a long two-handed sword in a rich scabbard.

With that they saw a barge riding over the water, and it came without oars or any sail, and in the prow sat a woman, tall and comely, with a face lovely but sad. A frontlet of gold and pearls was bound about her rich red hair, and her robes, of green samite, fell about her as if they were reeds of the shore.

'What lady is that?' said the king.

'It is the Lady of the Lake,' said Merlin, 'and she comes to you. Now, therefore, speak fair to her, and ask that she will give you that sword.'

Then the barge rasped among the reeds where Arthur sat on his horse, and the lady said:

'Greeting to you, O king!'

'Greeting, fair damsel!' replied Arthur. 'What sword is that which the arm holdeth above the water? I would it were mine, for I have none.'

'Sir king,' said the lady, 'that sword is mine; but if ye will give me a gift when I ask it of you, and will swear an oath to give me back the sword when ye shall be dying, then shall ye have it.'

'By my faith, I will give ye the gift when ye shall desire, and when I am dying I will truly give back the sword.'

'Then do you step into this barge and row yourself unto the hand and take from it the sword. And know ye that the name of that sword is Excalibur, and while you keep the scabbard by your side, ye shall lose no blood, be ye never so sore wounded.'

So King Arthur and Merlin alighted, tied their horses to two stunted trees, and went into the barge. The king turned to look to where the tall green lady had stood but a moment before, and marvelled to see that she had vanished.

When they came to the sword which the hand held, King Arthur saw that the water where the hand rose forth was all troubled, and he could see naught. He took the sword by the handle, and the great fingers of the hand opened and then sank. So they came afterwards to the land, and rode on their way to Camelot, and reached it after many days.

When King Arthur entered his hall, and had been welcomed by his knights, the seneschal brought forth a messenger, who had come from King Rience of North Wales, and the man with insolent looks uttered this message:

'My lord, King Rience, hath but now discomfited and overwhelmed seven kings, and each hath done him homage, and given him for a sign of their subjection their beard clean cut from their chins. And my lord hath caused a rich mantle to be hemmed with these kings' beards, and there yet lacketh one place. Wherefore my lord hath sent me to demand that ye give him homage and send him thy beard also. Or else he will enter thy lands, and burn and slay and lay waste, and will not cease until he hath thy head as well as thy beard.'

'Now this is the most shameful message that any man sent to a king!' said Arthur, 'and thy king shall rue his villainous words.' Then he laughed a little grimly. 'Thou seest, fellow, that my beard is full young yet to make a hem. So take this message back to thy master. If he will have it, he must wait until I grow older; but yet he shall not wait long before he sees me, and then shall he lose his head, by the faith of my body, unless he do homage to me.'

So the messenger departed, and King Arthur set about the ordering of his army to invade the land of Rience.

Later, on a day when the king sat in council with his barons and knights, there came a damsel into the hall, richly beseen and of a fair countenance. She knelt at the feet of the king, and said humbly:

'O king, I crave a boon of ye, and by your promise ye shall grant it me.'

'Who are ye, damsel?' asked the king.

'My lord, my lady mother hath sent me, and she is the Lady of the Lake.'

'I remember me,' said Arthur, 'and thou shalt have thy boon.'

Whereat the damsel rose and let her mantle fall, that was richly furred, and then they saw that she was girded about the waist with a great sword.

Marvelling, the king asked, 'Damsel, for what cause are ye girded with that sword?'

'My lord,' said the damsel, in distress and sadness, 'this sword that I am girded withal, doth me great sorrow and remembrance. For it was the sword of him I loved most tenderly in all the world, and he hath been slain by falsest treachery by a foul knight, Sir Garlon, and nevermore shall I be joyful. But I would that my dear love be avenged by his own good sword, which my lady mother hath endowed with great enchantment. And the knight of thine that shall draw this sword shall be he who shall avenge my dead love. But he must be a clean knight, a good man of his hands and of his deeds, and without guile or treachery. If I may find such a knight, he shall deliver me of this sword, out of the scabbard, and with it do vengeance for me.'

'This is a great marvel,' said King Arthur, 'and while I presume not to be such a knight as thou sayest, yet for ensample to my knights will I essay to draw the sword.'

Therewith the king took the scabbard and drew at the sword with all his strength, but in no wise could he make it come forth.

'Sir,' said the damsel, 'ye need not draw half so hard, for lightly shall it come into the hands of him who shall draw it.'

Then the king bade all his knights to attempt this feat, and all tried their best, but it was of no avail.

'Alas!' said the damsel in great sadness. 'And shall my dear love go unavenged, because there is no knight here who shall achieve this sword?'

She turned away through the crowd of knights who stood abashed about her, and went towards the door.

It happened that there was a poor knight in the court of King Arthur, who had been a prisoner for a year and a day, by reason of his having slain a kinsman of the king's. His name was Sir Balin the Hardy, and he was a good man of his hands, though needy. He had been but lately released from durance, and was standing privily in the hall and saw the adventure of the damsel with the sword. Whereat his heart rose, both to do the deed for the sorrowing maid and because of her beauty and sadness. Yet, being poor and meanly arrayed, he pushed not forward in the press.

But as the damsel went towards the door, she passed him, and he said:

'Damsel, I pray you of your courtesy to suffer me as well to essay as these knights, for though I be poorly clothed, my heart seemeth fully assured that I may draw the sword, and thy sorrow moveth me.'

The damsel lifted her large sad eyes to him, and she saw he was goodly of form and noble of look, and her heart was stirred.

'Though ye be poor, worthiness and manhood are not in a man's rich raiment, and therefore,' she said with a sorrowful smile, 'do you essay the sword also, good knight, and God speed you.'

Balin took the sword by the scabbard, and drew it out easily, and when he looked upon the sword it pleased him well.

Then had the king and barons great marvel, but some of the knights had great spite against Balin.

'Truly,' said the damsel, 'this is a passing good knight, and the best man of ye all, and many marvels shall he achieve. But now, gentle and courteous knight,' she said, 'give me the sword again.'

'Nay, this sword will I keep,' said Balin.

'Ye are not wise,' said the maiden sorrowfully. 'My lady mother sent the sword to find which was the knight the most worthy to rid the world of an evil knight that doeth his foul treacheries and murders by wizardry, but if ye keep the sword it shall work great bane on you and on one you love most in this world.'

'I shall take the adventure God shall ordain for me,' said Balin, 'be it good or ill.'

The damsel looked sadly into his eyes and wept.

'I am passing heavy for your sake,' she said. 'I repent that I have brought this to you, for I see you lying wounded unto death, and I shall not be near to comfort you.'

With that the damsel departed in great sorrow.

Anon Balin sent for his horse and armour, and took his leave of King Arthur, who was almost wroth that he should depart upon a quest that promised but misfortune. He would have him stay with him in his court, but Balin would not, and so departed.

For many days, by lonely ways and through forest drives, Sir Balin fared, seeking for the felon knight Sir Garlon, but nowhere could he get word of him. At length one night, as he made his way to a hermitage by the edge of a thick wood, he saw the arms of his younger brother, Sir Balan, hung upon a thorn before the holy man's door. Just then Sir Balan came out and saw him, and when he looked on Balin's shield, which had two crossed swords, he recognised his brother's device, and ran to him, and they met and kissed each other, and that night they were happy together, for it had been long since that they had parted; and each told the other his adventures.

'It seemeth, then, that this King Arthur is a right worshipful lord,' said Balan, when his brother had told him the adventure of the damsel and the sword, 'but I doubt me he will not withstand King Rience and his host. Already that king hath come into this land and is harrying and burning.'

'That were great pity,' said Balin, 'and I would that I could do some deed to stay the power of Rience, who is evil-minded and of an arrogant nature. I would put my life in any danger to win the love of the great Arthur, and to punish King Rience for his shameful message.'

'Let us go then to-morrow,' said Balan, 'and try our prowess. King Rience lieth at the siege of the castle Terabil, within ten leagues of this place.'

'I will well,' said Balin, 'and if we slay King Rience, his people will go astray and King Arthur shall easily make them yield.'

Next morning early they rode away through the gay woods, drenched with dew, which sparkled where the sunlight lit upon it. Long and lonely was the way, until towards the evening they met with a poor old man on foot, ragged, lame, and dirty, and bearing a great burden. It was in a narrow ride of the forest, and there was but room for one person to pass, and though the brothers were making great speed, since they doubted they had lost their way, they would not ride down the poor man, as many knights would do.

But Balin, with a cheery call, said: 'Old man, give me thy pack, and do thou climb up and sit behind me. For it is late and lonely that such poor old bones as thine should be abroad.'

The old man, either from fear of the two great knights in their black armour, or from suspicion, mumbled out a few words and refused the offer, while yet he would not budge from the narrow path.

'Well, then, tell us thy name, old man,' said Balin, laughing at his obstinacy.

'At this time I will not tell you,' croaked the old fellow, stumbling under his pack.

'I doubt that great pack hath many rich things that never owned thee master,' said Balan with a laugh.

'It is full evil seen,' said Balin, 'that thou art a true honest man, when thou wilt not tell thy name.'

'Be that as it may,' snarled the old man, 'but I know your name, my lordlings, and why you ride this way.'

'By the faith of my body, but ye are some wizard if ye know that,' said Balan mockingly.

'And who may we be?' asked Balin. 'And whither do we ride?'

'Ye are brothers, my Lords Balin and Balan,' answered the old man. 'And ye ride to pull King Rience's beard. But that ye shall not do, unless ye take my counsel.'

'Ah!' cried Balin, 'I know thee, Merlin! We would fain be ruled by thy counsel, old magician.'

So it came about, with Merlin's aid, that Balin and Balan came upon King Rience that night with but a small band of his knights, and with a sudden attack out of the dark wood the two brothers seized the king and slew many of his men that tried to save him. And when they had ridden some way towards Camelot with the king, wounded and bound, between them, Merlin vanished from beside them.

Then they rode to Camelot at the dawning, and delivered Rience to the porter at the gate, to be led to King Arthur when he should sit in hall, and the two knights rode away. So, by the capture of King Rience, his host was put to naught, and the king paid his homage to King Arthur, and swore on the sacred relics of the Abbey of Camelot to be his true man while he should live.

At that time Balin could not meet with the felon knight, Sir Garlon, who wrought evil by wizardry, and he and his brother went their different ways seeking adventure. Sir Balin returned to King Arthur and became one of his most valiant knights.

It happened on a day that King Arthur journeyed with his knights from Camelot to London, and he lay in his pavilion in the heat of the day. As he rested he heard the noise of a horse, and looking out of the flap of his tent, he saw a strange knight passing, making great complaint and sorrowing, and with him was a damsel.

'Abide, fair sir,' said Arthur, 'and tell me wherefore you are troubled.'

'Ye may little amend it,' answered the knight, and passed on.

Later came Sir Balin and saluted the king, who told him of the strange knight sorrowing as he rode, and the king bade him follow and bring back the knight to him, 'for,' said he, 'the sorrows of that knight were so piercing that I would fain know his grief.'

Sir Balin took horse and lance and rode many miles through the forest, and by evening he came upon the knight and the lady.

'Sir knight,' said Balin, 'ye must come with me unto my lord, King Arthur, for to tell him the cause of your sorrow.'

'That will I not,' answered the knight, 'for it would do me none avail.'

'Sir, make ready,' replied Balin, 'for ye must needs go with me, or else I will fight with you and take you by force.'

'No heart have I to fight, for all joy of life is dead with me,' said the knight, 'but I am on a fierce quest, and ye must be my warrant if I go with you that I be not kept from my quest.'

'I will gladly warrant you,' said Balin, and together with the lady they turned back.

'I fear not to tell you my sorrow,' said the knight as they rode. 'I but lately returned from fighting the pagans in the north, and when I came to my father's hall, men told me that the lady that I loved most tenderly had been robbed away by a villain knight. And as I sorrowed and went forth to seek the knight to slay him, lo, there I saw my lady, who had escaped unscathed from his evil hold. And much joy we made of each other, for we loved each other tenderly. But even as we kissed, there came an arrow through the air and pierced my dear lady to the heart, so that she fell dead in my arms. And there was none to see who shot the arrow, but men said it was the felon knight who had taken my lady, and he had killed her by black magic. So now with this damsel, my dear sister, who was her friend, do I go through the world seeking the invisible knight. And when I find him, with God's help I will surely slay him.'

The good knight Balin was much moved by the sad story.

'Ah!' said he, 'it is the same fell knight whose death I seek by this good sword. And we will fare together, you and I, and take his evil life when God leads us to him.'

Even as Sir Balin spoke, out of a dark glade by their side came a lance hurtling, as if held in rest by an invisible rider, and while they turned their heads at the sound of its hissing through the air, it pierced the side of the sorrowing knight and stood deep in the wound.

'Alas!' cried the knight, falling from his horse, 'I am slain by the traitorous and wizard knight. His punishment is not for me, sir knight, but I charge you, seek him out and slay him for my sake, and for the sake of my dead lady.'

'That will I do,' said Balin, sorrowing, 'and thereof I make a vow to you and this damsel by my knighthood.'

When Balin had told all to his lord, King Arthur, the king made the knight to be buried in a rich tomb, and on it engraved his sad story, together with his name, Sir Herlew, and that of his lady love, Gwenellen.

Balin and the damsel rode forward the next day and for many days, and ever the lady bore the truncheon of the spear with her by which Sir Herlew had been slain.

Then on a day they lodged at the house of a rich knight named Sir Gwydion, an old grey gentleman, of a sad aspect. When night came, Sir Balin lay sleeping in the hall beside the fire, and suddenly he awoke at the sound of one sorrowing quietly near him. He rose up and went to the pallet and saw it was his host, and he asked him why he mourned in the dark.

'I will tell you,' said the old sad knight, 'and the telling will comfort me. I was but late at a jousting, and there I jousted with a knight that is brother to good King Pellam. And a full evil kinsman is this knight of so good a king. I smote the evil man from his horse twice, and he was full of rage that I, an old man, should overcome him. Therefore by treachery he assailed my son, a young and untried knight, and slew him. And I cannot avenge my dear son, for the evil man goeth invisible. But I pray that I may meet him in a little while.'

'Is not his name Garlon?' asked Balin.

'Ye say right,' said Sir Gwydion.

'Ah, I know him,' replied Balin, 'and I had rather meet with him than have all the gold of this realm.'

'That shall we both do,' said his host. 'For King Pellam, his brother, king of the land of Holy Hallows, hath made a cry in all this country, of a great feast that shall be in twenty days, and that evil knight, your enemy and mine, shall we see there.'

On the morrow they rode all three towards the town of King Pellam, and when they came within the country of Holy Hallows, Sir Balin saw how fair and happy was the land and its joyful people. Their meadows were rich with grass, the cattle were thriving and sleek, the trees were loaded with fruit and the cornfields full with rich ripe corn.

'Why doth it seem,' asked Balin, 'that this country is the fairest and happiest that ever I saw?'

'It is for this,' said Sir Gwydion, 'that in the Castle of Holy Hallows, whither we wend, King Pellam hath some holy relics of a passing marvellous power, and while he keepeth these his land is rich and happy, and plagues cannot enter it nor murrain, nor can pestilence waste the people.'

When they reached the castle they found a great throng of lords and ladies, and because Sir Gwydion had no lady with him he could not sit at the feast. But Balin was well received and brought to a chamber, and they unarmed him. The squires brought him a festal robe to his pleasure, but he would not suffer them to take his sword.

'Nay,' said he, 'it is my vow that never shall I and my sword be parted, and that vow will I keep or depart as I came.'

So they suffered him to wear it under his robe, and he was set in the hall with his lady beside him. Anon, when the meal was ended and the mead horns were set, Sir Balin asked his neighbour whether there was a knight at that court named Garlon.

'Yonder he goeth,' said the knight; 'he with that dark face and piercing eye. He is the most marvellous knight that is now living, and though King Pellam loveth him dearly, because he is his brother, yet he suffers bitterly the evil magic of Sir Garlon. For that knight rideth invisible, and slays so that none may know how they get their death.'

Sir Balin's heart rose at these words, and he trembled with his great anger.

'Ah, well,' said the good knight. 'And that is he?'

He considered long within himself what he should do.

'If I slay him here in this crowded hall,' he said, 'I shall surely not escape, and if I leave him now, peradventure I shall never meet with him again, and much evil will he do if he be let to live.'

He could not remove his eyes from Sir Garlon where he walked between the tables, proudly talking and laughing with those he knew, and making soft speeches to ladies, though many showed fear of him, and crossed their fingers while he spoke to them, to fend off the evil of his eyes. Very soon Sir Garlon noticed the fixed, stern look of Sir Balin, and came across to him and flicked his gauntlet across his face.

'This shall make thee remember me when next thou seest me, knight,' he said. 'But thou hadst better do what thou camest for, and fill thyself with mead.'

'Thou sayest sooth,' said Balin, and clutched the sword under his robe. 'Too long hast thou done evil and despite, and now will I do that for which I came.'

Rising, he drew his sword fiercely and swiftly, and cleaved the head of Garlon to the shoulders.

'Give me the truncheon wherewith he slew thy brother!' said Balin to the damsel beside him.

From beneath her robe the lady brought forth the broken truncheon, and striding to the slain man, Sir Balin thrust it fiercely into his body.

'Now,' cried he aloud, 'with this lance thou didst treacherously slay a good knight, and for that and all thy other cruel murders have I slain thee.'

With that arose a great outcry, and men ran from the tables towards Sir Balin to slay him, and the foremost of them was King Pellam, who rushed towards him, crying:

'Thou hast slain my brother when he bore no sword, and thou shalt surely die.'

'Well,' said Balin, 'come and do it thyself.'

'I shall do it,' said Pellam, 'and no man shall touch thee but me, for the love of my brother.'

Pellam snatched an axe from the hands of one standing by, and smote eagerly at Balin; but Balin put his sword between his head and the stroke, and the sword was struck from his hand.

Then, weaponless, Balin dashed through the circle of guests towards a door, looking for a weapon while he ran, but none could he find. King Pellam followed closely behind him, and so they ran from chamber to chamber, and up the narrow stair within the wall, until at the last Balin found that he was near the top of the tower, and thought that now he must surely be slain, for no weapon had he found.

Suddenly he came upon a door, and bursting it open he found himself in a large room marvellously bright and richly dight, and with a bed arrayed with cloth of gold, and one old and white and reverend lying therein. And by the side of the bed was a table of virgin gold on pillars of pure silver, and on it stood a spear, strangely wrought.

Balin seized the spear, and turned upon King Pellam, who stood still in the doorway with terror in his eyes. But, marking naught of this, Balin thrust at him with the spear, and struck it in his side, and King Pellam with a great cry fell to the ground.

With that stroke the walls of the castle drove together and fell in ruins to the ground, and a great cry of lamentation beat to and fro from far and near, and Balin lay under the stones as one dead.

After three days Merlin came and drew out Balin from the ruins, and nourished and healed him. He also recovered his sword and got him a good horse, for his own was slain. Then he bade him ride out of that country without delay.

'And never more shall you have ease,' said Merlin. 'For by the stroke of that spear with intent to slay King Pellam thou hast done such a dolorous deed that not for many years shall its evil cease to work.'

'What have I done?' said Balin.

'Thou wouldst have slain a man with the very spear that Longius the Roman thrust into the side of our Lord Jesus when He suffered on the Rood; and by that thou hast defiled it, and caused such ill that never shall its tale be ended until a stainless knight shall come, one of those who shall achieve the Holy Graal.'

'It repents me,' said Balin heavily, 'but the adventure was forced upon me.'

As he rode through the land, he saw how it seemed that a dire pestilence had swept over it; for where he had seen the golden corn waving in miles of smiling fields, he saw it now blackened along the ground; the trees were stripped of their leaves and fruit, the cattle lay dead in the meads, and the fish rotted in the streams, while in the villages lay the people dead or dying in shattered or roofless cottages.

As he passed, those that were alive cursed him, and called down upon him the wrath of Heaven.

'See, see,' they cried, 'thou murderous knight, how the evil stroke thou gavest to King Pellam by that hallowed spear hath destroyed this happy land! Go! thou foul knight, and may the vengeance strike thee soon!'

Balin went on, heavy of mind, for he knew not why he had been caused to do this evil.

For many days he passed through the saddened land, and he felt that in a little while death would meet him.

Then suddenly one day he came upon a castle in a wood, and he heard a horn blow, as it had been at the death of a beast.

'Here,' said Balin, 'shall I meet my death-wound, for that blast was blown for me.'

As he came on the green before the castle, many ladies and knights met him and welcomed him with fair semblance, and gave him good cheer.

'Now,' said the lady of the castle, when he had eaten, 'ye must do a joust for me with a knight hereby who hath won from me a fair island in a stream, and he hath overcome every knight that hath essayed to win it back for me.'

'Well, as you claim it for your good cheer,' said Balin, 'I will e'en joust, though both I and my horse are spent with travelling, and my heart is heavy. Nevertheless, show me the place.'

'But, sir,' said a knight, 'thou shouldst change thy shield for a bigger. For the strange knight is a strong one and a hardy.'

Balin cared not, and so took the shield with a device upon it that was not his own. Then he and his horse were led to a great barge, and so they were poled across the wide stream to an island.

When Balin had landed and mounted his horse, he rode a little way towards a stout tower, and from it a knight issued, his armour all in red, and the trappings of his horse of the same colour. They couched their lances and came marvellously fast together, and smote each other in the midmost of their shields; and the shock of their spears was so great that it bore down both horses and men, and for a little while the knights were dazed.

The stranger rose up first, for Balin was much bruised and wearied; and the red knight drew his sword and came towards Balin, who thereupon got upon his feet, and they fought most fiercely together. So they fought till their breaths failed.

Many were the bouts they fought, and they rested oftentimes, and then to battle again, so that in a little while the grass of the sward where they struggled was red with the blood of their wounds.

But the more wearied they were the fiercer they fought to vanquish each the other, so that their hauberks were in tatters, their helms were broken, and their shields were rived and cracked. At the last the red knight could not lift his shield for weakness, and then he went back a little and fell down.

Balin also sank to the ground, faint with his wounds, and as he lay he cried out:

'What knight art thou? for ere now I never found a knight that matched me.'

The other answered him faintly:

'My name is Balan, brother to the good knight Balin!'

'Alas!' said Balin, 'that ever I should see the day!' And therewith he fell back in a swoon.

Then Balan crawled on all fours, feet and hands, and put off the helm of his brother, and might hardly know him by his face, so hewn and stained it was. Balan wept and kissed his face, and with that Balin awoke.

'O Balan, my brother, thou hast slain me and I thee!'

'Alas!' said Balan, 'but I knew thee not, my brother. Hadst thou had thine own shield, I would have known thy device of the two swords.'

'Ah, 'twas part of the evil hap that hath followed me,' cried Balin. 'I know not why.'

Then they both swooned, and the lady of the castle came and would have had them taken to a chamber. But Balan awoke and said:

'Let be! let be! No leech can mend us. And I would not live more, for I have slain my dear brother and he me!'

Balin woke up therewith, and put his hand forth, and his brother clasped it in his, very eagerly.

'Little brother,' said Balin, 'I cannot come to thee—kiss me!' When they had kissed, they swooned again, and in a little while Balin died, but Balan did not pass until midnight.

'Alas! alas!' cried the lady, weeping for very pity, 'that ever this should be. Two brothers that have played together about their mother's knees to slay each other unwittingly!'

On the morrow came Merlin, and made them be buried richly in the green place where they had fought, and on their tomb he caused to be written in letters of gold, deep and thick, these words: 'Here lie Sir Balin and his brother Sir Balan, who, unwittingly, did most pitifully slay each other: and this Sir Balin was, moreover, he that smote the dolorous stroke. Whereof the end is not yet.'

[ ]

III

HOW LANCELOT WAS MADE A KNIGHT. THE FOUR WITCH QUEENS, AND THE ADVENTURES AT THE CHAPEL PERILOUS

When King Arthur was arrived at the age of twenty-five, his knights and barons counselled that he should take a queen, and his choice fell upon Gwenevere, the daughter of King Leodegrance, of the land of Cameliard. This damsel was the most beautiful and the most gracious in all the realm of Britain.

When the marriage was arranged between her father and Merlin, King Leodegrance said that, for her dowry, instead of broad lands, of which King Arthur had many, he would give to Arthur the Table Round, which Uther Pendragon had in friendship given to him many years before. For, as King Arthur was already famous for his prowess and nobleness and his love of knightly men and brave deeds, Leodegrance knew that this would be a gift beloved of Arthur.

With the table were to go the knights who were its company. It seated one hundred and fifty when it was complete, but many had been slain, and now they numbered but a hundred.

When King Arthur heard from Merlin of the coming of Gwenevere, with the hundred knights bearing the Round Table with them, he was very glad, 'for,' said he, 'their noble company pleaseth me more than great riches.' He charged Merlin to go and espy through all the land of Britain for another fifty knights, so that the tale of the noble company of the Round Table should be complete.

Now, it chanced that while Arthur sat in the hall of his palace at London, waiting for Gwenevere to come to him, and for Merlin to return from his quest, King Ban, who had aided him in his fierce battle against the eleven kings, sent his young son Lancelot to Arthur's court, to learn knightly deeds and noble prowess.

None knew who he was but Arthur, who kept the matter secret. Many had smiled at the huge limbs of Lancelot, until his great strength had caused them to respect him; and being but a young man he had not yet got all the courtly bearing and noble manners for which in later time he was famous throughout all Christendom. So that many knights and ladies smiled sourly upon him, but others saw that he would shortly prove a fine man of his hands, full courteous and gentle, and of a noble nature and great presence.

At the court was also young Gawaine, son of King Lot, and nephew of the king. Both Lancelot and Gawaine were as yet not knighted, but together they tilted at each other in the lists beyond the walls, and spent their days in sword-play and all knightly exercises. Lancelot was the stronger and the better fighter; and though Gawaine never overcame him, yet did they twain love each other passing well.

Now Gawaine went to the king one day, and asked of him a gift, and King Arthur said he would grant it.

'Sir,' said Gawaine, while Lancelot stood a little way off, fondling the hounds that licked at his hand, 'I ask that ye will make me knight the same day that ye shall wed fair Gwenevere.'

'I will do it with a good will,' said the king. 'And Lancelot,' he said, calling to the young man, 'have ye no boon to ask of me?'

'Not at this time, sir,' replied Lancelot, 'but in a little while I may.'

Into the hall next day, as the king sat at dinner, came an old woman, bent and feeble, but with reverend white hair and gentle face, and she kneeled at the king's feet.

'What is it, dame?' said Arthur. 'What is't you crave?'

'Justice, lord king,' she said in a weak voice, while the tears gushed from her eyes. 'Or else I die beside the gate where you do give the justice that all men praise.'

'Who hath done evil to you?' said the king.

'Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower in the Marsh,' replied the old woman. 'I and my son, lord, did build a little hut of wattle on a little plot which we banked from the marsh, near the great wall of the rich baron, deeming it safe to rest within the shadow of the strong lord, and though his hard rule was hateful to those whom he oppressed, we were so humble that we thought he would not notice us. And meagrely we reared our living from the ground, and sold our poor herbs to Sir Caradoc his steward, or to the people in the villages in the marsh about us. But soon the Lord Caradoc desired the land on which our little hut was standing, to make his lands the broader. He tore our poor home down, and scattered all, and thrust us out to wander in the marshes; and when my poor son pleaded with the lord, he had him whipped, and he was brought and cast half dead at my feet as I waited outside the hall. Now if thou givest us not justice, we shall surely die.'

'Doth any know Sir Caradoc?' asked the king of his knights.

'Yea, sir,' said one, 'and he is a great man of his hands, fierce and bold, of strong family, and his brother is Sir Turquine of Camber, who tried to slay thee at Caerleon, and was with the eleven kings in battle. Sir Caradoc liveth in a strong tower beyond the marshes to the south of the river, and he slayeth all that desire to pass them, unless they pay him all he demands.'

'What!' said the king with fierce anger, 'within a few miles of this my justice-seat doth such tyranny rule unchecked, and ye tell me naught of it? Are ye then more fearful of this marsh robber than of me your king?'

The knights hung their heads abashed, and were silent.

Then Lancelot came and stood before the king.

'Let me, sir king, go and summon this tyrant to your presence,' he said, 'so that this poor dame may have justice, and that ye may punish him for his oppression.'

'I fear me, Lancelot, thou art over young for so fierce a knight,' said Arthur.

'I shall but bear thy words, sir,' said Lancelot, and he will not harm thy messenger.'

'Take two stout men-at-arms with you, then,' said Arthur, 'and say to this Sir Caradoc that if he come not back with thee to answer unto me, I will come and take his life and burn his evil tower to the ground.'

Many of the younger men that had despite against Lancelot for his greater prowess at the sword and the lance thought that now, indeed, they would be ridded of him, for they deemed Sir Caradoc would slay him.

Two days later came young Lancelot back with his two men-at-arms, and with them, bound upon a great horse, was a full fierce and raging knight, red of face, large of body, his clothes all tossed and torn, and his mouth full of dire threatenings against Lancelot. Men made way for them marvelling, and together Lancelot and his captive rode up the hall to the king.

'Here, lord, is Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower in the Marsh,' said Lancelot. 'He would not come when I gave him your message, so I bided my time until he was sunk in wine, and was sleeping alone, and I have brought him secretly from his hold. Now, lord king, I think Sir Caradoc would joust with me, if you will give me knighthood.'

'Joust with thee, thou smooth-faced boy!' cried Sir Caradoc, straining at his bonds. 'I will spit thee on my lance if I may get at thee, and when thou art slain I will fight with this little king of thine—and his death shall wipe out this insult thou hast put upon me!'

At his rage and fierce bearing men marvelled and many were afeared, seeing that Sir Caradoc was great in lands and kinsmen, and big of his body.

'Thou art full young, Lancelot,' said Arthur, 'to joust with so strong a knight. Let an older man have ado with him.'

'Sir king,' cried Lancelot eagerly, 'I claim the first battle with this strong tyrant. He is my captive, and I claim it.'

'Have it as ye will,' said Arthur, 'and God speed you. But I misdoubt me much 'twill end in your sorrow.'

'Ay, and thine too, thou gentle lady's knight!' sneered Sir Caradoc.

'Peace, man, peace,' said the king sternly. 'I think God will fight in this battle, for I have inquired far, and the tale of thy evil deeds is over-full.'

Therewith King Arthur made young Lancelot knight, and men eagerly rushed away to the tilting-ground to see the battle between the virgin knight, Sir Lancelot, and the old robber knight, Sir Caradoc. And when Sir Caradoc was released and armed, he laughed and shook his lance, so sure was he of revenge right speedily.

Then they hurtled together most fiercely, and young Sir Lancelot was thrust from his horse by Sir Caradoc. Quickly he rose from the ground, and dressed his shield and drew his sword, and cried, 'Alight, Sir Caradoc, for I will fight thee on foot.' But Sir Caradoc, being traitorous, rode at Sir Lancelot with his spear, as if he would pin him to the earth, and the young knight had much ado to avoid him. All the knights cried out upon Sir Caradoc for a foul knight, and for shame he threw down his lance and alighted, and rushed at Sir Lancelot full fiercely, in order to slay him instantly.

But that was not easily to be done, for however wise Sir Caradoc was in sword-play, he was mad with wrath, and therefore thought of naught but to slay his enemy instantly. He raged like a wild boar, and gave Sir Lancelot many evil strokes, yet never did he beat down the young knight's guard. Soon men perceived that Sir Caradoc's great fierceness was causing him to make blind strokes, and then Sir Lancelot seemed the more wary. Suddenly they saw the young knight leap forward, and beat so heavily upon the other's helm that it cracked. Sir Caradoc strove to guard himself, but Sir Lancelot was so wroth, and so mighty of his blows, that he could not. At last Sir Lancelot beat him to his knees, and then thrust him grovelling to the ground. Sir Lancelot bade him yield, but he would not, and still sought to thrust at the other. Then the young knight struck at him between the neck and the head and slew him.

Both the knights and the common people shouted with joy, and acclaimed Sir Lancelot as a noble and mighty knight. But the young man was full modest, and withdrew from the press. King Arthur gave unto him the Dolorous Tower and the lands which had belonged to Sir Caradoc, and Lancelot caused the old dame and her son to be given a fair piece of land and a hut, and many other wrongs and evil customs that had been done by Sir Caradoc, Sir Lancelot caused to be righted.

The kinsmen of Sir Caradoc went apart and conspired to have Sir Lancelot slain, but for a long time they could not come at him.

Then, when the queen came unto King Arthur, there was great feasting and joustings and merry games, and Sir Lancelot, for his knightly prowess in the lists, and for his gentle courtesy and noble manners to all, both poor and rich, high and low, was sought by many, and for some time rested himself in knightly games and play.

Then, on a day in June, when a sudden wind from a lattice blew upon his face as he laughed and jested with ladies and knights in silks and rich garments, he bethought him of the fair green woods and the wide lands through which lonely roads were winding. And departing from the hall forthwith, he bade his horse and arms be brought to him, and rode into a deep forest, and thought to prove himself in strange adventures.

Thus faring, he rode for two days and met with naught. On the third day the weather was hot about noon, and Sir Lancelot had great list to sleep. He espied a great apple-tree full of white blossoms, and a fair shadow was beneath it, and he alighted and tied his horse unto a thorn, and laid his helmet under his head and slept.

While he thus lay, there rode by him on white mules four ladies of great estate, with four knights about them, who bore a canopy of green silk on four spears, so that the high sun should not touch the faces of the ladies. Then, as they rode by, they heard a war-horse grimly neigh, and looking aside, they were aware of Sir Lancelot all armed, and asleep under the apple-tree.

The ladies came nigh him, and of them there was Queen Morgan le Fay, who was wife of King Lot, and an evil witch; the Queen of Northgales, a haughty lady; the Lady of the Out-Isles; and the Lady of the Marshes. And when the Lady of the Marshes saw the knight she cried:

'Now this is as good hap as ever could be, for this is he that slew my brother, Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower; and for revenge of that, I would have this knight taken to my tower and torture him before I slay him.'

'That is well said,' said Morgan le Fay, 'for he bids fair to be one of the most strong knights of Arthur, whom I hate. This man, Sir Lancelot du Lake, is the favourite of all the ladies at that court, who hate me. So will I lay an enchantment on him, so that he shall sleep.'

Then the evil queen laid her hands over the face of Sir Lancelot, and said strange words that none could understand, and then he was laid across the crupper of one of the knights' horses, and he did not wake.

When in the twilight Sir Lancelot awoke, he found himself on a straw pallet in a strange room, and he leaped up and went to a narrow arrow-slit in the wall and looked out. Before him for a great distance was a black watery land, with the sun sinking far away on the very edge, and the pools of the marsh were as if they were of blood.

Then he beat at the door and called, but none responded, and for wrath he could have dashed the door down, but it was too stout, and he had no weapon; for his arms had been taken from him.

When it was dark, suddenly it seemed to Sir Lancelot that the room smelled foul, as if he had been carried into the midst of the quaking marsh, and was sunk deep in the slime and weeds of a pool. Then, through the arrow-slit, he saw many strange lights come, dim and blue like the wild lights that dance and flit over the lonely marshes by night; but that which made him marvel was that these lights were two together, as if they were the eyes of evil things. And they came up to him with a breath that was cold and dank, and they seemed to peer into his face, but he could see naught of their bodies. The hair upon his head rose, and his skin went cold. They pressed all about him, and to defend himself he struck at the eyes, but his blows beat only the air. Then suddenly Sir Lancelot felt sharp pains, as if small keen knives had been thrust into his flesh at many places. The stabs increased in number and in pain, and Sir Lancelot beat about himself and ran to and fro in the narrow chamber to escape the evil eyes and the stabs, but it was in vain, and thus all night in much misery he suffered. When for sheer weariness he lay down and tried to close his eyes, the evil things would not let him, but ever they tore at him and stabbed him. He was in anguish of mind more than he could bear, and for all his thought he could not think of any way to fight against the evil powers which followed and tortured him wherever he ran.

But at dawn they fled, and then the door of the room opened, and a damsel appeared, and in her hands was a manchet of sour bread, and a beaker of water from the ditch of the moat. The damsel was evilly clad in rags, and seemed like a scullion-maid.

'These,' she said, 'my mistresses bid me say shall be your food until you die.'

'Damsel,' said Lancelot, 'tell me who hath brought me here and used me so evilly.'

'It is Queen Morgan le Fay,' said the damsel, 'and the three witch queens, the Queen of Northgales, the Queen of the Out-Isles, and the Lady of the Marshes.'

'I doubt not, then, that they would slay me?' said Lancelot. 'But why hate they me?'

'It is for this,' went on the damsel, 'that you did slay Sir Caradoc, the brother of the Lady of the Marshes.'

'Alas, then,' said Sir Lancelot, 'there is no pity for me, and none of my dear friends shall learn of my shameful death.'

'And so that you should suffer much ere you are slain,' went on the damsel, 'they sent in the night the Coranians, the marsh fiends, to torture you. Thus will they do until you die, unless, sir knight, you are a knight with a stout heart, and a good fighter, and will do me justice. If you will be ruled by me, and will give me a promise, I will aid you.'

'Damsel, that will I grant you,' said Lancelot, 'for this would be an evil death for a knight. And full of terror hath been this night, from the foul things which have beset me.'

'I may not stay further now,' said the maid, 'lest they think I tarry over-long. But by evening I will come again.'

The day passed and twilight came, and Sir Lancelot was adread for fear of the night. But anon the damsel came secretly to him and said:

'Now must you promise me this, that you will release my father, whom Sir Turquine, Sir Caradoc's brother, hath kept in his foul dungeons since I was but a little child. And all his lands did Sir Turquine rob from him, and me he gave as a kitchen slut to Morgan le Fay, and evilly have I been treated who am a good knight's daughter. Now, will ye promise to free my father?'

'That will I, my poor damsel,' said Lancelot, 'and I will, God aiding me, slay this Sir Turquine as I slew Sir Caradoc his brother.'

So at the dead of night the damsel opened his door, and with the keys that she had stolen, she opened twelve other locks that stood between them and the postern door. Then she brought him to his armour, which she had hidden in a bush, and she led forth his horse, and he mounted with much joy, and took the maid with him, and she showed him the way to a convent of white nuns, and there they had good cheer.

Then, on the morrow, she led him to a thick forest with many hills therein, and anon they came to a fair ford, and over the ford there grew a tree, and on it there hung many good shields, each with the device of some knight thereon, and Sir Lancelot was astounded to see the shields of many of King Arthur's knights hung there. And on a bole of the tree there was a bason of copper.

'Now,' said the damsel, 'I have brought you here where is Sir Turquine, the mightiest knight that ever was found, as men say, and was never overmatched by any. And in his dungeons are many poor knights, and my dear father, Sir Darrel. Now strike the bason with the butt of your spear.'

Sir Lancelot beat such strokes that the bason burst asunder, and then he was aware of a great knight riding on a black horse. 'This is he,' said the damsel, 'and now God aid you!'

'What needst thou, sir knight?' cried the other.

'To try my strength on thee,' cried Lancelot, 'for thou hast done great despite and shame unto many good knights of the Round Table.'

'Art thou of that caitiff crew of ladies' knights?' sneered Sir Turquine. 'Then I defy thee.'

'Thou hast said enough,' replied Lancelot.

They put their spears in their rests, and came like the wind against each other, and either smote other in the middle of their shields, so that both their horses' girths broke. Then, lightly avoiding their beasts, they came at each other with great fierceness, and so fared for two hours, feinting and striking, and so heavy were their blows that each bled from many wounds as they stood. At last, for sheer breathlessness, each leaned upon his sword.

'Now, fellow,' said Sir Turquine haughtily, 'answer me these questions I shall put to thee.'

'Say on,' said Sir Lancelot.

'Thou art,' went on Sir Turquine, 'the biggest man that ever I met with, and like one knight that I hate above all others, and I would liefer be thy friend than thy foe. Now, therefore, I will give up to thee my captive knights if thou wilt tell me thy name, and if thou art not the knight I hate most.'

'Willingly,' said Sir Lancelot. 'But what knight hatest thou above all other? And why?'

'It is Sir Lancelot du Lake,' cried the knight, 'for he slew my brother Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower in the Marsh, who was one of the best knights living. And ever I have sought this Lancelot, and slain and maimed many good knights and imprisoned others in the quest. To slay that fellow I have made a vow, and him I would meet above all others.'

'Ha!' laughed Sir Lancelot, 'and I am the first thou hast met whose love thou wouldst liefer have than my hatred? Well, I will have thee to wit that I am he ye seek, Sir Lancelot du Lake, and thy brother was an evil knight and an oppressor.'

'What sayest thou?' cried Sir Turquine. 'Thou art he I seek? Then, Lancelot, thou art unto me most welcome as ever was any knight, for we shall never part till the one of us be dead.'

Then they ran at each other like two wild boars, lashing and dashing with their swords and shields, so that sometimes in their fury they slipped together on the grass, which was wetted with blood, and fell striking at each other. But at last Sir Turquine waxed faint and tried to avoid Sir Lancelot's blows, and his shield sank low, for his arm was very weary. Seeing this, Sir Lancelot leaped upon him fiercely, and got him by the banner of his helmet, and thrust him on his knees, and slew him at a stroke.

When he had rested a while, he went to the castle of Sir Turquine and released all his prisoners, and was rejoiced to see the damsel find her father alive. He caused the old knight to have his lands again, and bade the others that they should betake themselves to the court of King Arthur to be cheered and comforted, while their possessions, which Sir Turquine had robbed of them, should be given back to them.

Then fared Sir Lancelot further afield, glad exceedingly that he had escaped the foul plots of the four witch queens, and also that he had vanquished the evil Sir Turquine.

Then he rode a great while in a deep and dark forest, and as he followed the winding ways, suddenly he saw a black hound before him, with its nose to the ground as if seeking a scent. He followed the beast, and ever she looked behind her. Soon she left the forest, and picked her way through a great marsh, and Sir Lancelot followed, until in the wide distance he saw a little hill with trees upon it, and in the midst a ruined manor.

The hound went towards the ruin and Sir Lancelot followed. The wall was broken down in many places, and the path all overgrown and weedy, and as he came to the courtyard before the house, he saw the fishponds choked with weeds and the horseblock green with moss, and in the great doorway grew charnel and hellebore, and the spiked hemlock waved and spilt its seed in the wind. The windows hung by their hinges, and the green moss crept down the wide wet cracks in the walls.

But the dog ran over the drawbridge into the house, and Sir Lancelot gat from his horse and tethered it to the post beside the horseblock, and so went across the bridge, which was full sodden and worm-eaten, and bent beneath his weight.

Coming into a great hall, foul with many rotting leaves, he saw a table in the midst thereof, and on it was a knight that was a seemly man, and he lay as if he were dead, and the black hound licked his wound. And by his side there was a lovely lady, who started up, weeping and wringing her hands, and she said:

'O knight, too much evil have you brought to me!'

'Why say ye so?' said Sir Lancelot; 'I never did harm to this knight, for hither did this hound lead me, and therefore, fair lady, be not displeased with me, for grief is upon me for your sorrow and your sadness.'

'Truly, sir,' said the lady, and she laid her face in her hands and sobbed full sorely, so that Sir Lancelot was much stirred thereat, 'I trow, as ye say it, that you are not the knight that hath near slain my love and my husband. And never may he be healed of his deadly wound except some good knight aid me. But he must be so bold and valiant a man, that never, I think, may I find such a one in the little time I have before my dear lord shall die!'

'Now on the honour of my knighthood,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'I do not presume that I am such a one as you desire; but if I may aid you and ease your sorrow, that would I do most willingly. What is it I should do?'

'Oh, sir knight!' cried the lady, and her lovely eyes looked full thankfully at Sir Lancelot, 'if ye would, it were the greatest deed you have ever done, however bold a knight ye may be. For this my lord is sore wounded by a knight whom he met in the forest this day, and by one thing only may he be made whole. For there is a lady, a sorceress, that dwelleth in a castle here beside, and she hath told me that my husband's wounds may never be whole till I may find a knight that would go at midnight into the Chapel Perilous beside the Mere, and that therein he should find before the high altar a sword, and the shroud in which the dead wizard-knight is lapped, and with that sword my husband's wounds should be searched, and a piece of the shroud should bind them.'

'This is a marvellous thing,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I will essay it. But what is your husband's name?'

'Sir,' she said, 'his name is Sir Meliot de Logres.'

'That me repenteth,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for he is a fellow of the Round Table, and for him will I do all in my power.'

Going to the table, he looked upon the ashen face of the wounded man, and it was Sir Meliot, even as the lady said.

'Now, sir,' said the lady, when Sir Lancelot had mounted his horse, 'do ye follow that hard way across the marsh, and it will lead ye by midnight to the Chapel Perilous, and may ye speed well.'

Right so, Sir Lancelot departed, and the sun was near its setting.

For some hours Sir Lancelot fared across the marsh, until it was deep night, save for the stars; then he came upon a broad road, grass-grown and banked high, where the night wind piped in the long grass. This he knew was a road which the great Roman necromancers had wrought, and he thought he had missed his way, for there was no other path.

As he stood marvelling, the figure of a man, tall and gaunt and but half clad, came down the broad road towards him, and cried in a hollow voice:

'For the love of charity, sir knight, give to a poor man who is outcast.'

Sir Lancelot pitied the sunken eyes of the poor man, and gave him alms.

'God give thee comfort, poor soul,' said the knight, 'and get thee a roof, for the night wind blows chill.'

'God bless thee, sir knight,' said the man, in awful tones, 'for courtesy and pity such as thine are rare. Whither goest thou this night?'

'I seek the Chapel Perilous,' said Sir Lancelot.

At which the shape threw back its head and cried out as if with great sorrow.

'God fend thee, sir knight,' he said, 'and bring thee safe alive. What thou gettest there, keep thou in thy hands until the dawn, or thy soul shall suffer death.'

Then he vanished, and Sir Lancelot knew it had been a phantom.

Then as he crossed himself, he looked up, and through some thin and withered trees a little way off upon a slope he saw the shimmer of light, as if a chapel was lit up. He went towards it, and he saw a high wall that was broken down in many places, and an old grey chapel beyond, and the windows were shimmering with a ghostly light. As he came through the trees he saw they were all dead, with neither leaf nor twig upon them, their roots were crooked out of the ground as if they would throw his horse, and their limbs were stretched as if they strained to clutch him.

Coming to the gate in the wall, his horse trembled and plunged, and would go no further; whereat Sir Lancelot alighted, and tied it to a thorn-tree, and went through the gate. By the ghostly light that came from the windows of the ruined chapel he saw that under the eaves were hung fair shields, with rich devices, and all were turned upside down. Many of them were those of knights he had known or heard of, long since dead or lost. When he had made a few steps on the grass-grown pathway towards the door, of a sudden he saw, coming from the church, thirty tall knights, each a foot higher than he, each in black armour, and each with sword uplifted, as they rushed towards him.

Their feet and their armour made no sound as they pressed forwards, and a thin blue flame licked about each naked sword.

They came upon him, but Sir Lancelot, with a prayer to God, dressed his shield and sword and stood firm, though his flesh quaked and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. They mowed and gnashed at him, and heaved their swords about him; then suddenly their vizors went up and he looked into their faces. And at that he was sore adread, for he knew they were dead men.

But he would not be overcome, and said in a loud voice:

'In the name of God, avaunt ye!'

He made a step forward, and they scattered before him, but followed closely behind. Then he went into the chapel, where he saw no light but a dim lamp burning upon the altar. It was an old, old chapel, with dust upon its floor like a thick carpet, the walls and windows were holed and broken, and the timber of the seats was rotten.

He went up to the high altar, and saw before it a trestle, and upon it was a dead man, all covered with a cloth of silk. Sir Lancelot stooped down, and with his sword cut a piece of that cloth away.

With that his blood seemed turned to water, and his feet seemed eager to run towards the door, for with a mighty roar the earth shook beneath him, and the walls of the chapel rocked. But he looked for the sword which he must take, and saw it under the trestle, and picked it up and went out of the chapel.

The ghosts of the knights pressed about him as he walked, and strove to tear the sword from his grasp. But he would not suffer them to take it, and when he reached the gate they could no further go, and so left him.

At the gate there came running up to him a fair damsel, crying to him:

'O brave knight, give me the sword and the cloth, that I may take them at once to my mistress, the lady of Sir Meliot, for he is at the point of death, and she is waiting in sorrow and tears beside him.'

But Sir Lancelot remembered the words of the phantom beggar, and made reply:

'Fair damsel, I shall take them myself to the lady of Sir Meliot, for these things I may not give to any until the dawning.'

The damsel would have torn the sword and the cloth full hastily from his hands, but he was aware of her intent, and hindered her, and bade her in the name of God to withdraw.

Whereat, with a great shriek, she vanished.

'Now,' said Sir Lancelot, 'may God, who has brought me through these evil adventures, shield me from any further subtle crafts of these foul things.'

Straightway he mounted his horse, and took his way towards the marsh, so that he should give the sword and the cloth into the hands of the lady of Sir Meliot, for the healing of her lord.

But at the dawn Merlin met him.

'Sir Lancelot,' said the old white wizard, 'ye have no need to go to the ruined manor, except ye would have the proof of what I tell you.'

'And what is that?' asked Sir Lancelot.

'That all that hath befallen thee hath been done by evil magic,' replied Merlin. 'The black dog that led thee to the manor was a fiend, the fair lady that entreated ye was an evil witch, and she and the damsel at the chapel were the same, and all was caused by the witch queens who had you in their tower; and the likeness of the wounded knight to Sir Meliot was formed by wizardry. They that craved your death did hope that ye would fail at the terrors of the Chapel Perilous, and that your soul would be lost as have the souls of those evil or weak knights whose ghosts assailed ye. But by your courage and great heart ye won through all.'

'This is a great marvel,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I thank God that He hath shielded me of His mercy.'

When Sir Lancelot was returned to Camelot, and Merlin had told King Arthur of the knight's adventures, the king made him one of the knights of the Round Table.

'Ye do well,' said Merlin privily unto the king, 'for he shall prove the most man of worship that is in the world, and all your court and all your Round Table shall be by him made more famous than by any knight now living. Yet shall he not be one of those three that shall achieve the Holy Graal.'

[ ]

IV

THE KNIGHT OF THE KITCHEN

It was the feast of Pentecost, and King Arthur was holding his court of the Round Table at the city of Kin-Kenadon, hard by the sea in Wales. In the high hall the tables were set for dinner, and the floor was freshly strewn with rushes, flowers and fennel, so that the place smelled as sweet as a field. The cook and his scullions came to and fro through the door of the kitchen with anxious faces, for they feared lest the meats should be overdone, but as yet King Arthur would not sit to dinner. For it was his custom never to go to meat on that day until he had heard or seen some great marvel or adventure.

Sir Gawaine stood looking from a window in the bower where the king sat with the queen, and suddenly he turned with a laugh, and said:

'Sir, go to your meat, for here, I think, cometh a strange adventure.'

And even as the king took his seat on the high dais in the hall, and his knights sat at the Round Table, through the great door of the hall came two men, well beseen and richly dressed, and, leaning on their shoulders, was a tall, fair, young man, as goodly to strength and breadth as ever was seen, with hands large and fair. But he was either lazy or ill-conditioned, for he leaned upon his fellows as if he were unable to stand upright. And the three of them marched through the hall, speaking no word, and they came to the foot of the dais, while men sat silent and marvelling. Then the young man raised himself upright, and it was seen that he was a foot and a half taller than those beside him.

'God bless you, O king!' said the young man, 'and all your fair fellowship, and in especial the fellowship of the Round Table. I come to crave of your kindness three gifts, and they are such as ye may worshipfully and honourably grant unto me. And the first I will ask now, and the others will I ask at the same day twelvemonths, wheresoever ye hold your feast of Pentecost.'

'Ask,' said the king, 'and ye shall be granted your petition.'

'The first is this,' said he, 'that ye give me meat and drink and lodging here for a year.'

'Willingly,' said the king, 'but what is your name and whence come you? Ye have the bearing of good lineage.'

'That is as may be,' was the reply, 'but I may tell you naught, if it please you, lord.'

Then King Arthur called Sir Kay, his steward, and bade him tend the young man for a year as if he were a lord's son.

'There is no need that he should have such care,' sneered Sir Kay, who was a man of a sour mind. 'I dare swear that he is but a villein born. If he were of good blood he would have craved a horse and harness. And since he hath no name I will dub him Beaumains, or Fair Hands, for see how soft are his hands! And he shall live in the kitchen, and become as fat as any pig!'

But Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawaine reproached Sir Kay for his mocking of the young man, 'for,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I dare lay my head he hath the making of a man of great worship.'

'That cannot be,' said Sir Kay; 'he has asked as his nature prompted him. He will make naught but fat, for he desires only meat and drink. On my life I would swear he is only some lazy fellow from an abbey, where food hath failed, and so he has come hither for sustenance.'

So Kay sat down to his meat laughing, and Beaumains went to the door of the hall, where the varlets and boys ate the leavings from the table; but he fared badly there, for they jeered at him as Sir Kay had done.

Afterwards Sir Lancelot, of his great gentleness and courtesy, bade him come to his chamber, to be better fed and clothed; and Sir Gawaine, because of a liking he felt in his heart for the young man, proffered him good meat and drink and a soft bed. But then, and at all other times, Beaumains refused, and would do nothing but what Sir Kay commanded.

Thus he lived in the kitchen, eating broken scraps, and lying at night where the scullions lay, except that he was given the chilliest spot furthest from the fire. But he did what he was bidden to do with a cheerful air and was ever willing to work. And if there was any jousting of knights or any other sights of prowess, these would he see with the greatest delight. In any sports or trials of strength or skill among the serving-men, he was ever foremost, and none could overcome him in wrestling or at quarterstaff, nor could any throw the bar or cast the stone so far as he could, no, not by two yards.

Whenever Sir Kay met him about the hall or the kitchen he would laugh mockingly, and to those about him he would say, 'Well, how like you my huge boy of the kitchen?'

But to such sneers, and to all the scorns and insults of the varlets of the kitchen, Beaumains would answer naught, and was ever quiet and mild whatever he endured. And to all was he ever gentle, both man and child, and he never put forth his great strength in anger.

Thus a year passed, until again it was the feast of Pentecost, and at that time the king held it at his chief city in Wales, Caerleon-upon-Usk. And again the feast was royally prepared in the great hall of the court, but the king would not give the signal to sit to meat until he should have heard or seen some strange adventure.

But about noon a squire came to where the king waited, and said, 'Lord, I am bidden to say ye may go to your meat, for there cometh a damsel with some strange adventure.'

Quickly the king sat on the high seat, and the cooks brought in the smoking collops of meat and the dishes of savoury stews. And as they began to eat, there came a maiden of a plain sharp visage, who made her way to the step of the dais, and there kneeling, cried:

'Succour and help I crave of you, O king!'

'For whom?' said the king, 'and for what reason?'

'Sir,' said the maiden, 'my lady sister is of great beauty and renown, and is besieged in her castle by a tyrant-knight, who will not let her go forth from her castle; and because it is said that here in your court are the noblest knights in all the world, I come to you praying for aid.'

'What is your lady sister's name?' asked the king, 'and where doth she dwell, and tell me who is he that doth besiege her?'

'Sir king,' said the lady, 'I may not tell you my sister's name, but she is of great beauty and of wide lands. And the tyrant-knight who besieges her is the Red Knight of Reedlands.'

'I know him not,' replied the king.

'Sir,' cried Sir Gawaine from his seat, 'I know him well. He is one of the perilous knights of the world, for he hath the strength of seven men, and from him I once escaped barely with my life.'

'Fair lady,' said the king, 'I would help you willingly, but as ye will not tell me your lady's name, none of my knights here shall go with you with my consent.'

The damsel looked about the hall with a quick angry glance, and the knights that sat there liked not her sour looks. Then from the crowd of scullions and kitchen lads that hung about the serving-tables at the side of the hall came Beaumains, his dress smirched, but his handsome face lit up and his eyes burning with eagerness.

'Sir king!' he cried, holding up his hand, 'a boon I crave!'

As he came to the step of the dais the damsel shrank from him as if he had been something foul.

'Say on,' replied the king to the young man.

'God thank you, my king,' went on Beaumains. 'I have been these twelve months in your kitchen, and have had my full living, as ye did graciously order, and now I ask for the two further gifts ye promised.'

'Ye have but to ask,' replied the king.

'Sir, they are these,' said Beaumains. 'First, that you will grant me this adventure of the damsel.'

'I grant it you,' said King Arthur.

'Then, sir, this is the other,—that ye shall bid Sir Lancelot du Lake to follow me, and to make me a knight when I shall desire him.'

'All this shall be done if Sir Lancelot think it well,' said the king.

But the lady was exceedingly wroth, and her eyes flashed with scorn as she turned to the king:

'Shame on thee!' she cried; 'will you give me a kitchen scullion to aid me?'

With that she hastened from the hall, mounted her horse and rode away. Even as she went forth, a dwarf in the dress of a page entered the hall leading a great horse richly caparisoned, and on the saddle was piled a splendid suit of armour. And the dwarf went up to Beaumains and began to arm him, while men asked each other whence came all this fine gear.

When he was dressed in armour, all the knights marvelled to see how goodly a man he looked. Then Beaumains took leave of King Arthur and of Sir Gawaine, and asked Sir Lancelot to follow him.

Many people went to the door of the hall to see Beaumains mount his horse and ride after the damsel, and the way he sat his steed, with its trappings of gold and purple, excited their admiration. But all wondered to see that Beaumains had neither shield nor spear, and some laughed and said, 'The ignorant churl! Doth he think the mere sight of him on horseback will affright his enemies, that he carries neither shield nor lance.'

Sir Kay sneered with them, and suddenly getting up from his seat he cried:

'By my faith! I will go after my kitchen boy and see whether he will still know me for his better!'

'Ye had better bide at home,' said Sir Lancelot, and Sir Gawaine agreed.

But Sir Kay laughed them aside, and having swiftly put on his armour, he took his spear and shield and rode after Beaumains. He caught up with the youth just as the latter reached the side of the damsel, and Sir Kay cried out, with a scornful laugh:

'What! Beaumains, do ye not know me?'

'Ay,' replied Beaumains, 'I know ye for the most ungentle knight in all King Arthur's court, and therefore keep you off from me.'

'Ah, churl!' cried Sir Kay, 'thou needst a lesson from me. A beggar, though he be on horseback, is still a beggar.'

With that he put his lance in rest and dashed towards Beaumains, expecting an easy victory. But the young man, putting the lance aside with his sword just as it was about to strike him, rushed upon Sir Kay, and with a deft thrust struck him through a joint of his armour, so that Sir Kay fell backwards off his horse to the ground. Swiftly leaping down, Beaumains took possession of his opponent's spear and shield, and commanded his dwarf to mount upon Sir Kay's horse.

Then, after remounting, Beaumains rejoined the damsel, who had seen all that had taken place, but said nothing.

At that moment they saw Sir Lancelot coming towards him. He had seen Sir Kay's discomfiture, and wondered at the mastery which Beaumains had shown.

'Fair sir,' cried Beaumains, turning and drawing rein as Sir Lancelot approached, 'I would joust with you, if ye will.'

'Have at you, then!' replied Sir Lancelot with a laugh, and with spears in rest they set their horses at a great gallop. They came together so fiercely that they were both thrust backwards from their saddles and fell to the earth, half stunned and greatly bruised.

Sir Lancelot recovered first and ran to help Beaumains to his feet, and then, with their shields before them, they continued the combat with swords. For an hour they strove fiercely, thrusting, striking and parrying like two great boars in a forest clearing. Sir Lancelot was astonished to feel how great was the young man's strength, how swift were his thrusts, and how powerful were his blows. He recognised that Beaumains was a dangerous fighter, and that he himself would have much to do to overcome him.

'Beaumains,' he cried at length, 'fight not so hard, lad. Our quarrel, if we have aught, is surely not so great that we cannot leave off.'

'That is truth!' said Beaumains, laughing, as he dropped the point of his weapon. 'But, Sir Lancelot, it doth me good to feel your wondrous skill and the strength of your arm. Yet, my lord, I have not shown the uttermost of mine.'

'By my faith, I believe ye,' cried Sir Lancelot, 'for I should have much ado to keep myself from shameful defeat if you should really push me to the utmost. Therefore I say that you need not fear any earthly knight.'

'I thank you for your good words,' replied Beaumains. 'And do you think I may hope at any time to become a proved knight?'

'Fight as you have fought with me, and I have no doubt of you.'

'Then, I pray you, my lord,' said Beaumains, 'give me the order of knighthood.'

'Ere I do that, you must tell me your name and of what kin you were born,' replied Sir Lancelot.

'If you will promise to tell no one, I will reveal it.'

Sir Lancelot gave his promise, and Beaumains, going closer, whispered some words into Sir Lancelot's ear.

'Ah, sir,' said Sir Lancelot, taking the young man's hand in his, 'I am glad I was not deceived. I knew you must come of great kin, and that you had not come to King Arthur for meat or drink. Kneel now, and I will make you knight.'

So Beaumains knelt before Sir Lancelot, who lightly touched him on the shoulder with his sword, naming him knight.

Thereupon they parted with many kind words, and Beaumains made haste to overtake the damsel, who had long since disappeared.

As for Sir Kay, he was lifted upon Sir Lancelot's shield and taken back to the court, and there slowly he recovered of his wound. Men laughed him to scorn for the beating he had received from his own 'kitchen boy.'

'Lo,' said some, 'the proud knight went forth to cuff his own scullion, and the scullion beat him sore and took his weapons for spoil.'

When Beaumains reached the side of the damsel, she pulled up her horse and turned upon him with flashing eyes and angry looks.

'What doest thou here?' she cried. 'Away from me—thou smellest of the kitchen, knave! Pah! thy clothes are foul with grease and tallow! Dost thou think to ride with me?'

'Lady,' said Beaumains, and he spoke full gently, 'my clothes may be smirched, but my arm, I trust, is as strong to defend you as any that is wrapped in silk.'

'Out upon thee, saucy churl!' she cried. 'Thinkest thou I should allow for that knight whom you thrust from his horse but now? Nay, not a whit do I, for thou didst strike him foully and like a coward! I know thee well, for Sir Kay named you. Beaumains you are, dainty of hands and of eating, like a spoilt page. Get thee gone, thou turner of spits and washer of greasy dishes!'

But for all that she raved, Beaumains would not reply in angry words, though his heart burned within him.

'Damsel,' said he courteously, 'ye may say what ye will to me, but I will not go from you whatever you say. I have given my promise to King Arthur that I will achieve this adventure for you, and that will I do or die in the trial of it.'

The girl laughed mockingly.

'You will finish my adventure—you will come to our aid!' she cried in scorn. 'Fie on thee, thou upstart kitchen page! But if you will not go from me, then come, fool, and I shall see thee quickly shamed. Thou art proud with the too good living thou hadst in Arthur's kitchen, but one I know whose face thou wilt not dare to look into, my knight of the kitchen!'

So saying, she pushed on her horse, and thus in silence they went on together.

In a little while they came to a dark wood, and suddenly as they rode, a man with white scared face started from behind a bush and ran to the side of Beaumains.

'Go not that way, sir knight,' he said, 'for there be six knaves who have taken my lord and bound him, and now they will surely take you and your lady unless you go back. I barely escaped with my life, and hid when I heard you, thinking you were of their thievish company.'

'Take me to them!' cried Beaumains, and the poor squire, holding the knight's stirrup-leather, ran with him. And surely, in a little while, three knaves rushed forth before them in the green drive and bade Beaumains stand. But grimly he dashed at them, before ever they could recover. Two he cut down with his good sword as they stood, and the third, trying to escape, was run between the shoulders.

Then turning, Beaumains saw in a glade near the drive where three other knaves stood beside a knight bound to a tree. They dashed towards Beaumains with spiked clubs uplifted. But the squire rushed at one, tripped him up and despatched him; and the others suddenly decided to turn and flee. Their resolution came too late, however, for Beaumains cut them down as they ran.

The knight was quickly released by his squire, and came up to his rescuer, and thanked him heartily for his speedy help.

'Come with me,' he said, 'you and your lady, to my castle, which is but a little way hence, and I will fittingly requite thee for the saving of my life.'

'Nay,' said Beaumains, 'I will have no reward. All I do henceforth is but my duty, and I will take naught in payment. Moreover, I must follow this lady.'

The knight went to the lady, and begged that she would accept his hospitality, for the twilight was deepening and they were yet far from a town. The damsel consented, but, on reaching the castle of the knight, she would not permit Beaumains to sit at the same table with her.

'Take the knave hence!' she cried haughtily. 'He is but a scullion from King Arthur's kitchen, and is not fit to sit with a lady of rank. He is more suited, sir knight, to dine with your turnspits.'

'Lady, I do not understand your words,' said the knight, 'for this gentleman hath proved himself a man of knightly courage and courtesy this day.'

'As for that,' said the lady, 'I count it naught. He took the rascals unawares, and they had no heart. They were but sorrier knaves than he is.'

'Well,' said the knight, 'since you mislike him so, he shall sit with me, and you shall sit alone.'

So it was done, and while the lady sat eating her meal in chilly silence at one table, Beaumains and the knight, his host, laughed and talked merrily over their dinner at another.

Next morning, early, Beaumains and the lady were up and away while yet the dew shone on the leaves. Soon they passed through a great forest and approached a wide river. In a little while they rode down to where a roughly paved way ran into the water, and, looking to the other bank, Beaumains was aware of two knights on horseback, stationed as if to hinder his passing the ford.

'Now, sir kitchen knight,' laughed the lady mockingly, 'what sayest thou? Art thou a match for these two knights, or wilt thou not turn back?'

'I would not turn if they were six,' replied Beaumains quietly.

With that he rushed, with spear at rest, into the ford, and one of the waiting knights came swiftly against him. They met in the midst with so great a shock that their spears were splintered. They then closed fiercely with their swords, and hurtled about in the foaming, dashing water, beating at each other. Suddenly Beaumains struck the other so hard a stroke on his helm that he was stunned, and fell from his horse into the stream, which whirled him away into the deeps, and there drowned him.

Then Beaumains rode swiftly towards the other knight, who with his lance dashed against him. But Beaumains parried the spear stroke, and with one great heave of his sword, clove the other's helm in twain, so that the knight fell like a stone.

'Alas!' cried the lady, as she came across the ford, 'that ever kitchen knave should have the mishap to slay two such noble knights! Doubtless thou thinkest thou hast done mightily, sir knight of the turnspit, but I saw well how it all happened. The first knight's horse stumbled on the stones of the ford, and the other thou didst stab from behind. 'Twas a shameful deed!'

'Damsel,' said Beaumains, quiet in words though hot of mind at her words, 'ye may say what ye will. I only know that I fight fairly, as God gives me strength. I reck not what ye say, so I win your lady sister from her oppressor.'

'Thou knave of impudence!' cried the lady. 'Thee to speak of winning my lady sister, high of rank and rich in wide lands as she is! But thou shalt soon see knights that shall abate thy pride.'

'Whatever knights they be, I care not, so that I win good words from you at last,' said Beaumains.

'Those thou shalt never have, thou churl,' replied the lady scornfully. 'For all that thou hast done has been by chance and misadventure, and not by the prowess of thy hands. But if thou wilt follow me, why, then, come, and I shall the more quickly be rid of thee, for of a surety thou wilt soon be slain.'

Beaumains answered naught, and so they went on their way.

BEAUMAINS WINS THE FIGHT AT THE FORD

Thus they fared until evensong, and then they came to a waste land, where their way led through a narrow darkling valley. And at the head thereof they entered upon a wide land, black and drear to the very skies, and beside the way was a black hawthorn, and thereon hung a black banner and a black shield, and by it, stuck upright, was a long black spear, and beside it was a great black horse covered with silk, and a black stone fast by it.

And upon the stone sat a knight in black armour, at sight of whom the damsel cried:

'Now, my kitchen knight, 'tis not too late. Fly back through the valley, or this knight will surely slay thee.'

'Nay, I will not,' said Beaumains, 'for I fear him not.'

The black knight came to the damsel and asked if she had brought this knight from King Arthur's court to be her champion.

'Fie!' she said angrily, 'he is no knight. He is but a knave that was fed for alms in the king's kitchen, and would follow me in spite of all I say. And I would that you would rid me of him. To-day he slew two noble knights at the passage of the water, and all by evil chance.'

'A strong knave, in truth,' answered the knight, 'and a saucy one. Then this will I do. He shall leave me his horse and armour, for since he is but a knave, my knightly hands may not harm him.'

'You speak lightly of my horse and armour,' said Beaumains, 'but I will have you know that you get naught from me, and moreover I will pass these lands with this lady in spite of you.'

'Thou knave!' cried the knight angrily, 'yield me this lady and thyself without ado!'

'Let me see what thou canst do to take us,' replied Beaumains, and laughed gaily.

At this the knight in a rage leaped upon his horse and they thundered together. The black knight's spear broke, but Beaumains' lance pierced him through the side and broke off short. Nevertheless, though badly wounded, the black knight drew his sword and fought manfully, striking Beaumains many mighty blows and bruising him sorely.

But suddenly his lifted sword fell from his hand, and turning in his saddle, he dropped to the ground in a swoon, and shortly died.

And Beaumains, seeing that the black armour was better than his own, armed himself in it with the aid of his dwarf squire, and rode after the damsel.

But ever as before she railed at him, telling him he had conquered the black knight by a cowardly blow; but Beaumains would answer her nothing in anger.

Anon they came to the edge of a vast and dark forest, and from its shadows came a knight in green armour, who cried to the damsel:

'Lady, is that my brother the Black Knight whom ye bring riding behind ye?'

'Nay, sir knight, it is not your brother,' she replied. 'It is but a kitchen knave who by treachery hath slain your noble brother, the Knight of the Black Lands.'

'Thou traitor!' cried the green knight. 'Now shalt thou surely die, for my brother, Sir Percard, was a most noble knight and a valiant. And to think that he fell by the dirty hand of a knave is great shame.'

'I am no knave!' said Beaumains, 'but of lineage as high as thine, maybe. And I slew your brother in knightly fashion.'

But the green knight stayed not to answer, and they hurtled together, and clashed midway as if it were thunder. And Beaumains' stroke was so mighty that both the green knight and his horse fell to the ground.

Swiftly the green knight rose to his feet, and then, Beaumains having alighted, they rushed together with their swords, and stood a long time hacking, thrusting and parrying. And each hurt the other sorely.

'Oh, my lord, the green knight,' cried the damsel, 'why do ye stand so long fighting with that kitchen knave? A shame it is to see a proved knight matched by a dirty scullion! Slay him for me and be done!'

Shamed by her words the green knight gave a fierce stroke and clove Beaumains' shield in twain. Then Beaumains, smarting with this blow, and in anger at the words of the lady, suddenly gave the green knight so great a stroke that he fell upon his knees, and then was thrust grovelling upon the earth.

Swiftly Beaumains cut the fastenings of his helm, and, tearing it off, lifted his sword to strike off the other's head.

But the green knight prayed of his mercy and pleaded hard for his life.

'Thou shalt plead in vain,' said Beaumains, 'unless this lady shall beg thy life of me.'

'Shame on thee, thou kitchen knave!' cried the lady, biting her lip with anger. 'Thinkest thou I shall crave aught of thee, and be so beholden to thee?'

'Then he shall die!' cried Beaumains.

'O lady, suffer me not to die!' cried the prostrate knight, 'when a fair word from you will save my life. And you, sir knight, give me my life, and I will yield myself and thirty knights to be your men and do your commands while they live.'

'Now that is a grievous shame!' cried the lady, 'What, Sir Green Knight, art such a coward as to crave thy life of a scullion knave, and promise him thirty knights' service!'

'You and your thirty knights shall avail you naught,' said Beaumains grimly, 'and since this lady will not beg thy life of me, why, now I shall slay thee.'

With that he raised the sword, but the lady cried out:

'Put down, thou rascally knave, and slay him not, or thou shalt repent it!'

'Lady,' said Beaumains, and bowed full gently, 'your command is to me a pleasure, and at your desire I give him his life.'

Then the green knight did homage to Beaumains and gave up his sword. Afterwards he took them to his castle near by, where they passed the night.

Next morning the green knight, whose name was Sir Pertolope, accompanied them some distance on their way, and at parting he told Beaumains that he and his thirty knights would do service when and where he might desire. Thereupon Beaumains told him that he must go and yield himself and his knights to King Arthur, and this Sir Pertolope promised faithfully to do.

And again, when they had gone some way and had reached a little town, a knight challenged Beaumains, who, having fought with the stranger and overpowered him, threatened to slay him unless the lady begged for his life. This she did, after she had said many bitter and evil things, and Beaumains commanded the knight to go, with threescore knights which were in his service, and yield himself up to King Arthur.

Then Beaumains and the lady went on again, and the lady was full of rage in that she had been compelled a second time to plead with him for the life of a knight.

'Thou shalt get thy full wages to-day, sir kitchen knight,' said she, 'for in a little while there will meet us the most valiant knight in the world, after King Arthur. Methinks thou wouldst do the better part to flee, for the evil luck which thou hast had with the three knights you have overcome will not avail thee upon this one.'

'Madam,' said Beaumains, 'ye know that ye are uncourteous so to reproach me. I have done you great service these three days, but ever ye call me coward and kitchen knave. Yet those who have come against me, whom you said would beat me, are now either slain or have yielded homage to me.'

'The greater shame,' said the lady, 'that so lowborn a churl as thou art should have knights yield to thee who should have slain thee.'

Beaumains answered nothing more, but his heart was very heavy at the thought that, do what he might, he could not win this lady to speak fairly of him.

Towards noon, as they rode, they saw the white towers of a fair city, and before its gates was a field newly mown, with many tents therein of divers rich colours.

'Lo, there is the town of the man that shall cut thy comb, thou proud varlet!' said the lady. 'A brave and proved knight is he, by name Sir Persaunt of Mynnid. And he hath a following of five hundred knights and men-at-arms.'

'A goodly lord, indeed,' replied Beaumains, 'and one I fain would see.'

The lady laughed mockingly.

'Thou shalt see him too soon to please thee, I doubt not,' she replied, 'for he is the lordliest knight that ever whipped a knave.'

'That may well be,' said Beaumains, 'and the more desire I have to see him.'

'Thou fool!' cried the lady angrily. 'Thou hadst better turn and flee while there is time.'

'Not a step will I,' replied he with a laugh. 'For, look you, if he be so lordly a knight as you say, he will not set his five hundred knights on me at once. But if he will send but one against me at a time, I will do my best till my strength goes from me. No man, be he knave or knight, can do more.'

At his quiet brave words the lady's heart smote her. She repented of her evil tongue, when she thought how valiant and true this unknown man had been on her behalf.

'Sir,' she said in a gentler voice, 'ye make me marvel. Thou hast spoken boldly, and, by my faith, thou hast done boldly, and that makes me wonder of what kin thou art. But as ye are so brave, and have done, you and your horse, great travail these three days, I misdoubt that ye will get hurt if ye go further. Therefore I bid you turn, or ever it be too late.'

'Nay, I will not,' said Beaumains. 'It would be a great shame that now, when we are but a few miles from your lady sister's oppressor, I should turn back.'

'But, sir, I counsel ye to do so,' said the lady. 'For the strength of Sir Persaunt, even if ye conquer him, is but little compared with the great strength of the Red Knight who doth oppress my sister. And I am sure you have little hope of overcoming him.'

'Nevertheless, lady, I will essay to conquer him,' said Beaumains, 'for it is but my duty and my desire to rescue your lady sister as I have resolved.'

'I marvel what manner of man ye be,' said the lady. 'It must be that ye come of noble blood, for no woman could have spoken or treated you more evilly than I have done. Yet ever you have courteously suffered all I said.'

'Lady, it is but a man's duty to suffer a woman's wayward words,' said Beaumains, 'and they have not been without service to me. For the more ye angered me the more strength of wrath I put into my blows, and so was enabled to overcome your enemies. And as to what I am and whence I came, I could have had meat in other places than in King Arthur's kitchen, but all that I have done was to try my friends. And whether I be knave or gentleman, I have done you gentleman's service.'

'That is truth, Sir Beaumains,' said the lady, all soft and penitent now, 'and I beg of you forgiveness for all my evil words.'

'I forgive ye with all my heart,' said Sir Beaumains, 'and I tell you, lady, that now that you speak kindly to me, it gladdens me greatly, and I feel that there is no knight living whom I could not strike down for the sake of yourself and your lady sister.'

By this time Sir Persaunt had seen them, and had sent a squire to ask Beaumains whether he came in peace or war.

'If he will not let us pass,' replied Beaumains, 'it shall be war.'

At that they saw Sir Persaunt array himself in his armour and mount his horse, and now he came rushing across the field at utmost speed, his lance in rest. Beaumains also made his horse leap forward swiftly, and the two knights met with so great a force that both their lances splintered in many pieces, and their horses fell dead upon the field.

But the two knights instantly disentangled themselves, and fought on foot with shield and sword. So furiously did they hurl themselves at each other that often they fell to the ground. For two hours the duel raged, till their hauberks were tattered and their shields were hacked, while both were sorely bruised and wounded.

At length Beaumains thrust Sir Persaunt in the side, and the latter's attack became less eager. Finally Beaumains hit the other so great a stroke that he fell headlong, and instantly Beaumains leaped astride of him and unlashed his helm, as if about to slay him.

Then Sir Persaunt yielded him and pleaded for his life, and the lady, who had stood watching the combat, ran forward, placed her hand on Sir Beaumains' sword arm, and cried:

'Of your mercy, Sir Beaumains, yield him his life for my sake.'

'I do it willingly,' cried he, helping the knight to rise, 'for he hath nobly fought and so deserves not to die.'

'Gramercy,' said Sir Persaunt, 'and now I know thou art the strong knight who slew my brothers the Black Knight of the Thorn and the Green Knight of the Wood. And now I will be your man, and five hundred knights of mine shall do your service as and when you will.'

And that night they supped bounteously in Sir Persaunt's castle, and the lady besought Beaumains to sit by her at the same table, and all three made merry company.

In the morning, after they had heard mass and broken their fast, Beaumains and the lady set out again, and Sir Persaunt went with them to the drawbridge.

'Fair lady,' said he, 'where dost thou lead this valiant knight?'

'Sir,' said the lady, 'he is going to raise the siege which hath been set by the tyrant knight of the Reed Lands.'

'Ah, then he goes to Castle Dangerous, and on the most perilous adventure that any man could take. For they say the Red Knight hath the strength of seven men. And he doth oppress one of the fairest and sweetest ladies in the world. I think you are her sister, Dame Linet?'

'That is my name,' replied the lady, 'and my sister is Dame Lyones.'

'This Red Knight is the most dangerous knight in the world,' said Sir Persaunt to Beaumains, 'and hath besieged that fair lady these two years. Many times he might have forced her for terror to have married him, but he keeps the siege in hopes that Sir Lancelot or even King Arthur would come to rescue the lady. For he hateth all true knights, but those two with most bitterness.'

So they parted from Sir Persaunt and rode onwards, and the lady spoke now full friendly to Beaumains.

In a little while, when they had passed through a fair forest, they came upon a plain, and in the distance was a high castle with many tents about it, and men passing to and fro between them. And as they rode under some withered trees by the edge of the forest, they saw, hanging by their necks from the bare boughs, many goodly knights in armour, with their shields and swords hung before them.

At this shameful sight Beaumains checked his horse and asked: 'What means this?'

'Fair sir,' said Linet, 'abate not your cheer at this dreadful sight, for ye have need now of all your courage, or else are we all shamed and destroyed. These dead knights are those who have come against the Red Knight trying to rescue my sister from his power. But the tyrant knight hath overcome them, and slain them thus shamefully by hanging.'

'Now Heaven aid me,' said Beaumains, 'for this is a most shameful and unknightly custom, and well doth that evil knight deserve death.'

'Nevertheless he is a knight of great prowess and force, though of evil custom,' replied the lady, 'and no one hath ever borne him down in battle.'

With that they came to a sycamore-tree which stood alone in the plain, and on it was hung a great horn of elephant bone, with gold work curiously wrought.

'Fair sir, ye must blow that horn if ye wish to do battle with the Red Knight. But, sir,' went on the lady quickly, and caught at Beaumains' arm that already had lifted the horn, 'be ye not overbold. It is now the hour of prime, and it is said that the Red Knight's force increaseth to the strength of seven men until it is noon. Wait, therefore, until noon shall be past, and his strength shall diminish.'

'Nay, nay,' said Beaumains, 'speak not thus to me. I will assail him however mighty he be, and either I will beat him or die with honour in the field.'

Therewith he lifted the horn and blew so great a blast that instantly knights came in a great press from the tents, and people looked out from the walls and windows of the castle.

Then Beaumains saw a tall man come running from a tent, arming himself as he came. Two barons set his spurs upon his heels and an earl buckled his helm upon his head. He was all in red armour, from the plume which waved upon his crest to the cloth which was upon his horse. And his shield was all of red, with but a black heart in the centre thereof.

Then he waited for Beaumains in a little hollow before the castle, so that all that were therein might see the combat.

'Now, fair sir,' said Linet, 'it behoves you to have great courage and heart, for yonder is your deadliest enemy, and at yonder window is my lady sister, Dame Lyones.'

Beaumains looked to where Linet was pointing, and saw at a window the loveliest lady he had ever seen. And as he looked she smiled and bowed to him, and he felt his heart burn with love for her.

'Truly,' he said, 'she is the fairest lady I have ever looked upon, and she shall be my lady.'

'Cease thy looking at that lady,' called the Red Knight in a harsh and angry voice. 'She is my lady, and soon shall she see thy foolish body swinging from the tree for the ravens to pluck, as others hang there afore thee.'

''Tis for that shameful sight and for the love of this lady that hates you and your evil custom, that I am resolved to slay you, if God so wills,' was the stern reply of Beaumains.

'A boastful rogue thou art,' cried the Red Knight, and laughed scornfully. 'What is thy name, and whence come ye, Sir Black Knight? For surely from your talk you must be one of those prating and soft fools of the Round Table?'

'I will not tell thee my name,' said Beaumains. 'And as yet I am not of the worshipful company of King Arthur's Round Table. But when I have slain thee and rid the world of so shameful a knight, then shall I crave the king to receive me into that high fellowship of noble and courteous knights.'

'Make thee ready!' shouted the Red Knight in a furious voice. 'I will talk no more with thee.'

With that they withdrew a little from each other, and then, spurring their horses, and with lances in rest, they hurled themselves towards each other. With so great a crash did they come together that both their spears were broken into a hundred pieces, and their breastplates, girths and cruppers burst, and the two knights fell to the ground half stunned with the shock.

But in a little while they avoided their struggling horses, and leaping towards each other with their swords, they cut and hacked each the other so fiercely that great pieces of their shields and armour flew off.

Thus they fought till it was past noon, and would not stop, till at last they both lacked wind, and thus they stood swaying, staggering, panting, yet feinting and striking with what strength they had. The Red Knight was a cunning fighter, and Beaumains learned much from him, though it was at the cost of many a gaping wound.

When it was evensong they rested by mutual accord, and seated on two molehills near the fighting place, they had their helms taken off by their pages and their worse wounds bound up. Then Beaumains lifted up his eyes to the lady at the window, and saw how her looks were tender with pity for him.

So heartened was he at the sight that he started up swiftly, and bade the Red Knight make him ready to do battle once more to the uttermost. Then they rushed fiercely at each other, and the fight raged more hotly than ever. At length, by cunning, the Red Knight suddenly struck Beaumains' sword from his hand, and before he could recover it, the Red Knight had with a great buffet thrown him to the ground, and had fallen upon him to keep him down.

Then cried the Lady Linet piteously:

'O Sir Beaumains! Sir Beaumains! where is your great heart? My lady sister beholds you, and she sobs and weeps, for surely she feels the evil Red Knight hath her almost in his power!'

At that, so great a rage possessed Beaumains, that with one great effort he thrust the Red Knight from him, and, leaping up, he seized his sword again, and so fiercely did he beat upon his enemy that the Red Knight sank to his knees, and then was thrust grovelling to the ground.

Beaumains leaped astride him, and cut the fastenings of his helm. Then the Red Knight shrieked for mercy.

'Thou recreant and coward!' said Beaumains. 'Did not any of those knights that thou hast hung cry to thee for mercy? What pity and what mercy didst thou give them? And thou deservest none from me, nor from any man!'

With that he slew him at a stroke, and the people in the castle cried out with joy.

Their leader being dead, his following of earls, barons and knights came and did homage to Beaumains, and he commanded that instantly they should betake themselves to the court of King Arthur and yield them into his hands.

Then for ten days the Lady Linet made Beaumains rest him in the Red Knight's tent, while she tended his many sore wounds. But ever Beaumains desired to go into the castle to see the lady he loved, but his hurts forbade him.

On the eleventh day he would no longer be denied, but having armed himself, all except his helm, which his page carried, he rode up to the castle gate. But as he came thither he saw many armed men, who pulled up the drawbridge before him, so that he should not enter.

Therewith he saw a knight at a window, who called to him.

'Fair sir, I am Sir Gringamor, brother to the Lady Lyones,' said the knight. 'I will that ye enter not yet. We know that you have proved yourself a bold and brave fighter, but we know not who you are. Therefore, unless you tell me your name and kindred, I may not suffer my sister to see you.'

'I know naught of thee, sir knight,' cried Beaumains sternly. 'My business is with the lady, from whom I think I deserve a little kindness, for I have bought her deliverance and her love with some of the best blood in my body. Must I go away then, thinking she cares more for a name and noble lineage than for brave deeds and devotion? Tell me, Sir Gringamor, is this the will of the Lady Lyones?'

'Ye have but to tell us thy name and of thy lineage, brave man,' said Sir Gringamor.

'Nay, that I will not!' said Beaumains, for his heart was hot with shame and anger. 'If I were but a churl, I should reckon myself a nobler man than the recreant knight from whom I have rescued you and your sister. But since he was a knight, it seems ye would reckon him as of greater honour than the brave churl that slew him for his evil deeds.'

'Nay, nay, it is not so!' came a sweet voice crying in tears, and Sir Beaumains saw the tender face of the Lady Lyones at the window where Sir Gringamor had been. 'My brave knight, think not ill of me, for this is none of my will, for I am mocked and my pleasure denied in my own castle by this my over-careful brother. I love thee, sir knight, whatsoever thou art, for I feel that thou art gentle and brave, and as good a man as any lady might love. And I beg you go not far from me, for I will have my will erelong, and I tell you now that I trust you, and I shall be true to you, and unto my death I shall love you and no other. And whenever I may come to you I will, in spite of this my brother.'

Saying these words, the lady sobbed as if her heart would break, and hiding her face in her hands she was led away by her women.

With that Beaumains' heart smote him, and he was resolved to reveal his name and lineage for the sake of the dear lady who loved him. But even as he thought this, he was aware of a party of knights coming towards him from the plain, and soon he recognised that they were of the company of King Arthur's Round Table.

And the foremost knight, who bore his helm in his hand, rode forward to him, crying:

'O Gareth, Gareth, my brother, how hast thou deceived us all!'

Then did Sir Beaumains clasp the other's hand right warmly, for this was his own brother, Sir Gaheris, sent from King Arthur to bring him home.

When Sir Gringamor knew of the coming of these knights, quickly he bade the drawbridge to be lowered, and in a little while the knights were being welcomed in the hall.

'Sir Gringamor,' said Sir Gaheris, 'I find that I come at a lucky chance for the happiness of my brother. Already the fame of his brave deeds has reached King Arthur, for the knights he hath overcome have put themselves in the mercy of the king.'

'Sir Knight of the Round Table,' said Sir Gringamor, 'tell me who is this brave knight that will not say his name?'

'He is Sir Gareth, my brother, the youngest son of the King of Orkney,' replied Sir Gaheris, 'and fit for the highest lady in the land. He hath played this trick upon us all, to test us. We did not know him, for he hath grown up to manhood while we have been long away from home. But ever he hath had an adventurous and witty mind.'

'Sir, I thank you,' said Sir Gringamor, and taking Sir Gareth by the hand he led him into the bower where sat the Lady Lyones, who sprang to meet Sir Gareth. To her Sir Gringamor told all that he had heard, and then left Sir Gareth to tell her more of himself.

And in a little while, at the court of King Arthur, they were married with great feastings and joustings and with all things to make merry. And Linet was wedded at the same time to Sir Gaheris. For though the Lady Linet was sharp of tongue, she was of great and good heart, and well beloved of all who knew her well.

[ ]

V

HOW SIR TRISTRAM KEPT HIS WORD

In the days when King Arthur had established his kingdom, he was called Emperor of Britain and its three islands. Nevertheless, there were kings who were rulers in their own lands, but they held their sovereignty of Arthur and had done homage to him and sworn fealty. In Wales there were two kings, in the north were eleven kings, and these he had conquered in a great battle by Sherwood Forest; in Cornwall were two kings, and in Ireland three kings, but all gave service to the great King Arthur.

That part of Cornwall which was called the lands of Tintagel formed the kingdom of a prince named Mark, and he owed certain yearly tribute or truage to King Anguish of South Ireland. It befell one day that King Anguish sent a messenger, who came to King Mark as he sat in hall, and said:

'Sir king, my master bids me say that the truage which you owe unto him is unpaid for seven years past, and if it be not paid he will demand of you double the sum.'

Now King Mark was a man of a mean and covetous mind, and he loved not to give money. Therefore, to put off the payment for a little while, he made answer thus:

'Tell your master that we will pay him no truage; and if your lord says he will have it, let him send a trusty knight of his land that will fight for his right, and we will find another to do battle with him.'

When King Anguish heard the message he was wondrous wroth, and called into him the brother of his queen, Sir Marhaus, a good knight of prowess nobly proved, and, besides, a knight of the Round Table. The king craved of him to go and do battle for the truage due from Mark of Cornwall.

'Sir,' said Sir Marhaus, 'I will gladly go and do battle for you on this saucy king or his knight. I ween ye shall have your truage to the last groat, for I fear not the best knight of the Round Table, unless it be Sir Lancelot, and I doubt not King Mark hath no knight of such worth and prowess as I.'

So in all haste Sir Marhaus set forth in a ship, and in a little while cast anchor fast by the shore where, on two high cliffs, the castle of Tintagel frowned upon the sea. When King Mark understood that so noble a knight as Sir Marhaus had come to do battle for the truage, he was full of sorrow, and wept as he looked upon the bags of gold in his treasure-chest. He knew of no knight of his court that durst face Sir Marhaus, and he feared much that he would have to part with his gold.

Daily Sir Marhaus sent a message up to the castle gate, demanding payment of the truage, or that a knight should come forth to do battle against him.

Then King Mark let make a proclamation through all the lands, that if a knight would fight to save the truage of Cornwall he should fare the better as long as he lived. But the days and weeks went by and no knight came forward. Then Sir Marhaus sent at the last a message which said, that if within a day and a night a champion for King Mark came not forward, he should depart.

All that day King Mark was sore and ill of mind and haggard of face, and could never stay still, but was for ever faring with his barons to where he could look down upon the ship of Sir Marhaus, and see the knight waiting in his armour.

Late in the afternoon, as the king stood thus, gnawing his nails for rage, and so hot and wrathful that none of his barons dare speak to him, there came two horsemen riding swiftly into the courtyard of the castle, and at the sound of their horses' feet King Mark turned eagerly.

A young squire was the foremost rider, and he was a youth full handsome and tall, with brown curly hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in a surcoat of red satin and a mantle of crimson, trimmed with gold; and on his head was a cap of rich purple, and his feet and legs were clad in fine leather, with gold bosses on his shoes. Alighting easily, he doffed his hat and came towards the king:

'Sir,' said he, 'if ye will give me the order of knighthood, I shall do battle to the uttermost with Sir Marhaus of Ireland.'

King Mark looked the young man up and down, and saw that though he was young of age, yet he was passing well made of body, with broad shoulders and of big limbs. The heart of King Mark became light.

'Fair son,' he said, and his barons marvelled at his soft words, 'what are ye and whence come ye?'

'Sir,' said the youth, 'I come from King Talloch, Prince of Lyones, and I am a gentleman's son.'

'And your name and birthplace—what are they?'

'My name is Tristram, sir, and I was born in Lyones.'

'Young sir,' said the king, 'I like your manner, and I think ye should be a good man of your hands. Therefore will I make you knight if ye will fight with Sir Marhaus.'

'That is why I have come,' said Tristram.

Eagerly the king bade a baron give him his sword, and commanded Tristram to kneel, and then and there he tapped his shoulder with the flat of the sword and bade him rise, 'Sir Tristram of Lyones.'

The king commanded his scrivener to come to him, and on the low wall overlooking the sea the man of inkhorn and goosequill laid his parchment, and wrote a letter to Sir Marhaus at the king's dictation, saying that a knight would battle with him in the morning. A messenger was sent therewith without delay, and the king went into supper, snapping his fingers and joking with his barons in great glee.

But in the midst of supper a parchment was brought to the king and his face fell, and he commanded the new-made knight to come from his seat and stand before him.

'Hark ye,' he said, his face dark, 'this prideful Sir Marhaus, waiting so long, hath made his terms the harder. I fear, good fellow, your knighthood hath been earned of me too easily, even if ye are not in league with this pesky Irish knight,' he went on, his narrow eyes gleaming with suspicion. 'He sayeth now that he will not fight with any knight unless he be of blood royal on his mother's side or father's. Say, are ye some starveling knight's brat, or what are ye?'

Sir Tristram's face went hard and his eyes flashed.

'No starveling's brat am I, king,' he said, 'unless ye are that thyself.'

'What mean you? Have a care of your saucy tongue.'

'I fear thee not,' laughed Sir Tristram, 'but this I would have you know. I am thy nephew, son of thy sister Elizabeth, who died in the forest, and of King Talloch of Lyones.'

At these words the king rose from his seat and embraced Sir Tristram, crying:

'Now, in the name of Heaven, thou art right heartily welcome unto me, dear nephew.'

That evening he made great cheer of Sir Tristram, and had his bed made next to his own in his own royal chamber. On the morrow the king had Sir Tristram horsed and armed in the best manner. Then he sent a trumpeter down to the seashore, and let Sir Marhaus know that a better born man than he was himself would fight with him, and that his name was Sir Tristram of Lyones, son of the King of Lyones and his queen Elizabeth, King Mark's sister. Sir Marhaus was right blithe that he should have to do with such a gentleman.

Then it was ordained that the two knights should battle on a little island near the ship of Sir Marhaus, and so young Sir Tristram and his squire were rowed thereunto, and when he departed, King Mark and his barons and all the common people were rejoiced to see the young knight's noble and high bearing, and wished him Godspeed.

When Sir Tristram landed he saw Sir Marhaus waiting armed in the shadow of his ship. Sir Tristram's squire brought his master's horse to land, and clad his master in his armour as was right, and then the young knight mounted upon his horse and rode towards Sir Marhaus.

While he was as yet six spear-lengths from him the knight of the Round Table cried unto him:

'Young knight, Sir Tristram, what doest thou here? I grieve me of thy courage, for ye are untried, while I have been well essayed in jousts and tournaments with some of the best men of their hands as are now living. I counsel thee to go back.'

'Fair and well-proved knight,' said Sir Tristram, 'I am for thy sake made knight, and I have promised to fight thee, and I will do so, as much for mine uncle's sake as for what worship I may win from doing battle with ye, who are one of the best renowned knights of the world.'

'Then I would have ye know, fair sir,' said Sir Marhaus, 'that no worship shalt thou lose if thou canst only stand against three strokes of mine, for, by reason of my noble deeds, seen and proved, King Arthur made me knight of the Round Table.'

Sir Tristram answered him naught, and then they dressed their spears and spurred their horses, and ran so fiercely each against the other that both were smitten to the ground, both horses and men. But Sir Marhaus had struck a great wound in the side of Sir Tristram, yet so eager was the young knight that he knew not of it. They leaped up and avoided their horses, and drew out their swords, and with shield on arm they lashed at each other like fierce wild boars. Yet for all Sir Marhaus' strong and bitter strokes he could not beat down the young knight's guard, and in despite he began to aim at his vizor and his neck. At this Sir Tristram was wroth, and struck him more furiously. Thus for two hours the battle waged, and both were sore wounded. But Sir Tristram was the fresher and better winded and bigger of limb and reach; and suddenly he heaved his sword up high, and closing upon Sir Marhaus he smote him with so mighty a buffet upon his helm that the blade shore through the steel even into the brain-pan.

So fierce had been the stroke that the sword stuck fast in the bone and the helmet, and Sir Tristram pulled thrice at his sword before it would loosen. Sir Marhaus sank to his knees with a deathly groan; then he threw away his sword and shield, and rising, staggered away towards his ship. Sir Tristram swooned and fell; and his squire came running to him, just as the men of Sir Marhaus' ship came and drew their master on board. Then they swiftly set their sail and flew over the sea.

Great was the mourning of the barons and the people of Cornwall when it was known how deep and wide was the wound which Tristram had received from the lance of Sir Marhaus. Many famous leeches came and searched the wound and strove to close it, but none availed. When two months had passed, came an old, old woman, a witch wise in leechcraft beyond all others, who was called the Mother of the Mists, and who lived in the Great Shuddering Moor, where only trolls dwelled, and no man ever dared to go. She also came and searched his wound at the king's desire.

When she had made her search, with many mumblings and strange words, she turned and looked keenly at the king. Her eyes gleamed like beads, her skin was wrinkled and dark, and she laughed a little soft laugh.

'Lord king,' she said, 'this fine man's wound is poisoned, and naught can heal it this side the great water. But if he goeth whither the spear came from which poisoned it, he shall get whole of that wound.'

''Tis well,' said the king, 'he shall be sent to Ireland.'

'Ay, ay, ay,' said the old woman, and laughed in Sir Tristram's face. 'Thou shalt be healed, fair chief, but the hand that shall heal thee shall give thee a deeper wound—a wound that shall never be healed this side o' thy grave.'

Forthwith King Mark let a fair ship be purveyed and well stored with necessary victuals, and Sir Tristram was carried thereto and laid on his couch on the deck, and Governale, his faithful squire, went with him. In the sunshine and the brisk wind Sir Tristram felt joyful, and the merry waves slapped the sides of the ship full prettily as it cleaved through the blue seas towards the west.

In the evening they saw the white cliffs and the brown rocks of Ireland, and Sir Tristram took his harp and played thereon, for he had learned to harp most featly in France, where he had lived seven years, to learn all manner of courtly and noble pastimes. Soon the shipmen cast anchor in a wide sheltered cove beneath a castle which stood on a high rock beside a fair town.

Sir Tristram asked the master of the ship the name of that town.

'Cro-na-Shee, if it please you, my lord,' said the master.

'It pleases me well,' said Tristram; 'it should mean that there dwell therein brave and noble knights, and damsels like unto fairies.'

Out of the merriness of his heart he thrummed his harp with so blithe and strange a tune that in a little while the very folk upon the shore came listening, and some began to dance, while others looked sad. For though the tune was very merry, there was sadness also peeping from it.

It happened that King Anguish and his court were in that castle by the sea, and a handmaiden of the queen came to where they sat and told them of the knight that sat in his ship and harped so strange a lay that it made one glad and sorry at the same time.

Then King Anguish sent a knight and begged the harper to take cheer with him, and Sir Tristram was brought in a litter, and all the damsels were sad at his sickness, and the knights sorrowed that a knight so noble-looking should be so wounded. King Anguish asked him who he was and how he came by his wound. And Sir Tristram, having learned that this was the King of Ireland, whose champion he had worsted in the battle, and thinking that his own name would be known, replied:

'I am of the country of Lyones, and my name is Sir Tramor, and my wound was got in battle, as I fought for a lady's right.'

'I pity thee, sir knight,' said the king, who was a right noble king and lovable, 'and by Heaven's aid, ye shall have all the help in this country that ye may need.'

The king told him of the battle which Sir Marhaus had had on his behalf with a knight named Sir Tristram, and how Sir Marhaus had come home wounded unto death, and was dead this two months. On which Sir Tristram feigned to be sorry, but said not much thereon.

Then did the king order his daughter to come before him. She was called La Belle Isoude, for that she was the most lovely damsel in all Ireland and the Out-Isles, and withal gentle and kind; and her father bade her tend and minister to this stranger knight, who had come to Ireland to heal him of his wound.

In a few weeks, so soft was she of her hands and so learned in leechcraft, she had cleaned Tristram's wound of all poison and he was hale and strong again. As some reward he taught her to harp, and gave her many good and costly presents. These she took, but valued them not so much as his kind words and smiles. More and more she loved to hear his voice, and when he was gone out hawking or looking at jousts she was sad and thoughtful, sitting with her fair hands in her lap and her eyes looking far away, and when she heard his step or his voice in the hall, then would her sad eyes light up, and a merry tune would hum upon her lips, and she would gaily talk with her handmaidens, who, whispering and glancing and nodding to each other as they sat about her at their spinning frames, knew of her love for Sir Tristram before she was aware of it herself.

Sir Tristram cared not overmuch to be with ladies, but was more joyful to be in hall, talking of hunting, jousting and hawking. All men regarded him highly for his great knowledge of these things, but as yet, for fear of hurting his wound which was but freshly healed, La Belle Isoude forbade him gently to take violent exercise. Sir Tristram was impatient to be in the saddle again, with lance in rest and his great charger leaping beneath him.

Now, to the court of King Anguish there had lately come a knight named Sir Palomides, famed for his knightly deeds, though still a pagan, and he was well favoured both of King Anguish and his queen. Sir Palomides came and made great court to La Belle Isoude, and proffered her many gifts, for he loved her passing well. Indeed, for her sake he declared he would be christened and become a Christian knight; but La Belle Isoude had no care for him, and avoided him as well as she might.

On a certain day King Anguish made a great cry that a joust and tournament would be held, wherein only unmarried knights should join, and the prize would be a fair lady called the Lady of the Laundes, near cousin to the king. The heralds further said that he who should win her should marry her three days after, and have all her lands with her. This cry was made in all Ireland and Wales, and in Logres and Alban, which are now called England and Scotland.

It befell the same day that La Belle Isoude came to Sir Tristram, and she seemed distressed of mind and as if she had wept secretly.

'Sir Tramor,' she said, 'this tournament shall exalt Sir Palomides beyond all other knights, unless a better do come forward and overcome him.'

'Fair lady,' said Sir Tristram, 'Sir Palomides may well win the prize against any knight, except it be Sir Lancelot. But if ye think I am fit to joust I will e'en essay it. Yet he is a proved knight, and I but a young one and but lately ill; and my first battle that I fought, it mishapped me to be sore wounded. Yet I will essay it, for I love not this Sir Palomides.'

'Ah, but I know thou wilt do well in the battle, and thou shalt have all my prayers for thy safety and success,' said La Belle Isoude.

On the first day of the jousts Sir Palomides came with a black shield, and he was a knight big of his body and on a great horse. He overthrew many knights and put them to the worst, among them being many of the knights of the Round Table, as Sir Gawaine and his brother Sir Gaheris, Sir Agravaine, Sir Kay, Sir Sagramore le Desirous, Sir Owen, who had been the little page-boy who had saved King Arthur's life in his hall at Caerleon, and three other knights. All these he struck down, and the others were adread of him. The people had great marvel, and acclaimed him with much worship as the victor of the first day.

The next day he came and smote down King Morgant, the pagan King of Scotland, as also the Duke of Cambenet. Then, as he rode up and down the lists proudly flourishing his lance, dressing his shield and waiting for the other knights to offer themselves to him, he was aware of a knight all in white armour, with vizor closed, riding quickly through the gate as if he came from the seashore.

The stranger knight came with swiftness, lifting his lance in token of challenge. Whereat Sir Palomides rode to the other end of the lists, dressed his lance, and together they put their horses in motion. Like two bulls the knights thundered against each other in the centre of the lists. The white knight's lance hit the shield of Sir Palomides full in the centre, and with the shock the pagan knight was lifted from his saddle, carried beyond his horse, and fell with a great thud to the ground, while his horse careered onward riderless.

Sir Gawaine and his fellows marvelled who this stranger knight might be. Then Sir Palomides, rising from the ground, caught his horse, and full of shame, would have slunk from the field. But the white knight rode after him and bade him turn, 'for,' said the stranger, 'he would better prove him with the sword.'

Then, alighting, they lashed at each other with their swords. Now Sir Palomides was a powerful man, and his strokes were passing heavy, but Sir Tristram, for the stranger knight was he, felt so full of strength and joy after his long leisure, that he played with Sir Palomides, and men wondered at the might of his blows, and his swiftness was a marvel to see. In a while, with a great buffet on the head of the pagan knight, Sir Tristram felled him to the earth.

'Now yield thee,' said the white knight sternly, 'and do my command, or I will slay thee of a surety.'

Sir Palomides was sore adread, and promised.

'Swear me this,' said the stranger, 'that upon pain of thy life thou leave my lady La Belle Isoude, and come not unto her ever again, and for a year and a day thou shalt bear no armour. Promise me this, or here shalt thou die!'

'I swear it,' said Sir Palomides, 'but I am for ever shamed.'

In his rage Sir Palomides cut off his armour and threw it from him and fled away on his horse.

Then the white knight also went away, and none knew who he was. The king sent after him, to tell him he was the winner of the lady, whom he should wed, but the messengers could not find him. Men marvelled much at this, that the victor knight should not come to claim the rich lady for his wife with the wide lands that went with her.

When Sir Tristram returned to the private postern where La Belle Isoude had led him forth secretly, he found her standing breathless, and she was pale and red by turns, and could not speak at first.

'Thou—thou hast not failed?' she said, and clasped her hands.

'Nay,' said Sir Tristram, laughing. 'He will never trouble you again. And, by Our Lady, I wished there had been six of him, for I never felt more full of fight and strength than I do this day.'

'But—but have ye not claimed the prize?' said La Belle Isoude, and hid her face that was so deathly white.

'Nay, nor will I,' said Sir Tristram, 'for I crave not to be married. I would be free and go forth into strange lands to seek adventures.'

He went from her, with the tune of a hunting song upon his lips, and saw not how La Belle Isoude trembled against the wall and was near to swoon.

For La Belle Isoude herself was the Lady of the Laundes who should be given to the victor, though this was known to none but herself and the king and queen.

The king and queen and all the court marvelled who should be the stranger knight, and why he had departed, and some suspected Sir Tristram, but none knew of this except La Belle Isoude and Governale his squire, and none dared charge him therewith. La Belle Isoude kept her counsel, and strove to seem lighthearted.

It fell upon a day that Sir Tristram was disporting himself with other knights at a game of ball upon the green before the castle, and had left his sword hung upon the post beside his seat in hall. The queen, with La Belle Isoude, passed through the hall to go to see the men at their sport, and on her way she espied Sir Tristram's sword, and the strange device of a serpent which was upon the handle. She said it was a marvellous piece of work, and never had she seen the like of it. Then, by ill hap, she drew the sword from the scabbard, and they both admired it a long time, looking at its keenness and brightness and the words of mystery engraved on it.

Suddenly the queen gave a little cry as of terror, and she pointed to where, within a foot and a half of the point, there was a piece broken out of the edge. Then, very hastily, the queen ran with the sword into her bower, and from her treasure-chest she drew a casket, and from the casket she drew a tiny piece of doeskin, and from that she took a fragment of steel.

While her daughter marvelled what it all might mean, the queen took the piece of steel and placed it in the broken part of Sir Tristram's sword, and it fitted so that the break could hardly be seen.

'Alas!' said the queen, 'this is the piece of sword that the leech took from the brain of my brother, Sir Marhaus, and this Sir Tramor is the traitorous knight that slew him!'

The heart of La Belle Isoude stood still for fear of the ill that would befall Sir Tristram, for she knew her mother's rage.

The queen caught up the sword fiercely in her hand and rushed from the room. Midway through the hall there met her Sir Tristram himself with his squire Governale, and the queen sped to him and would have run him through, but for Governale, who snatched the sword from her, though she wounded him in her wrath.

Finding her rage thus put to naught, she ran to King Anguish, and threw herself on her knees before him, crying out:

'Oh, my lord and husband, here have ye in your house that traitor knight that slew my brother and your champion, that noble knight, Sir Marhaus. It is Sir Tramor, as he falsely calleth himself, but the piece of steel that was taken from my brother's brain fits a notch in his sword.'

'Alas,' cried King Anguish, 'then am I right heavy, for he is as full noble a knight as ever I knew; and I charge ye, have not to do with him, but let me deal in this matter.'

The king went to Sir Tristram and found him fully armed, as if ready to fight for his life, for he knew that now the truth had been discovered.

'Nay, Sir Tramor,' said the king gravely, 'it will not avail thee to fight me. But this will I do for the love and honour I bear thee. Inasmuch as ye are within my court it would be no worship for me to have thee taken and slain, and therefore will I let thee freely depart if thou wilt tell me this: Who is thy father and what is thy name? And didst thou truly and rightly slay Sir Marhaus?'

'Tristram is my name,' replied the young knight, 'and I am son of King Talloch of Lyones. For the truage of Cornwall I fought for the sake of my uncle King Mark, and the battle with Sir Marhaus was the first I had, for I was made knight for that alone. Sir Marhaus went from me alive into his ship, though he left his sword and shield behind him.'

'I may not say that ye have done aught but what a good knight should do,' replied the king, 'but I may not maintain you in this country unless I would displease my wife and her kin.'

'Sir,' said Sir Tristram, 'I thank you for your goodness and for the kind cheer which I have had here of yourself and your queen and La Belle Isoude. I will depart straightway when I have bidden your daughter farewell, for I owe my life to her gentle hands; and I promise this, that I will be your daughter's servant and knight in right or wrong, to shield her and fight for her, and do all that a knight may do in her behalf, as long as I live.'

Then took he his leave of La Belle Isoude, and he told her all how he had come to that land. He thanked her heartily for all her gentleness to him and for her healing of his wound. At first she stood silent, changing red and white of face, and with downcast eyes, her fingers straining about each other. When he swore that he would be her knight, to fight for her whenever she should send for him, and bade her good-bye, she took the hand which he held forth, but would not look at him.

Tristram wondered why her fair hand was so cold. 'Good-bye and God be with ye always,' La Belle Isoude replied in a faint voice, and then turned and went from him. Tristram thought she was angered with him for the slaying of her uncle.

So in a little while he rode forth with Governale down to the seashore and looked back not once. There he entered by a ship, and with good wind he arrived at Tintagel in Cornwall, and King Mark and all his barons were glad that Tristram was whole again.

Then Sir Tristram went to his father King Talloch, and there was made great cheer for him, and wide lands were given him. Nevertheless, he could not rest long in one place, but went into Logres and Alban and Wales, seeking adventures, and his fame for prowess was almost as great as the fame of Sir Lancelot. Whereever he went he took his harp, and in hall and bower his favourite songs were those that praised the beauty of La Belle Isoude, her gentle ways and her soft white hands.

After a year and a day he returned to the court of King Mark and lived there, and all the knights and ladies admired him, and the praise of his courtesy was in the mouths of all, noble and simple, high and low. Then King Mark his uncle began to hate him for the love that all bore him, and since he had never married and had no son to whom his kingdom should go after his death, he saw that Sir Tristram would have it, for he was his next kin, and then, with Lyones and Tintagel, the fame and power of Tristram would increase abundantly.

So the king began to cast about in his mind for a way whereby he might do some hurt to Sir Tristram, or even destroy him.

He called the young knight to him one day and said:

'Dear nephew, I have been thinking a long while of taking unto myself a wife, and I hear much of the beauty and goodness of the king's daughter of Ireland, whom men call La Belle Isoude. Now I would that you go to the king and bear my message to him.'

Sir Tristram was troubled in mind at these words. Since he had left La Belle Isoude he had had no ease of spirit, for now he knew that he loved her. Though she had been angered with him for his slaying her uncle, and he knew that the queen and other kinsfolk of Sir Marhaus would surely slay him if they could, yet had he hoped in a while to have gone to King Anguish and found some way to win Isoude for his wife.

'Ye are feared to go, then?' sneered King Mark, noting the silence of Sir Tristram. 'Then I will e'en send some other knight that is bolder.'

At that Sir Tristram flushed hotly and said:

'I fear not to go there or anywhere, and I will bear thy message, sir.'

'It is well,' said the king. 'I will send thee with a fine ship, and a rich company of knights, and I will get my scrivener to write my message.'

Now King Mark said all this by reason of his craft and treachery. He had heard how Sir Tristram had been full of the praises of La Belle Isoude, while yet, as he had learned, Sir Tristram had not promised himself in love to her. By his crafty speech King Mark had hoped to make Sir Tristram promise to go to Ireland to obtain her, not for himself, but for King Mark. So, therefore, if the king married La Belle Isoude, this would cause some grief and hurt to Sir Tristram.

But King Mark cared not overmuch whether he wedded La Belle Isoude or not. He believed that Sir Tristram would of a surety be slain by the kin of Sir Marhaus in Ireland, and, if so, King Mark's plot would succeed to the full.

Sir Tristram, sad and troubled, went apart, and rode into a forest, for now he knew that he had done himself an ill turn. The lady he loved and whom he wanted to wife for himself he had now promised to woo for another.

As he rode moodily through the forest drive, a knight came swiftly riding on a great horse, its flanks flecked with the foam of its speed.

'Fair knight,' said the stranger, 'will ye of your courtesy tell me where I may quickly come at a knight called Sir Tristram of Lyones?'

'I am he,' said Tristram. 'What would ye?'

'I thank Heaven that hath led me to you, sir knight,' said the other. 'Here is a message from my master, King Anguish of Ireland, who is in dire peril of honour and life, and craves aid of you for the love that hath been atween you.'

Sir Tristram, much marvelling, took the parchment and read: 'These to you, Sir Tristram of Lyones, most noble knight, from his lover and friend King Anguish of Ireland, in sore trouble and straits at Camelot. Know ye, Sir Tristram, that I have been summoned to King Arthur's court on pain of forfeiture of his lordship's royal grace, to answer a charge whereof I knew naught till I came here. Which is that by treason and felony I caused to be slain at my court in Ireland a cousin of Sir Bleobaris de Ganis and Sir Blamor de Ganis, and of this evil deed these knights do most falsely accuse me. And there is none other remedy than for me to answer them in knightly fashion, my armed body against theirs. But inasmuch as I am old, and my wasted arm could naught avail me, and in that they are of such renown and prowess that none of my knights may hope to overcome them, I pray ye, Sir Tristram, of your ancient love for me, to come to my aid and fight for me as my champion in this most cruel charge. But if ye will not, and if ye choose to remember rather that I thrust you from my court, and would not protect you against those that meant you ill, then forgive my request, and leave me to my fate and my dishonour.'

The heart of Sir Tristram lifted within him for love of the good old king, and turning, he said:

'For what day is the trial by combat which your master speaketh of?'

'For midday on the day before next Sabbath,' said the knight.

'Go ye at once to your master,' said Sir Tristram, 'and say to him that I will not fail him, but will make all speed.'

'Sir, I thank you from my heart,' said the knight, and bowed. Then wheeling his horse he dashed swiftly away.

At Camelot, on the day and hour appointed, the lists were set, and knights and nobles and the common people waited to see the trial by battle which should prove the innocence or guilt of King Anguish. King Arthur was not at Camelot, nor was Sir Lancelot, for both were at Joyous Gard, the castle of Sir Lancelot, which King Arthur had given to him by the sea in the Northern Marches. In their places, King Kador of Cornwall and King Uriens of Reged were judges at the trial.

Ere noon was marked by the gnomon of the dial set up before the judges, Sir Tristram and his squire Governale rode up the lists, and were met by King Anguish and his knights. When Sir Tristram saw the King of Ireland he got swiftly from his horse and ran towards him, and would have held his stirrup; but the king leapt lightly from his horse, and with bright looks each embraced and kissed the other.

'My good lord,' cried Tristram, 'gramercy of your goodness which ye showed me in your marches, and of your nobleness in calling me unto your aid, for it is great honour to me that ye ask this, and I will do all for you to the utmost of my strength.'

'Ah, worshipful knight,' said the king, 'ye are courteous and noble beyond all others to come to my aid when I am in such dire need.'

'Who is he that is appointed to fight with you or your champion?' asked Sir Tristram.

'He is of Sir Lancelot's blood,' replied the king, 'and I wot that he will be hard to overcome, for all those of King Ban's kin are passing good fighters beyond all others. It is Sir Blamor de Ganis, a great warrior.'

'Sir,' said Sir Tristram, 'for the great goodness that ye showed to me in Ireland and for your daughter's sake, La Belle Isoude, I will take the battle in hand for you. But ye must first swear that ye never caused or consented to the death of the knight of which you are charged, and if I avail in your battle I will crave a boon of you which you shall grant me.'

'I swear to Heaven,' replied the king, 'that I did neither cause nor consent to the death of the knight; and as to the boon that ye shall ask, I grant it you already.'

Then King Anguish departed to the judges and cried unto them the name of his champion, and all the knights of the Round Table that were there, and the common people, were all agog to see Sir Tristram. The fame of his fight with Sir Marhaus, and his renown as a harpist and a lover of hunting, were well known unto all; but never yet had he come to the court of King Arthur.

Sir Blamor and Sir Tristram went to each end of the lists and dressed their harness and their shields. Sir Bleobaris, that was brother to Sir Blamor, went to him and said:

'Brother, now remember of what kin ye be, and what manner of man is our lord, Sir Lancelot, and see that ye suffer not shame. For never would Sir Lancelot bear it, and he would sooner suffer death.'

'Have no doubt of me,' said Sir Blamor, 'I shall never shame Sir Lancelot nor any of our high blood; nevertheless, this Sir Tristram is a passing good fighter, and if by ill hap he strike me down, then he shall slay me and so end my shame.'

'God speed you well,' said Sir Bleobaris, 'but he may not be so great a warrior as fame saith. For fame grows false as she goes further.'

When the knights were ready, the herald of the court of Arthur stood with his trumpet and recited the cause of the quarrel and the names of the knights about to do battle. Then, lifting his tabard, he bade both knights make ready; and when his tabard fell to the ground, the knights lowered their lances in the rests, set spurs to their horses, and thundered down the lists. With a clang and a crash they met midway, and then men marvelled as they saw how suddenly Sir Blamor's horse reared in mid-career, turned right round, and upsetting its rider over its back, fell to the ground. Sir Blamor, however, was unhurt, and quickly rising to his feet he drew out his sword, crying to Sir Tristram, as that knight turned his horse and came towards him:

'Alight thee, Sir Tristram, for though this mare's son of mine hath failed me, I trust my good sword shall not fail me.'

With that Sir Tristram alighted and dressed him to battle, and there they lashed at each other with mighty strokes on both sides, cutting and hacking, feinting and guarding, so that as time went on and still they fought fiercely, the kings and knights marvelled that they were so great-winded and strong.

Soon men saw that Sir Blamor was headstrong, and mad with rage, while Sir Tristram beat not so many false blows, but each was sure, though slower. Yet Sir Blamor would not rest, but like a wild man would ever dash against his enemy. Where they fought the trampled sand was stained with red from their wounds.

Suddenly men saw Sir Blamor make a heavy stroke which Sir Tristram avoided, and ere the other could recover, Sir Tristram's sword descended on his helm with so great a stroke that Sir Blamor fell upon his side. Sir Tristram leaped upon him and placed the point of his sword between the bars of Sir Blamor's vizor, bidding him yield.

When Sir Blamor got his breath he panted forth:

'Nay, nay, Sir Tristram, I will not say the word, but I require thee, Sir Tristram de Lyones, as thou art a noble knight and the mightiest that ever I found, that thou wilt slay me out of hand, for now I would not live to be made lord of these lands of Britain. Liefer I would die than live a life of shame, and therefore slay me! slay me!'

Sir Tristram started back, remembering of what noble blood was this brave knight. Knowing that he must either make Sir Blamor say the loth words 'I yield,' or else slay him, he went to where the judges sat, and kneeled before them and told them what Sir Blamor had said.

'Fair lords,' Sir Tristram ended, 'it were shame and pity that this noble knight should be slain, for ye well hear that he will not say the words of shame, and if King Anguish, whose true knight and champion I am, will suffer me, I will neither shame nor slay so stout-hearted a knight.'

'By Heaven,' said King Anguish, 'I will be ruled for your sake, Sir Tristram, as ye are the most knight of prowess that ever I saw in my long life. Therefore I pray these kings and judges that they take the matter into their own hands.'

The judges called Sir Bleobaris to them and required his counsel.

'My lords,' he said, 'though that my brother be beaten of body by this valiant knight, he hath not beaten his heart, and so I thank God he hath not been shamed in this fight. And rather than he be shamed,' said Sir Bleobaris, white and stern, 'I require that you command Sir Tristram to slay him out of hand!'

'That shall not be,' said the judges, 'for neither King Anguish nor Sir Tristram desire to shame your valiant brother.'

'We do not,' said both the king and Sir Tristram.

Therewith, by the advice of the judges, Sir Tristram and Sir Bleobaris took up Sir Blamor; and the two brothers made peace with King Anguish and kissed each other and swore friendship with him for ever. Then Sir Blamor and Sir Tristram kissed, and the two brothers, their hands clasping those of Sir Tristram, swore that there should for ever be peace and love between them; and this did Sir Tristram swear also.

Inasmuch as, of his nobleness and generosity, Sir Tristram would not take Sir Blamor's life because he refused to yield him, Sir Lancelot and all his kinsmen loved Sir Tristram, and were ever his friends and spoke well and knightly of him.

Then King Anguish and Sir Tristram took their leave and sailed into Ireland with great joy; and when they had arrived there, the king let make a great cry throughout his dominions, of the manner in which Sir Tristram had fought for him, and how for that deed he accounted him the noblest knight among his friends, and that all should treat him with friendship and no deceit.

When, also, the queen and the kin of Sir Marhaus heard how Sir Tristram had borne himself in the trial by combat, they agreed that now they should not seek to slay him, since his great help in this matter had wiped out his ill-doing in the slaying of Sir Marhaus.

So the queen and the knights of the court and the common people made much of Sir Tristram wheresoever he went; but the joy that La Belle Isoude had in her heart no tongue may tell. When Sir Tristram was led to her and they met after so long an absence from each other, men saw the lovely face light up with so sweet and high a look that they marvelled at her beauty. Yet they saw how straitly Sir Tristram held himself, and made not much of his meeting with her and did not seek her company.

Then on a day King Anguish asked Sir Tristram what was the boon he craved.

'But whatever it be,' said the king, 'it is yours without fail.'

Sir Tristram's face went hard and white, and after a little while he said:

'It is this, my lord. I bear a request from my uncle, King Mark, and it is that you give him your daughter La Belle Isoude for his wife, and ye let me take her unto him, for so I have promised him.'

'Alas,' said the king, and looked full heavily into the eyes of Sir Tristram, 'I had liefer than all the land that I have that ye should wed her yourself.'

Sir Tristram turned away, and made this reply:

'I have given my promise, and I were ashamed for ever in the world if I did aught else. I require you to hold to your promise, and to let your daughter depart with me to be wedded to my uncle, King Mark.'

'As I have promised, so will I do,' said the king. 'But I let you know 'tis with a heavy heart.'

Nor would the king say more, knowing that he might make bad worse. But the surprise and grief of La Belle Isoude, when she knew that Sir Tristram was to take her to be wife not unto himself but to a stranger, what tongue may tell and what words may say? Nightly, on the days when she was being prepared to depart, she wept full sorely in the arms of her mother or of Bragwine her faithful gentlewoman; but in hall or abroad she was ever calm and cold, though pale.

The queen, her mother, feared much of this marriage, and so sent a swift message to a great witch who dwelled in a dark wet valley in the midst of the Purple Hills, and for much gold a potent philtre was prepared. Then, on the day when, with much weeping and many sad farewells, La Belle Isoude with her gentlewomen and many noble ladies and knights were to go into the ship, the queen called Bragwine aside, and giving her a little golden flasket, said to her:

'Take this with thee, Bragwine, for I misdoubt this marriage overmuch, and I charge thee do this. On the day that King Mark shall wed my daughter, do thou mix this drink in their wine in equal parts, and then I undertake that each shall love the other alone all the days of their lives.'

Anon Sir Tristram and La Belle Isoude took ship and got to sea. During the voyage Sir Tristram kept himself much with the other knights and rarely sat with Isoude; for in his heart was much grief, and he hated the fair wind that drove the ship more quickly to the time when he must give up La Belle Isoude to his uncle. He knew now that he loved none other woman in the world but her, and never would so long as he should live.

Bragwine the maid, seeing the pensive looks of her mistress, and knowing the wretchedness of her heart, determined to give her mistress what she most desired. By the aid of Governale, the squire of Sir Tristram, they poured the philtre into the wine of Isoude and Sir Tristram as they were about to sit at dinner.

They thought that the philtre being so potent, it would cause Sir Tristram to do as King Anguish wished that he would do, and take La Belle Isoude into his own home at Lyones and wed her himself.

Sir Tristram and La Belle Isoude sat at dinner and drank the wine. In a little while Sir Tristram looked at the wine that was in his silver cup and smelled at it.

'Sure this is the best wine that ever I drank,' said he, and smiled at her.

'It is truly a most sweet and noble drink,' said Isoude, and her heart was glad to see him smile, who hitherto had kept his face so stern.

Sir Tristram called his squire.

'Governale,' said he, 'what wine is this thou hast given us this day? Let us have another flask of the same.'

Governale was ever ill at a deception, and began to stammer.

'My lord,' he said, 'I fear me there is none other.'

'Ah,' said his master, 'and where got you that?'

'The gentlewoman of my Lady Isoude,' said he, 'brought it and bade me mix it in your lordship's wine.'

'What?' cried Sir Tristram, rising angrily. 'What means this? What trickery is this?'

'Oh, my lord, forgive me,' cried Governale. 'But we saw the sorrow of both your hearts, and we gave you the philtre that was meant for my lady and King Mark, and—and—my lord, you will break my lady's heart and your own if ye suffer this.' But Sir Tristram would hear no further, and fiercely sent his squire from his presence.

'Ah, my lord,' said La Belle Isoude, 'have those two poor souls done more evil than we are doing by hiding our hearts from each other? I would have you know that no ease shall you have all the days of your life, for I know that you love me, and as to that, there is no living man in all this world that I love as I love you. If ye think it unmaidenly in me to say that—then my own wretched heart forgives me.'

The gentle sorrow in her voice caused Sir Tristram's heart to swell with rage because he had promised to take her to wed King Mark.

'Lady,' he said, and his face was full pitiful and pale, 'Heaven knows that ye say right, and that nevermore shall I have ease after this. But no more should I have ease, but rather more shame and remorse, if I should do what my heart bids me do. I gave my promise to mine uncle, madman that I was, and I must perform it, and suffer. But I could slay myself to think that you will suffer also.'

She saw the rage and sorrow in his eyes, and her heart was full of pity.

'Do thyself no harm, O noble knight and friend,' said Isoude, 'for thou art right, and I wrong. But I would have you promise to be my knight and champion in things both ill and good, while you shall have life.'

'Lady,' he replied, 'I will be all the days of my life your knight, in weal and in woe, to come to your aid and battle for your dear name, when you shall send for me.'

Sir Tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and quickly they parted, lest they should repent them of their duty.

That evening they got to shore, and landed at the foot of Tintagel, and Sir Tristram led up La Belle Isoude and gave her into the hands of King Mark, whose looks, for all that he tried to appear satisfied, were sour as he dwelt on the noble figure of Sir Tristram. Men noticed how pale and stern the young knight seemed, and that he said few words.

In a little while, after the wedding of his uncle to La Belle Isoude, Sir Tristram said farewell to all the court, 'for,' said he, 'he would go fight the pagans who were ravening in the north,' and so departed, with Governale his squire.

Afterwards, seeing the pale queen seated in hall beside King Mark, and remembering the heaviness of Sir Tristram, some guessed how full of woe was their parting, but for love and sorrow of Sir Tristram they said naught of what they thought.

[ ]

VI

THE DEEDS OF SIR GERAINT

King Arthur was spending Whitsuntide at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and one day he hunted the stag in the forests that lay thereby. As he had given permission for his queen to go and see the hunting, she set out with one handmaiden, and rode in the misty dawning down to the river, and across the ford.

They climbed up the other bank, following the track of the men and horses which had formed the king's hunting party, until they stood on the edge of the dark forest, where the young leaves were fresh and sweetly green. The sun burst forth, and sucked up the mists along the meadow flats beside the river below them, and the water flashed and the birds sang.

'Here will we stay,' said the queen, who felt happy with the sunlight upon her, and the smell of the forest blowing out from the trees, 'and though we shall not see the killing, we shall hear the horns when they sound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to cry so eagerly.'

Suddenly they heard a rushing sound and the thud of hoofs behind them, and, turning, they saw a young man upon a hunter foal of mighty size. The rider was a fair-haired handsome youth, of princely mien, yet withal kindly of look and smile. A riding-robe and surcoat of satin were upon him, low-cut shoes of soft leather were on his feet, and in his girdle was a golden-hilted sword. A fillet of gold bound his curly hair, and a collar of gold, with a blue enamel swastika pendant, hung about his neck.

He checked his horse as he neared the queen, and it came towards her with step stately, swift and proud, and the rider bowed full low to Gwenevere.

'Heaven prosper thee, Sir Geraint,' she said. 'And its welcome be unto thee.'

'Heaven accord you long life and happiness, O queen,' replied Geraint.

'Why didst thou not go with my lord to hunt?' asked the queen.

'Because I knew not when he went,' said Geraint. 'But men told me in hall that you had gone out alone, and I came to crave permission to accompany and guard you.'