1858
BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY:
THE AGE OF CHIVALRY OR LEGENDS OF KING ARTHUR
by Thomas Bulfinch

Throngs of knights and barons bold, 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence and judge the prize. 
MILTON.

PART I. KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS. 

CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION 
CHAPTER II. THE MYTHICAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 
CHAPTER III. ARTHUR. 
CHAPTER IV. CARADOC BRIEFBRAS; OR CARADOC WITH THE SHRUNKEN ARM. 
CHAPTER V. SIR GAWAIN. 
CHAPTER VI. LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE. 
CHAPTER VII. THE STORY OF LAUNCELOT.- THE ADVENTURE OF THE CART 
CHAPTER VIII. THE STORY OF LAUNCELOT.- THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
CHAPTER IX. THE STORY OF LAUNCELOT.- QUEEN GUENEVER'S PERIL 
CHAPTER X. THE STORY OF TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 
CHAPTER XI. TRISTRAM AND ISOUDE. 
CHAPTER XII. THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 
CHAPTER XIII. END OF THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 
CHAPTER XIV. THE STORY OF PERCEVAL. 
CHAPTER XV. THE QUEST OF THE SANGREAL. 
CHAPTER XVI. THE END OF THE QUEST. 
CHAPTER XVII. SIR AGRIVAIN'S TREASON. 
CHAPTER XVIII. MORTE D'ARTHUR.

PART II. THE MABINOGEON.

CHAPTER XIX. THE BRITONS. 
CHAPTER XX. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN. 
CHAPTER XXI. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN, CONTINUED. 
CHAPTER XXII. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN, CONTINUED. 
CHAPTER XXIII. GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN. 
CHAPTER XXIV. GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN, CONTINUED. 
CHAPTER XXV. GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN, CONTINUED. 
CHAPTER XXVI. PWYLL, PRINCE OF DYVED. 
CHAPTER XXVII. BRANWEN, THE DAUGHTER OF LLYR. 
CHAPTER XXVIII. MANAWYDDAN. 
CHAPTER XXIX. KILWICH AND OLWEN. 
CHAPTER XXX. KILWICH AND OLWEN, CONTINUED. 
CHAPTER XXXI. PEREDUR, THE SON OF EVRAWC. 
CHAPTER XXXII. TALIESIN.

PART III. THE KNIGHTS OF ENGLISH HISTORY.

CHAPTER XXXIII. KING RICHARD AND THE THIRD CRUSADE. 
CHAPTER XXXIV. ROBIN HOOD OF SHERWOOD FOREST. 
CHAPTER XXXV. ROBIN HOOD AND HIS ADVENTURES. 
CHAPTER XXXVI. CHEVY CHASE. 
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE.




CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. 

ON the decline of the Roman power, about five centuries after Christ, the 
countries of Northern Europe were left almost destitute of a national 
government. Numerous chiefs, more or less powerful, held local sway, as far 
as each could enforce his dominion, and occasionally those chiefs would 
unite for a common object; but, in ordinary times, they were much more 
likely to be found in hostility to one another. In such a state of things, 
the rights of the humbler classes of society were at the mercy of every 
assailant; and it is plain that, without some check upon the lawless power 
of the chiefs, society must have relapsed into barbarism. Such checks were 
found, first, in the rivalry of the chiefs themselves, whose mutual jealousy 
made them restraints upon one another; secondly, in the influence of the 
Church, which, by every motive, pure or selfish, was pledged to interpose 
for the protection of the weak; and lastly, in the generosity and sense of 
right which, however crushed under the weight of passion and selfishness, 
dwell naturally in the heart of man. From this last source sprang Chivalry, 
which framed an ideal of the heroic character, combining invincible strength 
and valor, justice, modesty, loyalty to superiors, courtesy to equals, 
compassion to weakness, and devotedness to the Church; an ideal which, if 
never met with in real life, was acknowledged by all as the highest model 
for emulation. 

The word Chivalry is derived from the French cheval, a horse. The word 
knight, which originally meant boy or servant, was particularly applied to a 
young man after he was admitted to the privilege of bearing arms. This 
privilege was conferred on youths of family and fortune only, for the mass 
of the people were not furnished with arms. The knight then was a mounted 
warrior, a man of rank, or in the service and maintenance of some man of 
rank, generally possessing some independent means of support, but often 
relying mainly on the gratitude of those whom he served for the supply of 
his wants, and often, no doubt, resorting to the means which power confers 
on its possessor. 

In time of war the knight was, with his followers, in the camp of his 
sovereign, or commanding in the field, or holding some castle for him. In 
time of peace he was of ten in attendance at his sovereign's court, gracing 
with his presence the banquets and tournaments with which princes cheered 
their leisure. Or he was traversing the country in quest of adventure, 
professedly bent on redressing wrongs and enforcing rights, sometimes in 
fulfilment of some vow of religion or of love. These wandering knights were 
called knights-errant; they were welcome guests in the castles of the 
nobility, for their presence enlivened the dulness of those secluded abodes, 
and they were received with honor at the abbeys, which often owed the best 
part of their revenues to the patronage of the knights; but if no castle or 
abbey or hermitage were at hand, their hardy habits made it not intolerable 
to them to lie down, supperless, at the foot of some wayside cross, and pass 
the night. 

It is evident that the justice administered by such an instrumentality must 
have been of the rudest description. The force whose legitimate purpose was 
to redress wrongs, might easily be perverted to inflict them. Accordingly, 
we find in the romances, which, however fabulous in facts, are true as 
pictures of manners, that a knightly castle was often a terror to the 
surrounding country; that its dungeons were full of oppressed knights and 
ladies, waiting for some champion to appear to set them free, or to be 
ransomed with money; that hosts of idle retainers were ever at hand to 
enforce their lord's behests, regardless of law and justice; and that the 
rights of the unarmed multitude were of no account. This contrariety of fact 
and theory in regard to chivalry will account for the opposite impressions 
which exist in men's minds respecting it. While it has been the theme of the 
most fervid eulogium on the one part, it has been as eagerly denounced on 
the other. On a cool estimate, we cannot but see reason to congratulate 
ourselves that it has given way in modern times to the reign of law, and 
that the civil magistrate, if less picturesque, has taken the place of the 
mailed champion. 

THE TRAINING OF A KNIGHT. 

The preparatory education of candidates for knighthood was long and arduous. 
At seven years of age the noble children were usually removed from their 
father's house to the court or castle of their future patron, and placed 
under the care of a governor, who taught them the first articles of 
religion, and respect and reverence for their lords and superiors, and 
initiated them in the ceremonies of a court, They were called pages, valets 
or varlets, and their office was to carve, to wait at table, and to perform 
other menial services which were not then considered humiliating. In their 
leisure hours they learned to dance and play on the harp, were instructed in 
the mysteries of woods and rivers, that is, in hunting, falconry, and 
fishing, and in wrestling, tilting with spears, and performing other 
military exercises on horseback. At fourteen the page became an esquire, and 
began a course of severer and more laborious exercises. To vault on a horse 
in heavy armor; to run, to scale walls, and spring over ditches, under the 
same encumbrance; to wrestle, to wield the battle-axe for a length of time, 
without raising the visor or taking breath; to perform with grace all the 
evolutions of horsemanship, were necessary preliminaries to the reception of 
knighthood, which was usually conferred at twenty-one years of age, when the 
young man's education was supposed to be completed. In the meantime, the 
esquires were no less assiduously engaged in acquiring all those refinements 
of civility which formed what was in that age called courtesy. The same 
castle in which they received their education was usually thronged with 
young persons of the other sex, and the page was encouraged, at a very early 
age, to select some lady of the court as the mistress of his heart, to whom 
he was taught to refer all his sentiments, words, and actions. The service 
of his mistress was the glory and occupation of a knight, and her smiles, 
bestowed at once by affection and gratitude, were held out as the recompense 
of his well-directed valor. Religion united its influence with those of 
loyalty and love, and the order of knighthood, endowed with all the sanctity 
and religious awe that attended the priesthood, became an object of ambition 
to the greatest sovereigns. 

The ceremonies of initiation were peculiarly solemn. After undergoing a 
severe fast, and spending whole nights in prayer, the candidate confessed, 
and received the sacrament. He then clothed himself in snow-white garments, 
and repaired to the church, or the hall, where the ceremony was to take 
place, bearing a knightly sword suspended from his neck, which the 
officiating priest took and blessed, and then returned to him. The candidate 
then, with folded arms, knelt before the presiding knight, who, after some 
questions about his motives and purposes in requesting admission, 
administered to him the oaths, and granted his request. Some of the knights 
present, sometimes even ladies and damsels, handed to him in succession the 
spurs, the coat of mail, the hauberk, the armlet and gauntlet, and lastly he 
girded on the sword. He then knelt again before the president, who, rising 
from his seat, gave him the "accolade," which consisted of three strokes, 
with the flat of a sword, on the shoulder or neck of the candidate, 
accompanied by the words: "In the name of God, of St. Michael, and St. 
George, I make thee a knight; be valiant, courteous, and loyal!" Then he 
received his helmet, his shield, and spear; and thus the investiture ended. 

FREEMEN, VILLAINS, SERFS, AND CLERKS. 

The other classes of which society was composed were, first, freemen, owners 
of small portions of land, independent, though they sometimes voluntarily 
became the vassals of their more opulent neighbors, whose power was 
necessary for their protection. The other two classes, which were much the 
most numerous, were either serfs or villains, both of which were slaves. 

The serfs were in the lowest state of slavery. All the fruits of their labor 
belonged to the master whose land they tilled, and by whom they were fed and 
clothed. 

The villains were less degraded. Their situation seems to have resembled 
that of the Russian peasants at this day; Like the serfs, they were attached 
to the soil, and were transferred with it by purchase; but they paid only a 
fixed rent to the landlord, and had a right to dispose of any surplus that 
might arise from their industry. 

The term clerk was of very extensive import. It comprehended, originally, 
such persons only as belonged to the clergy, or clerical order, among whom, 
however, might be found a multitude of married persons, artisans or others. 
But in process of time a much wider rule was established; every one that 
could read being accounted a clerk, or clericus, and allowed the "benefit of 
clergy," that is, exemption from capital and some other forms of punishment, 
in case of crime. 

TOURNAMENTS. 

The splendid pageant of a tournament between knights, its gaudy accessories 
and trappings, and its chivalrous regulations, originated in France. 
Tournaments were repeatedly condemned by the Church, probably on account of 
the quarrels they led to, and the often fatal results. The "joust," or 
"just," was different from the tournament. In these, knights fought with 
their lances, and their object was to unhorse their antagonists; while the 
tournaments were intended for a display of skill and address in evolutions, 
and with various weapons, and greater courtesy was observed in the 
regulations. By these it was forbidden to wound the horse, or to use the 
point of the sword, or to strike a knight after he had raised his visor, or 
unlaced his helmet. The ladies encouraged their knights in these exercises; 
they bestowed prizes, and the conqueror's feats were the theme of romance 
and song. The stands overlooking the ground, of course, were varied in the 
shapes of towers, terraces, galleries, and pensile gardens, magnificently 
decorated with tapestry, pavilions, and banners. Every combatant proclaimed 
the name of the lady whose servant d'amour he was. He was wont to look up to 
the stand, and strengthen his courage by the sight of the bright eyes that 
were raining their influence on him from above. The. knights also carried 
favors, consisting of scarfs, veils, sleeves, bracelets, clasps,- in short, 
some piece of female habiliment,- attached to their helmets, shields, or 
armor. If, during the combat, any of these appendages were dropped or lost, 
the fair donor would at times send her knight new ones, especially if 
pleased with his exertions. 

MAIL ARMOR. 

Mail armor, of which the hauberk is a species, and which derived its name 
from maille, a French word for mesh, was of two kinds, plate or scale mail, 
and chain mail. It was originally used for the protection of the body only, 
reaching no lower than the knees. It was shaped like a carter's frock, and 
bound round the waist by a girdle. Gloves and hose of mail were afterwards 
added, and a hood, which, when necessary, was drawn over the head, leaving 
the face alone uncovered. To protect the skin from the impression of the 
iron network of the chain mail, a quilted lining was employed, which, 
however, was insufficient, and the bath was used to efface the marks of the 
armor. 

The hauberk was a complete covering of double chain mail. Some hauberks 
opened before, like a modern coat; others were closed like a shirt. 

The chain mail of which they were composed was formed by a number of iron 
links, each link having others inserted into it, the whole exhibiting a kind 
of network, of which (in some instances at least) the meshes were circular, 
with each link separately riveted. 

The hauberk was proof against the most violent blow of a sword; but the 
point of a lance might pass through the meshes, or drive the iron into the 
flesh. To guard against this, a thick and well-stuffed doublet was worn 
underneath, under which was commonly added an iron breastplate. Hence the 
expression "to pierce both plate and mail," so common in the earlier poets. 

Mail armor continued in general use till about the year 1300, when it was 
gradually supplanted by plate armor, or suits consisting of pieces or plates 
of solid iron, adapted to the different parts of the body. 

Shields were generally made of wood, covered with leather, or some similar 
substance. To secure them, in some sort, from being cut through by the 
sword, they were surrounded with a hoop of metal. 

HELMETS. 

The helmet was composed of two parts: the headpiece, which was strengthened 
within by several circles of iron; and the visor, which, as the name 
implies, was a sort of grating to see through, so contrived as, by sliding 
in a groove, or turning on a pivot, to be raised or lowered at pleasure. 
Some helmets had a further improvement called a bever, from the Italian 
bevere, to drink. The ventayle, or "air-passage," is another name for this. 

To secure the helmet from the possibility of falling, or of being struck 
off, it was tied by several laces to the meshes of the hauberk; 
consequently, when a knight was overthrown, it was necessary to undo these 
laces before he could be put to death; though this was sometimes effected by 
lifting up the skirt of the hauberk, and stabbing him in the belly. The 
instrument of death was a small dagger, worn on the right side. 

ROMANCES. 

In ages when there were no books, when noblemen and princes themselves could 
not read, history or tradition was monopolized by the story-tellers. They 
inherited, generation after generation, the wondrous tales of their 
predecessors, which they retailed to the public with such additions of their 
own as their acquired information supplied them with. Anachronisms became of 
course very common, and errors of geography, of locality, of manners, 
equally so. Spurious genealogies were invented, in which Arthur and his 
knights, and Charlemagne and his paladins, were made to derive their descent 
from AEneas, Hector, or some other of the Trojan heroes. 

With regard to the derivation of the word Romance, we trace it to the fact 
that the dialects which were formed in Western Europe, from the admixture of 
Latin with the native languages, took the name of Langue Romaine. The French 
language was divided into two dialects. The river Loire was their common 
boundary. In the provinces to the south of that river the affirmative, yes, 
was expressed by the word oc; in the north it was called oil (oui); and 
hence Dante has named the southern language langue d'oc, and the northern 
langue d'oil. The latter, which was carried into England by the Normans, and 
is the origin of the present French, may be called the French Romane; and 
the former the Provencal, or Provencial Romane, because it was spoken by the 
people of Provence and Languedoc, southern provinces of France. 

These dialects were soon distinguished by very opposite characters. A soft 
and enervating climate, a spirit of commerce encouraged by an easy 
communication with other maritime nations, the influx of wealth, and a more 
settled government, may have tended to polish and soften the diction of the 
Provencials, whose poets, under the name of Troubadours, were the masters of 
the Italians, and particularly of Petrarch. Their favorite pieces were 
Sirventes (satirical pieces), love-songs, and Tensons, which last were a 
sort of dialogue in verse between two poets, who questioned each other on 
some refined points of love's casuistry. It seems the Provencials were so 
completely absorbed in these delicate questions as to neglect and despise 
the composition of fabulous histories of adventure and knighthood, which 
they left in a great measure to the poets of the northern part of the 
kingdom, called Trouveurs. 

At a time when chivalry excited universal admiration, and when all the 
efforts of that chivalry were directed against the enemies of religion, it 
was natural that literature should receive the same impulse, and that 
history and fable should be ransacked to furnish examples of courage and 
piety that might excite increased emulation. Arthur and Charlemagne were the 
two heroes selected for this purpose. Arthur's pretensions were that he was 
a brave, though not always a successful warrior; he had withstood with great 
resolution the arms of the infidels, that is to say, of the Saxons, and his 
memory was held in the highest estimation by his countrymen, the Britons, 
who carried with them into Wales, and into the kindred country of Armorica, 
or Brittany, the memory of his exploits, which heir national vanity 
insensibly exaggerated, till the little prince of the Silures (South Wales) 
was magnified into the conqueror of England, of Gaul, and of the greater 
part of Europe. His genealogy was gradually carried up to an imaginary 
Brutus, and to the period of the Trojan war, and a sort of chronicle was 
composed in the Welsh, or Armorican language, which, under the pompous title 
of the History of the Kings of Britain, was translated into Latin by 
Geoffrey of Monmouth, about the year 1150. The Welsh critics consider the 
material of the work to have been an older history, written by St. Talian, 
Bishop of St. Asaph, in the seventh century. 

As to Charlemagne, though his real merits were sufficient to secure his 
immortality, it was impossible that his holy wars against the Saracens 
should not become a favorite topic for fiction. Accordingly, the fabulous 
history of these wars was written, probably towards the close of the 
eleventh century, by a monk, who, thinking it would add dignity to his work 
to embellish it with a contemporary name, boldly ascribed it to Turpin, who 
was Archbishop of Rheims about the year 773. 

These fabulous chronicles were for a while imprisoned in languages of local 
only or of professional access. Both Turpin and Geoffrey might indeed be 
read by ecclesiastics, the sole Latin scholars of those times, and 
Geoffrey's British original would contribute to the gratification of 
Welshmen; but neither could become extensively popular till translated into 
some language of general and familiar use. The Anglo-Saxon was at that time 
used only by a conquered and enslaved nation; the Spanish and Italian 
languages were not yet formed; the Norman French alone was spoken and 
understood by the nobility in the greater part of Europe, and therefore was 
a proper vehicle for the new mode of composition. 

That language was fashionable in England before the Conquest, and became, 
after that event, the only language used at the court of London. As the 
various conquests of the Normans, and the enthusiastic valor of that 
extraordinary people, had familiarized the minds of men with the most 
marvellous events, their poets eagerly seized the fabulous legends of Arthur 
and Charlemagne, translated them into the language of the day, and soon 
produced a variety of imitations. The adventures attributed to these 
monarchs, and to their distinguished warriors, together with those of many 
other traditionary or imaginary heroes, composed by degrees that formidable 
body of marvellous histories which, from the dialect in which the most 
ancient of them were written, were called Romances. 

METRICAL ROMANCES. 

The earliest form in which romances appear is that of a rude kind of verse. 
In this form it is supposed they were sung or recited at the feasts of 
princes and knights in their baronial halls. The following specimen of the 
language and style of Robert de Beauvais, who flourished in 1257, is from 
Sir Walter Scott's Introduction to the Romance of Sir Tristram: 

"Ne voil pas emmi dire, 
Ici diverse la matyere, 
Entre ceus qui solent cunter, 
E de la cunte Tristran parler."
"I will not say too much about it, 
So diverse is the matter, 
Among those who are in the habit of telling 
And relating the story of Tristran." 
This is a specimen of the language which was in use among the nobility of 
England in the ages immediately after the Norman conquest. The following is 
a specimen of the English that existed at the same time among the common 
people. Robert de Brunne, speaking of his Latin and French authorities, 
says:- 

"Als thai haf wryten and sayd 
Haf I alle in myn Inglis layd, 
In symple speeche as I couthe, 
That is lightest in manne's mouthe. 
Alle for the luf of symple men, 
That strange Inglis cannot ken." 
The "strange Inglis" being the language of the previous specimen. 

It was not till toward the end of the thirteenth century that the prose 
romances began to appear. These works generally began with disowning and 
discrediting the sources from which in reality they drew their sole 
information. As every romance was supposed to be a real history, the 
compilers of those in prose would have forfeited all credit if they had 
announced themselves as mere copyists of the minstrels. On the contrary, 
they usually state that, as the popular poems upon the matter in question 
contain many "lesings," they had been induced to translate the real and true 
history of such or such a knight from the original Latin or Greek, or from 
the ancient British or Armorican authorities, which authorities existed only 
in their own assertion. 

A specimen of the style of the prose romance may be found in the following 
extract from one of the most celebrated and latest of them, the Morte 
d'Arthur of Sir Thomas Mallory, of the date of 1485. From this work much of 
the contents of this volume has been drawn, with as close an adherence to 
the original style as was thought consistent with our plan of adapting our 
narrative to the taste of modern readers. 

"It is notoyrly knowen thorugh the vnyuersal world that there been ix worthy 
and the best that ever were. That is to wete thre paynyms, thre Jewes, and 
thre crysten men. As for the paynyms, they were tofore the Incarnacyon of 
Cryst whiche were named, the fyrst Hector of Troye; the second Alysaunder 
the grete, and the thyrd Julyus Cezar, Emperour of Rome, of whome thystoryes 
ben well kno and had. And as for the thre Jewes whyche also were tofore 
thyncarnacyon of our Lord, of whome the fyrst was Duc Josue, whyche brought 
the chyldren of Israhel into the londe of beheste; the second Dauyd, kyng of 
Jherusalem, and the thyrd Judas Machabeus; of these thre the byble reherceth 
al theyr noble hystoryes and actes. And sythe the sayd Incarnacyon haue ben 
the noble crysten men stalled and admytted thorugh the vnyuersal world to 
the nombre of the ix beste and worthy, of whome was fyrst the noble Arthur, 
whose noble actes I purpose to wryte in this present book here folowyng. The 
second was Charlemayn, or Charles the grete, of whome thystorye is had in 
many places both in frensshe and englysshe, and the thyrd and last was 
Godefray of boloyn." 

THE MABINOGEON. 

It has been well known to the literati and antiquarians of Europe, that 
there exist in the great public libraries voluminous manuscripts of romances 
and tales once popular, but which on the invention of printing had already 
become antiquated and fallen into neglect. They were therefore never 
printed, and seldom perused even by the learned, until about half a century 
ago, when attention was again directed to them, and they were found very 
curious monuments of ancient manners, habits, and modes of thinking. Several 
have since been edited, some by individuals, as Sir Walter Scott and the 
poet Southey, others by antiquarian societies. The class of readers which 
could be counted on for such publications was so small that no inducement of 
profit could be found to tempt editors and publishers to give them to the 
world. It was therefore only a few, and those the most accessible, which 
were put in print. There was a class of manuscripts of this kind which were 
known, or rather suspected, to be both curious and valuable, but which it 
seemed almost hopeless ever to see in fair printed English. These were the 
Welsh popular tales, called Mabinogeon, a plural word, the singular being 
Mabinogi, a tale. Manuscripts of these were contained in the Bodleian 
Library at Oxford, and elsewhere, but the difficulty was to find translators 
and editors. The Welsh is a spoken language among the peasantry of Wales, 
but is entirely neglected among the learned, unless they are natives of the 
principality. Of the few Welsh scholars none were found who took sufficient 
interest in this branch of learning to give these productions to the English 
public. Southey and Scott, and others who, like them, loved the old romantic 
legends of their country, often urged upon the Welsh literati the duty of 
reproducing the Mabinogeon. Southey, in the preface to his edition of Morte 
d'Arthur, says: "The specimens which I have seen are exceedingly curious; 
nor is there a greater desideratum in British literature than an edition of 
these tales, with a literal version, and such comments as Mr. Davies of all 
men is best qualified to give. Certain it is that many of the Round Table 
fictions originated in Wales, or in Bretagne, and probably might still be 
traced there." 

Again, in a letter to Sir Charles W. W. Wynn, dated 1819, he says:- "I begin 
almost to despair of ever seeing more of the Mabinogeon; and yet, if some 
competent Welshman could be found to edit it carefully, with as literal a 
version as possible, I am sure it might be made worth his while by a 
subscription, printing a small edition at a high price, perhaps two hundred 
at five guineas. I myself would gladly subscribe at that price per volume 
for such an edition of the whole of your genuine remains in prose and verse. 
Till some such collection is made, the 'gentlemen of Wales' ought to be 
prohibited from wearing a leek; ay, and interdicted from toasting cheese 
also. Your bards would have met with better usage if they had been 
Scotchmen." 

Sharon Turner and Sir Walter Scott also expressed a similar wish for the 
publication of the Welsh manuscripts. The former took part in an attempt to 
effect it, through the instrumentality of a Mr. Owen, a Welshman, but, we 
judge, by what Southey says of him, imperfectly acquainted with English. 
Southey's language is, "William Owen lent me three parts of the Mabinogeon, 
delightfully translated into so Welsh an idiom and syntax that such a 
translation is as instructive as an original." 

In another letter he adds, "Let Sharon make his language grammatical, but 
not alter their idiom in the slightest point." It is possible Mr. Owen did 
not proceed far in an undertaking which, so executed, could expect but 
little popular patronage. It was not till an individual should appear 
possessed of the requisite knowledge of the two languages, of enthusiasm 
sufficient for the task, and of pecuniary resources sufficient to be 
independent of the booksellers and of the reading public, that such a work 
could be confidently expected. Such an individual has, since Southey's day 
and Scott's, appeared in the person of Lady Charlotte Guest, an English lady 
united to a gentleman of property in Wales, who, having acquired the 
language of the principality, and become enthusiastically fond of its 
literary treasures, has given them to the English reader, in a dress which 
the printer's and the engraver's arts have done their best to adorn. In four 
royal octave volumes containing the Welsh originals, the translation, and 
ample illustrations from French, German, and other contemporary and 
affiliated literature, the Mabinogeon is spread before us. To the 
antiquarian and the student of language and ethnology an invaluable 
treasure, it yet can hardly, in such a form, win its way to popular 
acquaintance. We claim no other merit than that of bringing it to the 
knowledge of our readers, of abridging its details, of selecting its most 
attractive portions, and of faithfully preserving throughout the style in 
which Lady Guest has clothed her legends. For this service we hope that our 
readers will confess we have laid them under no light obligation.



CHAPTER II. THE MYTHICAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 

ACCORDING to the earliest accounts, Albion, a giant, and son of Neptune, a 
contemporary of Hercules, ruled over the island, to which he gave his name. 
Presuming to oppose the progress of Hercules in his western march, he was 
slain by him. 

Another story is that Histion, the son of Japhet, the son of Noah, had four 
sons,- Francus, Romanus, Alemannus, and Britto, from whom descended the 
French, Roman, German, and British people. Rejecting these and other like 
stories, Milton gives more regard to the story of Brutus, the Trojan, which, 
he says, is supported by "descents of ancestry long continued laws and 
exploits not plainly seeming to be borrowed or devised, which on the common 
belief have wrought no small impression; defended by many, denied utterly by 
few." 

The principal authority is Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose history, written in 
the twelfth century, purports to be a translation of a history of Britain, 
brought over from the opposite shore of France, which, under the name of 
Brittany, was chiefly peopled by natives of Britain, who from time to time 
emigrated thither, driven from their own country by the inroads of the Picts 
and Scots. According to this authority, Brutus was the son of Silvius, and 
he of Ascanius, the son of AEneas, whose flight from Troy and settlement in 
Italy will be found narrated in "The Age of Fable." 

Brutus, at the age of fifteen, attending his father to the chase, 
unfortunately killed him with an arrow. Banished therefor by his kindred, he 
sought refuge in that part of Greece where Helenus, with a band of Trojan 
exiles, had become established. But Helenus was now dead, and the 
descendants of the Trojans were oppressed by Pandrasus, the king of the 
country. Brutus, being kindly received among them, so throve in virtue and 
in arms as to win the regard of all the eminent of the land above all others 
of his age. In consequence of this the Trojans not only began to hope, but 
secretly to persuade him to lead them the way to liberty. To encourage them 
they had the promise of help from Assaracus, a noble Greek youth, whose 
mother was a Trojan. He had suffered wrong at the hands of the king, and for 
that reason the more willingly cast in his lot with the Trojan exiles. 

Choosing a fit opportunity, Brutus with his countrymen withdrew to the woods 
and hills, as the safest place from which to expostulate, and sent this 
message to Pandrasus: "That the Trojans, holding it unworthy of their 
ancestors to serve in a foreign land, had retreated to the woods, choosing 
rather a savage life than a slavish one. If that displeased him, then, with 
his leave, they would depart to some other country." Pandrasus, not 
expecting so bold a message from the sons of captives, went in pursuit of 
them, with such forces as he could gather, and met them on the banks of the 
Achelous, where Brutus got the advantage, and took the king captive. The 
result was, that the terms demanded by the Trojans were granted; the king 
gave his daughter Imogen in marriage to Brutus, and furnished shipping, 
money, and fit provision for them all to depart from the land. 

The marriage being solemnized, and shipping from all parts got together, the 
Trojans, in a fleet of no less than three hundred and twenty sail, betook 
themselves to the sea. On the third day they arrived at a certain island, 
which they found destitute of inhabitants, though there were appearances of 
former habitation, and among the ruins a temple of Diana. Brutus, here 
performing sacrifice at the shrine of the goddess, invoked an oracle for his 
guidance, in these lines:- 

"Goddess of shades, and huntress, who at will
Walk'st on the rolling sphere, and through the deep; 
On thy third realm, the earth, look now and tell
What land, what seat of rest, thou bidd'st me seek; 
What certain seat where I may worship thee
For aye, with temples vowed and virgin choirs."
To whom, sleeping before the altar, Diana, in a vision thus answered:- 

"Brutus! far to the west, in the ocean wide, 
Beyond the realm of Gaul, a land there lies, 
Seagirt it lies, where giants dwelt of old; 
Now, void, it fits thy people: thither bend
Thy course; there shalt thou find a lasting seat; 
There to thy sons another Troy shall rise, 
And kings be born of thee, whose dreaded might
Shall save the world, and conquer nations bold."
Brutus, guided now, as he thought, by Divine direction, sped his course 
towards the west, and, arriving at a place on the Tyrrhene sea, found there 
the descendants of certain Trojans who with Antenor came into Italy, of whom 
Corineus was the chief. These joined company, and the ships pursued their 
way till they arrived at the mouth of the river Loire, in France, where the 
expedition landed, with a view to a settlement, but were so rudely assaulted 
by the inhabitants that they put to sea again, and arrived at a part of the 
coast of Britain now called Devonshire, where Brutus felt convinced that he 
had found the promised end of his voyage, landed his colony, and took 
possession. 

The island, not yet Britain, but Albion, was in a manner desert and 
inhospitable, occupied only by a remnant of the giant race whose excessive 
force and tyranny had destroyed the others. The Trojans encountered these 
and extirpated them, Corineus in particular signalizing himself by his 
exploits against them; from whom Cornwall takes its name, for that region 
fell to his lot, and there the hugest giants dwelt, lurking in rocks and 
caves, till Corineus rid the land of them. 

Brutus built his capital city, and called it Trojanova (New Troy), changed 
in time to Trinovantum, now London;(1) and, having governed the isle twenty-
four years, died, leaving three sons, Locrine, Albanact, and Camber. Locrine 
had the middle part, Camber the west, called Cambria from him, and Albanact 
Albania, now Scotland. Locrine was married to Guendolen, the daughter of 
Corineus; but, having seen a fair maid named Estrildis, who had been brought 
captive from Germany, he became enamored of her, and had by her a daughter, 
whose name was Sabra. This matter was kept secret while Corineus lived; but 
after his death, Locrine divorced Guendolen, and made Estrildis his queen. 
Guendolen, all in rage, departed to Cornwall, where Madan, her son, lived, 
who had been brought up by Corineus, his grandfather. Gathering an army of 
her father's friends and subjects, she gave battle to her husband's forces, 
and Locrine was slain. Guendolen caused her rival, Estrildis, with her 
daughter Sabra, to be thrown into the river, from which cause the river 
thenceforth bore the maiden's name, which by length of time is now changed 
into Sabrina or Severn. Milton alludes to this in his address to the river- 
and in

"Severn swift, guilty of maiden's death";-
his "Comus" tells the story with a slight variation, thus:- 

"There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, 
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream; 
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure: 
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, 
That had the sceptre from his father, Brute. 
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit
Of her enraged step-dame, Guendolen, 
Commended her fair innocence to the flood, 
That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course. 
The water-nymphs that in the bottom played
Held up their pearled wrists and took her in, 
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall, 
Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head, 
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe
In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel, 
And through the porch and inlet of each sense
Dropped in ambrosial oils till she revived, 
And underwent a quick, immortal change, 
Made goddess of the river," 
If our readers ask when all this took place, we must answer, in the first 
place, that mythology is not careful of dates; and next that, as Brutus was 
the great-grandson of AEneas, it must have been not far from a century 
subsequent to the Trojan war, or about 1100 years before the invasion of the 
island by Julius Caesar. This long interval is filled with the names of 
princes whose chief occupation was in warring with one another. Some few, 
whose names remain connected with places, or embalmed in literature, we will 
mention. 

BLADUD. 

Bladud built the city of Bath, and dedicated the medicinal waters to 
Minerva. He was a man of great invention, and practised the arts of magic, 
till, having made him wings to fly, he fell down upon the temple of Apollo, 
in Trinovant, and so died, after twenty years' reign. 

LEIR. 

Leir, who next reigned, built Leicester, and called it after his name. He 
had no male issue, but only three daughters. When grown old, he determined 
to divide his kingdom among his daughters, and bestow them in marriage. But 
first, to try which of them loved him best, he determined to ask them 
solemnly in order, and judge of the warmth of their affection by their 
answers. Goneril, the eldest, knowing well her father's weakness, made 
answer that she loved him, "above her soul." "Since thou so honorest my 
declining age," said the old man, "to thee and to thy husband I give the 
third part of my realm." Such good success for a few words soon uttered was 
ample instruction to Regan, the second daughter, what to say. She therefore, 
to the same question replied, that "she loved him more than all the world 
beside"; and so received an equal reward with her sister. But Cordeilla, the 
youngest, and hitherto the best beloved, too honest to profess in words more 
than she felt in her heart, was not moved from the solid purpose of a 
sincere and virtuous answer, and replied: "Father, my love towards you is as 
my duty bids. They who pretend beyond this flatter." When the old man, sorry 
to hear this, and wishing her to recall these words, persisted in asking, 
she still restrained her expressions so as to say rather less than more than 
the truth. Then Leir, all in a passion, burst forth: "Since thou hast not 
reverenced thy aged father like thy sisters, think not to have any part in 
my kingdom or what else I have";- and without delay, giving in marriage his 
other daughters, Goneril to the Duke of Albany, and Regan to the Duke of 
Cornwall, he divides his kingdom between them. Cordeilla, portionless, 
married the prince of France, who shortly after succeeded his father upon 
the throne. King Leir went to reside with his eldest daughter, attended only 
by a hundred knights. But in a short time his attendants, being complained 
of as too numerous and disorderly, are reduced to thirty. Resenting that 
affront, the old king betakes him to his second daughter; but she, instead 
of soothing his wounded pride, takes part with her sister, and refuses to 
admit a retinue of more than five. Then back he returns to the other, who 
now will not receive him with more than one attendant. Then the remembrance 
of Cordeilla comes to his thoughts, and he takes his journey into France to 
seek her, with little hope of kind consideration from one whom he had so 
injured, but to pay her the last recompense he can render,- confession of 
his injustice. When Cordeilla is informed of his approach, and of his sad 
condition, she pours forth true filial tears. And, not willing that her own 
or others' eyes should see him in that forlorn condition, she sends one of 
her trusted servants to meet him, and convey him privately to some 
comfortable abode, and to furnish him with such state as befitted his 
dignity. After which Cordeilla, with the king her husband, went in state to 
meet him, and, after an honorable reception, the king permitted his wife 
Cordeilla to go with an army and set her father again upon his throne. They 
prospered, subdued the wicked sisters and their consorts, and Leir obtained 
the crown and held it three years. Cordeilla succeeded him, and reigned five 
years; but the sons of her sisters, after that, rebelled against her, and 
she lost both her crown and life. 

Shakespeare has chosen this story as the subject of his tragedy of King 
Lear, varying its details in some respects. The madness of Lear, and the ill 
success of Cordeilla's attempt to reinstate her father, are the principal 
variations, and those in the names will also be noticed. Our narrative is 
drawn from Milton's History; and thus the reader will perceive that the 
story of Leir has had the distinguished honor of being told by the two 
acknowledged chiefs of British literature. 

FERREX AND PORREX. 

Ferrex and Porrex were brothers, who held the kingdom after Leir. They 
quarrelled about the supremacy, and Porrex expelled his brother, who, 
obtaining aid from Suard, king of the Franks, returned and made war upon 
Porrex. Ferrex was slain in battle, and his forces dispersed. When their 
mother came to hear of her son's death, who was her favorite, she fell into 
a great rage, and conceived a mortal hatred against the survivor. She took, 
therefore, her opportunity when he was asleep, fell upon him, and, with the 
assistance of her women, tore him in pieces. This horrid story would not be 
worth relating, were it not for the fact that it has furnished the plot for 
the first tragedy which was written in the English language. It was entitled 
Gorboduc, but in the second edition Ferrex and Porrex, and was the 
production of Thomas Sackville, afterwards Earl of Dorset, and Thomas 
Norton, a barrister. Its date was 1561. 

DUNWALLO MOLMUTIUS. 

This is the next name of note. Molmutius established the Molmutine laws, 
which bestowed the privilege of sanctuary on temples, cities, and the roads 
leading to them, and gave the same protection to ploughs, extending a 
religious sanction to the labors of the field. Shakespeare alludes to him in 
Cymbeline, Act III, Sc. I.:- 

"Molmutius made our laws; 
Who was the first of Britain which did put
His brows within a golden crown, and called
Himself a king."
BRENNUS AND BELINUS 

Brennus and Belinus, the sons of Molmutius, succeeded him. They quarrelled, 
and Brennus was driven out of the island, and took refuge in Gaul, where he 
met with such favor from the king of the Allobroges, that he gave him his 
daughter in marriage, and made him his partner on the throne. Brennus is the 
name which the Roman historians give to the famous leader of the Gauls who 
took Rome in the time of Camillus. Geoffrey of Monmouth claims the glory of 
the conquest for the British prince, after he had become king of the 
Allobroges. 

ELIDURE. 

After Belinus and Brennus there reigned several kings of little note, and 
then came Elidure. Arthgallo, his brother, being king, gave great offence to 
his powerful nobles, who rose against him, deposed him, and advanced Elidure 
to the throne. Arthgallo fled, and endeavored to find assistance in the 
neighboring kingdoms to reinstate him, but found none. Elidure reigned 
prosperously and wisely. After five years' possession of the kingdom, one 
day, when hunting, he met in the forest his brother, Arthgallo, who had been 
deposed. After long wandering, unable longer to bear the poverty to which he 
was reduced, he had returned to Britain, with only ten followers, designing 
to repair to those who had formerly been his friends. Elidure, at the sight 
of his brother in distress, forgetting all animosities, ran to him, and 
embraced him. He took Arthgallo home with him, and concealed him in the 
palace. After this he feigned himself sick, and, calling his nobles about 
him, induced them, partly by persuasion, partly by force, to consent to his 
abdicating the kingdom, and reinstating his brother on the throne. The 
agreement being ratified, Elidure took the crown from his own head, and put 
it on his brother's head. Arthgallo after this reigned ten years, well and 
wisely, exercising strict justice towards all men. 

He died, and left the kingdom to his sons, who reigned with various 
fortunes, but were not long-lived, and left no offspring, so that Elidure 
was again advanced to the throne, and finished the course of his life in 
just and virtuous actions, receiving the name of the pious, from the love 
and admiration of his subjects. 

Wordsworth has taken the story of Artegal and Elidure for the subject of a 
poem, which is No. 2 of "Poems founded on the Affections." 

LUD. 

After Elidure the Chronicle names many kings, but none of special note, till 
we come to Lud, who greatly enlarged Trinovant, his capital, and surrounded 
it with a wall. He changed its name, bestowing upon it his own, so that 
thenceforth it was called Lud's town, afterwards London. Lud was buried by 
the gate of the city called after him Ludgate. He had two sons, but they 
were not old enough at the time of their father's death to sustain the cares 
of government, and therefore their uncle Caswallaun, or Cassibellaunus, 
succeeded to the kingdom. He was a brave and magnificent prince, so that his 
fame reached to distant countries. 

CASSIBELLAUNUS. 

About this time it happened (as is found in the Roman histories) that Julius 
Caesar, having subdued Gaul, came to the shore opposite Britain. And having 
resolved to add this island also to his conquest, he prepared ships and 
transported his army across the sea, to the mouth of the river Thames. Here 
he was met by Cassibellaun, with all his forces, and a battle ensued, in 
which Nennius, the brother of Cassibellaun, engaged in single combat with 
Caesar. After several furious blows given and received, the sword of Caesar 
stuck so fast in the shield of Nennius, that it could not be pulled out, 
and, the combatants being separated by the intervention of the troops, 
Nennius remained possessed of this trophy. At last, after the greater part 
of the day was spent, the Britons poured in so fast that Caesar was forced 
to retire to his camp and fleet. And finding it useless to continue the war 
any longer at that time, he returned to Gaul. 

Shakespeare alludes to Cassibellaunus, in Cymbeline:- 

"The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point
(O giglot fortune!) to master Caesar's sword, 
Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright, 
And Britons strut with courage."
KYMBELINUS, OR CYMBELINE. 

Caesar, on a second invasion of the island, was more fortunate and compelled 
the Britons to pay tribute. Cymbeline, the nephew of the king, was delivered 
to the Romans as a hostage for the faithful fulfilment of the treaty, and, 
being carried to Rome by Caesar, he was there brought up in the Roman arts 
and accomplishments. Being afterwards restored to his country, and placed on 
the throne, he was attached to the Romans, and continued through all his 
reign at peace with them. His sons, Guiderius and Arviragus, who make their 
appearance in Shakespeare's play of Cymbeline, succeeded their father, and, 
refusing to pay tribute to the Romans, brought on another invasion. 
Guiderius was slain, but Arviragus afterward made terms with the Romans, and 
reigned prosperously many years. 

ARMORICA. 

The next event of note is the conquest and colonization of Armorica, by 
Maximis, a Roman general, and Conan, lord of Miniadoc or Denbigh-land, in 
Wales. The name of the country was changed to Brittany, or Lesser Britain; 
and so completely was it possessed by the British colonists, that the 
language became assimilated to that spoken in Wales, and it is said that to 
this day the peasantry of the two countries can understand each other when 
speaking their native language. 

The Romans eventually succeeded in establishing themselves in the island, 
and after the lapse of several generations they became blended with the 
natives so that no distinction existed between the two races. When at length 
the Roman armies were withdrawn from Britain, their departure was a matter 
of regret to the inhabitants, as it left them without protection against the 
barbarous tribes, Scots, Picts, and Norwegians, who harassed the country 
incessantly. This was the state of things when the era of King Arthur began. 

The adventure of Albion, the giant, with Hercules is alluded to by Spenser, 
Faery Queene, Book IV., Canto XI.:- 

"For Albion the son of Neptune was; 
Who for the proof of his great puissance, 
Out of his Albion did on dry foot pass, 
Into old Gaul that now is cleped France, 
To fight with Hercules, that did advance
To vanquish all the world with matchless might; 
And there his mortal part by great mischance
Was slain." 
 
(1) "For noble Britons sprong from Trojans bold, 
And Troynovant was built of old Troy's ashes cold." 
SPENSER, Book III, Canto IX. 38.

 

CHAPTER III. ARTHUR. 

WE shall begin our history of King Arthur by giving those particulars of his 
life which appear to rest on historical evidence; and then proceed to record 
those legends concerning him which form the earliest portion of British 
literature. 

Arthur was a prince of the tribe of Britons called Silures, whose country 
was South Wales,- the son of Uther, named Pendragon, a title given to an 
elective sovereign, paramount over the many kings of Britain. He appears to 
have commenced his martial career about the year 500, and was raised to the 
Pendragonship about ten years later. 

He is said to have gained twelve victories over the Saxons. The most 
important of them was that of Badon, by some supposed to be Bath, by others 
Berkshire. This was the last of his battles with the Saxons, and checked 
their progress so effectually that Arthur experienced no more annoyance from 
them, and reigned in peace, until the revolt of his nephew Modred, twenty 
years later, which led to the fatal battle of Camlan, in Cornwall, in 542. 
Modred was slain, and Arthur, mortally wounded, was conveyed by sea to 
Glastonbury, where he died, and was buried. Tradition preserved the memory 
of the place of his interment within the abbey, as we are told by Giraldus 
Cambrensis, who was present when the grave was opened by command of Henry 
II. in 1150, and saw the bones and sword of the monarch, and a leaden cross 
let into his tombstone, with the inscription in rude Roman letters, "Here 
lies buried the famous King Arthur, in the island Avolonia." This story has 
been elegantly versified by Warton. A popular traditional belief was long 
entertained among the Britons that Arthur was not dead, but had been carried 
off to be healed of his wounds in Fairy-land, and that he would reappear to 
avenge his countrymen, and reinstate them in the sovereignty of Britain. In 
Wharton's Ode a bard relates to King Henry the traditional story of Arthur's 
death, and closes with these lines:-

"Yet in vain a paynim foe
Armed with fate the mighty blow; 
For when he fell, the Elfin queen, 
All in secret and unseen, 
O'er the fainting hero threw
Her mantle of ambrosial blue, 
And bade her spirits bear him far, 
In Merlin's agate-axled car, 
To her green isle's enamelled steep, 
Far in the navel of the deep. 
O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
From flowers that in Arabia grew.
There he reigns a mighty king, 
Thence to Britain shall return, 
If right prophetic rolls I learn, 
Borne on victory's spreading plume, 
His ancient sceptre to resume, 
His knightly table to restore, 
And brave the tournaments of yore."
After this narration another bard came forward, who recited a different 
story:-

"When Arthur bowed his haughty crest, 
No princess veiled in azure vest
Snatched him, by Merlin's powerful spell, 
In groves of golden bliss to dwell; 
But when he fell, with winged speed, 
His champions, on a milk-white steed, 
From the battle's hurricane
Bore him to Joseph's towered fane,(1)
In the fair vale of Avalon; 
There, with chanted orison
And the long blaze of tapers clear, 
The stoled fathers met the bier; 
Through the dim aisles, in order dread
Of martial woe, the chief they led, 
And deep entombed in holy ground, 
Before the altar's solemn bound."
Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, alludes to the legend of Arthur's rescue by 
the Fairy queen, thus:-

"Or mythic Uther's deeply wounded son, 
In some fair space of sloping greens, 
Lay dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watched by weeping queens."
It must not be concealed, that the very existence of Arthur has been denied 
by some. Milton says of him: "As to Arthur, more renowned in songs and 
romances than in true stories, who he was, and whether ever any such reigned 
in Britain, hath been doubted heretofore, and may again, with good reason." 
Modern critics, however, admit that there was a prince of this name, and 
find proof of it in the frequent mention of him in the writings of the Welsh 
bards. But the Arthur of romance, according to Mr. Owen, a Welsh scholar and 
antiquarian, is a mythological person. "Arthur," he says, "is the Great 
Bear, as the name literally implies (Arctos, Arcturus), and perhaps this 
constellation, being so near the pole, and visibly describing a circle in a 
small space, is the origin of the famous Round Table." Let us now turn to 
the history of King Arthur, as recorded by the romantic chroniclers. 

Constans, king of Britain, had three sons, Moines, Ambrosius, otherwise 
called Uther, and Pendragon. Moines, soon after his accession to the crown, 
was vanquished by the Saxons, in consequence of the treachery of his 
seneschal, Vortigern, and growing unpopular through misfortune, he was 
killed by his subjects, and the traitor Vortigern chosen in his place. 

Vortigern was soon after defeated in a great battle by Uther and Pendragon, 
the surviving brothers of Moines, and Pendragon ascended the throne. 

This prince had great confidence in the wisdom of Merlin, and made him his 
chief adviser. About this time a dreadful war arose between the Saxons and 
Britons. Merlin obliged the royal brothers to swear fidelity to each other, 
but predicted that one of them must fall in the first battle. The Saxons 
were routed, and Pendragon, being slain, was succeeded by Uther, who now 
assumed, in addition to his own name, the appellation of Pendragon. 

Merlin still continued a favorite counsellor. At the request of Uther, he 
transported by magic art enormous stones from Ireland, to form the sepulchre 
of Pendragon. These stones constitute the monument now called Stonehenge, on 
Salisbury Plain. 

Merlin next proceeded to Carlisle to prepare the Round Table, at which he 
seated an assemblage of the great nobles of the country. The companions 
admitted to this high order were bound by oath to assist each other at the 
hazard of their own lives, to attempt singly the most perilous adventures, 
to lead, when necessary, a life of monastic solitude, to fly to arms at the 
first summons, and never to retire from battle till they had defeated the 
enemy, unless night intervened and separated the combatants. 

Soon after this institution, the king invited all his barons to the 
celebration of a great festival, which he proposed holding annually at 
Carlisle. 

As the knights had obtained the sovereign's permission to bring their ladies 
along with them, the beautiful Igerne accompanied her husband, Gerlois, Duke 
of Tintadiel, to one of these anniversaries. The king became deeply enamored 
of the Duchess, and disclosed his passion; but Igerne repelled his advances, 
and revealed his solicitations to her husband. On hearing this, the Duke 
instantly removed from court with Igerne, and without taking leave of Uther. 
The king complained to his council of this want of duty, and they decided 
that the Duke should be summoned to court, and, if refractory, should be 
treated as a rebel. As he refused to obey the citation, the king carried war 
into the estates of his vassal, and besieged him in the strong castle of 
Tintadiel. Merlin transformed the king into the likeness of Gerlois, and 
enabled him to have many stolen interviews with Igerne. At length the Duke 
was killed in battle, and the king espoused Igerne. 

From this union sprang Arthur, who succeeded his father, Uther, upon the 
throne. 

ARTHUR CHOSEN KING. 

Arthur, though only fifteen years old at his father's death, was elected 
king, at a general meeting of the nobles. It was not done without 
opposition, for there were many ambitious competitors; but Bishop Brice, a 
person of great sanctity, on Christmas eve addressed the assembly, and 
represented that it would well become them, at that solemn season, to put up 
their prayers for some token which should manifest the intentions of 
Providence respecting their future sovereign. This was done, and with such 
success, that the service was scarcely ended, when a miraculous stone was 
discovered, before the church door, and in the stone was firmly fixed a 
sword, with the following words engraven on its hilt:- 

"I am hight Escalibore, 
Unto a king fair tresore."
Bishop Brice, after exhorting the assembly to offer up their thanksgivings 
for this signal miracle, proposed a law, that whoever should be able to draw 
out the sword from the stone, should be acknowledged as sovereign of the 
Britons; and his proposal was decreed by general acclamation. The tributary 
kings of Uther, and the most famous knights, successively put their strength 
to the proof, but the miraculous sword resisted all their efforts. It stood 
till Candlemas; it stood till Easter, and till Pentecost, when the best 
knights in the kingdom usually assembled for the annual tournament. 

Arthur, who was at that time serving in the capacity of squire to his 
foster-brother, Sir Kay, attended his master to the lists. Sir Kay fought 
with great valor and success, but had the misfortune to break his sword, and 
sent Arthur to his mother for a new one. Arthur hastened home, but did not 
find the lady; but having observed near the church a sword sticking in a 
stone, he galloped to the place, drew out the sword with great ease, and 
delivered it to his master. Sir Kay would willingly have assumed to himself 
the distinction conferred by the possession of the sword; but when, to 
confirm the doubters, the sword was replaced in the stone, he was utterly 
unable to withdraw it, and it would yield a second time to no hand but 
Arthur's. Thus decisively pointed out by Heaven as their king, Arthur was by 
general consent proclaimed such, and an early day appointed for his solemn 
coronation. 

Immediately after his election to the crown, Arthur found himself opposed by 
eleven kings and one duke, who with a vast army were actually encamped in 
the forest of Rockingham. By Merlin's advice Arthur sent an embassy to 
Brittany to solicit aid of King Ban and King Bohort, two of the best knights 
in the world. They accepted the call, and with a powerful army crossed the 
sea, landing at Portsmouth, where they were received with great rejoicing. 
The rebel kings were still superior in numbers; but Merlin by a powerful 
enchantment, caused all their tents to fall down at once, and in the 
confusion Arthur with his allies fell upon them and totally routed them. 
After defeating the rebels, Arthur took the field against the Saxons. As 
they were too strong for him unaided, he sent an embassy to Armorica, 
beseeching the assistance of Hoel, who soon after brought over an army to 
his aid. The two kings joined their forces, and sought the enemy, whom they 
met, and both sides prepared for a decisive engagement. "Arthur himself," as 
Geoffrey of Monmouth relates, "dressed in a breastplate worthy of so great a 
king, places on his head a golden helmet engraved with the semblance of a 
dragon. Over his shoulders he throws his shield called Priwen, on which a 
picture of the Holy Virgin constantly recalled her to his memory. Girt with 
Caliburn, a most excellent sword, and fabricated in the isle of Avalon, he 
graces his right hand with the lance named Ron. This was a long and broad 
spear, well contrived for slaughter." After a severe conflict, Arthur, 
calling on the name of the Virgin, rushes into the midst of his enemies, and 
destroys multitudes of them with the formidable Caliburn, and puts the rest 
to flight. Hoel, being detained by sickness, took no part in this battle. 

This is called the victory of Mount Badon, and, however disguised by fable, 
it is regarded by historians as a real event. 

The feats performed by Arthur at the battle of Badon Mount are thus 
celebrated in Drayton's verse:- 

"They sung how he himself at Badon bore, that day, 
When at the glorious goal his British scepter lay; 
Two dais together how the battle stronglie stood; 
Pendragon's worthie son, who waded there in blood, 
Three hundred Saxons slew with his owne valiant hand." 
Song IV.
MERLIN. 

"-The most famous man of all those times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens; 
The people called him wizard."- TENNYSON.
Now Merlin, of whom we have already heard somewhat and shall hear more, was 
the son of no mortal father, but of an Incubus, one of a class of beings not 
absolutely wicked, but far from good, who inhabit the regions of the air. 
Merlin's mother was a virtuous young woman, who, on the birth of her son, 
intrusted him to a priest, who hurried him to the baptismal fount, and so 
saved him from sharing the lot of his father, though he retained many marks 
of his unearthly origin. 

At this time Vortigern reigned in Britain. He was a usurper, who had caused 
the death of his sovereign, Moines, and driven the two brothers of the late 
king, whose names were Uther and Pendragon, into banishment. Vortigern, who 
lived in constant fear of the return of the rightful heirs of the kingdom, 
began to erect a strong tower for defence. The edifice, when brought by the 
workmen to a certain height, three times fell to the ground, without any 
apparent cause. The king consulted his astrologers on this wonderful event, 
and learned from them that it would be necessary to bathe the cornerstone of 
the foundation with the blood of a child born without a mortal father. 

In search of such an infant, Vortigern sent his messengers all over the 
kingdom, and they by accident discovered Merlin, whose lineage seemed to 
point him out as the individual wanted. They took him to the king; but 
Merlin, young as he was, explained to the king the absurdity of attempting 
to rescue the fabric by such means, for he told him the true cause of the 
instability of the tower was its being placed over the den of two immense 
dragons, whose combats shook the earth above them. The king ordered his 
workmen to dig beneath the tower, and when they had done so they discovered 
two enormous serpents, the one white as milk, the other red as fire. The 
multitude looked on with amazement, till the serpents, slowly rising from 
their den, and expanding their enormous folds, began the combat, when every 
one fled in terror, except Merlin, who stood by clapping his hands and 
cheering on the conflict. The red dragon was slain, and the white one, 
gliding through a cleft in the rock, disappeared. 

These animals typified, as Merlin afterwards explained, the invasion of 
Uther and Pendragon, the rightful princes, who soon after landed with a 
great army. Vortigern was defeated, and afterwards burned alive in the 
castle he had taken such pains to construct. On the death of Vortigern, 
Pendragon ascended the throne. Merlin became his chief adviser, and often 
assisted the king by his magical arts. Among other endowments, he had the 
power to transform himself into any shape he pleased. At one time he 
appeared as a dwarf, at others as a damsel, a page, or even a greyhound or a 
stag. This faculty he often employed for the service of the king, and 
sometimes also for the diversion of the court and the sovereign. 

Merlin continued to be a favorite counsellor through the reigns of 
Pendragon, Uther, and Arthur, and at last disappeared from view, and was no 
more found among men, through the treachery of his mistress, Viviane, the 
Fairy, which happened in this wise. 

Merlin, having become enamored of the fair Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, 
was weak enough to impart to her various important secrets of his art, being 
impelled by a fatal destiny, of which he was at the same time fully aware. 
The lady, however, was not content with his devotion, unbounded as it seems 
to have been, but "cast about," the Romance tells us, how she might "detain 
him for evermore," and one day addressed him in these terms: "Sir, I would 
that we should make a fair place and a suitable, so contrived by art and by 
cunning that it might never be undone, and that you and I should be there in 
joy and solace." "My lady," said Merlin, "I will do all this." "Sir," said 
she, "I would not have you do it, but you shall teach me, and I will do it, 
and then it will be more to my mind." "I grant you this," said Merlin. Then 
he began to devise, and the damsel put it all in writing. And when he had 
devised the whole, then had the damsel full great joy, and showed him 
greater semblance of love than she had ever before made, and they sojourned 
together a long while. At length it fell out that, as they were going one 
day in hand through the forest of Breceliande, they found a bush of white-
thorn, which was laden with flowers; and they seated themselves, under the 
shade of this white-thorn, upon the grass, and Merlin laid his head upon the 
damsel's lap, and fell asleep. Then the damsel rose, and made a ring with 
her wimple round the bush, and round Merlin, and began her enchantments, 
such as he himself had taught her; and nine times she made the ring, and 
nine times she made the enchantment, and then she went and sat down by him, 
and placed his head again upon her lap. 

And when he awoke, and looked round him, it seemed to him that he was 
enclosed in the strongest tower in the world, and laid upon a fair bed. Then 
said he to the dame: "My lady, you have deceived me, unless you abide with 
me, for no one hath power to unmake this tower but you alone." She then 
promised that she would be often there, and in this she held her covenant 
with him. And Merlin never went out of that tower where his Mistress Viviane 
had enclosed him; but she entered and went out again when she listed. 

After this event Merlin was never more known to hold converse with any 
mortal but Viviane, except on one occasion. Arthur, having for some time 
missed him from his court, sent several of his knights in search of him, and 
among the number Sir Gawain, who met with a very unpleasant adventure while 
engaged in this quest. Happening to pass a damsel on his road, and 
neglecting to salute her, she revenged herself for his incivility by 
transforming him into a hideous dwarf. 

He was bewailing aloud his evil fortune as he went through the forest of 
Breceliande, when suddenly he heard the voice of one groaning on his right 
hand; and, looking that way, he could see nothing save a kind of smoke, 
which seemed like air, and through which he could not pass. Merlin then 
addressed him from out the smoke, and told him by what misadventure he was 
imprisoned there. "Ah, sir!" he added, "you will never see me more, and that 
grieves me, but I cannot remedy it; I shall never more speak to you, nor to 
any other person, save only my mistress. But do thou hasten to King Arthur, 
and charge him from me to undertake, without delay, the quest of the Sacred 
Graal. The knight is already born, and has received knighthood at his hands, 
who is destined to accomplish this quest." And after this he comforted 
Gawain under his transformation, assuring him that he should speedily be 
disenchanted; and he predicted to him that he should find the king at 
Carduel, in Wales, on his return, and that all the other knights who had 
been on like quest would arrive there the same day as himself. And all this 
came to pass as Merlin had said. 

Merlin is frequently introduced in the tales of chivalry, but it is chiefly 
on great occasions, and at a period subsequent to his death, or magical 
disappearance. In the romantic poems of Italy, and in Spenser, Merlin is 
chiefly represented as a magical artist. Spenser represents him as the 
artificer of the impenetrable shield and other armor of Prince Arthur (Faery 
Queene, Book I., Canton vii.), and of a mirror, in which a damsel viewed her 
lover's shade. The Fountain of Love, in the Orlando Innamorato, is described 
as his work; and in the poem of Ariosto we are told of a hall adorned with 
prophetic paintings, which demons had executed in a single night, under the 
direction of Merlin. 

The following legend is from Spenser's Faery Queene (Book III., Canto 
iii.):- 

CAER-MERDIN, OR CAERMARTHEN (IN WALES), MERLIN'S TOWER, AND THE IMPRISONED 
FIENDS. 

Forthwith themselves disguising both, in straunge
And base attire, that none might them bewray, 
To Maridunum, that is now by chaunge
Of name Caer-Merdin called, they took their way: 
There the wise Merlin, whylome wont (they say) 
To make his wonne, low underneath the ground
In a deep delve, far from the view of day, 
That of no living wight he mote be found, 
Whenso he counselled with his sprights encompassed round.
And if thou ever happen that same way
To travel, go to see that dreadful place; 
It is a hideous hollow cave (they say) 
Under a rock that lies a little space, 
From the swift Barry, tombling down apace
Amongst the woody hills of Dynevor; 
But dare not thou, I charge, in any case, 
To enter into that same baleful bower, 
For fear the cruel fiends should thee unwares devour.
But standing high aloft, low lay thine ear, 
And there such ghastly noise of iron chains
And brazen cauldrons thou shalt rumbling hear, 
Which thousand sprites with long enduring pains
Do toss, that it will stun thy feeble brains; 
And oftentimes great groans, and grievous stounds, 
When too huge toil and labor them constrains; 
And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sounds
From under that deep rock most horribly rebounds.
The cause some say is this. A little while
Before that Merlin died, he did intend
A brazen wall in compas to compile
About Caermerdin, and did it commend
Unto these sprites to bring to perfect end; 
During which work the Lady of the Lake, 
Whom long he loved, for him in haste did send; 
Who, thereby forced his workmen to forsake, 
Them bound till his return their labor not to slack.
In the meantime, through that false lady's train, 
He was surprised, and buried under beare, (2) 
Ne ever to his work returned again; 
Natheless those fiends may not their work forbear, 
So greatly his commandement they fear; 
But there do toil and travail day and night, 
Until that brazen wall they up do rear. 
For Merlin had in magic more insight
Than ever him before or after living wight.
GUENEVER. 

"Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other child, 
And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
Guenevere, and in her his one delight." 
TENNYSON.
Merlin had planned for Arthur a marriage with the daughter of King Laodegan 
(3) of Carmalide. By his advice Arthur paid a visit to the court of that 
sovereign, attended only by Merlin and by thirty-nine knights whom the 
magician had selected for that service. On their arrival they found Laodegan 
and his peers sitting in council, endeavoring, but with small prospect of 
success, to devise means for resisting the impending attack of Ryence, King 
of Ireland, who, with fifteen tributary kings and an almost innumerable 
army, had nearly surrounded the city. Merlin, who acted as leader of the 
band of British knights, announced them as strangers, who came to offer the 
king their services in his wars; but under the express condition that they 
should be at liberty to conceal their names and quality until they should 
think proper to divulge them. These terms were thought very strange, but 
were thankfully accepted, and the strangers, after taking the usual oath to 
the king, retired to the lodging which Merlin had prepared for them. 

A few days after this, the enemy, regardless of a truce into which they had 
entered with King Laodegan, suddenly issued from their camp and made an 
attempt to surprise the city. Cleodalis, the king's general, assembled the 
royal forces with all possible despatch. Arthur and his companions also flew 
to arms, and Merlin appeared at their head, bearing a standard on which was 
emblazoned a terrific dragon. Merlin advanced to the gate, and commanded the 
porter to open it, which the porter refused to do, without the king's order. 
Merlin thereupon took up the gate, with all its appurtenances of locks, 
bars, and bolts, and directed his troop to pass through, after which he 
replaced it in perfect order. He then set spurs to his horse, and dashed, at 
the head of the little troop, into a body of two thousand Pagans. The 
disparity of numbers being so enormous, Merlin cast a spell upon the enemy, 
so as to prevent their seeing the small number of their assailants; 
notwithstanding which the British knights were hard pressed. But the people 
of the city, who saw from the walls this unequal contest, were ashamed of 
leaving the small body of strangers to their fate, so they opened the gate 
and sallied forth. 

The numbers were now more nearly equal, and Merlin revoked his spell, so 
that the two armies encountered on fair terms. Where Arthur, Ban, Bohort, 
and the rest fought, the king's army had the advantage; but in another part 
of the field the king himself was surrounded and carried off by the enemy. 
This sad sight was seen by Guenever, the fair daughter of the king, who 
stood on the city wall and looked at the battle. She was in dreadful 
distress, tore her hair, and swooned away. 

But Merlin, aware of what passed in every part of the field, suddenly 
collected his knights, led them out of the battle, intercepted the passage 
of the party who were carrying away the king, charged them with irresistible 
impetuosity, cut in pieces or dispersed the whole escort, and rescued the 
king. In the fight Arthur encountered Caulang, a giant fifteen feet high, 
and the fair Guenever, who already began to feel a strong interest in the 
handsome young stranger, trembled for the issue of the contest. But Arthur, 
dealing a dreadful blow on the shoulder of the monster, cut through his neck 
so that his head hung over on one side, and in this condition his horse 
carried him about the field, to the great horror and dismay of the Pagans. 
Guenever could not refrain from expressing aloud her wish that the gentle 
knight, who dealt with giants so dexterously, were destined to become her 
husband, and the wish was echoed by her attendants. The enemy soon turned 
their backs, and fled with precipitation, closely pursued by Laodegan and 
his allies. 

After the battle Arthur was disarmed and conducted to the bath by the 
Princess Guenever, while his friends were attended by the other ladies of 
the court. After the bath the knights were conducted to a magnificent 
entertainment, at which they were diligently served by the same fair 
attendants. Laodegan, more and more anxious to know the name and quality of 
his generous deliverers, and occasionally forming a secret wish that the 
chief of his guests might be captivated by the charms of his daughter, 
appeared silent and pensive, and was scarcely roused from his reverie by the 
banter of his courtiers. 

Arthur, having had an opportunity of explaining to Guenever his great esteem 
for her merit, was in the joy of his heart, and was still further delighted 
by hearing from Merlin the late exploits of Gawain at London, by means of 
which his immediate return to his dominions was rendered unnecessary, and he 
was left at liberty to protract his stay at the court of Laodegan. Every day 
contributed to increase the admiration of the whole court for the gallant 
strangers, and the passion of Guenever for their chief; and when at last 
Merlin announced to the king that the object of the visit of the party was 
to procure a bride for their leader, Laodegan at once presented Guenever to 
Arthur, telling him that, whatever might be his rank, his merit was 
sufficient to entitle him to the possession of the heiress of Carmalide. 
Arthur accepted the lady with the utmost gratitude, and Merlin then 
proceeded to satisfy the king of the rank of his son-in-law; upon which 
Laodegan, with all his barons, hastened to do homage to their lawful 
sovereign, the successor of Uther Pendragon. The fair Guenever was then 
solemnly betrothed to Arthur, and a magnificent festival was proclaimed, 
which lasted seven days. At the end of that time, the enemy appearing again 
with renewed force, it became necessary to resume military operations. (4)

We must now relate what took place at or near London while Arthur was absent 
from his capital. At this very time a band of young heroes were on their way 
to Arthur's court, for the purpose of receiving knighthood from him. They 
were Gawain and his three brothers, nephews of Arthur, sons of King Lot, and 
Galachin, another nephew, son of King Nanters. King Lot had been one of the 
rebel chiefs whom Arthur had defeated, but he now hoped by means of the 
young men to be reconciled to his brother-in-law. He equipped his sons and 
his nephew with the utmost magnificence, giving them a splendid retinue of 
young men, sons of earls and barons, all mounted on the best horses, with 
complete suits of choice armor. They numbered in all seven hundred, but only 
nine had yet received the order of knighthood; the rest were candidates for 
that honor, and anxious to earn it by an early encounter with the enemy. 
Gawain, the leader, was a knight of wonderful strength; but what was most 
remarkable about him was that his strength was greater at certain hours of 
the day than at others. From nine o'clock till noon his strength was 
doubled, and so it was from three to even-song; for the rest of the time it 
was less remarkable, though at all times surpassing that of ordinary men. 

After a march of three days they arrived in the vicinity of London, where 
they expected to find Arthur and his court; and very unexpectedly fell in 
with a large convoy belonging to the enemy, consisting of numerous carts and 
wagons, all loaded with provisions, and escorted by three thousand men, who 
had been collecting spoil from all the country round. A single charge from 
Gawain's impetuous cavalry was sufficient to disperse the escort and to 
recover the convoy, which was instantly despatched to London. But before 
long a body of seven thousand fresh soldiers advanced to the attack of the 
five princes and their little army. Gawain, singling out a chief named 
Choas, of gigantic size, began the battle by splitting him from the crown of 
the head to the breast. Galachin encountered King Sanagran, who was also 
very huge, and cut off his head. Agrivain and Gahariet also performed 
prodigies of valor. Thus they kept the great army of assailants at bay, 
though hard pressed, till of a sudden they perceived a strong body of the 
citizens advancing from London, where the convoy which had been recovered by 
Gawain had arrived, and informed the mayor and citizens of the danger of 
their deliverer. 

The arrival of the Londoners soon decided the contest. The enemy fled in all 
directions, and Gawain and his friends, escorted by the grateful citizens, 
entered London, and were received with acclamations. 

After the great victory of Mount Badon, by which the Saxons were for the 
time effectually put down, Arthur turned his arms against the Scots and 
Picts, whom he routed at Lake Lomond, and compelled to sue for mercy. He 
then went to York to keep his Christmas, and employed himself in restoring 
the Christian churches which the Pagans had rifled and overthrown. The 
following summer he conquered Ireland, and then made a voyage with his fleet 
to Iceland, which he also subdued. The kings of Gothland and of the Orkneys 
came voluntarily and made their submission, promising to pay tribute. Then 
he returned to Britain, where, having established the kingdom, he dwelt 
twelve years in peace. 

During this time, he invited over to him all persons whatsoever that were 
famous for valor in foreign nations, and augmented the number of his 
domestics, and introduced such politeness into his court as people of the 
remotest countries thought worthy of their imitation. So that there was not 
a nobleman who thought himself of any consideration unless his clothes and 
arms were made in the same fashion as those of Arthur's knights. 

Finding himself so powerful at home, Arthur began to form designs for 
extending his power abroad. So, having prepared his fleet, he first 
attempted Norway, that he might procure the crown of it for Lot, his 
sister's husband. Arthur landed in Norway, fought a great battle with the 
king of that country, defeated him, and pursued the victory till he had 
reduced the whole country under his dominion, and established Lot upon the 
throne. Then Arthur made a voyage to Gaul and laid siege to the city of 
Paris. Gaul was at that time a Roman province, and governed by Flollo, the 
Tribune. When the siege of Paris had continued a month, and the people began 
to suffer from famine, Flollo challenged Arthur to single combat, proposing 
to decide the conquest in that way. Arthur gladly accepted the challenge, 
and slew his adversary in the contest, upon which the citizens surrendered 
the city to him. After the victory Arthur divided his army into two parts, 
one of which he committed to the conduct of Hoel, whom he ordered to march 
into Aquitaine, while he with the other part should endeavor to subdue the 
other provinces. At the end of nine years, in which time all the parts of 
Gaul were entirely reduced, Arthur returned to Paris, where he kept his 
court, and calling an assembly of the clergy and people, established peace 
and the just administration of the laws in that kingdom. Then he bestowed 
Normandy upon Bedver, his butler, and the province of Andegavia upon Kay, 
his steward,(5) and several others upon his great men that attended him. 
And, having settled the peace of the cities and countries, he returned back 
in the beginning of spring to Britain. 

Upon the approach of the feast of Pentecost, Arthur, the better to 
demonstrate his joy after such triumphant successes, and for the more solemn 
observation of that festival, and reconciling the minds of the princes that 
were now subject to him, resolved during that season to hold a magnificent 
court, to place the crown upon his head, and to invite all the kings and 
dukes under his subjection to the solemnity. And he pitched upon Caerleon, 
the City of Legions, as the proper place for his purpose. For, besides its 
great wealth above the other cities,* its situation upon the river Usk, near 
the Severn sea, was most pleasant and fit for so great a solemnity. For on 
one side it was washed by that noble river, so that the kings and princes 
from the countries beyond the seas might have the convenience of sailing up 
to it. On the other side the beauty of the meadows and groves, and 
magnificence of the royal palaces, with lofty gilded roofs that adorned it, 
made it even rival the grandeur of Rome. It was also famous for two 
churches, whereof one was adorned with a choir of virgins, who devoted 
themselves wholly to the service of God, and the other maintained a convent 
of priests. Besides, there was a college of two hundred philosophers, who, 
being learned in astronomy and the other arts, were diligent in observing 
the courses of the stars, and gave Arthur true predictions of the events 
that would happen. In this place, therefore, which afforded such delights, 
were preparations made for the ensuing festival. 

Several cities are allotted to King Arthur by the romance-writers. The 
principal are Caerleon, Camelot, and Carlisle. Caerleon derives its name 
from its having been the station of one of the legions during the dominion 
of the Romans. It is called by Latin writers Urbs Legionum, the City of 
Legions,- the former word being rendered into Welsh by Caer, meaning city, 
and the latter contracted into lleon. The river Usk retains its name in 
modern geography, and there is a town or city of Caerleon upon it, though 
the city of Cardiff is thought to be the scene of Arthur's court. Chester 
also bears the Welsh name of Caerleon; for Chester, derived from castra, 
Latin for camp, is the designation of military headquarters. 

Camelot is thought to be Winchester. 

Shalott is Guildford. 

Hamo's Port is Southampton. 

Carlisle is the city still retaining that name, near the Scottish border. 
But this name is also sometimes applied to other places, which were, like 
itself, military stations. 

Ambassadors were then sent into several kingdoms, to invite to court the 
princes both of Gaul and of the adjacent islands. Accordingly there came 
Augusel, king of Albania, now Scotland, Cadwallo, king of Venedotia, now 
North Wales, Sater, king of Demetia, now South Wales; also the archbishops 
of the metropolitan sees, London and York, and Dubricius, bishop of 
Caerleon, the City of Legions. This prelate, who was primate of Britain, was 
so eminent for his piety that he could cure any sick person by his prayers. 
There were also the counts of the principal cities, and many other worthies 
of no less dignity. 

From the adjacent islands came Guillamurius, king of Ireland, Gunfasius, 
king of the Orkneys, Malvasius, king of Iceland, Lot, king of Norway, Bedver 
the butler, Duke of Normandy, Kay the sewer, Duke of Andegavia; also the 
twelve peers of Gaul, and Hoel, Duke of the Armorican Britons, with his 
nobility, who came with such a train of mules, horses, and rich furniture, 
as is difficult to describe. Besides these, there remained no prince of any 
consideration on this side of Spain who came not upon this invitation, and 
no wonder, when Arthur's munificence, which was celebrated over the whole 
world, made him beloved by all people. 

When all were assembled, upon the day of the solemnity, the archbishops were 
conducted to the palace in order to place the crown upon the king's head. 
Then Dubricius, inasmuch as the court was held in his diocese, made himself 
ready to celebrate the office. As soon as the king was invested with his 
royal habiliments, he was conducted in great pomp to the metropolitan 
church, having four kings, viz., of Albania, Cornwall, Demetia, and 
Venedotia, bearing four golden swords before him. On another part was the 
queen, dressed out in her richest ornaments, conducted by the archbishops 
and bishops to the Church of Virgins; the four queens, also, of the kings 
last mentioned, bearing before her four white doves, according to ancient 
custom. When the whole procession was ended, so transporting was the harmony 
of the musical instruments and voices, whereof there was a vast variety in 
both churches, that the knights who attended were in doubt which to prefer, 
and therefore crowded from one to the other by turns, and were far from 
being tired of the solemnity, though the whole day had been spent in it. At 
last, when divine service was over at both churches, the king and queen put 
off their crowns, and, putting on their lighter ornaments, went to the 
banquet. When they had all taken their seats according to precedence, Kay 
the sewer, in rich robes of ermine, with a thousand young noblemen all in 
like manner clothed in rich attire, served up the dishes. From another part 
Bedver the butler was followed by the same number of attendants, who waited 
with all kinds of cups and drinking-vessels. And there was food and drink in 
abundance, and everything was of the best kind, and served in the best 
manner. For at that time Britain had arrived at such a pitch of grandeur 
that in riches, luxury, and politeness it far surpassed all other kingdoms. 

As soon as the banquets were over they went into the fields without the 
city, to divert themselves with various sports, such as shooting with bows 
and arrows, tossing the pike, casting of heavy stones and rocks, playing at 
dice, and the like, and all these inoffensively, and without quarrelling. In 
this manner were three days spent, and after that they separated, and the 
kings and noblemen departed to their several homes. 

After this Arthur reigned five years in peace. Then came ambassadors from 
Lucius Tiberius, Procurator under Leo, Emperor of Rome, demanding tribute. 
But Arthur refused to pay tribute, and prepared for war. As soon as the 
necessary dispositions were made, he committed the government of his kingdom 
to his nephew Modred and to Queen Guenever, and marched with his army to 
Hamo's Port, where the wind stood fair for him. The army crossed over in 
safety, and landed at the mouth of the river Barba. And there they pitched 
their tents to wait the arrival of the kings of the islands. 

As soon as all the forces were arrived, Arthur marched forward to 
Augustodunum, and encamped on the banks of the river Alba. Here repeated 
battles were fought, in all which the Britons, under their valiant leaders, 
Hoel, Duke of Armorica, and Gawain, nephew to Arthur, had the advantage. At 
length Lucius Tiberius determined to retreat, and wait for the Emperor Leo 
to join him with fresh troops. But Arthur, anticipating this event, took 
possession of a certain valley, and closed up the way of retreat to Lucius, 
compelling him to fight a decisive battle, in which Arthur lost some of the 
bravest of his knights and most faithful followers. But on the other hand 
Lucius Tiberius was slain, and his army totally defeated. The fugitives 
dispersed over the country, some to the by-ways and woods, some to the 
cities and towns, and all other places where they could hope for safety. 

Arthur stayed in those parts till the next winter was over, and employed his 
time in restoring order and settling the government. He then returned into 
England, and celebrated his victories with great splendor. 

Then the king established all his knights, and to them that were not rich he 
gave lands, and charged them all never to do outrage nor murder, and always 
to flee treason; also, by no means to be cruel, but to give mercy unto him 
that asked mercy, upon pain of forfeiture of their worship and lordship; and 
always to do ladies, damosels, and gentlewomen service, upon pain of death. 
Also that no man take battle in a wrongful quarrel, for no law, nor for any 
world's goods. Unto this were all the knights sworn of the Table Round, both 
old and young. And at every year were they sworn at the high feast of 
Pentecost. 

KING ARTHUR SLAYS THE GIANT OF ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT 

While the army was encamped in Brittany, awaiting the arrival of the kings, 
there came a countryman to Arthur, and told him that a giant, whose cave was 
in a neighboring mountain, called St. Michael's Mount, had for a long time 
been accustomed to carry off the children of the peasants, to devour them. 
"And now he hath taken the Duchess of Brittany, as she rode with her 
attendants, and hath carried her away in spite of all they could do." "Now, 
fellow," said King Arthur, "canst thou bring me there where this giant 
haunteth?" "Yea, sure," said the good man; "lo, yonder where thou seest two 
great fires, there shalt thou find him, and more treasure than I suppose is 
in all France beside." Then the king called to him Sir Bedver and Sir Kay, 
and commanded them to make ready horse and harness for himself and them; for 
after evening he would ride on pilgrimage to St. Michael's Mount. 

So they three departed, and rode forth till they came to the foot of the 
mount. And there the king commanded them to tarry, for he would himself go 
up into that mount. So he ascended the hill till he came to a great fire, 
and there he found an aged woman sitting by a new-made grave, making great 
sorrow. Then King Arthur saluted her, and demanded of her wherefore she made 
such lamentation; to whom she answered: "Sir Knight, speak low, for yonder 
is a devil, and if he hear thee speak he will come and destroy thee. For ye 
cannot make resistance to him, he is so fierce and so strong. He hath 
murdered the Duchess, which here lieth, who was the fairest of all the 
world, wife to Sir Hoel, Duke of Brittany." "Dame," said the king, "I come 
from the noble conqueror, King Arthur, to treat with that tyrant." "Fie on 
such treaties," said she; "he setteth not by the king, nor by no man else." 
"Well," said Arthur, "I will accomplish my message for all your fearful 
words." So he went forth by the crest of the hill, and saw where the giant 
sat at supper, gnawing on the limb of a man, and baking his broad limbs at 
the fire, and three fair damsels lying bound, whose lot it was to be 
devoured in their turn. When King Arthur beheld that he had great compassion 
on them, so that his heart bled for sorrow. 

Then he hailed the giant, saying, "He that all the world ruleth give thee 
short life and shameful death. Why hast thou murdered this Duchess? 
Therefore come forth, thou caitiff, for this day thou shalt die by my hand." 
Then the giant started up, and took a great club, and smote at the king, and 
smote off his coronal; and then the king struck him in the belly with his 
sword, and made a fearful wound. Then the giant threw away his club, and 
caught the king in his arms, so that he crushed his ribs. Then the three 
maidens kneeled down and prayed for help and comfort for Arthur. And Arthur 
weltered and wrenched, so that he was one while under, and another time 
above. And so weltering and wallowing they rolled down the hill, and ever as 
they weltered Arthur smote him with his dagger; and it fortuned they came to 
the place where the two knights were. And when they saw the king fast in the 
giant's arms they came and loosed him. Then the king commanded Sir Kay to 
smite off the giant's head, and to set it on the truncheon of a spear, and 
fix it on the barbican, that all the people might see and behold it. This 
was done, and anon it was known through all the country, wherefor the people 
came and thanked the king. And he said, "Give your thanks to God; and take 
ye the giant's spoil and divide it among you." And King Arthur caused a 
church to be builded on that hill, in honor of St. Michael. 

KING ARTHUR GETS A SWORD FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 

One day King Arthur rode forth, and on a sudden he was ware of three churls 
chasing Merlin to have slain him. And the king rode unto them and bade them, 
"Flee, churls!" Then were they afraid when they saw a knight, and fled. "O 
Merlin," said Arthur, "here hadst thou been slain, for all thy crafts, had I 
not been by." "Nay," said Merlin, "not so, for I could save myself if I 
would; but thou art more near thy death than I am." So, as they went thus 
walking, King Arthur perceived where sat a knight on horseback, as if to 
guard the pass. "Sir knight," said Arthur, "for what cause abidest thou 
here?" Then the knight said, "There may no knight ride this way unless he 
joust with me, for such is the custom of the pass." "I will amend that 
custom," said the king. Then they ran together, and they met so hard that 
their spears were shivered. Then they drew their swords and fought a strong 
battle, with many great strokes. But at length the sword of the knight smote 
King Arthur's sword in two pieces. Then said the knight unto Arthur, "Thou 
art in my power, whether to save thee or slay thee, and unless thou yield 
thee as overcome and recreant thou shalt die." "As for death," said King 
Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh; but to yield me unto thee as recreant 
I will not." Then he leapt upon the knight, and took him by the middle and 
threw him down; but the knight was a passing strong man, and anon he brought 
Arthur under him, and would have razed off his helm to slay him. 

Then said Merlin, "Knight, hold thy hand, for this knight is a man of more 
worship than thou art aware of." "Why, who is he?" said the knight. "It is 
King Arthur." Then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, and 
lifted up his sword to slay him; and therewith Merlin cast an enchantment on 
the knight, so that he fell to the earth in a great sleep. Then Merlin took 
up King Arthur and set him on his horse. 

"Alas!" said Arthur, "what hast thou done, Merlin? hast thou slain this good 
knight by thy crafts?" "Care ye not," said Merlin; "he is wholer than ye be. 
He is only asleep, and will wake in three hours." Right so the king and he 
departed, and went unto an hermit that was a good man and a great leech. So 
the hermit searched all his wounds and gave him good salves; so the king was 
there three days, and then were his wounds well amended that he might ride 
and go, and so departed. And as they rode Arthur said, "I have no sword." 
"No force," said Merlin; "hereby is a sword that shall be yours." So they 
rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water and broad, and in 
the midst of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed in white samite, 
that held a fair sword in that hand. "So," said Merlin, "yonder is that 
sword that I spake of." With that they saw a damsel going upon the lake. 
"What damsel is that?" said Arthur. "That is the Lady of the Lake," said 
Merlin; "and within that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a place as 
any on earth, and richly beseen, and this damsel will come to you anon, and 
then speak ye fair to her and she will give thee that sword." Anon withal 
came the damsel unto Arthur and saluted him, and he her again. "Damsel," 
said Arthur, "what sword is that that yonder the arm holdeth above the 
waves? I would it were mine, for I have no sword." "Sir Arthur king," said 
the damsel, "that sword is mine, and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it 
you ye shall have it." "By my faith," said Arthur, "I will give ye what gift 
ye shall ask." "Well," said the damsel, "go you into yonder barge and row 
yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, and I will ask 
my gift when I see my time." So Arthur and Merlin alighted, and tied their 
horses to two trees, and so they went into the ship, and when they came to 
the sword that the hand held, Arthur took it by the handles, and took it 
with him. And the arm and the hand went under the water. 

Then they returned unto the land and rode forth. And Sir Arthur looked on 
the sword and liked it right well. 

So they rode unto Caerleon, whereof his knights were passing glad. And when 
they heard of his adventures they marvelled that he jeopard his person so 
alone. But all men of worship said it was a fine thing to be under such a 
chieftain as would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did. 

 

Glastonbury Abbey, said to be founded by Joseph of Arimathea, in a spot 
anciently called the island or valley of Avalonia.
(2) Buried under beare. Buried under something which enclosed him like a 
coffin or bier. 

(3) The spelling of these proper names is very often only a matter of taste. 
I think, however, Leodogran and Guenevere are less common than Laodegan and 
Guenever. 

(4) Guenever, the name of Arthur's queen, also written Genievre and 
Geneuras, is familiar to all who are conversant with chivalric lore. It is 
to her adventures, and those of her true knight, Sir Launcelot, that Dante 
alludes in the beautiful episode of Francesca da Rimini. 

(5) This name, in the French romances, is spelled Queux, which means head 
cook. This would seem to imply that it was a title, and not a name; yet the 
personage who bore it is never mentioned by any other. He is the chief, if 
not the only, comic character among the heroes of Arthur's court. He is the 
Seneschal or Steward, his duties also embracing those of chief of the cooks. 
In the romances his general character is a compound of valor and buffoonery, 
always ready to fight, and generally getting the worst of the battle. He is 
also sarcastic and abusive in his remarks, by which he often gets into 
trouble. Yet Arthur seems to have an attachment to him, and often takes his 
advice, which is generally wrong. 

 

CHAPTER IV. CARADOC BRIEFBRAS; OR CARADOC WITH THE SHRUNKEN ARM. 

CARADOC was the son of Ysenne, the beautiful niece of Arthur. He was 
ignorant who his father was, till it was discovered in the following manner: 
When the youth was of proper years to receive the honors of knighthood, King 
Arthur held a grand court for the purpose of knighting him. On this occasion 
a strange knight presented himself, and challenged the knights of Arthur's 
court to exchange blow for blow with him. His proposal was this,- to lay his 
neck on a block for any knight to strike, on condition that, if he survived 
the blow, the knight should submit in turn to the same experiment. Sir Kay, 
who was usually ready to accept all challenges, pronounced this wholly 
unreasonable, and declared that he would not accept it for all the wealth in 
the world. And when the knight offered his sword, with which the operation 
was to be performed, no person ventured to accept it, till Caradoc, growing 
angry at the disgrace which was thus incurred by the Round Table, threw 
aside his mantle and took it. "Do you do this as one of the best knights?" 
said the stranger. "No," he replied, "but as one of the most foolish." The 
stranger lays his head upon the block, receives a blow which sends it 
rolling from his shoulders, walks after it, picks it up, replaces it with 
great success, and says he will return when the court shall be assembled 
next year, and claim his turn. When the anniversary arrived both parties 
were punctual to their engagement. Great entreaties were used by the king 
and queen, and the whole court, in behalf of Caradoc, but the stranger was 
inflexible. The young knight laid his head upon the block, and more than 
once desired him to make an end of the business, and not keep him longer in 
so disagreeable a state of expectation. At last the stranger strikes him 
gently. with the side of the sword, bids him rise, and reveals to him the 
fact that he is his father, the enchanter Eliaures, and that he gladly owns 
him for a son, having proved his courage, and fidelity to his word. 

But the favor of enchanters is short-lived and uncertain. Eliaures fell 
under the influence of a wicked woman, who, to satisfy her pique against 
Caradoc, persuaded the enchanter to fasten on his arm a serpent, which 
remained there sucking at his flesh and blood, no human skill sufficing 
either to remove the reptile or alleviate the torments which Caradoc 
endured. 

Caradoc was betrothed to Guimier, sister to his bosom friend Cador, and 
daughter to the king of Cornwall. As soon as they were informed of his 
deplorable condition, they set out for Nantes, where Caradoc's castle was, 
that Guimier might attend upon him. When Caradoc heard of their coming his 
first emotion was that of joy and love. 

But soon he began to fear that the sight of his emaciated form and of his 
sufferings would disgust Guimier; and this apprehension became so strong 
that he departed secretly from Nantes, and hid himself in a hermitage. He 
was sought far and near by the knights of Arthur's court, and Cador made a 
vow never to desist from the quest till he should have found him. After long 
wandering, Cador discovered his friend in the hermitage, reduced almost to a 
skeleton, and apparently near his death. All other means of relief having 
already been tried in vain, Cador at last prevailed on the enchanter 
Eliaures to disclose the only method which could avail for his rescue. A 
maiden must be found, his equal in birth and beauty, and loving him better 
than herself, so that she would expose herself to the same torment to 
deliver him. Two vessels were then to be provided, the one filled with sour 
wine and the other with milk. Caradoc must enter the first, so that the wine 
should reach his neck, and the maiden must get into the other, and, exposing 
her bosom upon the edge of the vessel, invite the serpent to forsake the 
withered flesh of his victim for this fresh and inviting food. The vessels 
were to be placed three feet apart, and as the serpent crossed from one to 
the other a knight was to cut him in two. If he failed in his blow, Caradoc, 
would indeed be delivered, but it would only be to see his fair champion 
suffering the same cruel and hopeless torment. The sequel may be easily 
foreseen. Guimier willingly exposed herself to the perilous adventure, and 
Cador, with a lucky blow, killed the serpent. The arm, in which Caradoc had 
suffered so long, recovered its strength, but not its shape, in consequence 
of which he was called Caradoc Briefbras, Caradoc of the Shrunken Arm. 

Caradoc and Guimier are the hero and heroine of the ballad of the Boy and 
the Mantle, which follows. 

THE BOY AND THE MANTLE. 

In Carlisle dwelt King Arthur, 
A prince of passing might, 
And there maintained his Table
Beset with many a knight.

And there he kept his Christmas, 
With mirth and princely cheer, 
When lo! a strange and cunning boy
Before him did appear.

A kirtle and a mantle
This boy had him upon, 
With brooches, rings, and ouches, 
Full daintily bedone.

He had a sash of silk. 
About his middle meet; 
And thus with seemly curtesie
He did King Arthur greet:

"God speed thee, brave King Arthur, 
Thus feasting in thy bower, 
And Guenever, thy goodly queen, 
That fair and peerless flower.

"Ye gallant lords and lordlings, 
I wish you all take heed, 
Lest what ye deem a blooming rose
Should prove a cankered weed."

Then straightway from his bosom
A little wand he drew; 
And with it eke a mantle, 
Of wondrous shape and hue.

"Now have thou here, King Arthur, 
Have this here of me, 
And give unto thy comely queen, 
All shapen as you see.

"No wife it shall become, 
That once hath been to blame." 
Then every knight in Arthur's court
Sly glanced at his dame.

And first came Lady Guenever, 
The mantle she must try. 
This dame she was new-fangled (1)
And of a roving eye.

When she had taken the mantle, 
And all with it was clad, 
From top to toe it shivered down, 
As though with shears beshred.

One while it was too long, 
Another while too short, 
And wrinkled on the shoulders, 
In most unseemly sort.

Now green, now red it seemed, 
Then all of sable hue; 
"Beshrew me," quoth King Arthur, 
"I think thou be'st not true!"

Down she threw the mantle, 
No longer would she stay; 
But, storming like a fury, 
To her chamber flung away.

She cursed the rascal weaver, 
That had the mantle wrought; 
And doubly cursed the froward imp
Who thither had it brought.

"I had rather live in deserts, 
Beneath the greenwood tree, 
Than here, base king, among thy grooms, 
The sport of them and thee."

Sir Kay called forth his lady, 
And bade her to come near: 
"Yet, dame, if thou be guilty, 
I pray thee now forbear."

This lady, pertly giggling, 
With forward step came on, 
And boldly to the little boy
With fearless face is gone.

When she had taken the mantle, 
With purpose for to wear, 
It shrunk up to her shoulder, 
And left her back all bare.

Then every merry knight, 
That was in Arthur's court, 
Gibed and laughed and flouted, 
To see that pleasant sport.

Down she threw the mantle, 
No longer bold or gay, 
But, with a face all pale and wan, 
To her chamber slunk away.

Then forth came an old knight
A-pattering o'er his creed, 
And proffered to the little boy
Five nobles to his meed:

"And all the time of Christmas
Plum-porridge shall be thine, 
If thou wilt let my lady fair
Within the mantle shine."

A saint his lady seemed, 
With step demure and slow, 
And gravely to the mantle
With mincing face doth go.

When she the same had taken
That was so fine and thin, 
It shrivelled all about her, 
And showed her dainty skin.

Ah! little did her mincing, 
Or his long prayers bestead; 
She had no more hung on her
Than a tassel and a thread.

Down she threw the mantle, 
With terror and dismay, 
And with a face of scarlet
To her chamber hied away.

Sir Cradock called his lady, 
And bade her to come near; 
"Come win this mantle, lady, 
And do me credit here:

"Come win this mantle, lady, 
For now it shall be thine, 
If thou hast never done amiss, 
Since first I made thee mine."

The lady, gently blushing, 
With modest grace came on; 
And now to try the wondrous charm
Courageously is gone.

When she had taken the mantle, 
And put it on her back, 
About the hem it seemed
To wrinkle and to crack.

"Lie still," she cried, "O mantle! 
And shame me not for naught; 
I'll freely own whate'er amiss
Or blameful I have wrought.

"Once I kissed Sir Cradock
Beneath the greenwood tree; 
Once I kissed Sir Cradock's mouth, 
Before he married me."

When she had thus her shriven, 
And her worst fault had told, 
The mantle soon became her, 
Right comely as it should.

Most rich and fair of color, 
Like gold it glittering shone, 
And much the knights in Arthur's court
Admired her every one.

The ballad goes on to tell of two more trials of a similar kind, made by 
means of a boar's head and a drinking-horn, in both of which the result was 
equally favorable with the first to Sir Cradock and his lady. It then 
concludes as follows:- 

Thus boar's head, horn, and mantle
Were this fair couple's meed; 
And all such constant lovers, 
God send them well to speed. 
Percy's Reliques. 

 

(1) New-fangled,- fond of novelty.

 

CHAPTER V. SIR GAWAIN. 

SIR GAWAIN was nephew to King Arthur, by his sister Morgana, married to Lot, 
king of Orkney, who was by Arthur made king of Norway. Sir Gawain was one of 
the most famous knights of the Round Table, and is characterized by the 
romancers as the sage and courteous Gawain. To this Chaucer alludes in his 
"Squiere's Tale," which the strange knight "saluteth" all the court- 

"With so high reverence and observance, 
As well in speeche as in countenance, 
That Gawain, with his olde curtesie, 
Though he were come agen out of faerie, 
Ne coude him not amenden with a word."
Gawain's brothers were Agravain, Gaharet, and Gareth. 

SIR GAWAIN'S MARRIAGE. 

Once upon a time King Arthur held his court in merry Carlisle, when a damsel 
came before him and craved a boon. It was for vengeance upon a caitiff 
knight, who had made her lover captive and despoiled her of her lands. King 
Arthur commanded to bring him his sword, Excalibar, and to saddle his steed, 
and rode forth without delay to right the lady's wrong. Ere long he reached 
the castle of the grim baron, and challenged him to the conflict. But the 
castle stood on magic ground, and the spell was such that no knight could 
tread thereon but straight his courage fell and his strength decayed. King 
Arthur felt the charm, and before a blow was struck his sturdy limbs lost 
their strength, and his head grew faint. He was fain to yield himself 
prisoner to the churlish knight, who refused to release him except upon 
condition that he should return at the end of a year, and bring a true 
answer to the question, "What thing is it which women most desire?" or in 
default thereof surrender himself and his lands. King Arthur accepted the 
terms, and gave his oath to return at the time appointed. During the year 
the king rode east, and he rode west, and inquired of all whom he met what 
thing it is which all women most desire. Some told him riches; some pomp and 
state; some mirth; some flattery; and some a gallant knight. But in the 
diversity of answers he could find no sure dependence. The year was well 
nigh spent when, one day, as he rode thoughtfully through a forest, he saw 
sitting beneath a tree a lady of such hideous aspect that he turned away his 
eyes, and when she greeted him in seemly sort made no answer. "What wight 
art thou," the lady said, "that will not speak to me? It may chance that I 
may resolve thy doubts, though I be not fair of aspect." "If thou wilt do 
so," said King Arthur, "choose what reward thou wilt, thou grim lady, and it 
shall be given thee." "Swear me this upon thy faith," she said, and Arthur 
swore it. Then the lady told him the secret, and demanded her reward, which 
was that the king should find some fair and courtly knight to be her 
husband. 

King Arthur hastened to the grim baron's castle and told him one by one all 
the answers which he had received from his various advisers, except the 
last, and not one was admitted as the true one. "Now yield thee, Arthur," 
the giant said, "for thou hast not paid thy ransom, and thou and thy lands 
are forfeited to me." Then King Arthur said:- 

"Yet hold thy hand, thou proud baron, 
I pray thee hold thy hand. 
And give me leave to speak once more, 
In rescue of my land. 
This morn, as I came over a moor, 
I saw a lady set, 
Between an oak and a green holly, 
All clad in red scarlet. 
She says all women would have their will, 
This is their chief desire; 
Now yield, as thou art a baron true, 
That I have paid my hire."
"It was my sister that told thee this," the churlish baron exclaimed. 
"Vengeance light on her! I will some time or other do her as ill a turn." 

King Arthur rode homeward, but not light of heart; for he remembered the 
promise he was under to the loathly lady to give her one of his young and 
gallant knights for a husband. He told his grief to Sir Gawain, his nephew, 
and he replied, "Be not sad, my lord, for I will marry the loathly lady." 
King Arthur replied:- 

"Now nay, now nay, good Sir Gawaine, 
My sister's son ye be; 
The loathly lady's all too grim, 
And all too foule for thee."
But Gawain persisted, and the king at last, with sorrow of heart, consented 
that Gawain should be his ransom. So, one day, the king and his knights rode 
to the forest, met the loathly lady, and brought her to the court. Sir 
Gawain stood the scoffs and jeers of his companions as he best might, and 
the marriage was solemnized, but not with the usual festivities, Chaucer 
tells us:- 

"There was no joye, ne feste at alle; 
There n'as but hevinesse and mochel sorwe, 
For prively he wed her on the morwe, 
And all day after hid him as an owle, 
So wo was him his wife loked so foule!"(1)
When night came, and they were alone together, Sir Gawain could not conceal 
his aversion; and the lady asked him why he sighed so heavily, and turned 
away his face. He candidly confessed it was on account of three things, her 
age, her ugliness, and her low degree. 

The lady, not at all offended, replied with excellent arguments to all his 
objections. She showed him that with age is discretion, with ugliness 
security from rivals, and that all true gentility depends, not upon the 
accident of birth, but upon the character of the individual. 

Sir Gawain made no reply; but, turning his eyes on his bride, what was his 
amazement to perceive that she wore no longer the unseemly aspect that had 
so distressed him. She then told him that the form she had worn was not her 
true form, but a disguise imposed upon her by a wicked enchanter, and that 
she was condemned to wear it until two things should happen; one, that she 
should obtain some young and gallant knight to be her husband. This having 
been done, one half of the charm was removed. She was now at liberty to wear 
her true form for half the time, and she bade him choose whether he would 
have her fair by day and ugly by night, or the reverse. Sir Gawain would 
fain have had her look, her best by night, when he alone should see her, and 
show her repulsive visage, if at all, to others. But she reminded him how 
much more pleasant it would be to her to wear her best looks in the throng 
of knights and ladies by day. Sir Gawain yielded, and gave up his will to 
hers. This alone was wanting to dissolve the charm. The lovely lady now with 
joy assured him that she should change no more; but as she now was so would 
she remain by night as well as by day. 

"Sweet blushes stayned her rud-red cheek, 
Her eyen were black as sloe, 
The ripening cherrye swelled her lippe, 
And all her neck was snow. 
Sir Gawain kist that ladye faire
Lying upon the sheete, 
And swore, as he was a true knight, 
The spice was never so swete."
The dissolution of the charm which had held the lady also released her 
brother, the "grim baron," for he too had been implicated in it. He ceased 
to be a churlish oppressor, and became a gallant and generous knight as any 
at Arthur's court. 

 

(1) N'as is not was, contracted; in modern phrase, there was not. Mockel 
sorwe is much sorrow: morwe is morrow. 

 

CHAPTER VI. LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE. 

KING BAN, of Brittany, the faithful ally of Arthur, was attacked by his 
enemy Claudas, and, after a long war, saw himself reduced to the possession 
of a single fortress, where he was besieged by his enemy. In this extremity 
he determined to solicit the assistance of Arthur, and escaped in a dark 
night, with his wife Helen and his infant son Launcelot, leaving his castle 
in the hands of his seneschal, who immediately surrendered the place to 
Claudas. The flames of his burning citadel reached the eyes of the 
unfortunate monarch during his flight, and he expired with grief. The 
wretched Helen, leaving her child on the brink of a lake, flew to receive 
the last sighs of her husband, and on returning perceived the little 
Launcelot in the arms of a nymph, who, on the approach of the queen, threw 
herself into the lake with the child. This nymph was Viviane, mistress of 
the enchanter Merlin, better known by the name of the Lady of the Lake. 
Launcelot received his appellation from having been educated at the court of 
this enchantress, whose palace was situated in the midst, not of a real, 
but, like the appearance which deceives the African traveller, of an 
imaginary lake, whose deluding resemblance served as a barrier to her 
residence. Here she dwelt not alone, but in the midst of a numerous retinue, 
and a splendid court of knights and damsels. 

The queen, after her double loss, retired to a convent, where she was joined 
by the widow of Bohort, for this good king had died of grief on hearing of 
the death of his brother Ban. His two sons, Lionel and Bohort, were rescued 
by a faithful knight, and arrived in the shape of greyhounds at the palace 
of the lake, where, having resumed their natural form, they were educated 
along with their cousin Launcelot. 

The fairy, when her pupil had attained the age of eighteen, conveyed him to 
the court of Arthur, for the purpose of demanding his admission to the honor 
of knighthood; and at the first appearance of the youthful candidate the 
graces of his person, which were not inferior to his courage and skill in 
arms, made an instantaneous and indelible impression on the heart of 
Guenever, while her charms inspired him with an equally ardent and constant 
passion. The mutual attachment of these lovers exerted, from that time 
forth, an influence over the whole history of Arthur. For the sake of 
Guenever Launcelot achieved the conquest of Northumberland, defeated 
Gallehaut, King of the Marches, who afterwards become his most faithful 
friend and ally, exposed himself in numberless encounters, and brought hosts 
of prisoners to the feet of his sovereign. 

After King Arthur was come from Rome into England all the knights of the 
Table Round resorted unto him, and made him many jousts and tournaments. And 
in especial Sir Launcelot of the Lake, in all tournaments and jousts and 
deeds of arms, both for life and death, passed all other knights, and was 
never overcome, except it were by treason or enchantment; and he increased 
marvellously in worship, wherefore Queen Guenever had him in great favor, 
above all other knights. And for certain he loved the queen again above all 
other ladies; and for her he did many deeds of arms, and saved her from 
peril through his noble chivalry. Thus Sir Launcelot rested him long with 
play and game, and then he thought to prove himself in strange adventures; 
so he bade his nephew, Sir Lionel, to make him ready,- "for we two will seek 
adventures." So they mounted on their horses, armed at all sights, and rode 
into a forest, and so into a deep plain. And the weather was hot about noon, 
and Sir Launcelot had great desire to sleep. Then Sir Lionel espied a great 
apple-tree that stood by a hedge, and he said: "Brother, yonder is a fair 
shadow,- there may we rest us and our horses." "It is well said," replied 
Sir Launcelot. So they there alighted, and Sir Launcelot laid him down, and 
his helm under his head, and soon was asleep passing fast. And Sir Lionel 
waked while he slept. And presently there came three knights riding as fast 
as ever they might ride, and there followed them but one knight. And Sir 
Lionel thought he never saw so great a knight before. So within a while this 
great knight overtook one of those knights, and smote him so that he fell to 
the earth. Then he rode to the second knight and smote him, and so he did to 
the third knight. 

Then he alighted down, and bound all the three knights fast with their own 
bridles. When Sir Lionel saw him do thus he thought to assay him, and made 
him ready, silently, not to awake Sir Launcelot, and rode after the strong 
knight, and bade him turn. And the other smote Sir Lionel so hard that horse 
and man fell to the earth; and then he alighted down, and bound Sir Lionel, 
and threw him across his own horse; and so he served them all four, and rode 
with them away to his own castle. And when he came there, he put them in a 
deep prison, in which were many more knights in great distress. 

Now while Sir Launcelot lay under the apple-tree sleeping there came by him 
four queens of great estate. And that the heat should not grieve them, there 
rode four knights about them, and bare a cloth of green silk, on four 
spears, betwixt them and the sun. And the queens rode on four white mules. 

Thus as they rode they heard by them a great horse grimly neigh. Then they 
were aware of a sleeping knight, that lay all armed under an apple-tree; and 
as the queens looked on his face they knew it was Sir Launcelot. Then they 
began to strive for that knight, and each one said she would have him for 
her love. "We will not strive," said Morgane le Fay, that was King Arthur's 
sister, "for I will put an enchantment upon him, that he shall not wake for 
six hours, and we will take him away to my castle; and then when he is 
surely within my hold I will take the enchantment from him, and then let him 
choose which of us he will have for his love." So the enchantment was cast 
upon Sir Launcelot. And then they laid him upon his shield, and bare him so 
on horseback between two knights, and brought him unto the castle and laid 
hint in a chamber, and at night they sent him his supper. 

And on the morning came early those four queens, richly dight, and bade him 
good morning, and he them again. "Sir knight," they said, "thou must 
understand that thou art our prisoner; and we know thee well, that thou art 
Sir Launcelot of the Lake, King Ban's son, and that thou art the noblest 
knight living. And we know well that there can no lady have thy love but 
one, and that is Queen Guenever; and now thou shalt lose her forever, and 
she thee; and therefore it behooveth thee now to choose one of us. I am the 
Queen Morgane le Fay, and here is the Queen of North Wales, and the Queen of 
Eastland, and the Queen of the Isles. Now choose one of us which thou wilt 
have, for if thou choose not in this prison thou shalt die." "This is a hard 
case," said Sir Launcelot, "that either I must die or else choose one of 
you; yet had I liever to die in this prison with worship than have to have 
one of you for my paramour, for ye be false enchantresses." "Well," said the 
queens, "is this your answer, that ye will refuse us?" "Yea, on my life it 
is," said Sir Launcelot. Then they departed, making great sorrow. 

Then at noon came a damsel unto him with his dinner, and asked him, "What 
cheer?" "Truly, fair damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "never so ill." "Sir," 
said she, "if you will be ruled by me, I will help you out of this distress. 
If ye will promise me to help my father on Tuesday next, who hath made a 
tournament betwixt him and the king of North Wales; for the last Tuesday my 
father lost the field." "Fair maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "tell me what is 
your father's name, and then will I give you an answer." "Sir knight," she 
said "my father is King Bagdemagus." "I know him well," said Sir Launcelot, 
"for a noble king and a good knight, and, by the faith of my body, I will be 
ready to do your father and you service at that day." 

So she departed, and came on the next morning early and found him ready, and 
brought him out of twelve locks, and brought him to his own horse, and 
lightly he saddled him, and so rode forth. 

And on the Tuesday next he came to a little wood where the tournament should 
be. And there were scaffolds and holds, that lords and ladies might look on, 
and give the prize. Then came into the field the king of North Wales, with 
eightscore helms, and King Bagdemagus came with fourscore helms. And then 
they couched their spears, and came together with a great dash, and there 
were overthrown at the first encounter twelve of King Bagdemagus's party and 
six of the king of North Wales's party, and King Bagdemagus's party had the 
worse. 

With that came Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and thrust in with his spear in 
the thickest of the press; and he smote down five knights ere he held his 
hand; and he smote down the king of North Wales, and he brake his thigh in 
that fall. And then the knights of the king of North Wales would joust no 
more; and so the gree was given to King Bagdemagus. 

And Sir Launcelot rode forth with King Bagdemagus unto his castle; and there 
he had passing good cheer, both with the king and with his daughter. And on 
the morn he took his leave, and told the king he would go and seek his 
brother, Sir Lionel, that went from him when he slept. So he departed, and 
by adventure he came to the same forest where he was taken sleeping. And in 
the highway be met a damsel riding on a white palfrey, and they saluted each 
other. "Fair damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "know ye in this country any 
adventures?" "Sir Knight," said the damsel, "here are adventures near at 
hand, if thou durst pursue them." "Why should I not prove adventures?" said 
Sir Launcelot, "since for that came I hither." "Sir," said she, "hereby 
dwelleth a knight that will not be overmatched for any man I know, except 
thou overmatch him. His name is Sir Turquine, and, as I understand, he is a 
deadly enemy of King Arthur, and he has in his prison good knights of 
Arthur's court three score and more, that he hath won with his own hands." 
"Damsel," said Launcelot, "I pray you bring me unto this knight." So she 
told him, "Hereby, within this mile, is his castle, and by it on the left 
hand is a ford for horses to drink of, and over that ford there groweth a 
fair tree, and on that tree hang many shields that good knights wielded 
aforetime, that are now prisoners: and on the tree hangeth a basin of copper 
and latten, and if thou strike upon that basin thou shalt hear tidings." And 
Sir Launcelot departed, and rode as the damsel had shown him, and shortly he 
came to the ford, and the tree where hung the shields and basin. And among 
the shields he saw Sir Lionel's and Sir Hector's shield, besides many others 
of knights that he knew. 

Then Sir Launcelot struck on the basin with the butt of his spear; and long 
he did so, but he saw no man. And at length he was ware of a great knight 
that drove a horse before him, and across the horse there lay an armed 
knight bounden. And as they came near Sir Launcelot thought he should know 
the captive knight. Then Sir Launcelot saw that it was Sir Gaheris, Sir 
Gawain's brother, a knight of the Table Round. "Now, fair knight," said Sir 
Launcelot, "put that wounded knight off the horse, and let him rest awhile, 
and let us two prove our strength. For, as it is told me, thou hast done 
great despite and shame unto knights of the Round Table, therefore now 
defend thee." "If thou be of the Table Round," said Sir Turquine, "I defy 
thee and all thy fellowship." "That is overmuch said," said Sir Launcelot. 

Then they put their spears in the rests, and came together with their horses 
as fast as they might run. And each smote the other in the middle of their 
shields, so that their horses fell under them, and the knights were both 
staggered; and as soon as they could clear their horses, they drew out their 
swords and came together eagerly, and each gave the other many strong 
strokes, for neither shield nor harness might withstand their strokes. So 
within a while both had grimly wounds, and bled grievously. Then at the last 
they were breathless both, and stood leaning upon their swords. "Now, 
fellow," said Sir Turquine, "thou art the stoutest man that ever I met with, 
and best breathed; and so be it thou be not the knight that I hate above all 
other knights, the knight that slew my brother, Sir Caradoc, I will gladly 
accord with thee; and for thy love I will deliver all the prisoners that I 
have." 

"What knight is he that thou hatest so above others?" "Truly," said Sir 
Turquine, "his name is Sir Launcelot of the Lake." "I am Sir Launcelot of 
the Lake, King Ban's son of Benwick, and very knight of the Table Round; and 
now I defy thee do thy best." "Ah" said Sir Turquine, "Launcelot, thou art 
to me the most welcome that ever was knight; for we shall never part till 
the one of us be dead." And then they hurtled together like two wild bulls, 
rashing and lashing with their swords and shields, so that sometimes they 
fell, as it were, headlong. Thus they fought two hours and more, till the 
ground where they fought was all bepurpled with blood. 

Then at the last Sir Turquine waxed sore faint, and gave somewhat aback, and 
bare his shield full low for weariness. That spied Sir Launcelot, and leapt 
then upon him fiercely as a lion, and took him by the beaver of his helmet, 
and drew him down on his knees. And he rased off his helm, and smote his 
neck in sunder. 

And Sir Gaheris, when he saw Sir Turquine slain, said, "Fair lord, I pray 
you tell me your name, for this day I say ye are the best knight in the 
world, for ye have slain this day in my sight the mightiest man and the best 
knight except you that ever I saw." "Sir, my name is Sir Launcelot du Lac, 
that ought to help you of right for King Arthur's sake, and in especial for 
Sir Gawain's sake, your own dear brother. Now I pray you, that ye go into 
yonder castle, and set free all the prisoners ye find there, for I am sure 
ye shall find there many knights of the Table Round, and especially my 
brother Sir Lionel. I pray you greet them all from me, and tell them I bid 
them take there such stuff as they find; and tell my brother to go unto the 
court and abide me there, for by the feast of Pentecost I think to be there; 
but at this time I may not stop, for I have adventures on hand." So he 
departed, and Sir Gaheris rode into the castle, and took the keys from the 
porter, and hastily opened the prison door and let out all the prisoners. 
There was Sir Kay, Sir Brandeles, and Sir Galynde, Sir Bryan and Sir 
Alyduke, Sir Hector de Marys and Sir Lionel, and many more. And when they 
saw Sir Gaheris, they all thanked him, for they thought, because he was 
wounded, that he had slain Sir Turquine. "Not so," said Sir Gaheris; "it was 
Sir Launcelot that slew him, right worshipfully; I saw it with mine eyes." 

Sir Launcelot rode till at nightfall he came to a fair castle, and therein 
he found an old gentlewoman, who lodged him with goodwill, and there he had 
good cheer for him and his horse. And when time was, his host brought him to 
a fair chamber over the gate to his bed. 

Then Sir Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness by him, and went to bed, 
and anon he fell asleep. And soon after, there came one on horseback and 
knocked at the gate in great haste; and when Sir Launcelot heard this, he 
arose and looked out of the window, and saw by the moonlight three knights 
riding after that one man, and all three lashed on him with their swords, 
and that one knight turned on them knightly again and defended himself. 
"Truly," said Sir Launcelot, "yonder one knight will I help, for it is shame 
to see three knights on one." Then he took his harness and went out at the 
window by a sheet down to the four knights; and he said aloud, "Turn you 
knights unto me, and leave your fighting with that knight." Then the knights 
left Sir Kay, for it was he they were upon, and turned unto Sir Launcelot, 
and struck many great strokes at Sir Launcelot, and assailed him on every 
side. Then Sir Kay addressed him to help Sir Launcelot, but he said, "Nay, 
sir, I will none of your help; let me alone with them." So Sir Kay suffered 
him to do his will, and stood one side. And within six strokes, Sir 
Launcelot had stricken them down. 

Then they all cried, "Sir knight, we yield us unto you." "As to that," said 
Sir Launcelot, "I will not take your yielding unto me. If so be ye will 
yield you unto Sir Kay the seneschal, I will save your lives, but else not." 
"Fair knight," then they said, "we will do as thou commandest us." "Then 
shall ye," said Sir Launcelot, "on Whitsunday next, go unto the court of 
King Arthur, and there shall ye yield you unto Queen Guenever, and say that 
Sir Kay sent you thither to be her prisoners." "Sir," they said, "It shall 
be done, by the faith of our bodies;" and then they swore, every knight upon 
his sword. And so Sir Launcelot suffered them to depart. 

On the morn Sir Launcelot rose early and left Sir Kay sleeping; and Sir 
Launcelot took Sir Kay's armor and his shield, and armed him, and went to 
the stable and took his horse, and so he departed. Then soon after arose Sir 
Kay and missed Sir Launcelot. And then be espied that he had taken his armor 
and his horse. "Now, by my faith, I know well," said Sir Kay, "that he will 
grieve some of King Arthur's knights, for they will deem that it is I, and 
will be bold to meet him. But by cause of his armor I am sure I shall ride 
in peace." Then Sir Kay thanked his host and departed. 

Sir Launcelot rode in a deep forest, and there he saw four knights under an 
oak, and they were of Arthur's court. There was Sir Sagramour le Desirus and 
Hector de Marys, and Sir Gawain and Sir Uwaine. As they spied Sir Launcelot, 
they judged by his arms it had been Sir Kay. "Now, by my faith," said Sir 
Sagramour, "I will prove Sir Kay's might;" and got his spear in his hand, 
and came toward Sir Launcelot. Therewith Sir Launcelot couched his spear 
against him, and smote Sir Sagramour so sore that horse and man fell both to 
the earth. Then said Sir Hector, "Now shall ye see what I may do with him." 
But he fared worse than Sir Sagramour, for Sir Launcelot's spear went 
through his shoulder and bare him from his horse to the ground, "By my 
faith," said Sir Uwaine, "yonder is a strong knight, and I fear he hath 
slain Sir Kay, and taken his armor." And therewith Sir Uwaine took his spear 
in hand, and rode toward Sir Launcelot; and Sir Launcelot met him on the 
plain and gave him such a buffet that he was staggered, and wist not where 
he was. "Now see I well," said Sir Gawain, "that I must encounter with that 
knight." Then he adjusted his shield, and took a good spear in his hand, and 
Sir Launcelot knew him well. Then they let run their horses with all their 
mights, and each knight smote the other in the middle of his shield. But Sir 
Gawain's spear broke, and Sir Launcelot charged so sore upon him that his 
horse fell over backward. Then Sir Launcelot rode away smiling with himself, 
and he said "Good luck be with him that made this spear, for never came a 
better into my hand." Then the four knights went each to the other and 
comforted one another. "What say ye to this adventure," said Sir Gawain, 
"that one spear hath felled us all four?" "I dare lay my head it is Sir 
Launcelot," said Sir Hector; "I know it by his riding." 

And Sir Launcelot rode through many strange countries, till, by fortune, he 
came to a fair castle; and as he passed beyond the castle, he thought he 
heard two bells ring. And then he perceived how a falcon came flying over 
his head toward a high elm; and she had long lunys (1) about her feet, and 
she flew unto the elm to take her perch, and the lunys got entangled in a 
bough; and when she would have taken her flight, she hung by the legs fast, 
and Sir Launcelot saw how she hung and beheld the fair falcon entangled, and 
he was sorry for her. Then came a lady out of the castle and cried aloud, "O 
Launcelot, Launcelot, as thou art the flower of all knights, help me to get 
my hawk; for if my hawk be lost, my lord will slay me, he is so hasty." 
"What is your lord's name?" said Sir Launcelot. "His name is Sir Phelot, a 
knight that belongeth to the king of North Wales." "Well, fair lady, since 
ye know my name, and require me of knighthood to help you, I will do what I 
may to get your hawk; and yet, in truth, I am an ill climber and the tree is 
passing high and few boughs to help me." And therewith Sir Launcelot 
alighted and tied his horse to a tree, and prayed the lady to unarm him. And 
when he was unarmed, he put off his jerkin, and with might and force he 
clomb up to the falcon, and tied the lunys to a rotten bough, and threw the 
hawk down with it; and the lady got the hawk in her hand. Then suddenly 
there came out of the castle her husband all armed, and with his naked sword 
in his hand, and said, "O Knight Launcelot, now have I got thee as I would;" 
and stood at the boll of the tree to slay him. "Ah, lady!" said Sir 
Launcelot, "why have ye betrayed me?" "She hath done," said Sir Phelot, "but 
as I commanded her; and therefore there is none other way but thine hour is 
come, and thou must die." "That were shame unto thee," said Sir Launcelot; 
"thou an armed knight to slay a naked man by treason." "Thou gettest none 
other grace," said Sir Phelot, "and therefore help thyself if thou canst." 
"Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "that ever a knight should die weaponless!" And 
therewith he turned his eyes upward and downward; and over his head he saw a 
big bough leafless, and he brake it off from the trunk. And then he came 
lower, and watched how his own horse stood; and suddenly he leapt on the 
further side of his horse from the knight. Then Sir Phelot lashed at him 
eagerly, meaning to have slain him. But Sir Launcelot put away the stroke 
with the big bough, and smote Sir Phelot therewith on the side of the head, 
so that he fell down in a swoon to the ground. Then Sir Launcelot took his 
sword out of his hand and struck his head from the body. Then said the lady, 
"Alas! why hast thou slain my husband?" "I am not the cause," said Sir 
Launcelot, "for with falsehood ye would have slain me, and now it is fallen 
on yourselves." Thereupon Sir Launcelot got all his armor and put it upon 
him hastily for fear of more resort, for the knight's castle was so nigh. 
And as soon as he might, he took his horse and departed; and thanked God he 
had escaped that adventure. 

And two days before the feast of Pentecost, Sir Launcelot came home; and the 
king and all the court were passing glad of his coming. And when Sir Gawain, 
Sir Uwaine, Sir Sagramour, and Sir Hector de Marys saw Sir Launcelot in Sir 
Kay's armor, then they wist well it was he that smote them down, all with 
one spear. Then there was laughing and merriment among them; and from time 
to time came all the knights that Sir Turquine had prisoners, and they all 
honored and worshipped Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Gaheris said, "I saw all the 
battle from the beginning to the end," and he told King Arthur all how it 
was. Then Sir Kay told the king how Sir Launcelot had rescued him, and how 
he "made the knights yield to me, and not to him." And there they were, all 
three, and confirmed it all. "And by my faith," said Sir Kay, "because Sir 
Launcelot took my harness and left me his, I rode in peace, and no man would 
have to do with me." 

And so at that time Sir Launcelot had the greatest name of any knight of the 
world, and most was he honored of high and low. 

 

(1) Lunys, the string with which the falcon is held. 

 

CHAPTER VII. THE STORY OF LAUNCELOT.- THE ADVENTURE OF THE CART. 

SO it befell in the month of May, Queen Guenever called unto her knights of 
the Table Round, and she gave them warning that early upon the morrow she 
would ride on maying into the woods and fields beside Westminster. "And I 
warn you that there be none of you but that he be well horsed, and that ye 
be all clothed in green, either in silk, either in cloth, and I shall bring 
with me ten ladies, and every knight shall have a lady behind him, and every 
knight shall have a squire and two yeomen, and I will that ye all be well 
horsed." So they made them ready in the freshest manner, and these were the 
names of the knights: Sir Kay the seneschal, Sir Agravaine, Sir Brandeles, 
Sir Sagramour le Desirus, Sir Dodynas le Sauvage, Sir Ozanna le Cure Hardy, 
Sir Ladynas of the Forest Savage, Sir Perseant of Inde, Sir Ironside that 
was called the knight of the red lawns, and Sir Pelleas the lover; and these 
ten knights made them ready in the freshest manner to ride with the queen. 
And so upon the morn they took their horses, with the queen, and rode on 
maying in woods and meadows, as it pleased them, in great joy and delight; 
for the queen had cast to have been again with King Arthur at the furthest 
by ten of the clock, and so was that time her purpose. Then there was a 
knight, that knight Meleagans, and he was son unto King Bagdemagus, and this 
knight had at that time a castle, of the gift of King Arthur, within seven 
miles of Westminster; and this knight Sir Meleagans loved passing well Queen 
Guenever, and so had he done long and many years. And he had lain in a wait 
for to steal away the queen, but evermore he forbore, because of Sir 
Launcelot, for in no wise would he meddle with the queen if Sir Launcelot 
were in her company, or else if he were near at hand to her. And at that 
time was such a custom the queen rode never without a great fellowship of 
men of arms about her; and they were many good knights, and the most part 
were young men that would have worship, and they were called the queen's 
knights, and never in no battle, tournament, nor joust, they bare none of 
them no manner of acknowledging of their own arms, but plain white shields, 
and thereby they were called the queen's knights. And then when it happed 
any of them to be of great worship by his noble deeds, then at the next 
feast of Pentecost, if there were any slain or dead, as there was no year 
that these failed, but some were dead, then was there chosen in his stead 
the most men of worship that were called the queen's knights. And thus they 
came up all first, or they were renowned men of worship, both Sir Launcelot 
and the remnant of them. 

But this knight, Sir Meleagans, had espied the queen well and her purpose, 
and how Sir Launcelot was not with her, and how she had no men of arms with 
her but the ten noble knights all arrayed in green for maying. Then he 
provided him a twenty men of arms and an hundred archers, for to destroy the 
queen and her knights, for he thought that time was the best season to take 
the queen. So as the queen had mayed and all her knights, all were bedashed 
with herbs, mosses, and flowers, in the best manner and freshest. Right so 
came out of a wood Sir Meleagans with an eightscore men well harnessed, as 
they should fight in a battle of arrest, and bade the queen and her knights 
abide, for maugre their heads they should abide. "Traitor knight," said 
Queen Guenever, "what castest thou for to do? Wilt thou shame thyself? 
Bethink thee how thou art a king's son, and knight of the Table Round, and 
thou to be about to dishonor the noble king that made thee knight; thou 
shamest all knighthood and thyself, and me. I let thee wit, me shalt thou 
never shame, for I had lever cut my throat in twain than thou shouldst 
dishonor me." "As for all this language," said Sir Meleagans, "be it as it 
may, for wit you well, madam, I have loved you many a year, and never or now 
could I get you at such an advantage as I do now, and therefore I will take 
you as I find you." Then spake all the ten noble knights at once, and said: 

"Sir Meleagans, wit thou well ye are about to jeopard your worship to 
dishonor, and also ye cast to jeopard our persons; howbeit we be unarmed, ye 
have us at great avail, for it seemeth by you that ye have laid watch upon 
us; but rather than ye should put the queen to shame, find us all, we had as 
lief to depart from our lives, for if we other ways did we should be ashamed 
forever." Then Sir Meleagans said, "Dress you as well as you can, and keep 
the queen." Then all the ten knights of the Table Round drew their swords, 
and the other let run at them with their spears, and the ten knights manly 
abode them, and smote away their spears, that no spear did them none harm. 
Then they lashed together with swords, and anon Sir Kay, Sir Sagramour, Sir 
Agravaine, Sir Dodynas, Sir Ladynas, and Sir Ozanna were smitten to the 
earth with grimly wounds. Then Sir Brandiles, and Sir Persant, Sir Ironside, 
and Sir Pelleas fought long, and they were sorely wounded; for these ten 
knights or ever they were laid to the ground slew forty men of the boldest 
and best of them. So when the queen saw her knights thus dolefully wounded, 
and needs must be slain at the last, then for pity and sorrow she cried, 
"Sir Meleagans, slay not my noble knights, and I will go with thee upon this 
covenant, that thou save them, and suffer them to be no more hurt, with 
this, that they be led with me wheresoever thou leadest me; for I will 
rather slay myself than I will go with thee, unless that these my noble 
knights may be in my presence." "Madam," said Meleagans, "for your sake they 
shall be led with you into mine own castle, with that ye will be ruled and 
ride with me." Then the queen prayed the four knights to leave their 
fighting, and she and they would not part. "Madam," said Sir Pelleas, "we 
will do as ye do, for as for me I take no force of my life nor death." for 
Sir Pelleas gave such buffets that none armor might hold him. 

Then by the queen's commandment they left battle, and dressed the wounded 
knights on horseback, some sitting, some overthwart their horses, that it 
was pity to behold them. And then Sir Meleagans charged the queen and all 
her knights that none of all her fellowship should depart from her; for full 
sore he dreaded Sir Launcelot du Lac lest he should have any knowledging. 
All this espied the Queen and privily she called unto her a child of her 
chamber, that was swiftly horsed, to whom she said, "Go thou, when thou 
seest thy time, and bear this ring to Sir Launcelot du Lac, and pray him, as 
he loveth me, that he will see me, and rescue me if ever he will have joy of 
me; and spare thou not thy horse," said the queen, "neither for water nor 
for land." So the child espied his time, and lightly he took his horse with 
the spurs, and departed as fast as he might. And when Sir Meleagans saw him 
so flee he understood that it was by the queen's commandment for to warn Sir 
Launcelot. Then they that were best horsed chased him, and shot at him, but 
from them all the child went suddenly; and then Sir Meleagans said unto the 
queen, "Madam, ye are about to betray me, but I shall ordain for Sir 
Launcelot that he shall not come lightly to you." And then he rode with her 
and them all to his castle in all the haste that he might. 

And by the way Sir Meleagans laid in an ambushment the best archers that he 
might get in his country, to the number of thirty, to await upon Sir 
Launcelot, charging them that if they saw such a manner of knight come by 
the way upon a white horse, that in any wise they slay his horse, but in no 
manner of wise have not ado with him bodily, for he was overhard to be 
overcome. So this was done, and they were come to his castle, but in no wise 
the queen would never let none of the ten knights and her ladies out of her 
sight, but always they were in her presence. So when the child was departed 
from the fellowship of Sir Meleagans, within awhile he came to Westminster. 
And anon he found Sir Launcelot. And when he had told him his message, and 
delivered him the queen's ring, "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "now am I shamed 
forever, unless that I may rescue that noble lady from dishonor." Then 
eagerly he asked his armor, and ever the child told Sir Launcelot how the 
ten knights fought marvellously, and how Sir Pelleas, and Sir Ironside, and 
Sir Brandiles, and Sir Persant of Inde fought strongly, but as for Sir 
Pelleas there might none withstand him, and how they all fought till at last 
they were laid to the earth, and then the queen made appointment for to save 
their lives, and go with Sir Meleagans. "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "that 
most noble lady that she should be so destroyed! I had lever," said Sir 
Launcelot, "than all France that I had been there well armed." 

So when Launcelot was armed and upon his horse, he prayed the child of the 
queen's chamber to warn Sir Lavaine how suddenly he was departed, and for 
what cause,- "and pray him, as he loveth me, that he will hie him after me, 
and that he stint not until he come to the castle where Sir Meleagans 
abideth or dwelleth, for there," said Launcelot, "shall he hear of me if I 
am a man living, and rescue the queen and, her ten knights, the which he 
traitorously hath taken, and that shall I prove upon his head, and all them 
that hold with him." 

Then Sir Launcelot rode as fast as he might, and he took the water at 
Westminster, and made his horse to swim over Thames at Lambeth. And then 
within a while he came to the place where the ten knights had fought with 
Sir Meleagans, and then Sir Launcelot followed that track until he came to a 
wood, and there was a straight way, and there the thirty archers bade Sir 
Launcelot turn again, and follow no longer that track. "What commandment 
have ye thereto," said Sir Launcelot, "to cause me, that am a knight of the 
Round Table, to leave my right way?" "This way shalt thou leave, or else 
thou shalt go it on thy foot, for wit thou well thy horse shall be slain." 
"That is little mastery," said Launcelot, "to slay my horse, but as for 
myself, when my horse is slain, I give right nought for you, not if ye were 
five hundred more." So then they shot Sir Launcelot's horse, and smote him 
with many arrows. And then Sir Launcelot avoided his horse and went on foot; 
but there were so many ditches and hedges betwixt them and him that he might 
meddle with none of them. "Alas, for shame," said Sir Launcelot, "that ever 
one knight should betray another knight, but it is an old saw, 'A good man 
is never in danger but when he is in danger of a coward.'" Then Sir 
Launcelot went a while, and then he was foul cumbered of his armor, his 
shield, and his spear, and all that belonged to him. Wit ye well he was sore 
annoyed, and full loth he was to leave anything that belonged to him, for he 
dreaded sore the treason of Sir Meleagans. And then by fortune there came by 
a cart that came thither for to fetch wood. 

Now at this time carts were but little used save for carrying offal or such 
like, and for conveying criminals to execution. But Sir Launcelot took no 
thought save of rescuing the queen. "Say me, carter," said he, "what shall I 
give thee for to suffer me to leap into thy cart, and that thou shalt bring 
me unto a castle within this two mile?" "Thou shalt not come within my 
cart," said the carter, "for I am sent for to fetch wood for my lord Sir 
Meleagans." "With him would I speak." "Thou shalt not go with me," said the 
carter. Then Sir Launcelot lept to him, and "gave him such a buffet that he 
fell to the earth stark dead. Then the other carter, his fellow, thought to 
have gone the same way, and then he cried, "Fair lord, save my life, and I 
shall bring you where you will." 

So then Sir Launcelot placed himself in the cart, and only lamented that 
with much jolting he made but little progress. Then it happened Sir Gawain 
passed by, and seeing an armed knight travelling in that unusual way, he 
drew near to see who it might be. Then Sir Launcelot told him how the queen 
had been carried off, and how, in hastening to her rescue, his horse had 
been disabled, and he had been compelled to avail himself of the cart rather 
than give up Then Sir Gawain said, "Surely it is unworthy of a to travel in 
such sort!" but Sir Launcelot heeded him not. 

At nightfall they arrived at a castle, and the lady thereof came out at the 
head of her damsels to welcome Sir Gawain. But to admit his companion, whom 
she supposed to be a criminal, or at least a prisoner, it pleased her not; 
however, to oblige Sir Gawain, she consented. At supper Sir Launcelot came 
near being consigned to the kitchen, and was only admitted to the lady's 
table at the earnest solicitation of Sir Gawain. Neither would the damsels 
prepare a bed for him. He seized the first he found unoccupied, and was left 
undisturbed. 

Next morning he saw from the turrets of the castle a train accompanying a 
lady, whom he imagined to be the queen. Sir Gawain thought it might be so, 
and became equally eager to depart. The lady of the castle supplied Sir 
Launcelot with a horse, and they traversed the plain at full speed. They 
learned from some travellers whom they met that there were two roads which 
led to the castle of Sir Meleagans. Here therefore the friends separated. 
Sir Launcelot found his way beset with obstacles, which he encountered 
successfully, but not without much loss of time. As evening approached he 
was met by a young and sportive damsel, who gayly proposed to him a supper 
at her castle. The knight, who was hungry and weary, accepted the offer, 
though with no very good grace. He followed the lady to her castle, and ate 
voraciously of her supper, but was quite impenetrable to all her amorous 
advances. Suddenly the scene changed, and he was assailed by six furious 
ruffians, whom he dealt with so vigorously that most of them were speedily 
disabled, when again there was a change, and he found himself alone with his 
fair hostess, who informed him that she was none other than his guardian 
fairy, who had but subjected him to tests of his courage and fidelity. The 
next day the fairy brought him on his road, and before parting gave him a 
ring, which she told him would by its changes of color disclose to him all 
enchantments, and enable him to subdue them. 

Sir Launcelot pursued his journey, being but little troubled save by the 
taunts of travellers, who all seemed to have learned by some means his 
disgraceful drive in the cart. One, more insolent than the rest, had the 
audacity to interrupt him during dinner, and even to risk a battle in 
support of his pleasantry. Launcelot, after an easy victory, only doomed him 
to be carted in his turn. 

At night he was received at another castle, with great apparent hospitality, 
but found himself in the morning in a dungeon and loaded with chains. 
Consulting his ring, and finding that this was an enchantment, he burst his 
chains, seized his armor in spite of the visionary monsters who attempted to 
defend it, broke open the gates of the tower, and continued his journey. At 
length his progress was checked by a wide and rapid torrent, which could 
only be passed on a narrow bridge, on which a false step would prove his 
destruction. Launcelot, leading his horse by the bridle, and making him swim 
by his side, passed over the bridge, and was attacked, as soon as he reached 
the bank, by a lion and a leopard, both of which he slew, and then, 
exhausted and bleeding, seated himself on the grass, and endeavored to bind 
up his bounds, when he was accosted by Brademagus, the father of Meleagans, 
whose castle was then in sight, and at no great distance. The king, no less 
courteous than his son was haughty and insolent, after complimenting Sir 
Launcelot on the valor and skill he had displayed in the perils of the 
bridge and the wild beasts, offered him his assistance, and informed him 
that the queen was safe in his castle, but could only be rescued by 
encountering Meleagans. Launcelot demanded the battle for the next day, and 
accordingly it took place, at the foot of the tower, and under the eyes of 
the fair captive. Launcelot was enfeebled by his wounds, and fought not with 
his usual spirit, and the contest for a time was doubtful; till Guenever 
exclaimed, "Ah, Launcelot! my knight, truly have I been told that thou art 
no longer worthy of me!" These words instantly revived the drooping knight; 
be resumed at once his usual superiority, and soon laid at his feet his 
haughty adversary. 

He was on the point of sacrificing him to his resentment when Guenever, 
moved by the entreaties of Brademagus, ordered him to withhold the blow, and 
he obeyed. The castle and its prisoners were now at his disposal. Launcelot 
hastened to the apartment of the queen, threw himself at her feet, and was 
about to kiss her hand, when she exclaimed, "Ah, Launcelot! why do I see 
thee again, yet feel thee to be no longer worthy of me, after having been 
disgracefully drawn about the country in a-" She had not time to finish the 
phrase, for her lover suddenly started from her, and bitterly lamenting that 
he had incurred the displeasure of his sovereign lady, rushed out of the 
castle, threw his sword and his shield to the right and left, ran furiously 
into the woods, and disappeared. 

It seems that the story of the abominable cart, which haunted Launcelot at 
every step, had reached the ears of Sir Kay, who had told it to the queen, 
as a proof that her knight must have been dishonored. 

But Guenever had full leisure to repent the haste with which she had given 
credit to the tale. Three days elapsed, during which Launcelot wandered 
without knowing where he went, till at last he began to reflect that his 
mistress had doubtless been deceived by misrepresentation, and that it was 
his duty to set her right. He therefore returned, compelled Meleagans to 
release his prisoners, and, taking the road by which they expected the 
arrival of Sir Gawain, had the satisfaction of meeting him the next day; 
after which the whole company proceeded gayly towards Camelot. 



CHAPTER VIII. THE STORY OF LAUNCELOT.- THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

KING ARTHUR proclaimed a solemn tournament to be held at Winchester. The 
king, not less impatient than his knights for this festival, set off some 
days before to superintend the preparations, leaving the queen with her 
court at Camelot. Sir Launcelot, under pretence of indisposition, remained 
behind also. His intention was to attend the tournament in disguise; and 
having communicated his project to Guenever, he mounted his horse, set off 
without any attendant, and, counterfeiting the feebleness of age, took the 
most unfrequented road to Winchester, and passed unnoticed as an old knight 
who was going to be a spectator of the sports. Even Arthur and Gawain, who 
happened to behold him from the windows of a castle under which he passed, 
were the dupes of his disguise. But an accident betrayed him. His horse 
happened to stumble, and the hero, forgetting for a moment his assumed 
character, recovered the animal with a strength and agility so peculiar to 
himself, that they instantly recognized the inimitable Launcelot. They 
suffered him, however, to proceed on his journey without interruption, 
convinced that his extraordinary feats of arms must discover him at the 
approaching festival. 

In the evening Launcelot was magnificently entertained as a stranger knight 
at the neighboring castle of Shalott. The lord of this castle had a daughter 
of exquisite beauty, and two sons lately received into the order of 
knighthood, one of whom was at that time ill in bed, and thereby prevented 
from attending the tournament, for which both brothers had long made 
preparations. Launcelot offered to attend the other, if he were permitted to 
borrow the armor of the invalid, and the lord of Shalott, without knowing 
the name of his guest, being satisfied from his appearance that his son 
could not have a better assistant in arms, most thankfully accepted the 
offer. In the meantime the young lady, who had been much struck by the first 
appearance of the stranger knight, continued to survey him with increased 
attention, and before the conclusion of supper, became so deeply enamored of 
him, that, after frequent changes of color, and other symptoms which Sir 
Launcelot could not possibly mistake, she was obliged to retire to her 
chamber, and seek relief in tears. Sir Launcelot hastened to convey to her, 
by means of her brother, the information that his heart was already disposed 
of, but that it would be his pride and pleasure to act as her knight at the 
approaching tournament. The lady, obliged to be satisfied with that 
courtesy, presented him her scarf to be worn at the tournament. 

Launcelot set off in the morning with the young knight, who, on their 
approaching Winchester, carried him to the castle of a lady, sister to the 
lord of Shalott, by whom they were hospitably entertained. The next day they 
put on their armor, which was perfectly plain, and without any device, as 
was usual to youths during the first year of knighthood, their shields being 
only painted red, as some color was necessary to enable them to be 
recognized by their attendants. Launcelot wore on his crest the scarf of the 
maid of Shalott, and, thus equipped, proceeded to the tournament, where the 
knights were divided into two companies, the one commanded by Sir Galehaut, 
the other by King Arthur. Having surveyed the combat for a short time from 
without the lists, and observed that Sir Galehaut's party began to give way, 
they joined the press and attacked the royal knights, the young man choosing 
such adversaries as were suited to his strength, while his companion 
selected the principal champions of the Round Table, and successively 
overthrew Gawain, Bohort, and Lionel. The astonishment of the spectators was 
extreme, for it was thought that no one but Launcelot could possess such 
invincible force; yet the favor on his crest seemed to preclude the 
possibility of his being thus disguised, for Launcelot had never been known 
to wear the badge of any but his sovereign lady. At length Sir Hector, 
Launcelot's brother, engaged him, and, after a dreadful combat, wounded him 
dangerously in the head, but was himself completely stunned by a blow on the 
helmet, and felled to the ground; after which the conqueror rode off at full 
speed, attended by his companion. 

They returned to the castle of Shalott, where Launcelot was attended with 
the greatest care by the good earl, by his two sons, and, above all, by his 
fair daughter, whose medical skill probably much hastened the period of his 
recovery. His health was almost completely restored, when Sir Hector, Sir 
Bohort, and Sir Lionel, who, after the return of the court to Camelot, had 
undertaken the quest of their relation, discovered him walking on the walls 
of the castle. Their meeting was very joyful; they passed three days in the 
castle amidst constant festivities, and bantered each other on the events of 
the tournament. Launcelot, though he began by vowing vengeance against the 
author of his wound, yet ended by declaring that he felt rewarded for the 
pain by the pride he took in witnessing his brother's extraordinary prowess. 
He then dismissed them with a message to the queen, promising to follow 
immediately, it being necessary that he should first take a formal leave of 
his kind hosts, as well as of the fair maid of Shalott. 

The young lady, after vainly attempting to detain him by her tears and 
solicitations, saw him depart without leaving her any ground for hope. 

It was early summer when the tournament took place; but some months had 
passed since Launcelot's departure, and winter was now near at hand. The 
health and strength of the Lady of Shalott had gradually sunk, and she felt 
that she could not live apart from the object of her affections. She left 
the castle, and, descending to the river's brink, placed herself in a boat, 
which she loosed from its moorings, and suffered to bear her down the 
current toward Camelot. 

One morning, as Arthur and Sir Lionel looked from the window of the tower, 
the walls of which were washed by a river, they descried a boat richly 
ornamented, and covered with an awning of cloth of gold, which appeared to 
be floating down the stream without any human guidance. It struck the shore 
while they watched it, and they hastened down to examine it. Beneath the 
awning they discovered the dead body of a beautiful woman, in whose features 
Sir Lionel easily recognized the lovely maid of Shalott, Pursuing their 
search, they discovered a purse richly embroidered with gold and jewels, and 
within the purse a letter, which Arthur opened, and found addressed to 
himself and all the knights of the Round Table, stating that Launcelot of 
the Lake, the most accomplished of knights and most beautiful of men, but at 
the same time the most cruel and inflexible, had by his rigor produced the 
death of the wretched maiden, whose love was no less invincible than his 
cruelty. 

The king immediately gave orders for the interment of the lady, with all the 
honors suited to her rank, at the same time explaining to the knights the 
history of her affection for Launcelot, which moved the compassion and 
regret of all. 

Tennyson has chosen the story of the Lady of Shalott for the subject of a 
poem:- 

"There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 
The Lady of Shalott.
"And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
"Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, 
Or long-haired page in crimson clad
Goes by to towered Camelot. 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two: 
She has no loyal knight and true, 
The Lady of Shalott.
"But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed; 
'I am half sick of shadows,' said
The Lady of Shalott."
The poem goes on as the story: the lady sees Launcelot, he rides away, and 
she afterward dies and floats down the river in a boat to Camelot. The poem 
ends as follows:- 

"Under tower and balcony, 
By garden wall and gallery, 
A gleaming shape she floated by
Dead-pale between the houses high, 
Silent unto Camelot. 
Out upon the wharves they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name, 
The Lady of Shalott.
"Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer; 
And they crossed themselves for fear
All the knights at Camelot: 
But Launcelot mused a little space; 
He said 'She has a lovely face; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 
The Lady of Shalott."'
The story of "Elaine, the fair, Elaine, the lovable, Elaine, the lily-maid 
of Astolat," one of the earliest of the "Idylls of the King," is of course 
the same tale as the Lady of Shalott. 




CHAPTER IX. THE STORY OF LAUNCELOT.- QUEEN GUENEVER'S PERIL. 

IT happened at this time that Queen Guenever was thrown into great peril of 
her life. A certain squire who was in her immediate service, having some 
cause of animosity to Sir Gawain, determined to destroy him by poison at a 
public entertainment. For this purpose he concealed the poison in an apple 
of fine appearance, which he placed on the top of several others, and put 
the dish before the queen, hoping that, as Sir Gawain was the knight of 
greatest dignity, she would present the apple to him. But it happened that a 
Scottish knight of high distinction, who arrived on that day, was seated 
next to the queen, and to him, as a stranger, she presented the apple, which 
he had no sooner eaten than he was seized with dreadful pain, and fell 
senseless. The whole court was of course thrown into confusion; the knights 
rose from table, darting looks of indignation at the wretched queen, whose 
tears and protestations were unable to remove their suspicions. In spite of 
all that could be done the knight died, and nothing remained but to order a 
magnificent funeral and monument for him, which was done. 

Some time after, Sir Mador, brother of the murdered knight, arrived at 
Arthur's court in quest of him. While hunting in the forest he by chance 
came to the spot where the monument was erected, read the inscription, and 
returned to court determined on immediate and signal vengeance. He rode into 
the hall, loudly accused the queen of treason, and insisted on her being 
given up to punishment, unless she should find, by a certain day, a knight 
hardy enough to risk his life in support of her innocence. Arthur, powerful 
as he was, did not dare to deny the appeal, but was compelled, with a heavy 
heart, to accept it, and Mador sternly took his departure, leaving the royal 
couple plunged in terror and anxiety. 

During all this time Launcelot was absent, and no one knew where he was. He 
had fled in anger from his fair mistress, upon being reproached by her with 
his passion for the Lady of Shalott, which she had hastily inferred from his 
wearing her scarf at the tournament. He took up his abode with a hermit in 
the forest, and resolved to think no more of the cruel beauty, whose conduct 
he thought must flow from a wish to get rid of him. Yet calm reflection had 
somewhat cooled his indignation, and he had begun to wish, though hardly 
able to hope, for a reconciliation, when the news of Sir Mador's challenge 
fortunately reached his ears. The intelligence revived his spirits, and he 
began to prepare with the utmost cheerfulness for contest which, if 
successful, would insure him at once the affection of his mistress and the 
gratitude of his sovereign. 

The sad fate of the Lady of Shalott had ere this completely acquitted 
Launcelot in the queen's mind of all suspicion of his fidelity, and she 
lamented most grievously her foolish quarrel with him, which now, at her 
time of need, deprived her of her most efficient champion. 

As the day appointed by Sir Mador was fast approaching, it became necessary 
that she should procure a champion for her defence; and she successively 
adjured Sir Hector, Sir Lionel, Sir Bohort, and Sir Gawain to undertake the 
battle. She fell on her knees before them, called Heaven to witness her 
innocence of the crime alleged against her, but was sternly answered by all 
that they could not fight to maintain the innocence of one whose act, and 
the fatal consequences of it, they had seen with their own eyes. She 
retired, therefore, dejected and disconsolate; but the sight of the fatal 
pile on which, if guilty, she was doomed to be burned, exciting her to fresh 
effort, she again repaired to Sir Bohort, threw herself at his feet, and, 
piteously calling on him for mercy, fell into a swoon. The brave knight was 
not proof against this. He raised her up, and hastily promised that he would 
undertake her cause, if no other or better champion should present himself. 
He then summoned his friends, and told them his resolution; and as a mortal 
combat with Sir Mador was a most fearful enterprise, they agreed to 
accompany him in the morning to the hermitage in the forest, where he 
proposed to receive absolution from the hermit, and to make his peace with 
Heaven, before he entered the lists. As they approached the hermitage, they 
espied a knight riding in the forest, whom they at once recognized as Sir 
Launcelot. Overjoyed at the meeting, they quickly, in answer to his 
questions, confirmed the news of the queen's imminent danger, and received 
his instructions to return to court, to comfort her as well as they could, 
but to say nothing of his intention of undertaking her defence, which he 
meant to do in the character of an unknown adventurer. 

On their return to the castle they found that mass was finished, and had 
scarcely time to speak to the queen before they were summoned into the hall 
to dinner. A general gloom was spread over the countenances of all the 
guests. Arthur himself was unable to conceal his dejection, and the wretched 
Guenever, motionless and bathed in tears, sat in trembling expectation of 
Sir Mador's appearance. Nor was it long ere he stalked into the hall, and 
with a voice of thunder, rendered more impressive by the general silence, 
demanded instant justice on the guilty party. Arthur replied with dignity, 
that little of the day was yet spent, and that perhaps a champion might yet 
be found capable of satisfying his thirst for battle. Sir Bohort now rose 
from table, and, shortly returning in complete armor, resumed his place, 
after receiving the embraces and thanks of the king, who now began to resume 
some degree of confidence. Sir Mador, growing impatient, again repeated his 
denunciations of vengeance, and insisted that the combat should no longer be 
postponed. 

In the height of the debate there came riding into the hall a knight mounted 
on a black steed, and clad in black armor, with his visor down, and lance in 
hand. "Sir," said the king, "is it your will to alight and partake of our 
cheer?" "Nay, sir," he replied; "I come to save a lady's life. The queen 
hath ill bestowed her favors, and honored many a knight, that in her hour of 
need she should have none to take her part. Thou that darest accuse her of 
treachery stand forth, for to-day shalt thou need all thy might." 

Sir Mador, though surprised, was not appalled by the stern challenge and 
formidable appearance of his antagonist, but prepared for the encounter. At 
the first shock both were unhorsed. They then drew their swords, and 
commenced a combat which lasted from noon till evening, when Sir Mador, 
whose strength began to fail, was felled to the ground by Launcelot, and 
compelled to sue for mercy The victor, whose arm was already raised to 
terminate the life of his opponent, instantly dropped his sword, courteously 
lifted up the fainting Sir Mador, frankly confessing that he had never 
before encountered so formidable an enemy. The other, with similar courtesy, 
solemnly renounced all further projects of vengeance for his brother's 
death; and the two knights, now become fast friends, embraced each other 
with the greatest cordiality. In the meantime Arthur, having recognized Sir 
Launcelot, whose helmet was now unlaced, rushed down into the lists, 
followed by all his knights, to welcome and thank his deliverer. 

Guenever swooned with joy, and the place of combat suddenly exhibited a 
scene of the most tumultuous delight. The general satisfaction was still 
further increased by the discovery of the real culprit. Having accidentally 
incurred some suspicion, be confessed his crime, and was publicly punished 
in the presence of Sir Mador. 

The court now returned to the castle, which, with the title of "La Joyeuse 
Garde" bestowed upon it in memory of the happy event, was conferred on Sir 
Launcelot by Arthur, as a memorial of his gratitude. 

So far of the Story of Sir Launcelot. Let us turn now to the Story of Sir 
Tristram of Lyonesse. 



CHAPTER X. THE STORY OF TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 

MELIADUS was king of Leonois, or Lyonesse, a country famous in the annals of 
romance, which adjoined the kingdom of Cornwall, but has now disappeared 
from the map, having been, it is said, overwhelmed by the ocean. Meliadus 
was married to Isabella, sister of Mark, king of Cornwall. A fairy fell in 
love with him, and drew him away by enchantment while he was engaged in 
hunting. His queen set out in quest of him, but was taken ill on her 
journey, and died, leaving an infant son, whom, from the melancholy 
circumstances of his birth, she called Tristram. 

Gouvernail, the queen's squire, who had accompanied her, took charge of the 
child, and restored him to his father, who had at length burst the 
enchantments of the fairy, and returned home. Meliadus, after seven years, 
married again, and the new queen, being jealous of the influence of Tristram 
with his father, laid plots for his life, which were discovered by 
Gouvernail, who, in consequence, fled with the boy to the court of the king 
of France, where Tristram was kindly received, and grew up improving in 
every gallant and knightly accomplishment, adding to his skill in arms the 
arts of music and of chess. In particular, he devoted himself to the chase 
and to all woodland sports, so that he became distinguished above all other 
chevaliers of the court for his knowledge of all that relates to hunting. No 
wonder that Belinda, the king's daughter, fell in love with him; but as he 
did not return her passion, she, in a sudden impulse of anger, excited her 
father against him, and he was banished the kingdom. The princess soon 
repented of her act, and in despair destroyed herself, having first written 
a most tender letter to Tristram, sending him at the same time a beautiful 
and sagacious dog, of which she was very fond, desiring him to keep it as a 
memorial of her. Meliadus was now dead, and as his queen, Tristram's 
stepmother, held the throne, Gouvernail was afraid to carry his pupil to his 
native country, and took him to Cornwall, to his uncle Mark, who gave him a 
kind reception. 

King Mark resided at the castle of Tintadel, already mentioned in the 
history of Uther and Iguerne. In this court Tristram became distinguished in 
all the exercises incumbent on a knight; nor was it long before he had an 
opportunity of practically employing his valor and skill. Moraunt, a 
celebrated champion, brother to the queen of Ireland, arrived at the court, 
to demand tribute of King Mark. The knights of Cornwall are in ill repute, 
in romance, for their cowardice and they exhibited it on this occasion. King 
Mark could find no champion who dared to encounter the Irish knight, till 
his nephew Tristram, who had not yet received the honors of knighthood, 
craved to be admitted to the order, offering at the same time to fight the 
battle of Cornwall against the Irish champion. King Mark assented with 
reluctance; Tristram received the accolade, which conferred knighthood upon 
him; and the place and time were assigned for the encounter. 

Without attempting to give the details of this famous combat, the first and 
one of the most glorious of Tristram's exploits, we shall only say that the 
young knight, though severely wounded, cleft the head of Moraunt, leaving a 
portion of his sword in the wound. Moraunt, half dead with his wound and the 
disgrace of his defeat, hastened to hide himself in his ship, sailed away 
with all speed for Ireland, and died soon after arriving in his own country. 

The kingdom of Cornwall was thus delivered from its tribute. Tristram, 
weakened by loss of blood, fell senseless. His friends flew to his 
assistance. They dressed his wounds, which in general healed readily; but 
the lance of Moraunt was poisoned, and one wound which it made yielded to no 
remedies, but grew worse day by day. The surgeons could do no more. Tristram 
asked permission of his uncle to depart, and seek for aid in the kingdom of 
Loegria (England). With his consent he embarked, and, after tossing for many 
days on the sea, was driven by the winds to the coast of Ireland. He landed, 
full of joy and gratitude that he had escaped the peril of the sea; took his 
rote,(1) and began to play. It was a summer evening, and the king of Ireland 
and his daughter, the beautiful Isoude, were at a window which overlooked 
the sea. The strange harper was sent for, and conveyed to the palace, where, 
finding that he was in Ireland, whose champion he had lately slain, he 
concealed his name, and called himself Tramtris. The queen undertook his 
cure, and by a medicated bath gradually restored him to health. His skill in 
music and in games occasioned his being frequently called to court, and he 
became instructor of the Princess Isoude in minstrelsy and poetry, who 
profited so well under his care, that she soon had no equal in the kingdom, 
except her instructor. 

At this time a tournament was held, at which many knights of the Round 
Table, and others, were present. On the first day a Saracen prince, named 
Palamedes, obtained the advantage over all. They brought him to the court, 
and gave him a feast, at which Tristram, just recovering from his wound, was 
present. The fair Isoude appeared on this occasion in all her charms. 
Palamedes could not behold them without emotion, and made no effort to 
conceal his love. Tristram perceived it, and the pain he felt from jealousy 
taught him how dear the fair Isoude had already become to him. 

Next day the tournament was renewed. Tristram, still feeble from his wound, 
rose during the night, took his arms, and concealed them in a forest near 
the place of the contest, and, after it had begun, mingled with the 
combatants. He overthrew all that encountered him, in particular Palamedes, 
whom he brought to the ground with a stroke of his lance, and then fought 
him hand to hand, bearing off the prize of the tourney. But his exertions 
caused his wound to reopen; he bled fast, and in this sad state, yet in 
triumph, they bore him to the palace. The fair Isoude devoted herself to his 
relief with an interest which grew more vivid day by day; and her skilful 
care soon restored him to health. 

It happened one day that a damsel of the court, entering the closet where 
Tristram's arms were deposited, perceived that a part of the sword had been 
broken off. It occurred to her that the missing portion was like that which 
was left in the skull of Moraunt, the Irish champion. She imparted her 
thought to the queen, who compared the fragment taken from her brother's 
wound with the sword of Tristram, and was satisfied that it was part of the 
same, and that the weapon of Tristram was that which reft her brother's 
life. She laid her griefs and resentment before the king, who satisfied 
himself with his own eyes of the truth of her suspicions. Tristram was cited 
before the whole court, and reproached with having dared to present himself 
before them after having slain their kinsman. He acknowledged that he had 
fought with Moraunt to settle the claim for tribute, and said that it was by 
force of winds and waves alone that he was thrown on their coast. The queen 
demanded vengeance for the death of her brother; the fair Isoude trembled 
and grew pale, but a murmur rose from all the assembly that the life of one 
so handsome and so brave should not be taken for such a cause, and 
generosity finally triumphed over resentment in the mind of the king. 
Tristram was dismissed in safety, but commanded to leave the kingdom without 
delay, and never to return thither under pain of death. Tristram went back, 
with restored health, to Cornwall. 

King Mark made his nephew give him a minute recital of his adventures. 
Tristram told him all minutely; but when he came to speak of the fair 
Isoude, he described her charms with a warmth and energy such as none but a 
lover could display. King Mark was fascinated with the description, and, 
choosing a favorable time, demanded a boon (2) of his nephew, who readily 
granted it. The king made him swear upon the holy reliques that he would 
fulfil his commands. Then Mark directed him to go to Ireland, and obtain for 
him the fair Isoude to be queen of Cornwall. 

Tristram believed it was certain death for him to return to Ireland; and how 
could he act as ambassador for his uncle in such a cause? Yet, bound by his 
oath, he hesitated not for an instant. He only took the precaution to change 
his armor. He embarked for Ireland; but a tempest drove him to the coast of 
England, near Camelot, where King Arthur was holding his court, attended by 
the knights of the Round Table, and many others, the most illustrious in the 
world. 

Tristram kept himself unknown. He took part in many jousts; he fought many 
combats, in which he covered himself with glory. One day he saw among those 
recently arrived the king of Ireland, father of the fair Isoude. This 
prince, accused of treason against his liege sovereign, Arthur, came to 
Camelot to free himself of the charge. Blaanor, one of the most redoubtable 
warriors of the Round Table, was his accuser, and Argius, the king, had 
neither youthful vigor nor strength to encounter him. He must therefore seek 
a champion to sustain his innocence. But the knights of the Round Table were 
not at liberty to fight against one another, unless in a quarrel of their 
own. Argius heard of the great renown of the unknown knight; he also was 
witness of his exploits. He sought him, and conjured him to adopt his 
defence, and on his oath declared that he was innocent of the crime of which 
he was accused. Tristram readily consented, and made himself known to the 
king, who on his part promised to reward his exertions, if successful, with 
whatever gift he might ask. 

Tristram fought with Blaanor, and overthrew him, and held his life in his 
power. The fallen warrior called on him to use his right of conquest, and 
strike the fatal blow. "God forbid," said Tristram, "that I should take the 
life of so brave a knight!" He raised him up and restored him to his 
friends. The judges of the field decided that the king of Ireland was 
acquitted of the charge against him, and they led Tristram in triumph to his 
tent. King Argius, full of gratitude, conjured Tristram to accompany him to 
his kingdom. They departed together, and arrived in Ireland; and the queen, 
forgetting her resentment for her brother's death, exhibited to the 
preserver of her husband's life nothing but gratitude and good-will. 

How happy a moment for Isoude, who knew that her father had promised his 
deliverer whatever boon he might ask. But the unhappy Tristram gazed on her 
with despair, at the thought of the cruel oath which bound him. His 
magnanimous soul subdued the force of his love. He revealed the oath which 
he had taken, and with trembling voice demanded the fair Isoude for his 
uncle. 

Argius consented, and soon all was prepared for the departure of Isoude. 
Brengwain, her favorite maid-of-honor, was to accompany her. 

On the day of departure the queen took aside this devoted attendant, and 
told her that she had observed that her daughter and Tristram were attached 
to one another, and that to avert the bad effects of this inclination she 
had procured from a powerful fairy a potent philter (love-draught), which 
she directed Brengwain to administer to Isoude and to King Mark on the 
evening of their marriage. 

Isoude and Tristram embarked together. A favorable wind filled the sails and 
promised them a fortunate voyage. The lovers gazed upon one another, and 
could not repress their sighs. Love seemed to light up all his fires on 
their lips, as in their hearts. The day was warm; they suffered from thirst. 
Isoude first complained. Tristram descried the bottle containing the love-
draught, which Brengwain had been so imprudent as to leave in sight. He took 
it, gave some of it to the charming Isoude, and drank the remainder himself. 
The dog Houdain licked the cup. The ship arrived in Cornwall, and Isoude was 
married to King Mark. The old monarch was delighted with his bride, and his 
gratitude to Tristram was unbounded. He loaded him with honors, and made him 
chamberlain of his palace, thus giving him access to the queen at all times. 

In the midst of the festivities of the court which followed the royal 
marriage, an unknown minstrel one day presented himself, bearing a harp of 
peculiar construction. He excited the curiosity of King Mark by refusing to 
play upon it till he should grant him a boon. The king having promised to 
grant his request, the minstrel, who was none other than the Saracen knight, 
Sir Palamedes, the lover of the fair Isoude, sung to the harp a lay, in 
which he demanded Isoude as the promised gift. King Mark could not by the 
laws of knighthood withhold the boon. The lady was mounted on her horse and 
led away by her triumphant lover. Tristram, it is needless to say, was 
absent at the time, and did not return until their departure. When he heard 
what had taken place, he seized his rote, and hastened to the shore, where 
Isoude and her new master had already embarked. Tristram played upon his 
rote, and the sound reached the ears of Isoude, who became so deeply 
affected that Sir Palamedes was induced to return with her to land, that 
they might see the unknown musician. Tristram watched his opportunity, 
seized the lady's horse by the bridle, and plunged with her into the forest, 
tauntingly informing his rival that "what he had got by the harp he had lost 
by the rote." 

Palamedes pursued, and a combat was about to commence, the result of which 
must have been fatal to one or other of these gallant knights; but Isoude 
stepped between them, and, addressing Palamedes, said, "You tell me that you 
love me; you will not then deny me the request I am about to make?" "Lady," 
he replied, "I will perform your bidding." 

"Leave, then," said she, "this contest, and repair to King Arthur's court, 
and salute Queen Guenever for me; tell her that there are in the world but 
two ladies, herself and I, and two lovers, hers and mine; and come thou not 
in future in any place where I am." Palamedes burst into tears. "Ah, lady," 
said he, "I will obey you; but I beseech you that you will not forever steel 
your heart against me." "Palamedes," she replied, "may I never taste of joy 
again if I ever quit my first love." Palamedes then went his way. The lovers 
remained a week in concealment, after which Tristram restored Isoude to her 
husband, advising him in future to reward minstrels in some other way. 

The king showed much gratitude to Tristram, but in the bottom of his heart 
he cherished bitter jealousy of him. One day Tristram and Isoude were alone 
together in her private chamber. A base and cowardly knight of the court, 
named Audret, spied them through a keyhole. They sat at a table of chess, 
but were not attending to the game. Andret brought the king, having first 
raised his suspicions, and placed him so as to watch their motions. The king 
saw enough to confirm his suspicions, and he burst into the apartment with 
his sword drawn, and had nearly slain Tristram before he was put on his 
guard. But Tristram avoided the blow, drew his sword, and drove before him 
the cowardly monarch, chasing him through all the apartments of the palace, 
giving him frequent blows with the flat of his sword, while he cried in vain 
to his knights to save him. They were not inclined, or did not dare to 
interpose in his behalf. 

A proof of the great popularity of the tale of Sir Tristram is the fact that 
the Italian poets, Boiardo and Ariosto, have founded upon it the idea of the 
two enchanted fountains, which produced the opposite effects of love and 
hatred. Boiardo thus describes the fountain of hatred:- 

"Fair was that fountain, sculptured all of gold, 
With alabaster sculptured, rich and rare; 
And in its basin clear thou might'st behold
The flowery marge reflected fresh and fair. 
Sage Merlin framed the font,- so legends bear,- 
When on fair Isoude doated Tristram brave, 
That the good errant knight, arriving there, 
Might quaff oblivion in the enchanted wave, 
And leave his luckless love, and 'scape his timeless grave. 
"But ne'er the warrior's evil fate allowed
His steps that fountain's charmed verge to gain, 
Though restless, roving on adventure proud, 
He traversed oft the land and oft the main."
 

(1) A musical instrument. 

(2) "Good faith was the very corner-stone of chivalry. Whenever a knight's 
word was pledged (it mattered not how rashly), it was to be redeemed at any 
price. Hence the sacred obligation of the boon granted by a knight to his 
suppliant. Instances without number occur in romance, in which a knight, by 
rashly granting an indefinite boon, was obliged to do or suffer something 
extremely to his prejudice. But it is not in romance alone that we find such 
singular instances of adherence to an indefinite promise. The history of the 
times presents authentic transactions equally embarrassing and absurd."- 
SCOTT, note of Sir Tristram. 

 

CHAPTER XI. TRISTRAM AND ISOUDE. 

AFTER this affair Tristram was banished from the kingdom, and Isoude shut up 
in a tower which stood on the bank of a river. Tristram could not resolve to 
depart without some further communication with his beloved; so he concealed 
himself in the forest, till at last he contrived to attract her attention by 
means of twigs which he curiously peeled and sent down the stream under her 
window. By this means many secret interviews were obtained. Tristram dwelt 
in the forest, sustaining himself by game, which the dog Houdain ran down 
for him; for this faithful animal was unequalled in the chase, and knew so 
well his master's wish for concealment that in the pursuit of his game he 
never barked. At length Tristram departed, but left Houdain with Isoude, as 
a remembrancer of him. 

Sir Tristram wandered through various countries, achieving the most perilous 
enterprises, and covering himself with glory, yet unhappy at the separation 
from his beloved Isoude. At length King Mark's territory was invaded by a 
neighboring chieftain, and he was forced to summon his nephew to his aid. 
Tristram obeyed the call, put himself at the head of his uncle's vassals, 
and drove the enemy out of the country. Mark was full of gratitude, and 
Tristram, restored to favor and to the society of his beloved Isoude, seemed 
at the summit of happiness. But a sad reverse was at hand. 

Tristram had brought with him a friend named Pheredin, son of the king of 
Brittany. This young knight saw Queen Isoude, and could not resist her 
charms. Knowing the love of his friend for the queen, and that that love was 
returned, Pheredin concealed his own, until his health failed, and he feared 
he was drawing near his end. He then wrote to the beautiful queen that he 
was dying for love of her. 

The gentle Isoude, in a moment of pity for the friend of Tristram, returned 
him an answer so kind and compassionate that it restored him to life. A few 
days afterward Tristram found this letter. The most terrible jealousy took 
possession of his soul; he would have slain Pheredin, who with difficulty 
made his escape. Then Tristram mounted his horse, and rode to the forest, 
where for ten days he took no rest nor food. At length he was found by a 
damsel lying almost dead by the brink of a fountain. She recognized him, and 
tried in vain to rouse his attention. At last, recollecting his love for 
music, she went and got her harp, and played thereon. Tristram was roused 
from his reverie; tears flowed; he breathed more freely; he took the harp 
from the maiden, and sung this lay, with a voice broken with sobs:- 

"Sweet I sang in former days, 
Kind love perfected my lays: 
Now my art alone displays
The woe that on my being preys.
"Charming love, delicious power, 
Worshipped from my earliest hour, 
Thou who life on all dost shower, 
Love! my life thou dost devour.
"In death's hour I beg of thee, 
Isoude, dearest enemy, 
Thou who erst couldst kinder be, 
When I'm gone, forget not me.
"On my gravestone passers by
Oft will read, as low I lie, 
'Never wight in love could vie
With Tristram, yet she let him die.'"
Tristram, having finished his lay, wrote it off and gave it to the damsel, 
conjuring her to present it to the queen. Meanwhile Queen Isoude was 
inconsolable at the absence of Tristram. She discovered that it was caused 
by the fatal letter which she had written to Pheredin. Innocent, but in 
despair at the sad effects of her letter, she wrote another to Pheredin, 
charging him never to see her again. The unhappy lover obeyed this cruel 
decree. He plunged into the forest, and died of grief and love in a hermit's 
cell. 

Isoude passed her days in lamenting the absence and unknown fate of 
Tristram. One day her jealous husband, having entered her chamber 
unperceived, overheard her, singing the following lay:- 

"My voice to piteous wail is bent, 
My harp to notes of languishment; 
Ah, love! delightsome days be meant
For happier wights, with hearts content.
"Ah, Tristram! far away from me, 
Art thou from restless anguish free? 
Ah! couldst thou so one moment be, 
From her who so much loveth thee?"
The king, hearing these words, burst forth in a rage; but Isoude was too 
wretched to fear his violence. "You have heard me," she said; "I confess it 
all. I love Tristram, and always shall love him. Without doubt he is dead, 
and died for me. I no longer wish to live. The blow that shall finish my 
misery will be most welcome." The king was moved at the distress of the fair 
Isoude, and perhaps the idea of Tristram's death tended to allay his wrath. 
He left the queen in charge of her women, commanding them to take especial 
care lest her despair should lead her to do harm to herself. 

Tristram, meanwhile, distracted as he was, rendered a most important service 
to the shepherds by slaying a gigantic robber named Taullas, who was in the 
habit of plundering their flocks and rifling their cottages. The shepherds, 
in their gratitude to Tristram, bore him in triumph to King Mark to have him 
bestow on him a suitable reward. No wonder Mark failed to recognize in the 
half-clad wild man before him his nephew Tristram; but grateful for the 
service the unknown had rendered, he ordered him to be well taken care of, 
and gave him in charge to the queen and her women. Under such care Tristram 
rapidly recovered his serenity and his health, so that the romancer tells us 
he became handsomer than ever. King Mark's jealousy revived with Tristram's 
health and good looks, and, in spite of his debt of gratitude so lately 
increased, he again banished him from the court. Sir Tristram left Cornwall, 
and proceeded into the land of Loegria (England) in quest of adventures. One 
day he entered a wide forest. The sound of a little bell showed him that 
some inhabitant was near. He followed the sound, and found a hermit, who 
informed him that he was in the forest of Arnantes, belonging to the fairy 
Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, who, smitten with love for King Arthur, had 
found means to entice him to this forest, where by enchantments she held him 
a prisoner, having deprived him of all memory of who and what he was. The 
hermit informed him that all the knights of the Round Table were out in 
search of the king, and that he (Tristram) was now in the scene of the most 
grand and important adventures. 

This was enough to animate Tristram in the search. He had not wandered far 
before he encountered a knight of Arthur's court, who proved to be Sir Kay 
the seneschal, who demanded of him whence he came. Tristram answering, "From 
Cornwall," Sir Kay did not let slip the opportunity of a joke at the expense 
of the Cornish knight. Tristram chose to leave him in his error, and even 
confirmed him in it; for meeting some other knights, Tristram declined to 
joust with them. They spent the night together at an abbey, where Tristram 
submitted patiently to all their jokes. The seneschal gave the word to his 
companions that they should set out early next day, and intercept the 
Cornish knight on his way, and enjoy the amusement of seeing his fright when 
they should insist on running a tilt with him. Tristram next morning found 
himself alone; he put on his armor, and set out to continue his quest. He 
soon saw before him the seneschal and the three knights, who barred the way, 
and insisted on a joust. Tristram excused himself a long time; at last he 
reluctantly took his stand. He encountered them, one after the other, and 
overthrew them all four, man and horse, and then rode off, bidding them not 
to forget their friend, the knight of Cornwall. 

Tristram had not ridden far when he met a damsel, who cried out, "Ah, my 
lord! hasten forward, and prevent a horrid treason!" Tristram flew to her 
assistance, and soon reached a spot where he beheld a knight, whom three 
others had borne to the ground, and were unlacing his helmet in order to cut 
off his head. Tristram flew to the rescue, and slew with one stroke of his 
lance one of the assailants. The knight, recovering his feet, sacrificed 
another to his vengeance, and the third made his escape. The rescued knight 
then raised the visor of his helmet, and a long white beard fell down upon 
his breast. The majesty and venerable air of this knight made Tristram 
suspect that it was none other than Arthur himself, and the prince confirmed 
his conjecture. Tristram would have knelt before him, but Arthur received 
him in his arms, and inquired his name and country; but Tristram declined to 
disclose them, on the plea that he was now on a quest requiring secrecy. At 
this moment the damsel who had brought Tristram to the rescue darted 
forward, and, seizing the king's hand, drew from his finger a ring, the gift 
of the fairy, and by that act dissolved the enchantment. Arthur, having 
recovered his reason and his memory, offered to Tristram to attach him to 
his court, and to confer honors and dignities upon him; but Tristram 
declined all, and only consented to accompany him till he should see him 
safe in the hands of his knights. Soon after, Hector de Marys rode up, and 
saluted the king, who on his part introduced him to Tristram as one of the 
bravest of his knights. Tristram took leave of the king and his faithful 
follower, and continued his quest. 

We cannot follow Tristram through all the adventures which filled this epoch 
of his history. Suffice it to say, he fulfilled on all occasions the duty of 
a true knight, rescuing the oppressed, redressing wrongs, abolishing evil 
customs, and suppressing injustice, thus by constant action endeavoring to 
lighten the pains of absence from her he loved. In the meantime Isoude, 
separated from her dear Tristram, passed her days in languor and regret. At 
length she could no longer resist the desire to hear some news of her lover. 
She wrote a letter, and sent it by one of her damsels, niece of her faithful 
Brengwain. One day Tristram, weary with his exertions, had dismounted and 
laid himself down by the side of a fountain and fallen asleep. The damsel of 
Queen Isoude arrived at the same fountain, and recognized Passebreul, the 
horse of Tristram, and presently perceived his master, asleep. He was thin 
and pale, showing evident marks of the pain he suffered in separation from 
his beloved. She awaked him, and gave him the letter which she bore, and 
Tristram enjoyed the pleasure, so sweet to a lover, of hearing from and 
talking about the object of his affections. He prayed the damsel postpone 
her return till after the magnificent tournament which Arthur had proclaimed 
should have taken place, and conducted her to the castle of Persides, a 
brave and loyal knight, who received her with great consideration. 

Tristram conducted the damsel of Queen Isoude to the tournament and had her 
placed in the balcony among the ladies of the queen. He then joined the 
tourney. Nothing could exceed his strength and valor. Launcelot admired him, 
and by a secret presentiment declined to dispute the honor of the day with a 
knight so gallant and so skilful. Arthur descended from the balcony to greet 
the conqueror; but the modest and devoted Tristram, content with having 
borne off the prize in the sight of the messenger of Isoude, made his escape 
with her, and disappeared. 

The next day the tourney recommenced. Tristram assumed different armor, that 
he might not be known; but he was soon detected by the terrible blows that 
he gave. Arthur and Guenever had no doubt that it was the same knight who 
had borne off the prize of the day before. Arthur's gallant spirit was 
roused. After Launcelot of the Lake and Sir Gawain, he was accounted the 
best knight of the Round Table. He went privately and armed himself, and 
came into the tourney in undistinguished armor. He ran a joust with 
Tristram, whom he shook in his seat; but Tristram, who did not know him, 
threw him out of the saddle. Arthur recovered himself and, content with 
having made proof of the stranger knight, bade Launcelot finish the 
adventure, and vindicate the honor of the Round Table. Sir Launcelot, at the 
bidding of the monarch, assailed Tristram, whose lance was already broken in 
former encounters. But the law of this sort of combat was, that the knight, 
after having broken his lance, must fight with his sword, and must not 
refuse to meet with his shield the lance of his antagonist. Tristram met 
Launcelot's charge upon his shield, which that terrible lance could not fail 
to pierce. It inflicted a wound upon Tristram's side, and breaking, left the 
iron in the wound. But Tristram also with his sword smote so vigorously on 
Launcelot's casque that he cleft it, and wounded his head. The wound was not 
deep, but the blood flowed into his eyes, and blinded him for a moment, and 
Tristram, who thought himself mortally wounded, retired from the field. 
Launcelot declared to the king that he had never received such a blow in his 
life before. 

Tristram hastened to Gouvernail, his squire, who drew forth the iron, bound 
up the wound, and gave him immediate ease. Tristram, after the tournament, 
kept retired in his tent, but Arthur, with the consent of the knights of the 
Round Table, decreed him the honors of the second day. But it was no longer 
a secret that the victor of the two days was the same individual, and 
Gouvernail, being questioned, confirmed the suspicions of Launcelot and 
Arthur, that it was no other than Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, the nephew of 
the king of Cornwall. 

King Arthur, who desired to reward his distinguished valor, and knew that 
his uncle Mark had ungratefully banished him, would have eagerly availed 
himself of the opportunity to attach Tristram to his court,- all the knights 
of the Round Table declaring with acclamation that it would be impossible to 
find a more worthy companion. But Tristram had already departed in search of 
adventures, and the damsel of Queen Isoude returned to her mistress. 



CHAPTER XII. THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 

SIR TRISTRAM rode through a forest, and saw ten men fighting, and one man 
did battle against nine. So he rode to the knights and cried to them, 
bidding them cease their battle, for they did themselves great shame, so 
many knights to fight against one. Then answered the master of the knights 
(his name was Sir Breuse sans Pitie, who was at that time the most 
villainous knight living): "Sir knight, what have ye to do to meddle with 
us? If ye be wise, depart on your way as you came, for this knight shall not 
escape us." "That were pity," said Sir Tristram, "that so good a knight 
should be slain so cowardly; therefore I warn you I will succor him with all 
my puissance." 

Then Sir Tristram alighted off his horse, because they were on foot, that 
they should not slay his horse. And he smote on the right hand and on the 
left so vigorously, that well-nigh at every stroke he struck down a knight. 
At last they fled, with Breuse sans Pitie, into the tower, and shut Sir 
Tristram without the gate. Then Sir Tristram returned back to the rescued 
knight, and found him sitting under a tree, sore wounded. "Fair knight," 
said he, "how is it with you?" "Sir knight," said Sir Palamedes, for he it 
was, "I thank you for your great goodness, for ye have rescued me from 
death." "What is your name?" said Sir Tristram. He said, "My name is Sir 
Palamedes." 

"Say ye so?" said Sir Tristram; "now know that thou art the man in the world 
that I most hate; therefore make thee ready, for I will do battle with 
thee." "What is your name?" said Sir Palamedes. "My name is Sir Tristram, 
your mortal enemy." "It may be so," said Sir Palamedes; "but you have done 
overmuch for me this day, that I should fight with you. Moreover, it will be 
no honor for you to have to do with me, for you are fresh and I am wounded. 
Therefore, if you will needs have to do with me, assign me a day, and I 
shall meet you without fail." "You say well," said Sir Tristram; "now I 
assign you to meet me in the meadow by the river of Camelot, where Merlin 
set the monument." So they were agreed. Then they departed, and took their 
ways diverse. Sir Tristram passed through a great forest into a plain, till 
he came to a priory, and there he reposed him with a good man six days. 

Then departed Sir Tristram, and rode straight into Camelot to the monument 
of Merlin, and there he looked about him for Sir Palamedes. And he perceived 
a seemly knight, who came riding against him all in white, with a covered 
shield. When he came nigh, Sir Tristram said aloud, "Welcome, sir knight, 
and well and truly have you kept your promise." Then they made ready their 
shields and spears, and came together with all the might of their horses, so 
fiercely, that both the horses and the knights fell to the earth. And as 
soon as they might, they quitted their horses, and struck together with 
bright swords as men of might, and each wounded the other wonderfully sore, 
so that the blood ran out upon the grass. Thus they fought for the space of 
four hours, and never one would speak to the other one word. Then at last 
spake the white knight, and said, "Sir, thou fightest wonderful well, as 
ever I saw knight; therefore, if it please you, tell me your name." "Why 
dost thou ask my name?" said Sir Tristram; "art thou not Sir Palamedes?" 
"No, fair knight," said he, "I am Sir Launcelot of the Lake." "Alas!" said 
Sir Tristram, "what have I done? for you are the man of the world that I 
love best." "Fair knight," said Sir Launcelot, "tell me your name." "Truly," 
said he, "my name is Sir Tristram de Lyonesse." "Alas! alas!" said Sir 
Launcelot, "what adventure has befallen me!" And therewith Sir Launcelot 
kneeled down, and yielded him up his sword; and Sir Tristram kneeled down, 
and yielded him up his sword; and so either gave other the degree. And then 
they both went to the stone, and sat them down upon it, and took off their 
helms, and each kissed the other a hundred times. And then anon they rode 
toward Camelot, and on the way they met with Sir Gawain and Sir Gaheris, 
that had made promise to Arthur never to come again to the court till they 
had brought Sir Tristram with them. 

"Return again," said Sir Launcelot, "for your quest is done; for I have met 
with Sir Tristram. Lo, here he is in his own person." Then was Sir Gawain 
glad, and said to Sir Tristram, "Ye are welcome." With this came King 
Arthur, and when he wist there was Sir Tristram, he ran unto him, and took 
him by the hand, and said, "Sir Tristram, ye are as welcome as any knight 
that ever came to this court." Then Sir Tristram told the king how he came 
thither for to have had to do with Sir Palamedes, and how he had rescued him 
from Sir Breuse sans Pitie and the nine knights. Then King Arthur took Sir 
Tristram by the hand, and went to the Table Round, and Queen Guenever came, 
and many ladies with her, and all the ladies said with one voice, "Welcome, 
Sir Tristram." "Welcome," said the knights. "Welcome," said Arthur, "for one 
of the best knights, and the gentlest of the world, and the man of most 
worship; for of all manner of hunting thou bearest the prize, and of all 
measures of blowing thou art the beginning, and of all the terms of hunting 
and hawking ye are the inventor, and of all instruments of music ye are the 
best skilled; therefore, gentle knight," said Arthur, "ye are welcome to 
this court." And then King Arthur made Sir Tristram knight of the Table 
Round with great nobley and feasting as can be thought. The Round Table had 
been made by the famous enchanter Merlin, and on it he had exerted all his 
skill and craft. Of the seats which surrounded it he had constructed 
thirteen, in memory of the thirteen Apostles. Twelve of these seats only 
could be occupied, and they only by knights of the highest fame; the 
thirteenth represented the seat of the traitor Judas. It remained always 
empty. It was called the perilous seat ever since a rash and haughty Saracen 
knight had dared to place himself in it, when the earth opened and swallowed 
him up. 

A magic power wrote upon each seat the name of the knight who was entitled 
to sit in it. No one could succeed to a vacant seat unless he surpassed in 
valor and glorious deeds the knight who had occupied it before him; without 
this qualification he would be violently repelled by a hidden force. Thus 
proof was made of all those who presented themselves to replace any 
companions of the order who had fallen. 

One of the principal seats, that of Moraunt of Ireland, had been vacant ten 
years, and his name still remained over it ever since the time when that 
distinguished champion fell beneath the sword of Sir Tristram. Arthur now 
took Tristram by the hand and led him to that seat. Immediately the most 
melodious sounds were heard, and exquisite perfumes filled the place; the 
name of Moraunt disappeared, and that of Tristram blazed forth in light. The 
rare modesty of Tristram had now to be subjected to a severe task; for the 
clerks charged with the duty of preserving the annals of the Round Table 
attended, and he was required by the law of his order to declare what feats 
of arms he had accomplished to entitle him to take that seat. This ceremony 
being ended, Tristram received the congratulations of all his companions. 
Sir Launcelot and Guenever took occasion to speak to him of the fair Isoude, 
and to express their wish that some happy chance might bring her to the 
kingdom of Loegria. 

While Tristram was thus honored and caressed at the court of King Arthur, 
the most gloomy and malignant jealousy harassed the soul of Mark. He could 
not look upon Isoude without remembering that she loved Tristram, and the 
good fortune of his nephew goaded him to thoughts of vengeance. He at last 
resolved to go disguised into the kingdom of Loegria, attack Tristram by 
stealth, and put him to death. He took with him two knights, brought up in 
his court, who he thought were devoted to him; and, not willing to leave 
Isoude behind, named two of her maidens to attend her, together with her 
faithful Brengwain, and made them accompany him. 

Having arrived in the neighborhood of Camelot, Mark imparted his plan to his 
two knights, but they rejected it with horror; nay, more, they declared that 
they would no longer remain in his service; and left him, giving him reason 
to suppose that they should repair to the court to accuse him before Arthur. 
It was necessary for Mark to meet and rebut their accusation; so, leaving 
Isoude in an abbey, he pursued his way alone to Camelot. 

Mark had not ridden far when he encountered a party of knights of Arthur's 
court, and would have avoided them, for he knew their habit of challenging 
to a joust every stranger knight whom they met. But it was too late. They 
had seen his armor, and recognized him as a Cornish knight, and at once 
resolved to have some sport with him. It happened they had with them, 
Daguenet, King Arthur's fool, who, though deformed and weak of body, was not 
wanting in courage. The knights as Mark approached laid their plan that 
Daguenet should personate Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and challenge the 
Cornish knight. They equipped him in armor belonging to one of their number 
who was ill, and sent him forward to the cross-road to defy the strange 
knight. Mark, who saw that his antagonist was by no means formidable in 
appearance, was not disinclined to the combat; but when the dwarf rode 
towards him, calling out that he was Sir Launcelot of the Lake, his fears 
prevailed, he put spurs to his horse, and rode away at full speed, pursued 
by the shouts and laughter of the party. 

Meanwhile, Isoude, remaining at the abbey with her faithful Brengwain, found 
her only amusement in walking occasionally in a forest adjoining the abbey. 
There, on the brink of a fountain girdled with trees, she thought of her 
love, and sometimes joined her voice and her harp in lays reviving the 
memory of its pains or pleasures. One day the caitiff knight, Breuse the 
Pitiless, heard her voice, concealed himself, and drew near. She sang:- 

"Sweet silence, shadowy bower, and verdant lair, 
Ye court my troubled spirit to repose, 
Whilst I, such dear remembrance rises there, 
Awaken every echo with my woes.
"Within these woods, by Nature's hand arrayed, 
A fountain springs, and feeds a thousand flowers; 
Ah! how my groans do all its murmurs aid! 
How my sad eyes do swell it with their showers!
"What doth my knight the while? to him is given
A double meed; in love and arms' emprise, 
Him the Round Table elevates to heaven! 
Tristram! ah me! he hears not Isoude's cries."
Breuse the Pitiless, who, like most other caitiffs, had felt the weight of 
Tristram's arm, and hated him accordingly, at hearing his name breathed 
forth by the beautiful songstress, impelled by a double impulse, rushed 
forth from his concealment and laid hands on his victim. Isoude fainted, and 
Brengwain filled the air with her shrieks. Breuse carried Isoude to the 
place where he had left his horse; but the animal had got away from his 
bridle, and was at some distance. He was obliged to lay down his fair 
burden, and go in pursuit of his horse. Just then a knight came up, drawn by 
the cries of Brengwain, and demanded the cause of her distress. She could 
not speak, but pointed to her mistress lying insensible on the ground. 
Breuse had by this time returned, and the cries of Brengwain, renewed at 
seeing him, sufficiently showed the stranger the cause of the distress. 
Tristram spurred his horse towards Breuse, who, not unprepared, ran to the 
encounter. Breuse was unhorsed, and lay motionless, pretending to be dead; 
but when the stranger knight left him to attend to the distressed damsels, 
he mounted his horse, and made his escape. 

The knight now approached Isoude, gently raised her head, drew aside the 
golden hair which covered her countenance, gazed thereon for an instant, 
uttered a cry, and fell back insensible. Brengwain came; her caress soon 
restored her mistress to life, and they then turned their attention to the 
fallen warrior. They raised his visor, and discovered the countenance of Sir 
Tristram. Isoude threw herself on the body of her lover, and bedewed his 
face with her tears. Their warmth revived the knight, and Tristram, on 
awaking, found himself in the arms of his dear Isoude. 

It was the law of the Round Table that each knight after his admission 
should pass the next ten days in quest of adventures, during which time his 
companions might meet him in disguised armor, and try their strength with 
him. Tristram had now been out seven days, and in that time had encountered 
many of the best knights of the Round Table, and acquitted himself with 
honor. During the remaining three days Isoude remained at the abbey, under 
his protection, and then set out with her maidens, escorted by Sir Tristram, 
to rejoin King Mark at the court of Camelot. 

This happy journey was one of the brightest epochs in the lives of Tristram 
and Isoude. He celebrated it by a lay upon the harp in a peculiar measure, 
to which the French give the name of Triolet:- 

"With fair Isoude, and with love, 
Ah! how sweet the life I lead! 
How blest forever thus to rove, 
With fair Isoude, and with love! 
As she wills, I live and move, 
And cloudless days to days succeed: 
With fair Isoude, and with love, 
Ah! how sweet the life I lead!
"Journeying on from break of day, 
Feel you not fatigued, my fair? 
Yon green turf invites to play; 
Journeying on from day to day, 
Ah! let us to that shade away, 
Were it but to slumber there! 
Journeying on from break of day, 
Feel you not fatigued, my fair?"
They arrived at Camelot, where Sir Launcelot received them most cordially. 
Isoude was introduced to King Arthur and Queen Guenever, who welcomed her as 
a sister. As King Mark was held in arrest under the accusation of the two 
Cornish knights, Queen Isoude could not rejoin her husband, and Sir 
Launcelot placed his castle of La Joyeuse Garde at the disposal of his 
friends, who there took up their abode. 

King Mark, who found himself obliged to confess the truth of the charge 
against him, or to clear himself by combat with his accusers, preferred the 
former, and King Arthur, as his crime had not been perpetrated, remitted the 
penalty, only enjoining upon him, under pain of his signal displeasure, to 
lay aside all thoughts of vengeance against his nephew. In the presence of 
the king and his court, all parties were formally reconciled; Mark and his 
queen departed for their home, and Tristram remained at Arthur's court. 



CHAPTER XIII. END OF THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE. 

WHILE Sir Tristram and the fair Isoude abode yet at La Joyeuse Garde, Sir 
Tristram rode forth one day, without armor, having no weapon but his spear 
and his sword. And as he rode he came to a place where he saw two knights in 
battle, and one of them had gotten the better, and the other lay overthrown. 
The knight who had the better was Sir Palamedes. When Sir Palamedes knew Sir 
Tristram, he cried out, "Sir Tristram, now we be met, and ere we depart we 
will redress our old wrongs." "As for that," said Sir Tristram, "there never 
yet was Christian man that might make his boast that I ever fled from him, 
and thou that art a Saracen shalt never say that of me." And therewith Sir 
Tristram made his horse to run, and with all his might came straight upon 
Sir Palamedes, and broke his spear upon him. Then he drew his sword and 
struck at Sir Palamedes six great strokes, upon his helm. Sir Palamedes saw 
that Sir Tristram had not his armor on, and he marvelled at his rashness and 
his great folly; and said to himself, "If I meet and slay him I am ashamed 
wheresoever I go." Then Sir Tristram cried out and said, "Thou coward 
knight, why wilt thou not do battle with me? for have thou no doubt I shall 
endure all thy malice." "Ah, Sir Tristram!" said Sir Palamedes, "thou 
knowest I may not fight with thee for shame; for thou art here naked, and I 
am armed; now I require that thou answer me a question that I shall ask 
you." "Tell me what it is," said Sir Tristram. "I put the case," said Sir 
Palamedes, "that you were well armed, and I naked as ye be; what would you 
do to me now, by your true knighthood?" "Ah!" said Sir Tristram, "now I 
understand thee well, Sir Palamedes; and, as God me bless, what I shall say 
shall not be said for fear that I have of thee. But if it were so, thou 
shouldest depart from me, for I would not have to do with thee." "No more 
will I with thee," said Sir Palamedes, "and therefore ride forth on thy 
way." "As for that, I may choose," said Sir Tristram, "either to ride or to 
abide. But, Sir Palamedes, I marvel at one thing,- that thou art so good a 
knight, yet that thou wilt not be christened." "As for that," said Sir 
Palamedes, "I may not yet be christened, for a vow which I made many years 
ago; yet in my heart I believe in our Saviour and his mild mother Mary; but 
I have yet one battle to do, and when that is done I will be christened, 
with a good will." "By my head," said Sir Tristram, "as for that one battle, 
thou shalt seek it no longer; for yonder is a knight, whom you have smitten 
down. Now help me to be clothed in his armor, and I will soon fulfil thy 
vow." "As ye will," said Sir Palamedes, "so shall it be." So they rode both 
unto that knight that sat on a bank; and Sir Tristram saluted him, and he 
full weakly saluted him again. "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "I pray you to lend 
me your whole armor; for I am unarmed, and I must do battle with this 
knight." "Sir," said the hurt knight, "you shall have it, with a right good 
will." Then Sir Tristram unarmed Sir Galleron, for that was the name of the 
hurt knight, and he as well as he could helped to arm Sir Tristram. Then Sir 
Tristram mounted upon his own horse, and in his hand he took Sir Galleron's 
spear. Thereupon Sir Palamedes was ready, and so they came hurtling 
together, and each smote the other in the midst of their shields. Sir 
Palamedes' spear broke, and Sir Tristram smote down the horse. Then Sir 
Palamedes leapt from his horse, and drew out his sword. That saw Sir 
Tristram, and therewith he alighted and tied his horse to a tree. Then they 
came together as two wild beasts, lashing the one on the other, and so 
fought more than two hours; and often Sir Tristram smote such strokes at Sir 
Palamedes that he made him to kneel, and Sir Palamedes broke away Sir 
Tristram's shield, and wounded him. Then Sir Tristram was wroth out of 
measure, and he rushed to Sir Palamedes and wounded him passing sore through 
the shoulder, and by fortune smote Sir Palamedes' sword out of his hand. And 
if Sir Palamedes had stooped for his sword, Sir Tristram had slain him. 

Then Sir Palamedes stood and beheld his sword with a full sorrowful heart. 
"Now," said Sir Tristram, "I have thee at a vantage, as thou hadst me to-
day; but it shall never be said, in court, or among good knights, that Sir 
Tristram did slay any knight that was weaponless: therefore take thou thy 
sword, and let us fight this battle to the end." Then spoke Sir Palamedes to 
Sir Tristram: "I have no wish to fight this battle any more. The offence 
that I have done unto you is not so great but that, if it please you, we may 
be friends. All that I have offended is for the love of the queen, La Belle 
Isoude, and I dare maintain that she is peerless among ladies; and for that 
offence ye have given me many grievous and sad strokes, and some I have 
given you again, Wherefore I require you, my lord Sir Tristram, forgive me 
all that I have offended you, and this day have me unto the next church; and 
first I will be clean confessed, and after that see you that I be truly 
baptized, and then we will ride together unto the court of my lord, King 
Arthur, so that we may be there at the feast of Pentecost." "Now take your 
horse," said Sir. Tristram, "and as you have said, so shall it be done." So 
they took their horses, and Sir Galleron rode with them. When they came to 
the church of Carlisle, the bishop commanded to fill a great vessel with 
water; and when he had hallowed it, he then confessed Sir Palamedes clean, 
and christened him; and Sir Tristram and Sir Galleron were his godfathers. 
Then soon after they departed, and rode toward Camelot, where the noble King 
Arthur and Queen Guenever were keeping a court royal. And the king and all 
the court were glad that Sir Palamedes was christened. Then Sir Tristram 
returned again to La Joyeuse Garde, and Sir Palamedes went his way. 

Not long after these events Sir Gawain returned from Brittany, and related 
to King Arthur the adventure which befell him in the forest of Breciliande,- 
how Merlin had there spoken to him, and enjoined him to charge the king to 
go without delay upon the quest of the Holy Greal. While King Arthur 
deliberated, Tristram determined to enter upon the quest, and the more 
readily, as it was well known to him that this holy adventure would, if 
achieved, procure him the pardon of all his sins. He immediately departed 
for the kingdom of Brittany, hoping there to obtain from Merlin counsel as 
to the proper course to pursue to insure success. 

On arriving in Brittany Tristram found King Hoel engaged in a war with a 
rebellious vassal, and hard pressed by his enemy. His best knights had 
fallen in a late battle, and he knew not where to turn for assistance. 
Tristram volunteered his aid. It was accepted; and the army of Hoel, led by 
Tristram, and inspired by his example, gained a complete victory. The king 
penetrated by the most lively sentiments of gratitude, and having informed 
himself of Tristram's birth, offered him his daughter in marriage. The 
princess was beautiful and accomplished, and bore the same name with the 
Queen of Cornwall; but this one is designated by the Romancers as Isoude of 
the White Hands, to distinguish her from Isoude the Fair. 

How can we describe the conflict that agitated the heart of Tristram? He 
adored the first Isoude, but his love for her was hopeless, and not 
unaccompanied by remorse. Moreover, the sacred quest on which he had now 
entered demanded of him perfect purity of life. It seemed as if a happy 
destiny had provided for him, in the charming princess Isoude of the White 
Hands, the best security for all his good resolutions. This last reflection 
determined him. They were married, and passed some months in tranquil 
happiness at the court of King Hoel. The pleasure which Tristram felt in his 
wife's society increased day by day. An inward grace seemed to stir within 
him from the moment when he took the oath to go on the quest of the Holy 
Greal; it seemed even to triumph over the power of the magic love-potion. 

The war, which had been quelled for a time, now burst anew. Tristram, as 
usual, was foremost in every danger. The enemy was worsted in successive 
conflicts, and at last shut himself up in his principal city. Tristram led 
on the attack of the city. As he mounted a ladder to scale the walls, he was 
struck on the head by a fragment of rock, which the besieged threw down upon 
him. It bore him to the ground, where he lay insensible. 

As soon as he recovered consciousness, he demanded to be carried to his 
wife. The princess, skilled in the art of surgery, would not suffer any one 
but herself to touch her beloved husband. Her fair hands bound up his 
wounds; Tristram kissed them with gratitude, which began to grow into love. 
At first the devoted cares of Isoude seemed to meet with great success; but 
after awhile these flattering appearances vanished, and, in spite of all her 
care, the malady grew more serious day by day. 

In this perplexity, an old squire of Tristram's reminded his master that the 
princess of Ireland, afterward queen of Cornwall, had once cured him under 
circumstances quite as discouraging. He called Isoude of the White Hands to 
him, told her of his former cure, added that he believed that the Queen 
Isoude could heal him, and that he felt sure that she would come to his 
relief if sent for. 

Isoude of the White Hands consented that Gesnes, a trusty man and skilful 
navigator, should be sent to Cornwall. Tristram called him, and, giving him 
a ring, "Take this," he said, "to the Queen of Cornwall. Tell her that 
Tristram, near to death, demands her aid. If you succeed in bringing her 
with you, place white sails to your vessel on your return, that we may know 
of your success when the vessel first heaves in sight. But if Queen Isoude 
refuses, put on black sails; they will be the presage of my impending 
death." 

Gesnes performed his mission successfully. King Mark happened to be absent 
from his capital, and the queen readily consented to return with the bark to 
Brittany. Gesnes clothed his vessel in the whitest of sails, and sped his 
way back to Brittany. 

Meantime the wound of Tristram grew more desperate day by day. His strength, 
quite prostrated, no longer permitted him to be carried to the seaside 
daily, as had been his custom from the first moment when it was possible for 
the bark to be on the way homeward. He called a young damsel, and gave her 
in charge to keep watch in the direction of Cornwall, and to come and tell 
him the color of the sails of the first vessel she should see approaching. 

When Isoude of the White Hands consented that the queen of Cornwall should 
be sent for, she had not known all the reasons which she had for fearing the 
influence which renewed intercourse with that princess might have on her own 
happiness. She had now learned more, and felt the danger more keenly. She 
thought, if she could only keep the knowledge of the queen's arrival from 
her husband, she might employ in his service any resources which her skill 
could supply, and still avert the dangers which she apprehended. When the 
vessel was seen approaching, with its white sails sparkling in the sun, the 
damsel, by command of her mistress, carried word to Tristram that the sails 
were black. 

Tristram, penetrated with inexpressible grief, breathed a profound sigh, 
turned away his face, and said, "Alas, my beloved! we shall never see one 
another again!" Then he commended himself to God, and breathed his last. 

The death of Tristram was the first intelligence which the queen of Cornwall 
heard on landing. She was conducted almost senseless into the chamber of 
Tristram, and expired holding him in her arms. Tristram, before his death, 
requested that his body should be sent to Cornwall, and that his sword, with 
a letter he had written, should be delivered to King Mark. The remains of 
Tristram and Isoude were embarked in a vessel, along with the sword, which 
was presented to the king of Cornwall, He was melted with tenderness when he 
saw the weapon which slew Moraunt of Ireland,- which had so often saved his 
life, and redeemed the honor of his kingdom. In the letter Tristram begged 
pardon of his uncle, and related the story of the amorous draught. 

Mark ordered the lovers to be buried in his own chapel. From the tomb of 
Tristram there sprung a vine, which went along the walls, and descended into 
the grave of the queen. It was cut down three times, but each time sprung up 
again more vigorous than before, and this wonderful plant has ever since 
shaded the tombs of Tristram and Isoude. 

Spenser introduces Sir Tristram in his Faery Queene. In Book VI., Canto ii., 
Sir Calidore encounters in the forest a young hunter, whom he thus 
describes:- 

"Him steadfastly he marked, and saw to be
A goodly youth of amiable grace, 
Yet but a slender slip, that scarce did see
Yet seventeen yeares; but tall and faire of face, 
That sure he deemed him borne of noble race. 
All in a woodman's jacket he was clad
Of Lincoln greene, belayed with silver lace; 
And on his head an hood with aglets (1) sprad, 
And by his side his hunter's horne he hanging had.
"Buskins he wore of costliest cordawayne, 
Pinckt upon gold, and paled part per part,(2) 
As then the guize was for each gentle swayne, 
In his right hand he held a trembling dart, 
Whose fellow he before had sent apart; 
And in his left he held a sharp bore-speare, 
With which he wont to launch the salvage heart
Of many a lyon, and of many a beare, 
That first unto his hand in chase did happen neare."
Tristram is often alluded to by the Romancers as the great authority and 
model in all matters relating to the chase. In the Faery Queene, Tristram, 
in answer to the inquiries of Sir Calidore, informs him of his name and 
parentage, and concludes:- 

"All which my days I have not lewdly spent, 
Nor spilt the blossom of my tender years
In idlesse; but, as was convenient, 
Have trained been with many noble feres
In gentle thewes, and such like seemly leers;(3) 
'Mongst which my most delight hath always been
To hunt the salvage chace, amongst my peers, 
Of all that rangeth in the forest green
Of which none is to me unknown that yet was seen.
"Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch, 
Whether high towering or accosting low, 
But I the measure of her flight do search, 
And all her prey, and all her diet know. 
Such be our joys, which in these forests grow."
 
(1) Aglets, points or tags. 

(2) Pinckt upon gold, etc., adorned with golden points, or eyelets, and 
regularly intersected with stripes. Paled (in heraldry), striped. 

(3)Feres, companions; thewes, labors; leers, learning. 



CHAPTER XIV. THE STORY OF PERCEVAL. 

"-Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood called the Pure." TENNYSON. 

THE father and two elder brothers of Perceval had fallen in battle or 
tournaments, and hence, as the last hope of his family, his mother retired 
with him into a solitary region, where he was brought up in total ignorance 
of arms and chivalry. He was allowed no weapon but "a lyttel Scots spere," 
which was the only thing of all "her lordes faire gere" that his mother 
carried to the wood with her. In the use of this he became so skilful that 
he could kill with it not only the animals of the chase for her table, but 
even birds on the wing. At length, however, Perceval was roused to a desire 
of military renown by seeing in the forest five knights who were in complete 
armor. He said to his mother, "Mother, what are those yonder?" "They are 
angels, my son," said she. "By my faith, I will go and become an angel with 
them." And Perceval went to the road and met them. "Tell me, good lad," said 
one of them, "sawest thou a knight pass this way either to-day or 
yesterday?" "I know not," said he, "what a knight is." "Such an one as I 
am," said the knight. "If thou wilt tell me what I ask thee, I will tell 
thee what thou askest me." "Gladly will I do so," said Sir Owain, for that 
was the knight's name. 

"What is this?" demanded Perceval, touching the saddle. "It is a saddle," 
said Owain. Then he asked about all the accoutrements which he saw upon the 
men and the horses, and about the arms, and what they were for, and how they 
were used. And Sir Owain showed him all those things fully. And Perceval in 
return gave him such information as he had. 

Then Perceval returned to his mother, and said to her, "Mother, those were 
not angels, but honorable knights." Then his mother swooned away. And 
Perceval went to the place where they kept the horses that carried firewood 
and provisions for the castle, and he took a bony, piebald horse, which 
seemed to him the strongest of them. And he pressed a pack into the form of 
a saddle, and with twisted twigs he imitated the trappings which he had seen 
upon the horses. When he came again to his mother the countess had recovered 
from her swoon. "My son," said she, "desirest thou to ride forth?" "Yes, 
with thy leave," said he. "Go forward then," she said, "to the court of 
Arthur, where there are the best and the noblest and the most bountiful of 
men, and tell him thou art Perceval, the son of Pelenore, and ask of him to 
bestow knighthood on thee. And whenever thou seest a church, repeat there 
thy paternoster; and if thou see meat and drink, and hast need of them, thou 
mayest take them. If thou hear an outcry of one in distress, proceed toward 
it, especially if it be the cry of a woman, and render her what service thou 
canst. If thou see a fair jewel, win it, for thus shalt thou acquire fame; 
yet freely give it to another, for thus thou shalt obtain praise. If thou 
see a fair woman, pay court to her, for thus thou wilt obtain love." 

After this discourse Perceval mounted the horse, and, taking a number of 
sharp-pointed sticks in his hand, he rode forth. And he rode far in the 
woody wilderness without food or drink. At last he came to an opening in the 
wood, where he saw a tent, and as he thought it might be a church he said 
his pater-noster to it. And he went toward it; and the door of the tent was 
open. And Perceval dismounted and entered the tent. In the tent he found a 
maiden sitting, with a golden frontlet on her forehead and a gold ring on 
her hand. And Perceval said, "Maiden, I salute you, for my mother told me 
whenever I met a lady I must respectfully salute her." Perceiving in one 
corner of the tent some food, two flasks full of wine, and some boar's flesh 
roasted, he said, "My mother told me, whenever I saw meat and drink to take 
it." And he ate greedily, for he was very hungry. "Sir, thou hadst best go 
quickly from here, for fear that my friends should come, and evil should 
befall you." But Perceval said, "My mother told me wheresoever I saw a fair 
jewel to take it," and he took the gold ring from her finger, and put it on 
his own; and he gave the maiden his own ring in exchange for hers; then he 
mounted his horse and rode away. 

Perceval journeyed on till he arrived at Arthur's court. And it so happened 
that just at that time an uncourteous knight had offered Queen Guenever a 
gross insult. For when her page was serving the queen with a golden goblet, 
this knight struck the arm of the page and dashed the wine in the queen's 
face and over her stomacher. Then he said, "If any have boldness to avenge 
this insult to Guenever, let him follow me to the meadow." So the knight 
took his horse and rode to the meadow, carrying away the golden goblet. And 
all the household hung down their heads, and no one offered to follow the 
knight to take vengeance upon him. For it seemed to them that no one would 
have ventured on so daring an outrage unless he possessed such powers, 
through magic or charms, that none could be able to punish him. Just then, 
behold, Perceval entered the hall upon the bony, piebald horse, with his 
uncouth trappings. In the centre of the hall stood Kay the seneschal. "Tell 
me, tall man," said Perceval, "is that Arthur yonder?" "What wouldst thou 
with Arthur?" asked Kay. "My mother told me to go to Arthur and receive 
knighthood from him." "By my faith," said he, "thou art all too meanly 
equipped with horse and with arms." Then all the household began to jeer and 
laugh at him. But there was a certain damsel who had been a whole year at 
Arthur's court, and had never been known to smile. And the king's fool (1) 
had said that this damsel would not smile till she had seen him who would be 
the flower of chivalry. Now this damsel came up to Perceval and told him, 
smiling, that, if he lived, he would be one of the bravest and best of 
knights. "Truly," said Kay, "thou art ill taught to remain a year at 
Arthur's court, with choice of society, and smile on no one, and now before 
the face of Arthur and all his knights to call such a man as this the flower 
of knighthood;" and he gave her a box on the ear, that she fell senseless to 
the ground. Then said Kay to Perceval, "Go after the knight who went hence 
to the meadow, overthrow him and recover the golden goblet, and possess 
thyself of his horse and arms, and thou shalt have knighthood." "I will do 
so, tall man," said Perceval. So he turned his horse's head toward the 
meadow. And when he came there, the knight was riding up and down, proud of 
his strength and valor and noble mien. "Tell me," said the knight, "didst 
thou see any one coming after me from the court?" 

"The tall man that was there," said Perceval, "told me to come and overthrow 
thee, and to take from thee the goblet and thy horse and armor for myself." 
"Silence!" said the knight; "go back to the court, and tell Arthur either to 
come himself, or to send some other to fight with me; and unless he do so 
quickly, I will not wait for him." "By my faith," said Perceval, "choose 
thou whether it shall be willingly or unwillingly, for I will have the horse 
and the arms and the goblet." Upon this the knight ran at him furiously, and 
struck him a violent blow with the shaft of his spear, between the neck and 
the shoulder. "Ha, ha, lad!" said Perceval, "my mother's servants were not 
used to play with me in this wise; so thus will I play with thee." And he 
threw at him one of his sharp-pointed sticks, and it struck him in the eye, 
and came out at the back of his head, so that he fell down lifeless. 

But at the court of Arthur, Sir Owain said to Kay, "Verily, thou wert ill 
advised when thou didst send that madman after the knight. 

For one of two things must befall him. He must either be overthrown or 
slain. If he is overthrown by the knight, he will be counted by him to be an 
honorable person of the court, and an eternal disgrace will it be to Arthur 
and his warriors. And if he is slain, the disgrace will be the same, and 
moreover his sin will be upon him; therefore will I go to see what has 
befallen him." So Sir Owain went to the meadow, and he found Perceval 
dragging the man about. "What art thou doing thus?" said Sir Owain. "This 
iron coat," said Perceval, "will never come from off him; not by my efforts, 
at any rate." And Sir Owain unfastened his armor and his clothes. "Here, my 
good soul," said he, "is a horse and armor better than thine. Take them 
joyfully, and come with me to Arthur to receive the order of knighthood, for 
thou dost merit it." And Owain helped Perceval to put it on, and taught him 
how to put his foot in the stirrup, and use the spur; for Perceval had never 
used stirrup nor spur, but rode without saddle, and urged on his horse with 
a stick. Then Owain would have had him return to the court to receive the 
praise that was his due; but Perceval said, "I will not come to the court 
till I have encountered the tall man that is there, to revenge the injury he 
did to the maiden. But take thou the goblet to Queen Guenever, and tell King 
Arthur that, wherever I am, I will be his vassal, and will do him what 
profit and service I can." And Sir Owain went back to the court, and related 
all these things to Arthur and Guenever, and to all the household. 

And Perceval rode forward. And as he proceeded, behold a knight met him. 
"Whence comest thou?" said the knight. "I come from Arthur's court," said 
Perceval. "Art thou one of his men?" asked he. "Yes, by my faith," he 
answered. "A good service, truly, is that of Arthur." "Wherefore sayest thou 
so?" said Perceval. "I will tell thee," said he. "I have always been 
Arthur's enemy, and all such of his men as I have ever encountered I have 
slain." And without further parlance they fought, and it was not long before 
Perceval brought him to the ground, over his horse's crupper. Then the 
knight besought his mercy. "Mercy thou shalt have," said Perceval, "if thou 
wilt make oath to me that thou wilt go to Arthur's court and tell him that 
it was I that overthrew thee, for the honor of his service; and say that I 
will never come to the court until I have avenged the insult offered to the 
maiden. The knight pledged him faith of this, and proceeded to the court of 
Arthur and said as he had promised, and conveyed the threat to Sir Kay. 

And Perceval rode forward. And within that week he encountered sixteen 
knights, and overthrew them all shamefully. And they all went to Arthur's 
court, taking with them the same message which the first knight had conveyed 
from Perceval, and the same threat which he had sent to Sir Kay. And 
thereupon Sir Kay was reproved by Arthur; and Sir Kay was greatly grieved 
thereat. 

And Perceval rode forward. And he came to a lake, on the side of which was a 
fair castle, and on the border of the lake he saw a hoary-headed man sitting 
upon a velvet cushion, and his attendants were fishing in the lake. When the 
hoary-headed man beheld Perceval approaching, he arose and went into the 
castle. Perceval rode to the castle, and the door was open, and he entered 
the hall. And the hoary-headed man received Perceval courteously, and asked 
him to sit by him on the cushion. When it was time, the tables were set, and 
they went to meat. And when they had finished their meat, the hoary-headed 
man asked Perceval if he knew how to fight with the sword. "I know not," 
said Perceval, "but were I to be taught, doubtless I should." "Whoever can 
play well with the cudgel and shield will also be able to fight with a 
sword." And the man had two sons; the one had yellow hair and the other 
auburn. "Arise, youths," said the old man, "and play with the cudgel and the 
shield." And so did they. "Tell me, my son," said the man, "which of the 
youths thinkest thou plays best?" "I think," said Perceval, "that the 
yellow-haired youth could draw blood if he chose." "Arise thou, then, and 
take the cudgel and the shield from the hand of the youth with the auburn 
hair, and draw blood from the yellow-haired youth if thou canst." So 
Perceval arose, and he lifted up his arm, and struck him such a mighty blow 
that he cut his forehead open from one side to the other. "Ah, my life," 
said the old man, "come, now, and sit down, for thou wilt become the best 
fighter with the sword of any in this island; and I am thy uncle, thy 
mother's brother; I am called King Pecheur. (2) Thou shalt remain with me a 
space, in order to learn the manners and customs of different countries, and 
courtesy and noble bearing. And this do thou remember: if thou seest aught 
to cause thy wonder, ask not the meaning of it; if no one has the courtesy 
to inform thee. the reproach will not fall upon thee, but upon me that am 
thy teacher." While Perceval and his uncle discoursed together, Perceval 
beheld two youths enter the hall, bearing a golden cup and a spear of mighty 
size, with blood dropping from its point to the ground. And when all the 
company saw this, they began to weep and lament. But for all that, the man 
did not break off his discourse with Perceval. And as he did not tell him 
the meaning of what he saw, he forbore to ask him concerning it. Now the cup 
that Perceval saw was the Sangreal, and the spear the sacred spear; and 
afterwards King Pecheur removed with those sacred relics into a far country. 

One evening Perceval entered a valley, and came to a hermit's cell; and the 
hermit welcomed him gladly, and there he spent the night. And in the morning 
he arose, and when he went forth, behold! a shower of snow had fallen in the 
night, and a hawk had killed a wild-fowl in front of the cell. And the noise 
of the horse had scared the hawk away, and a raven alighted on the bird. And 
Perceval stood and compared the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of 
the snow and the redness of the blood to the hair of the lady that best he 
loved, which was blacker than jet, and to her skin, which was whiter than 
the snow, and to the two red spots upon her cheeks, which were redder than 
the blood upon the snow. 

Now Arthur and his household were in search of Perceval, and by chance they 
came that way. "Know ye," said Arthur, "who is the knight with the long 
spear that stands by the brook up yonder?" "Lord," said one of them, "I will 
go and learn who he is." So the youth came to the place where Perceval was, 
and asked him what he did thus, and who he was. But Perceval was so intent 
upon his thought that he gave him no answer. Then the youth thrust at 
Perceval with his lance; and Perceval turned upon him and struck him to the 
ground. And when the youth returned to the king, and told how rudely he had 
been treated, Sir Kay said, "I will go myself." And when he greeted 
Perceval, and got no answer, he spoke to him rudely and angrily. And 
Perceval thrust at him with his lance, and cast him down so that he broke 
his arm and his shoulder-blade. And while he lay thus stunned, his horse 
returned back at a wild and prancing pace. 

Then said Sir Gawain, surnamed the Golden-Tongued, because he was the most 
courteous knight in Arthur's court: "It is not fitting that any should 
disturb an honorable knight from his thought unadvisedly; for either he is 
pondering some damage that he has sustained, or he is thinking of the lady 
he best loves. If it seem well to thee, lord, I will go and see if this 
knight has changed from his thought, and if he has, I will ask him 
courteously to come and visit thee." 

And Perceval was resting on the shaft of his spear, pondering the same 
thought, and Sir Gawain came to him, and said, "If I thought it would be as 
agreeable to thee as it would be to me, I would converse with thee. I have 
also a message from Arthur unto thee, to pray thee to come and visit him. 
And two men have been before on this errand." "That is true," said Perceval, 
"and uncourteously they came. They attacked me, and I was annoyed thereat." 
Then he told him the thought that occupied his mind, and Gawain said, "This 
was not an ungentle thought, and I should marvel if it were pleasant for 
thee to be drawn from it." Then said Perceval, "Tell me, is Sir Kay in 
Arthur's court?" "He is," said Gawain; "and truly he is the knight who 
fought with thee last." "Verily," said Perceval, "I am not sorry to have 
thus avenged the insult to the smiling maiden." Then Perceval told him his 
name, and said, "Who art thou?" And he replied, "I am Gawain." "I am right 
glad to meet thee," said Perceval, "for I have everywhere heard of thy 
prowess and uprightness; and I solicit thy fellowship." "Thou shalt have it, 
by my faith; and grant me thine," said he. "Gladly will I do so," answered 
Perceval. 

So they went together to Arthur, and saluted him. "Behold, lord," said 
Gawain, "him whom thou hast sought so long." "Welcome unto thee, chieftain," 
said Arthur. And hereupon there came the queen and her handmaidens, and 
Perceval saluted them. And they were rejoiced to see him, and bade him 
welcome. And Arthur did him great honor and respect, and they returned 
toward Caerleon. 

 

(1) A fool was a common appendage of the courts of those days when this 
romance was written. A fool was the ornament held in next estimation to a 
dwarf. He wore a white dress with a yellow bonnet, and carried a bell or 
bawble in his hand. Though called a fool, his words were often weighed and 
remembered as if there were a sort of oracular meaning in them. 

(2) The word means both fisher and sinner. 

 
CHAPTER XV. THE QUEST OF THE SANGREAL.

"-The cup itself from which our Lord
Drank at the last sad supper with His own. 
This from the blessed land of Aromat, 
After the day of darkness, when the dead
Went wandering over Moriah- the good saint, 
Arimathean Joseph, journeying, brought
To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord, 
And there awhile abode; and if a man
Could touch or see it, he was healed at once, 
By faith, of all his ills. But then the times
Grew to such evil that the holy cup
Was caught away to Heaven, and disappeared." 
TENNYSON.
THE Sangreal was the cup from which our Saviour drank at his last supper. He 
was supposed to have given it to Joseph of Arimathea, who carried it to 
Europe, together with the spear with which the soldier pierced the Saviour's 
side. From generation to generation one of the descendants of Joseph of 
Arimathea had been devoted to the guardianship of these precious relics; but 
on the sole condition of leading a life of purity in thought, word, and 
deed. For a long time the Sangreal was visible to all pilgrims, and its 
presence conferred blessings upon the land in which it was preserved. But at 
length one of those holy men to whom its guardianship had descended so far 
forgot the obligation of his sacred office as to look with unhallowed eye 
upon a young female pilgrim whose robe was accidentally loosened as she 
knelt before him. The sacred lance instantly punished his frailty, 
spontaneously falling upon him, and inflicting a deep wound. The marvellous 
wound could by no means be healed, and the guardian of the Sangreal was ever 
after called "Le Roi Pecheur,"- the Sinner King. The Sangreal withdrew its 
visible presence from the crowds who came to worship, and an iron age 
succeeded to the happiness which its presence had diffused among the tribes 
of Britain. 

We have told in the history of Merlin how that great prophet and enchanter 
sent a message to King Arthur by Sir Gawain, directing him to undertake the 
recovery of the Sangreal, informing him at the same time that the knight who 
should accomplish that sacred quest was already born, and of a suitable age 
to enter upon it. Sir Gawain delivered his message, and the king was 
anxiously revolving in his mind how best to achieve the enterprise, when, at 
the vigil of Pentecost, all the fellowship of the Round Table being met 
together at Camelot, as they sat at meat, suddenly there was heard a clap of 
thunder, and then a bright light burst forth, and every knight, as he looked 
on his fellow, saw him, in seeming, fairer than ever before. 

All the hall was filled with sweet odors, and every knight had such meat and 
drink as he best loved. Then there entered into the hall the Holy Greal, 
covered with white samite, so that none could see it, and it passed through 
the hall suddenly and disappeared. During this time no one spoke a word, but 
when they had recovered breath to speak, King Arthur said, "Certainly we 
ought greatly to thank the Lord for what He hath showed us this day." Then 
Sir Gawain rose up, and made a vow that for twelve months and a day he would 
seek the Sangreal, and not return till he had seen it, if so he might speed. 
When they of the Round Table heard Sir Gawain say so, they arose, the most 
part of them, and vowed the same. When King Arthur heard this he was greatly 
displeased, for he knew well that they might not gainsay their vows. "Alas!" 
said he to Sir Gawain, "you have nigh slain me with the vow and promise that 
ye have made, for ye have bereft me of the fairest fellowship that ever was 
seen together in any realm of the world; for when they shall depart hence, I 
am sure that all shall never meet more in this world." 

SIR GALAHAD.

At that time there entered the hall a good old man, and with him he brought 
a young knight, and these words he said: "Peace be with you, fair lords." 
Then the old man said unto King Arthur, "Sir, I bring you here a young 
knight that is of kings' lineage, and of the kindred of Joseph of Arimathea, 
being the son of Dame Elaine, the daughter of King Pelles, king of the 
foreign country." Now the name of the young knight was Sir Galahad, and he 
was the son of Sir Launcelot du Lac; but he had dwelt with his mother, at 
the court of King Pelles, his grandfather, till now he was old enough to 
bear arms, and his mother had sent him in the charge of a holy hermit to 
King Arthur's court. Then Sir Launcelot beheld his son, and had great joy of 
him. And Sir Bohort told his fellows, "Upon my life, this young knight shall 
come to great worship." The noise was great in all the court, so that it 
came to the queen. And she said, "I would fain see him, for he must needs be 
a noble knight, for so is his father." And the queen and her ladies all said 
that he resembled much unto his father; and he was seemly and demure as a 
dove, with all manner of good features, that in the whole world men might 
not find his match. And King Arthur said, "God make him a good man, for 
beauty faileth him not, as any that liveth." 

Then the hermit led the young knight to the Siege Perilous; and he lifted up 
the cloth, and found there letters that said, "This is the seat of Sir 
Galahad, the good knight"; and he made him sit in that seat. And all the 
knights of the Round Table marvelled greatly at Sir Galahad, seeing him sit 
securely in that seat, and said, "This is he by whom the Sangreal shall be 
achieved, for there never sat one before in that seat without being 
mischieved." 

On the next day the king said, "Now, at this quest of the Sangreal shall all 
ye of the Round Table depart, and never shall I see you again all together; 
therefore I will that ye all repair to the meadow of Camelot, for to joust 
and tourney yet once more before ye depart." But all the meaning of the king 
was to see Sir Galahad proved. So then were they all assembled in the 
meadow. Then Sir Galahad, by request of the king and queen, put on his 
harness and his helm, but shield would he take none for any prayer of the 
king. 

And the queen was in a tower, with all her ladies, to behold that 
tournament. Then Sir Galahad rode into the midst of the meadow; and there he 
began to break spears marvellously, so that all men had wonder of him, for 
he surmounted all knights that encountered with him, except two, Sir 
Launcelot and Sir Perceval. Then the king, at the queen's request, made him 
to alight, and presented him to the queen; and she said. "Never two men 
resembled one another more than he and Sir Launcelot, and therefore it is no 
marvel that he is like him in prowess." 

Then the king and the queen went to the minster, and the knights followed 
them. And after the service was done, they put on their helms and departed, 
and there was great sorrow. They rode through the streets of Camelot, and 
there was weeping of the rich and poor; and the king turned away, and might 
not speak for weeping. And so they departed, and every knight took the way 
that him best liked. 

Sir Galahad rode forth without shield, and rode four days, and found no 
adventure. And on the fourth day he came to a white abbey; and there he was 
received with great reverence, and led to a chamber. He met there two 
knights, King Bagdemagus and Sir Uwaine, and they made of him great solace. 
"Sirs," said Sir Galahad, "what adventure brought you hither?" "Sir," said 
they, "it is told us that within this place is a shield, which no man may 
bear unless he be worthy; and if one unworthy should attempt to bear it, it 
shall surely do him a mischief." Then King Bagdemagus said, "I fear not to 
bear it, and that shall ye see to-morrow." 

So on the morrow they arose, and heard mass; then King Bagdemagus asked 
where the adventurous shield was. Anon a monk led him behind an altar, where 
the shield hung, as white as snow; but in the midst there was a red cross. 
Then King Bagdemagus took the shield, and bare it out of the minster; and he 
said to Sir Galahad, "If it please you, abide here till ye know how I shall 
speed." 

Then King Bagdemagus and his squire rode forth; and when they had ridden a 
mile or two, they saw a goodly knight come towards them, in white armor, 
horse and all; and he came as fast as his horse might run, with his spear in 
the rest; and King Bagdemagus directed his spear against him, and broke it 
upon the white knight, but the other struck him so hard that he broke the 
mails, and thrust him through the right shoulder, for the shield covered him 
not, and so he bare him from his horse. Then the white knight turned his 
horse and rode away. 

Then the squire went to King Bagdemagus, and asked him whether he were sore 
wounded or not. "I am sore wounded," said he, "and full hardly shall I 
escape death." Then the squire set him on his horse, and brought him to an 
abbey; and there he was taken down softly, and unarmed, and laid in a bed, 
and his wound was looked to, for he lay there long, and hardly escaped with 
his life. And the squire brought the shield back to the abbey. 

The next day Sir Galahad took the shield, and within a while he came to the 
hermitage, where he met the white knight, and each saluted the other 
courteously. "Sir," said Sir Galahad, "can you tell me the marvel of the 
shield?" "Sir," said the white knight, "that shield belonged of old to the 
gentle knight, Joseph of Arimathea; and when he came to die, he said, 'Never 
shall man bear this shield about his neck but he shall repent it, unto the 
time that Sir Galahad, the good knight, bear it, the last of my lineage, the 
which shall do many marvellous deeds.'" And then the white knight vanished 
away. 

SIR GAWAIN.

After Sir Gawain departed, he rode many days, both toward and forward, and 
at last he came to the abbey where Sir Galahad took the white shield. And 
they told Sir Gawain of the marvellous adventure that Sir Galahad had done. 
"Truly," said Sir Gawain, "I am not happy that I took not the way that he 
went, for, if I may meet with him, I will not part from him lightly, that I 
may partake with him all the marvellous adventures which he shall achieve." 
"Sir," said one of the monks, "he will not be of your fellowship." "Why?" 
said Sir Gawain. "Sir," said he, "because ye be sinful, and he is blissful." 

Then said the monk, "Sir Gawain, thou must do penance for thy sins." "Sir, 
what penance shall I do?" "Such as I will show," said the good man. "Nay," 
said Sir Gawain, "I will do no penance, for we knights adventurous often 
suffer great woe and pain." "Well," said the good man; and he held his 
peace. And Sir Gawain departed. 

Now it happened, not long after this, that Sir Gawain and Sir Hector rode 
together, and they came to a castle where was a great tournament. And Sir 
Gawain and Sir Hector joined themselves to the party that seemed the weaker, 
and they drove before them the other party. Then suddenly came into the 
lists a knight, bearing a white shield with a red cross, and by adventure he 
came by Sir Gawain, and he smote him so hard that he clave his helm and 
wounded his head, so that Sir Gawain fell to the earth. When Sir Hector saw 
that, he knew that the knight with the white shield was Sir Galahad, and he 
thought it no wisdom to abide with him, and also for natural love, that he 
was his uncle. Then Sir Galahad retired privily, so that none knew where he 
had gone. And Sir Hector raised up Sir Gawain, and said, "Sir, me seemeth 
your quest is done." "It is done," said Sir Gawain; "I shall seek no 
further." Then Gawain was borne into the castle, and unarmed, and laid in a 
rich bed, and a leech found to search his wound. And Sir Gawain and Sir 
Hector abode together, for Sir Hector would not away until Sir Gawain were 
whole. 

Now Sir Galahad, after that the white knight had vanished away, rode till he 
came to a waste forest, and there he met with Sir Launcelot and Sir 
Perceval, but they knew him not for he was new disguised. Right so, Sir 
Launcelot his father dressed his spear, and brake it upon Sir Galahad, and 
Sir Galahad smote him so again, that he smote down horse and man. And then 
he drew his sword, and dressed him to Sir Perceval, and smote him so on the 
helm that it rove to the coif of steel, and had not the sword swerved Sir 
Perceval had been slain, and with the stroke he fell out of his saddle. This 
joust was done before the hermitage where a recluse dwelled. And when she 
saw Sir Galahad ride, she said, "God be with thee, best knight of the world. 
Ah, certes," she said all aloud, that Launcelot and Perceval might hear it, 
"and yonder two knights had known thee as well as I do, they would not have 
encountered with thee." When Sir Galahad heard her say so he was sore adread 
to be known: therewith he smote his horse with his spurs, and rode at a 
great pace away from them. Then perceived they both that he was Sir Galahad, 
and up they got on their horses, and rode fast after him, but in a while he 
was out of their sight. And then they turned again with heavy cheer. "Let us 
spere some tidings," said Sir Perceval, "at yonder recluse." "Do as ye 
list," said Sir Launcelot. When Sir Perceval came to the recluse, she knew 
him well enough, and Sir Launcelot both. 

But Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wild forest and held no 
path, but as wild adventure led him. And at the last he came to a stony 
cross, which departed two ways in waste land, and by the cross was a stone 
that was of marble, but it was so dark that Sir Launcelot might not wit what 
it was. Then Sir Launcelot looked by him, and saw an old chapel, and there 
he thought to have found people. And Sir Launcelot tied his horse to a tree, 
and there he did off his shield, and hung it upon a tree. And then he went 
to the chapel door, and found it waste and broken. And within he found a 
fair altar full richly arrayed with cloth of clean silk, and there stood a 
fair, clean candlestick which bare six great candles, and the candlestick 
was of silver. And when Sir Launcelot saw this light, he had great will for 
to enter into the chapel, but he could find no place where he might enter: 
then was he passing heavy and dismayed. And he returned and came again to 
his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and 
unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon 
his shield before the cross. 

And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping, he saw come by him two 
palfreys, both fair and white, which bare a litter, on which lay a sick 
knight. And when he was nigh the cross, he there abode still. And Sir 
Launcelot heard him say, "O sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave me, and 
when shall the holy vessel come by me whereby I shall be healed?" And thus a 
great while complained the knight, and Sir Launcelot heard it. Then Sir 
Launcelot saw the candlestick, with the lighted tapers, come before the 
cross, but he could see no body that brought it. Also there came a salver of 
silver and the holy vessel of the Sangreal; and therewith the sick knight 
sat him upright, and held up both his hands, and said, "Fair, sweet Lord, 
which is here within the holy vessel, take heed to me, that I may be whole 
of this great malady." And therewith, upon his hands and upon his knees, he 
went so nigh that he touched the holy vessel and kissed it. And anon he was 
whole. Then the holy vessel went into the chapel again, with the candlestick 
and the light, so that Sir Launcelot wist not what became of it. 

Then the sick knight rose up and kissed the cross; and anon his squire 
brought him his arms, and asked his lord how he did. "I thank God right 
heartily," said he, "for, through the holy vessel, I am healed. But I have 
great marvel of this sleeping knight, who hath had neither grace nor power 
to awake during the time that the holy vessel hath been here present." "I 
dare it right well say," said the squire, "that this same knight is stained 
with some manner of deadly sin, whereof he was never confessed." So they 
departed. 

Then anon Sir Launcelot waked, and set himself upright, and bethought him of 
what he had seen, and whether it were dreams or not. And he was passing 
heavy, and wist not what to do. And he said: "My sin and my wretchedness 
hath brought me into great dishonor. For when I sought worldly adventures 
and worldly desires, I ever achieved them, and had the better in every 
place, and never was I discomfited in any quarrel, were it right or wrong. 
And now I take upon me the adventure of holy things, I see and understand 
that mine old sin hindereth me, so that I had no power to stir nor to speak 
when the holy blood appeared before me." So, thus he sorrowed till it was 
day, and heard the fowls of the air sing. Then was he somewhat comforted. 

Then he departed from the cross into the forest. And there he found a 
hermitage, and a hermit therein, who was going to mass. So when mass was 
done, Sir Launcelot called the hermit to him, and prayed him for charity to 
hear his confession. "With a good will"' said the good man. And then he told 
that good man all his life, and how he had loved a queen unmeasurably many 
years. "And all my great deeds of arms that I have done, I did the most part 
for the queen's sake, and for her sake would I do battle, were it right or 
wrong, and never did I battle all only for God's sake, but for to win 
worship, and to cause me to be better beloved; and little or naught I 
thanked God for it. I pray you counsel me." 

"I will counsel you," said the hermit, "if ye will insure me that ye will 
never come in that queen's fellowship as much as ye may forbear." And then 
Sir Launcelot promised the hermit, by his faith, that he would no more come 
in her company. "Look that your heart and your mouth accord," said the good 
man, "and I shall insure ye that ye shall have more worship than ever ye 
had." 

Then the good man enjoined Sir Launcelot such penance as he might do, and he 
assoiled Sir Launcelot, and made him abide with him all that day. And Sir 
Launcelot repented him greatly. 

SIR PERCEVAL.

Sir Perceval departed, and rode till the hour of noon; and he met in a 
valley about twenty men of arms. And when they saw Sir Perceval, they asked 
him whence he was; and he answered, "Of the court of King Arthur." Then they 
cried all at once, "Slay him." But Sir Perceval smote the first to the 
earth, and his horse upon him. Then seven of the knights smote upon his 
shield all at once, and the remnant slew his horse, so that he fell to the 
earth. So had they slain him or taken him, had not the good knight Sir 
Galahad, with the red cross, come there by adventure. And when he saw all 
the knights upon one, he cried out, "Save me that knight's life." Then he 
rode toward the twenty men of arms as fast as his horse might drive, with 
his spear in the rest, and smote the foremost horse and man to the earth. 
And when his spear was broken, he set his hand to his sword, and smote on 
the right hand and on the left, that it was marvel to see; and at every 
stroke he smote down one, or put him to rebuke, so that they would fight no 
more, but fled to a thick forest, and Sir Galahad followed them. And when 
Sir Perceval saw him chase them so, he made great sorrow that his horse was 
slain. And he wist well it was Sir Galahad. Then he cried aloud, "Ah, fair 
knight, abide, and suffer me to do thanks unto thee; for right well have ye 
done for me." But Sir Galahad rode so fast, that at last he passed out of 
his sight. When Sir Perceval saw that he would not turn, he said, "Now am I 
a very wretch, and most unhappy above all other knights." So in this sorrow 
he abode all that day till it was night; and then he was faint, and laid him 
down and slept till midnight; and then he awaked, and saw before him a 
woman, who said unto him, "Sir Perceval, what dost thou here?" He answered, 
"I do neither good, nor great ill." "If thou wilt promise me," said she, 
"that thou wilt fulfil my will when I summon thee, I will lend thee my own 
horse, which shall bear thee whither thou wilt." Sir Perceval was glad of 
her proffer, and insured her to fulfil all her desire. "Then abide me here, 
and I will go fetch you a horse." And so she soon came again, and brought a 
horse with her that was inky black. When Perceval beheld that horse, he 
marvelled, it was so great and so well apparelled. And he leapt upon him, 
and took no heed of himself. And he thrust him with his spurs, and within an 
hour and less he bare him four days' journey thence, until he came to a 
rough water, which roared, and his horse would have bare him into it. And 
when Sir Perceval came nigh the brim, and saw the water so boisterous, he 
doubted to overpass it. And then he made the sign of the cross on his 
forehead. When the fiend felt him so charged, he shook off Sir Perceval, and 
went into the water crying and roaring; and it seemed unto him that the 
water burned. Then Sir Perceval perceived it was a fiend that would have 
brought him unto his perdition. Then he commended himself unto God, and 
prayed our Lord to keep him from all such temptations; and so he prayed all 
that night till it was day. Then he saw that he was in a wild place, that 
was closed with the sea nigh all about. And Sir Perceval looked forth over 
the sea and saw a ship come sailing toward him; and it came and stood still 
under the rock. And when Sir Perceval saw this, he hied him thither, and 
found the ship covered with silk; and therein was a lady of great beauty, 
and clothed so richly that none might be better. 

And when she saw Sir Perceval she saluted him, and Sir Perceval returned her 
salutation. Then he asked her of her country and her lineage. And she said, 
"I am a gentlewoman that am disinherited, and was once the richest woman of 
the world." "Damsel," said Sir Perceval, "who hath disinherited you? for I 
have great pity of you." "Sir," said she, "my enemy is a great and powerful 
lord, and aforetime he made much of me, so that of his favor and of my 
beauty I had a little pride more than I ought to have had. Also I said a 
word that pleased him not. So he drove me from his company and from mine 
heritage. Therefore I know no good knight nor good man but I get him on my 
side if I may. And, for that I know that thou art a good knight, I beseech 
thee to help me." 

Then Sir Perceval promised her all the help that he might, and she thanked 
him. 

And at that time the weather was hot and she called to her a gentlewoman, 
and bade her bring forth a pavilion. And she did so, and pitched it upon the 
gravel. "Sir," said she, "now may ye rest you in this heat of the day." Then 
he thanked her, and she put off his helm and his shield, and there he slept 
a great while. Then he awoke, and asked her if she had any meat, and she 
said yea, and so there was set upon the table all manner of meats that he 
could think on. Also he drank there the strongest wine that ever he drank, 
and therewith he was a little chafed more than he ought to be. With that he 
beheld the lady, and he thought she was the fairest creature that ever he 
saw, And then Sir Perceval proffered her love, and prayed her that she would 
be his. Then she refused him in a manner, for the cause he should be the 
more ardent on her, and ever he ceased not to pray her of love. And when she 
saw him well enchafed, then she said, "Sir Perceval, wit ye well I shall not 
give ye my love unless you swear from henceforth you will be my true 
servant, and do no thing but that I shall command you. Will you insure me 
this, as ye be a true knight?" "Yea," said he, "fair lady, by the faith of 
my body." And as he said this, by adventure and grace, he saw his sword lie 
on the ground naked, in whose pommel was a red cross, and the sign of the 
crucifix thereon. Then he made the sign of the cross upon his forehead, and 
therewith the pavilion shrivelled up, and changed into a smoke and a black 
cloud. And the damsel cried aloud, and hasted into the ship, and so she went 
with the wind roaring and yelling that it seemed all the water burned after 
her. Then Sir Perceval made great sorrow, and called himself a wretch, 
saying, "How nigh was I lost!" 

Then he took his arms, and departed thence. 



CHAPTER XVI. THE END OF THE QUEST.

SIR BOHORT.

WHEN Sir Bohort departed from Camelot he met with a religious man, riding 
upon an ass; and Sir Bohort saluted him. "What are ye?" said the good man. 
"Sir," said Sir Bohort, "I am a knight that fain would be counselled in the 
quest of the Sangreal." So rode they both together till they came to a 
hermitage; and there he prayed Sir Bohort to dwell that night with him. So 
he alighted, and put away his armor, and prayed him that he might be 
confessed. And they went both into the chapel, and there he was clean 
confessed. And they ate bread and drank water together. "Now," said the good 
man, "I pray thee that thou eat none other till thou sit at the table where 
the Sangreal shall be." "Sir," said Sir Bohort, "but how know ye that I 
shall sit there?" "Yea," said the good man "that I know well; but there 
shall be few of your fellows with you." Then said Sir Bohort, "I agree me 
thereto." And the good man, when he had heard his confession, found him in 
so pure a life and so stable that he marvelled thereof. 

On the morrow, as soon as the day appeared, Sir Bohort departed thence, and 
rode into a forest unto the hour of midday. And there befell him a 
marvellous adventure. For he met, at the parting of two ways, two knights 
that led Sir Lionel, his brother, all naked, bound upon a strong hackney, 
and his hands bound before his breast; and each of them held in his hand 
thorns wherewith they went beating him, so that he was all bloody before and 
behind; but he said never a word, but, as he was great of heart, he suffered 
all that they did to him as though he had felt none anguish. Sir Bohort 
prepared to rescue his brother. But he looked on the other side of him, and 
saw a knight dragging along a fair gentlewoman, who cried out, "Saint Mary! 
succor your maid!" And when she saw Sir Bohort, she called to him and said, 
"By the faith that ye owe to knighthood, help me!" When Sir Bohort heard her 
say thus, he had such sorrow that he wist not what to do. For if I let my 
brother be he must be slain, and that would I not for all the earth; and if 
I help not the maid I am shamed forever." Then lift he up his eyes and said, 
weeping, "Fair Lord, whose liegeman I am, keep Sir Lionel, my brother, that 
none of these knights slay him, and for pity of you, and our Lady's sake, I 
shall succor this maid." 

Then he cried out to the knight, "Sir knight, lay your hand off that maid, 
or else ye be but dead." Then the knight set down the maid, and took his 
shield, and drew out his sword. And Sir Bohort smote him so hard that it 
went through his shield and habergeon, on the left shoulder, and he fell 
down to the earth. Then came Sir Bohort to the maid, "Ye be delivered of 
this knight this time." "Now," said she, "I pray you lead me there where 
this knight took me." "I shall gladly do it," said Sir Bohort. So he took 
the horse of the wounded knight and set the gentlewoman upon it, and brought 
her there where she desired to be. And there he found twelve knights seeking 
after her; and when she told them how Sir Bohort had delivered her, they 
made great joy, and besought him to come to her father, a great lord, and he 
should be right welcome. "Truly," said Sir Bohort, "that may not be; for I 
have a great adventure to do." So he commended them to God and departed. 

Then Sir Bohort rode after Sir Lionel, his brother, by the trace of their 
horses. Thus he rode, seeking, a great while. Then he overtook a man clothed 
in a religious clothing, who said, "Sir knight, what seek ye?" "Sir," said 
Sir Bohort, "I seek my brother, that I saw within a little space beaten of 
two knights." "Ah, Sir Bohort, trouble not thyself to seek for him, for 
truly he is dead." Then he showed him a new-slain body, lying in a thick 
bush; and it seemed him that it was the body of Sir Lionel. And then he made 
such sorrow that he fell to the ground in a swoon, and lay there long. And 
when he came to himself again he said, "Fair brother, since the fellowship 
of you and me is sundered, shall I never have joy again; and now He that I 
have taken for my master He be my help!" And when he had said thus, he took 
up the body in his arms, and put it upon the horse. 

And then he said to the man, "Canst thou tell me the way to some chapel, 
where I may bury this body?" "Come on," said the man, "here is one fast by." 
And so they rode till they saw a fair tower, and beside it a chapel. Then 
they alighted both, and put the body into a tomb of marble. 

Then Sir Bohort commended the good man unto God, and departed. And he rode 
all that day, and harbored with an old lady. And on the morrow he rode unto 
the castle in a valley, and there he met with a yeoman. 

"Tell me," said Sir Bohort, "knowest thou of any adventure?" "Sir," said he, 
"here shall be, under this castle, a great and marvellous tournament." Then 
Sir Bohort thought to be there, if he might meet with any of the fellowship 
that were in quest of the Sangreal; so he turned to a hermitage that was on 
the border of the forest. And when he was come thither, he found there Sir 
Lionel his brother, who sat all armed at the entry of the chapel door. And 
when Sir Bohort saw him, he had great joy, and he alighted off his horse, 
and said, "Fair brother, when came ye hither?" As soon as Sir Lionel saw 
him, he said, "Ah, Sir Bohort, make ye no false show, for, as for you, I 
might have been slain, for ye left me in peril of death to go succor a 
gentlewoman; and for that misdeed I now insure you but death, for ye have 
right well deserved it." When Sir Bohort perceived his brother's wrath, he 
kneeled down to the earth and cried him mercy, holding up both his hands, 
and prayed him to forgive him. "Nay," said Sir Lionel, "thou shalt have but 
death for it, if I have the upper hand; therefore leap upon thy horse and 
keep thyself; and if thou do not, I will run upon thee there, as thou 
standest on foot, and so the shame shall be mine, and the harm thine, but of 
that I reck not." When Sir Bohort saw that he must fight with his brother or 
else die, he wist not what to do. Then his heart counselled him not so to 
do, inasmuch as Sir Lionel was his elder brother, wherefore he ought to bear 
him reverence. Yet kneeled he down before Sir Lionel's horse's feet, and 
said, "Fair brother, have mercy upon me, and slay me not." But Sir Lionel 
cared not, for the fiend had brought him in such a will that he should slay 
him. When he saw that Sir Bohort would not rise to give him battle, he 
rushed over him, so that he smote him with his horse's feet to the earth, 
and hurt him sore, that he swooned of distress. When Sir Lionel saw this, he 
alighted from his horse for to have smitten off his head; and so he took him 
by the helm, and would have rent it from his head. But it happened that Sir 
Colgrevance, a knight of the Round Table, came at that time thither, as it 
was our Lord's will; and then he beheld how Sir Lionel would have slain his 
brother, and he knew Sir Bohort, whom he loved right well. Then leapt he 
down from his horse, and took Sir Lionel by the shoulders, and drew him 
strongly back from Sir Bohort, and said, "Sir Lionel, will ye slay your 
brother?" "Why," said Sir Lionel, "will ye slay me? If ye interfere in this, 
I will slay you, and him after." Then he ran upon Sir Bohort, and would have 
smitten him; but Sir Colgrevance ran between them, and said, "If ye persist 
to do so any more, we two shall meddle together." Then Sir Lionel defied 
him, and gave him a great stroke through the helm. Then he drew his sword, 
for he was a passing good knight, and defended himself right manfully. So 
long endured the battle, that Sir Bohort rose up all anguishly, and beheld 
Sir Colgrevance, the good knight, fight with his brother for his quarrel. 
Then was he full sorry and heavy, and thought that, if Sir Colgrevance slew 
him that was his brother, he should never have joy, and if his brother slew 
Sir Colgrevance, the shame should ever be his. 

Then would he have risen for to have parted them, but he had not so much 
strength to stand on his feet; so he staid so long that Sir Colgrevance had 
the worse, for Sir Lionel was of great chivalry and right hardy. Then cried 
Sir Colgrevance, "Ah, Sir Bohort, why come ye not to bring me out of peril 
of death, wherein I have put me to succor you?" With that, Sir Lionel smote 
off his helm, and bore him to the earth. And when he had slain Sir 
Colgrevance, he ran upon his brother as a fiendly man, and gave him such a 
stroke that he made him stoop. And he that was full of humility prayed him, 
"For God's sake leave this battle, for if it befell, fair brother, that I 
slew you, or ye me, we should be dead of that sin." "Pray ye not me for 
mercy," said Sir Lionel. Then Sir Bohort, all weeping, drew his sword, and 
said, "Now God have mercy upon me, though I defend my life against my 
brother." With that Sir Bohort lifted up his sword, and would have stricken 
his brother. Then heard he a voice that said, "Flee, Sir Bohort, and touch 
him not." Right so alighted a cloud between them, in the likeness of a fire, 
and a marvellous flame, so that they both fell to the earth, and lay there a 
great while in a swoon. And when they came to themselves, Sir Bohort saw 
that his brother had no harm; and he was right glad, for he dread sore that 
God had taken vengeance upon him. Then Sir Lionel said to his brother, 
"Brother, forgive me, for God's sake, all that I have trespassed against 
you." And Sir Bohort answered, "God forgive it thee, and I do." 

With that Sir Bohort heard a voice say, "Sir Bohort, take thy way anon, 
right to the sea, for Sir Perceval abideth thee there." So Sir Bohort 
departed, and rode the nearest way to the sea. And at last he came to an 
abbey that was nigh the sea. That night he rested him there, and in his 
sleep there came a voice unto him and bade him go to the sea-shore. He 
started up, and made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and armed 
himself and made ready his horse and mounted him, and at a broken wall he 
rode out, and came to the sea-shore. 

And there he found a ship, covered all with white samite. And he entered 
into the ship; but it was anon so dark that he might see no man, and he laid 
him down and slept till it was day. Then he awaked, and saw in the middle of 
the ship a knight all armed, save his helm. And then he knew it was Sir 
Perceval de Galis, and each made of other right great joy. Then said Sir 
Perceval, "We lack nothing now but the good knight Sir Galahad." 

OF SIR LAUNCELOT AGAIN.

It befell upon a night Sir Launcelot arrived before a castle, which was rich 
and fair. And there was a postern that opened toward the sea, and was open 
without any keeping, save two lions kept the entry; and the moon shined 
clear. Anon Sir Launcelot heard a voice that said, "Launcelot, enter into 
the castle, where thou shalt see a great part of thy desire." So he went 
unto the gate, and saw the two lions; then he set hands to his sword, and 
drew it. Then there came suddenly as it were a stroke upon the arm, so sore 
that the sword fell out of his hand, and he heard a voice that said, "O man 
of evil faith, wherefore believest thou more in thy armor than in thy 
Maker?" Then said Sir Launcelot, "Fair Lord, I thank thee of thy great 
mercy, that thou reprovest me of my misdeed; now see I well that thou 
holdest me for thy servant." Then he made a cross on his forehead, and came 
to the lions; and they made semblance to do him harm, but he passed them 
without hurt, and entered into the castle, and he found no gate nor door but 
it was open. But at the last he found a chamber whereof the door was shut; 
and he set his hand thereto, to have opened it, but he might not. Then he 
listened, and heard a voice which sung so sweetly that it seemed none 
earthly thing; and the voice said, "Joy and honor be to the Father of 
heaven." Then Sir Launcelot kneeled down before the chamber, for well he 
wist that there was the Sangreal in that chamber. Then said he, "Fair, sweet 
Lord, if ever I did anything that pleased thee for thy pity show me 
something of that which I seek." And with that he saw the chamber door open, 
and there came out a great clearness, that the house was as bright as though 
all the torches of the world had been there. So he came to the chamber door, 
and would have entered; and anon a voice said unto him, "Stay, Sir 
Launcelot, and enter not." And he withdrew him back, and was right heavy in 
his mind. Then looked he in the midst of the chamber, and saw a table of 
silver, and the holy vessel, covered with red samite, and many angels about 
it; whereof one held a candle of wax burning, and another held a cross, and 
the ornaments of the altar. Then, for very wonder and thankfulness, Sir 
Launcelot forgot himself, and he stepped forward and entered the chamber. 
And suddenly a breath that seemed intermixed with fire smote him so sore in 
the visage, that therewith he fell to the ground, and had no power to rise. 
Then felt he many hands about him, which took him up, and bare him out of 
the chamber, without any amending of his swoon, and left him there, seeming 
dead to all the people. So on the morrow, when it was fair daylight, and 
they within were arisen, they found Sir Launcelot lying before the chamber 
door. And they looked upon him and felt his pulse, to know it there were any 
life in him. And they found life in him, but he might neither stand nor stir 
any member that he had. So they took him and bare him into a chamber, and 
laid him upon a bed, far from all folk, and there he lay many days. Then the 
one said he was alive, and others said nay. But said an old man, "He is as 
full of life as the mightiest of you all, and therefore I counsel you that 
he be well kept till God bring him back again." And after twenty-four days 
he opened his eyes; and when he saw folk, he made great sorrow, and said, 
"Why have ye wakened me? for I was better at ease than I am now." "What have 
ye seen?" said they about him. "I have seen," said he, "great marvels that 
no tongue can tell, and more than any heart can think." Then they said, 
"Sir, the quest of the Sangreal is achieved right now in you, and never 
shall ye see more of it than ye have seen." "I thank God," said Sir 
Launcelot, "of His great mercy, for that I have seen, for it sufficeth me." 
Then he rose up and clothed himself; and when he was so arrayed, they 
marvelled all, for they knew it was Sir Launcelot, the good knight. And, 
after four days, he took his leave of the lord of the castle, and of all the 
fellowship that were there, and thanked them for their great labor and care 
of him. Then he departed, and turned to Camelot, where he found King Arthur 
and Queen Guenever; but many of the knights of the Round Table were slain 
and destroyed, more than half. Then all the court was passing glad of Sir 
Launcelot; and he told the king all his adventures that had befallen him 
since he departed. 

SIR GALAHAD.

Now when Sir Galahad had rescued Perceval from the twenty knights, he rode 
into a vast forest, wherein he abode many days. Then he took his way to the 
sea, and it befell him that he was benighted in a hermitage. And the good 
man was glad when he saw he was a knight-errant. And when they were at rest, 
there came a gentlewoman knocking at the door; and the good man came to the 
door to wit what she would. Then she said, "I would speak with the knight 
which is with you." Then Galahad went to her, and asked her what she would. 
"Sir Galahad," said she, "I will that ye arm you, and mount upon your horse, 
and follow me; for I will show you the highest adventure that ever knight 
saw." Then Galahad armed himself and commended himself to God, and bade the 
damsel go before, and he would follow where she led. 

So she rode as fast as her palfrey might bear her, till she came to the sea; 
and there they found the ship where Sir Bohort and Sir Perceval were, who 
cried from the ship, "Sir Galahad, you are welcome; we have awaited you 
long," And when he heard them, he asked the damsel who they were. "Sir," 
said she, "leave your horse here, and I shall leave mine, and we will join 
ourselves to their company." So they entered the ship, and the two knights 
received them both with great joy. For they knew the damsel, that she was 
Sir Perceval's sister. 

Then the wind arose and drove them through the sea all that day and the 
next, till the ship arrived between two rocks, passing great and marvellous; 
but there they might not land, for there was a whirlpool; but there was 
another ship, and upon it they might go without danger. "Go we thither," 
said the gentlewoman, and there shall we see adventures, for such is our 
Lord's will." Then Sir Galahad blessed him, and entered therein, and then 
next the gentlewoman, and then Sir Bohort and Sir Perceval. And when they 
came on board, they found there the table of silver, and the Sangreal, which 
was covered with red samite. And they made great reverence thereto, and Sir 
Galahad prayed a long time to our Lord, that at what time he should ask to 
pass out of this world, he should do so; and a voice said to him, "Galahad, 
thou shalt have thy request; and when thou askest the death of thy body thou 
shalt have it, and then shalt thou find the life of thy soul. 

And anon the wind drove them across the sea, till they came to the city of 
Sarras. Then they took our of the ship the table of silver, and he took it 
to Sir Perceval and Sir Bohort to go before, and Sir Galahad came behind, 
and right so they came to the city, and at the gate of the city they saw an 
old man, crooked. Then Sir Galahad called him and bade him help bear this 
heavy thing. "Truly," said the old man, "it is ten years ago that I might 
not go save with crutches." "Care thou not," said Sir Galahad, "but arise up 
and show thy good will." And so he assayed and found himself as whole as 
ever he was. 

Then ran he to the table and took one part against Sir Galahad. And anon 
arose there a great noise in the city, that a cripple was made whole by 
knights marvellous that entered into the city. Then anon after, the three 
knights went to the water, and brought up into the palace Sir Perceval's 
sister. And when the king of the city, which was cleped Estorause, saw the 
fellowship, he asked them of whence they were, and what thing it was they 
had brought upon the table of silver. 

And they told him the truth of the Sangreal, and the power which God had set 
there. Then the king was a tyrant, and was come of the line of Paynims, and 
took them and put them in prison in a deep hole. But as soon as they were 
there, our Lord sent them the Sangreal, through whose grace they were always 
filled while that they were in prison. So at the year's end it befell that 
this king Estorause lay sick, and felt that he should die. Then he sent for 
the three knights, and they came afore him, and he cried them mercy of that 
he had done to them, and they forgave it him goodly, and he died anon. When 
the king was dead, all the city was dismayed, and wist not who might be 
their king. Right so they were in council, there came a voice among them, 
and bade them choose the youngest knight of them three to be their king, 
"for he shall well maintain you and all yours." So they made Sir Galahad 
king by all the assent of the whole city, and else they would have slain 
him. And when he was come to behold the land, he had made about the table of 
silver a chest of gold and of precious stones that covered the holy vessel, 
and every day early the three fellows would come afore it and make their 
prayers. Now at the year's end, and the next day after Sir Galahad had borne 
the crown of gold, he rose up early, and his fellows, and came to the 
palace, and saw before them the holy vessel, and a man kneeling on his 
knees, in likeness of a bishop, that had about him a great fellowship of 
angels, as it had been Jesus Christ himself. And then he arose and began a 
mass of Our Lady. And when he came to the sacrament of the mass, and had 
done, anon he called Sir Galahad, and said to him, "Come forth, the servant 
of Jesus Christ, and thou shalt see that thou hast much desired to see." And 
then he began to tremble right hard, when the deadly flesh began to behold 
the spiritual things. Then he held up his hands toward heaven, and said, 
"Lord, I thank thee. for now I see that that hath been my desire many a day. 
Now. blessed Lord. would I not longer live; if it might please thee, Lord." 
And therewith the good man took our Lord's body betwixt his hands and 
proffered it to Sir Galahad, and he received it right gladly and meekly. 
"Now, wottest thou what I am?" said the good man. "Nay," said Sir Galahad. 
"I am Joseph of Arimathea, which our Lord hath sent here to bear thee 
fellowship. And wottest thou wherefore that he hath sent me more than any 
other? For thou hast resembled me in two things, in that thou hast seen the 
marvels of the Sangreal, and in that thou hast been a clean maiden as I have 
been and am." And when he had said these words Sir Galahad went to Sir 
Perceval and kissed him, and commended him to God. And so he went to Sir 
Bohort and kissed him, and commended him to God, and said, "Fair lord, 
salute me to my lord Sir Launcelot, my father, and as soon as ye see him bid 
him remember of this unstable world." And therewith he kneeled down before 
the table and made his prayers, and then suddenly his soul departed to Jesus 
Christ, and a great multitude of angels bare his soul up to heaven, that the 
two fellows might well behold it. Also the two fellows saw come from heaven 
a hand, but they saw not the body; and then it came right to the vessel, and 
took it and the spear, and so bare it up to heaven. Sithen there was never 
man so hardy to say that he had seen the Sangreal. 

When Sir Perceval and Sir Bohort saw Sir Galahad dead they made as much 
sorrow as ever did two men; and if they had not been good men they might 
lightly have fallen into despair. And the people of the country and of the 
city were right heavy. And then he was buried. 

And as soon as he was buried Sir Perceval yielded him to an hermitage out of 
the city, and took a religious clothing; and Sir Bohort was always with him, 
but never changed he his secular clothing, for that he purposed to go again 
into the realm of Loegria. Thus a year and two months lived Sir Perceval in 
the hermitage a full holy life, and then he passed out of this world. And 
Sir Bohort let bury him by his sister and by Sir Galahad. 

And when Sir Bohort saw that he was in so far countries as in the parts of 
Babylon, he departed from Sarras, and armed him, and came to the sea, and 
entered into a ship, and so it befell him in good adventure he came into the 
realm of Loegria. And he rode so fast till he came to Camelot, where the 
king was. And then was there great joy made of him in the court, for they 
wend all he had been dead, forasmuch as he had been so long out of the 
country. And when they had eaten, the king made great clerks to come afore 
him, that they should chronicle of the high adventures of the good knights. 
Then Sir Bohort told him of the adventures of the Sangreal, such as had 
befallen him and his three fellows, that was Sir Launcelot, Sir Perceval, 
and Sir Galahad. Then Sir Launcelot told the adventures of the Sangreal that 
he had seen. All this was made in great books, and put in almeries in 
Salisbury. And anon Sir Bohort said to Sir Launcelot, "Galahad, your own 
son, saluted you by me, and after you King Arthur, and all the court, and so 
did Sir Perceval; for I buried them with mine own hands in the city of 
Sarras. Also, Sir Launcelot, Galahad prayeth you to remember of this 
uncertain world, as ye behight him when ye were together more than half a 
year." "This is true," said Sir Launcelot; "now I trust to God his prayer 
shall avail me." Then Sir Launcelot took Sir Bohort in his arms, and said, 
"Gentle cousin, ye are right welcome to me, and all that ever I may do for 
you and for yours, ye shall find my poor body ready at all times whiles the 
spirit is in it, and that I promise you faithfully, and never to fail. And 
wit ye well, gentle cousin Sir Bohort, that ye and I will never part in 
sunder whilst our lives may last." "Sir," said he, "I will as ye will." 

Thus endeth the history of the Sangreal, which is a story chronicled as one 
of the truest and holiest that is in this world. 

Tennyson has among his shorter poems one on Sir Galahad which we add as 
being the conception of this purest of knights held by the poet who has 
loved best of all English poets the old stories of the Knights of the Round 
Table:- 

SIR GALAHAD. 
"My good blade carves the casques of men, 
My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 
Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, 
The horse and rider reel: 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
That lightly rain from ladies' hands
"How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favors fall! 
For them I battle to the end, 
To save from shame and thrall: 
But all my heart is drawn above, 
My knees are bound in crypt and shrine: 
I never felt the kiss of love, 
Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 
Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer, 
A virgin heart in work and will.
"When down the stormy crescent goes, 
A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 
I hear a noise of hymns: 
Then by some secret shrine I ride; 
I hear a voice, but none are there; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
And solemn chants resound between.
"Sometimes on lonely mountain meres
I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board; no helmsman steers: 
I float till all is dark, 
A gentle sound, an awful light! 
Three angels bear the holy Grail: 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 
My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides
And star-like mingles with the stars.
"When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 
The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads
And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 
No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whisking storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
"A maiden knight- to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 
Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 
Whose odors haunt my dreams; 
And stricken by an angel's hand, 
This mortal armour that I wear, 
This weight and rise, this heart and eyes, 
Are touched, are turned to finest air.
"The clouds are broken in the sky, 
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
O just and faithful knight of God! 
Ride on! the prize is near! 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 
By hedge and ford, by park and pale, 
All armed I ride, whate'er betide, 
Until I find the holy Grail." 




CHAPTER XVII. SIR AGRIVAIN'S TREASON.

SO after the quest of the Sangreal was fulfilled, and all the knights that 
were left alive were come again to the Table Round, there was great joy in 
the court, and in especial King Arthur and Queen Guenever made great joy of 
the remnant that were come home, and passing glad were the king and the 
queen of Sir Launcelot and of Sir Bohort, for they had been passing long 
away in the quest of the Sangreal. 

Then Sir Launcelot began to resort unto Queen Guenever again, and forgot the 
promise that he made in the quest; so that many in the court spoke of it, 
and in especial Sir Agrivain, Sir Gawain's brother, for he was ever open-
mouthed. So it happened Sir Gawain and all his brothers were in King 
Arthur's chamber, and then Sir Agrivain said thus openly, "I marvel that we 
all are not ashamed to see and to know so noble a knight as King Arthur so 
to be shamed by the conduct of Sir Launcelot and the queen." Then spoke Sir 
Gawain, and said, "Brother, Sir Agrivain, I pray you and charge you move not 
such matters any more before me, for be ye assured I will not be of your 
counsel." "Neither will we," said Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth. "Then will I," 
said Sir Modred. "I doubt you not," said Sir Gawain, "for to all mischief 
ever were ye prone; yet I would that ye left all this, for I know what will 
come of it." "Fall of it what fall may," said Sir Agrivain, "I will disclose 
it to the king." With that came to them King Arthur. "Now, brothers, hold 
your peace," said Sir Gawain, "We will not," said Sir Agrivain. Then said 
Sir Gawain, "I will not hear your tales, nor be of your counsel." "No more 
will I," said Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, and therewith they departed, 
making great sorrow. 

Then Sir Agrivain told the king all that was said in the court of the 
conduct of Sir Launcelot and the queen, and it grieved the king very much. 
But he would not believe it to be true without proof. So Sir Agrivain laid a 
plot to entrap Sir Launcelot and the queen, intending to take them together 
unawares. Sir Agrivain and Sir Modred led a party for this purpose, but Sir 
Launcelot escaped from them, having slain Sir Agrivain and wounded Sir 
Modred. Then Sir Launcelot hastened to his friends, and told them what had 
happened, and withdrew with them to the forest; but he left spies to bring 
him tidings of whatever might be done. 

So Sir Launcelot escaped, but the queen remained in the king's power, and 
Arthur could no longer doubt of her guilt. And the law was such in those 
days that they who committed such crimes, of what estate or condition soever 
they were, must be burned to death, and so it was ordained for Queen 
Guenever. Then said King Arthur to Sir Gawain, "I pray you make you ready, 
in your best armor, with your brethren, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, to bring 
my queen to the fire, there to receive her death." "Nay, my most noble 
lord," said Sir Gawain, "that will I never do; for know thou well, my heart 
will never serve me to see her die, and it shall never be said that I was of 
your counsel in her death." Then the king commanded Sir Gaheris and Sir 
Gareth to be there, and they said, "We will be there, as ye command us, 
sire, but in peaceable wise, and bear no armor upon us." 

So the queen was led forth, and her ghostly father was brought to her to 
shrive her, and there was weeping and wailing of many lords and ladies. And 
one went and told Sir Launcelot that the queen was led forth to her death. 
Then Sir Launcelot and the knights that were with him fell upon the troop 
that guarded the queen, and dispersed them, and slew all who withstood them. 
And in the confusion Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris were slain, for they were 
unarmed and defenceless. And Sir Launcelot carried away the queen to his 
castle of La Joyeuse Garde. 

Then there came one to Sir Gawain and told him how that Sir Launcelot had 
slain the knights and carried away the queen. "O Lord, defend my brethren!" 
said Sir Gawain. "Truly," said the man, "Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris are 
slain." "Alas!" said Sir Gawain, "now is my joy gone." And then he fell down 
and swooned, and long he lay there as he had been dead. 

When he arose out of his swoon Sir Gawain ran to the king, crying, "O King 
Arthur, mine uncle, my brothers are slain." Then the king wept and he both. 
"My king, my lord, and mine uncle," said Sir Gawain, "bear witness now that 
I make you a promise that I shall hold by my knighthood, that from this day 
I will never fail Sir Launcelot until the one of us have slain the other. I 
will seek Sir Launcelot throughout seven kings' realms, but I shall slay him 
or he shall slay me." "Ye shall not need to seek him," said the king, "for, 
as I hear, Sir Launcelot will abide me and you in the Joyeuse Garde; and 
much people draweth unto him, as I hear say." "That may I believe," said 
Gawain, "but, my lord, summon your friends, and I will summon mine." "It 
shall be done," said the king. So then the king sent letters and writs 
throughout all England, both in the length and breadth, to summon all his 
knights. And unto Arthur drew many knights, dukes, and earls, so that he had 
a great host. Thereof heard Sir Launcelot, and collected all whom he could; 
and many good knights held with him, both for his sake and for the queen's 
sake. But King Arthur's host was too great for Sir Launcelot to abide him in 
the field; and he was full loath to do battle against the king. So Sir 
Launcelot drew him to his strong castle, with all manner of provisions. Then 
came King Arthur and Sir Gawain, and laid siege all about La Joyeuse Garde, 
both the town and the castle; but in no wise would Sir Launcelot ride out of 
his castle, neither suffer any of his knights to issue out, until many weeks 
were past. 

Then it befell upon a day in harvest-time Sir Launcelot looked over the 
wall, and spake aloud to King Arthur and Sir Gawain, "My lords both, all is 
vain that ye do at this siege, for here ye shall win no worship, but only 
dishonor; for if I list to come out, and my good knights, I shall soon make 
an end of this war." "Come forth," said Arthur, "if thou darest, and I 
promise thee I shall meet thee in the midst of the field." "God forbid me," 
said Sir Launcelot, "that I should encounter with the most noble king that 
made me knight." "Fie upon thy fair language," said the king, "for know thou 
well that I am thy mortal foe, and ever will be to my dying day." And Sir 
Gawain said, "What cause hadst thou to slay my brother, Sir Gaheris, who 
bore no arms against thee, and Sir Gareth, whom thou madest knight, and who 
loved thee more than all my kin? Therefore know thou well I shall make war 
to thee all the while that I may live." 

When Sir Bohort, Sir Hector de Marys, and Sir Lionel heard this outcry they 
called to them Sir Palamedes, and Sir Saffire his brother, and Sir Lawayn, 
with many more, and all went to Sir Launcelot. And they said, "My lord, Sir 
Launcelot, we pray you, if you will have our service, keep us no longer 
within these walls, for know well all your fair speech and forbearance will 
not avail you." "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "to ride forth and to do battle 
I am full loath." Then he spake again unto the king and Sir Gawain, and 
willed them to keep out of the battle; but they depised his words. So then 
Sir Launcelot's fellowship came out of the castle in full good array. And 
always Sir Launcelot charged all his knights, in any wise, to save King 
Arthur and Sir Gawain. 

Then came forth Sir Gawain from the king's host, and offered combat, and Sir 
Lionel encountered with him, and there Sir Gawain smote Sir Lionel through 
the body, that he fell to the earth as if dead. Then there began a great 
conflict, and much people were slain; but ever Sir Launcelot did what he 
might to save the people on King Arthur's party, and ever King Arthur 
followed Sir Launcelot to slay him; but Sir Launcelot suffered him, and 
would not strike again. Then Sir Bohort encountered with King Arthur, and 
smote him down; and he alighted and drew his sword, and said to Sir 
Launcelot, "Shall I make an end of this war?" for he meant to have slain 
King Arthur. "Not so," said Sir Launcelot, "touch him no more, for I will 
never see that most noble king that made me knight either slain or shamed;" 
and therewith Sir Launcelot alighted off his horse and took up the king, and 
horsed him again, and said thus: "My lord Arthur, for God's love, cease this 
strife." And King Arthur looked upon Sir Launcelot, and his tears burst from 
his eyes, thinking on the great courtesy that was in Sir Launcelot more than 
in any other man; and therewith the king rode his way. Then anon both 
parties withdrew to repose them, and buried the dead. 

But the war continued and it was noised abroad through all Christendom, and 
at last it was told afore the pope; and he, considering the great goodness 
of King Arthur, and of Sir Launcelot, called unto him a noble clerk, which 
was the Bishop of Rochester, who was then in his dominions, and sent him to 
King Arthur, charging him that he take his queen, dame Guenever, unto him 
again, and make peace with Sir Launcelot. 

So, by means of this bishop, peace was made for the space of one year; and 
King Arthur received back the queen, and Sir Launcelot departed from the 
kingdom with all his knights, and went to his own country. So they shipped 
at Cardiff, and sailed unto Benwick, which some men call Bayonne. And all 
the people of those lands came to Sir Launcelot, and received him home right 
joyfully. And Sir Launcelot stablished and garnished all his towns and 
castles, and he greatly advanced all his noble knights, Sir Lionel and Sir 
Bohort, and Sir Hector de Marys, Sir Blamor, Sir Lawayne, and many others, 
and made them lords of lands and castles; till he left himself no more than 
any one of them. 

But when the year was passed, King Arthur and Sir Gawain came with a great 
host, and landed upon Sir Launcelot's lands, and burnt and wasted all that 
they might overrun. Then spake Sir Bohort and said, "My lord, Sir Launcelot, 
give us leave to meet them in the field, and we shall make them rue the time 
that ever they came to this country." Then said Sir Launcelot, "I am full 
loath to ride out with my knights for shedding of Christian blood; so we 
will yet awhile keep our walls, and I will send a messenger unto my lord 
Arthur, to propose a treaty; for better is peace than always war." So Sir 
Launcelot sent forth a damsel, and a dwarf with her, requiring King Arthur 
to leave his warring upon his lands; and so she started on a palfrey, and 
the dwarf ran by her side. And when she came to the pavilion of King Arthur, 
she alighted, and there met her a gentle knight, Sir Lucan the butler, and 
said, "Fair damsel, come ye from Sir Launcelot du Lac?" "Yea, sir," she 
said, "I come hither to speak with the king." 

"Alas!" said Sir Lucan, "my lord Arthur would be reconciled to Sir 
Launcelot, but Sir Gawain will not suffer him." And with this Sir Lucan led 
the damsel to the king, where he sat with Sir Gawain, to hear what she would 
say. So when she had told her tale, the tears ran out of the king's eyes; 
and all the lords were forward to advise the king to be accorded with Sir 
Launcelot, save only Sir Gawain; and he said, "My lord, mine uncle, what 
will ye do? Will you now turn back, now you are so far advanced upon your 
journey? If ye do, all the world will speak shame of you." "Nay," said King 
Arthur, "I will do as ye advise me; but do thou give the damsel her answer, 
for I may not speak to her for pity." 

Then said Sir Gawain, "Damsel, say ye to Sir Launcelot, that it is waste 
labor to sue to mine uncle for peace, and say that I, Sir Gawain, send him 
word that I promise him, by the faith I owe unto God and to knighthood, I 
shall never leave him till he have slain me or I him." So the damsel 
returned; and when Sir Launcelot had heard this answer, the tears ran down 
his cheeks. 

Then it befell on a day Sir Gawain came before the gates, armed at all 
points, and cried with a loud voice, "Where art thou now, thou false 
traitor, Sir Launcelot? Why hidest thou thyself within holes and walls like 
a coward? Look out now, thou traitor knight, and I will avenge upon thy body 
the death of my three brethren." All this language heard Sir Launcelot, and 
the knights which were about him; and they said to him, "Sir Launcelot, now 
must ye defend you like a knight, or else be shamed for ever, for you have 
slept overlong and suffered overmuch." Then Sir Launcelot spoke on high unto 
King Arthur, and said, "My lord Arthur, now I have forborne long, and 
suffered you and Sir Gawain to do what ye would, and now must I needs defend 
myself, inasmuch as Sir Gawain hath appealed me of treason." Then Sir 
Launcelot armed him and mounted upon his horse, and the noble knights came 
out of the city, and the host without stood all apart; and so the covenant 
was made that no man should come near the two knights, nor deal with them, 
till one were dead or yielded. 

Then Sir Gawain and Sir Launcelot departed a great way in sunder, and then 
they came together with all their horses' might as they might run, and 
either smote the other in the midst of their shields, but the knights were 
so strong, and their spears so big, that their horses might not endure their 
buffets, and so the horses fell to the earth. And then they avoided their 
horses, and dressed their shields afore them. Then they stood together, and 
gave many sad strokes on divers places of their bodies, that the blood burst 
out on many sides and places. Then had Sir Gawain such a grace and gift that 
an holy man had given to him, that every day in the year, from morning till 
high noon, his might increased those three hours as much as thrice his 
strength, and that caused Sir Gawain to win great honor. And for his sake 
King Arthur made an ordinance that all manner of battles for any quarrels 
that should be done before King Arthur should begin at Underne, (1) and all 
was done for Sir Gawain's love, that by likelihood if that Sir Gawain were 
on the one part he should have the better in battle, whilst his strength 
endured three hours, but there were few knights that time living that knew 
this advantage that Sir Gawain had, but King Arthur only. Thus Sir Launcelot 
fought with Sir Gawain, and when Sir Launcelot felt his might evermore 
increase, Sir Launcelot wondered and dread him sore to be ashamed. For Sir 
Launcelot thought when he felt Sir Gawain double his strength, that he had 
been a fiend, and no earthly man; wherefore Sir Launcelot traced and 
traversed, and covered himself with his shield, and kept his might and his 
braid during three hours; and that while Sir Gawain gave him many sad brunts 
and many sad strokes, that all the knights that beheld Sir Launcelot 
marvelled how he might endure him, but full little understood they that 
travail that Sir Launcelot had for to endure him. 

And then when it was past noon Sir Gawain had no more but his own might. 
Then Sir Launcelot felt him so come down; then he stretched him up, and 
stood near Sir Gawain, and said thus: "My lord Sir Gawain, now I fear ye 
have done; now my lord Sir Gawain, I must do my part, for many great and 
grievous strokes I have endured you this day with great pain." Then Sir 
Launcelot doubled his strokes, and gave Sir Gawain such a buffet on the 
helmet that he fell down on his side, and Sir Launcelot withdrew from him. 
"Why turnest thou thee?" said Sir Gawain; "now turn again, false traitor 
knight, and slay me; for an thou leave me thus, when I am whole, I shall do 
battle with thee again." "I shall endure you, sir, by God's grace, but wit 
thou well, Sir Gawain, I will never smite a felled knight." And so Sir 
Launcelot went into the city, and Sir Gawain was borne into one of King 
Arthur's pavilions, and leeches were brought to him, and he was searched and 
salved with soft ointments. And then Sir Launcelot said, "Now have good day, 
my lord the king, for, wit you well, ye win no worship at these walls; and 
if I would my knights out bring, there should many a man die. Therefore, my 
lord Arthur, remember you of old kindness, and however I fare, Jesus be your 
guide in all places." 

Thus the siege endured, and Sir Gawain lay helpless near a month; and when 
he was near recovered, came tidings unto King Arthur that made him return 
with all his host to England. 

 

(1) Underne. The third hour in the day, nine o'clock. 

 


CHAPTER XVIII. MORTE D'ARTHUR.

"And now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved, 
Which was an image of the mighty world, 
And I, the last, go forth companionless; 
And the days darken round me, and the years
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."- TENNYSON.
SIR MODRED was left ruler of all England, and he caused letters to be 
written, as if from beyond sea, that King Arthur was slain in battle. So he 
called a Parliament, and made himself be crowned king; and he took the 
queen, Guenever, and said plainly that he would wed her, but she escaped 
from him, and took refuge in the Tower of London. And Sir Modred went and 
laid siege about the Tower of London, and made great assaults thereat, but 
all might not avail him. Then came word to Sir Modred that King Arthur had 
raised the siege of Sir Launcelot, and was coming home. Then Sir Modred 
summoned all the barony of the land; and much people drew unto Sir Modred, 
and said they would abide with him for better and for worse; and he drew a 
great host to Dover, for there he heard say that King Arthur would arrive. 

And as Sir Modred was at Dover with his host, came King Arthur, with a great 
number of ships and galleys, and there was Sir Modred awaiting upon the 
landing. Then was there launching of great boats and small, full of noble 
men of arms, and there was much slaughter, of gentle knights on both parts. 
But King Arthur was so courageous, there might no manner of knights prevent 
him to land, and his knights fiercely followed him; and so they landed, and 
put Sir Modred aback so that he fled, and all his people. And when the 
battle was done, King Arthur commanded to bury his people that were dead. 
And then was noble Sir Gawain found, in a great boat, lying more than half 
dead. And King Arthur went to him, and made sorrow out of measure. "Mine 
uncle," said Sir Gawain, "know thou well my death-day is come, and all is 
through mine own hastiness and wilfulness, for I am smitten upon the old 
wound which Sir Launcelot gave me, of the which I feel I must die. And had 
Sir Launcelot been with you as of old, this war had never begun, and of all 
this I am the cause." Then Sir Gawain prayed the king to send for Sir 
Launcelot, and to cherish him above all other knights. And so, at the hour 
of noon, Sir Gawain yielded up his spirit, and then the king bade inter him 
in a chapel within Dover Castle; and there all men may see the skull of him, 
and the same wound is seen that Sir Launcelot gave him in battle. 

Then was it told the king that Sir Modred had pitched his camp upon 
Barrendown; and the king rode thither, and there was a great battle betwixt 
them, and King Arthur's party stood best, and Sir Modred and his party fled 
unto Canterbury. 

And there was a day assigned betwixt King Arthur and Sir Modred that they 
should meet upon a down beside Salisbury, and not far from the seaside, to 
do battle yet again. And at night, as the king slept, he dreamed a wonderful 
dream. It seemed him verily that there came Sir Gawain unto him, with a 
number of fair ladies with him. And when King Arthur saw him, he said, 
"Welcome, my sister's son; I weened thou hadst been dead; and now I see thee 
alive, great is my joy. But, O fair nephew, what be these ladies that hither 
be come with you?" "Sir," said Sir Gawain, "all these be ladies for whom I 
have fought when I was a living man; and because I did battle for them in 
righteous quarrel, they have given me grace to bring me hither unto you, to 
warn you of your death, if ye fight to-morrow with Sir Modred. 

Therefore take ye treaty, and proffer you largely for a month's delay; for 
within a month shall come Sir Launcelot and all his noble knights, and 
rescue you worshipfully, and slay Sir Modred and all that hold with him." 
And then Sir Gawain and all the ladies vanished. And anon the king called to 
fetch his noble lords and wise bishops unto him. And when they were come, 
the king told them his vision, and what Sir Gawain had told him. Then the 
king sent Sir Lucan the butler, and Sir Bedivere, with two bishops, and 
charged them in any wise to take a treaty for a month and a day with Sir 
Modred. So they departed, and came to Sir Modred; and so, at the last, Sir 
Modred was agreed to have Cornwall and Kent, during Arthur's life, and all 
England after his death. 

Then was it agreed that King Arthur and Sir Modred should meet betwixt both 
their hosts, and each of them should bring fourteen persons, and then and 
there they should sign the treaty. And when King Arthur and his knights were 
prepared to go forth, he warned all his host, "If so be ye see any sword 
drawn, look ye come on fiercely, and slay whomsoever withstandeth, for I in 
no wise trust that traitor, Sir Modred." In likewise Sir Modred warned his 
host. So they met, and were agreed and accorded thoroughly. And wine was 
brought, and they drank. Right then came an adder out of a little heath-
bush, and stung a knight on the foot. And when the knight felt him sting, he 
looked down and saw the adder, and then he drew his sword to slay the adder, 
and thought of no other harm. And when the host on both sides saw that sword 
drawn, they blew trumpets and horns, and shouted greatly. And King Arthur 
took his horse, and rode to his party, saying, "Alas, this unhappy day!" And 
Sir Modred did in like wise. And never was there a more doleful battle in 
Christian land. And ever King Arthur rode throughout the battle, and did 
full nobly, as a worthy king should, and Sir Modred that day did his devoir, 
and put himself in great peril. And thus they fought all the long day, till 
the most of all the noble knights lay dead upon the ground. Then the king 
looked about him, and saw of all his host were left alive but two knights, 
Sir Lucan the butler, and Sir Bedivere his brother, and they were full sore 
wounded. 

Then King Arthur saw where Sir Modred leaned upon his sword among a great 
heap of dead men. "Now give me my spear," said Arthur unto Sir Lucan, "for 
yonder I espy the traitor that hath wrought all this woe." "Sir, let him 
be," said Sir Lucan; "for if ye pass this unhappy day ye shall be right well 
revenged upon him. Remember what the sprite of Sir Gawain told you, and 
leave off now, for ye have won the field; and if ye leave off now this evil 
day of destiny is past." "Betide me life, betide me death," said King 
Arthur, "he shall not now escape my hands." Then the king took his spear in 
both hands, and ran toward Sir Modred, crying, "Traitor, now is thy death-
day come." And there King Arthur smote Sir Modred under the shield, with a 
thrust of his spear through the body. And when Sir Modred felt that he had 
his death-wound, with the might that he had he smote King Arthur, with his 
sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword 
pierced the helmet and the brain-pan; and then Sir Modred fell stark dead 
upon the earth. And the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth. And Sir 
Lucan the butler and Sir Bedivere raised him up, and gently led him betwixt 
them both to a little chapel not far from the seaside. And when the king was 
there he thought him well eased. 

Then heard they people cry in the field. And Sir Lucan went to see what that 
cry betokened; and he saw by the moonlight that pillers (1) and robbers were 
come to rob the dead. And he returned, and said to the king, "By my rede, it 
is best that we bring you to some town." "I would it were so," said the 
king. And when the king tried to go he fainted. Then Sir Lucan took up the 
king on the one part, and Sir Bedivere on the other part; and in the lifting 
Sir Lucan fell in a swoon to the earth, for he was grievously wounded. And 
then the noble knight's heart burst. And when the king awoke he beheld Sir 
Lucan, how he lay foaming at the mouth, and speechless. "Alas!" said the 
king, "this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this noble duke so die for 
my sake; for he would have holpen me that had more need of help than I, and 
he would not complain, his heart was so set to help me." Then Sir Bedivere 
wept for his brother. "Leave this mourning and weeping," said the king, "for 
wit thou well, if I might live myself, the death of Sir Lucan would grieve 
me evermore; but my time hieth fast. Therefore," said Arthur unto Sir 
Bedivere, "take thou Excalibar, my good sword, and go with it to yonder 
waterside; and when thou comest there I charge thee throw my sword in that 
water, and come again and tell me what thou there seest." "My lord," said 
Sir Bedivere, "your commandment shall be done." So Sir Bedivere departed, 
and by the way he beheld that noble sword, that the pommel and the haft were 
all of precious stones; and then he said to himself, "If I throw this rich 
sword into the water no good shall come thereof, but only harm and loss." 
And then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibar under a tree. And so, as soon as he 
might, he came again unto the king. "What sawest thou there?" said the king. 
"Sir," he said, "I saw nothing." "Alas! thou hast deceived me," said the 
king. "Go thou lightly again, and as thou love me, spare not to throw it 
in." Then Sir Bedivere went again, and took the sword in his hand to throw 
it; but again it beseemed him but sin and shame to throw away that noble 
sword, and he hid it away again, and returned, and told the king he had done 
his commandment. "What sawest thou there?" said the king. "Sir," he said, "I 
saw nothing but waters deep and waves wan." "Ah, traitor untrue!" said King 
Arthur, "now hast thou betrayed me twice. And yet thou art named a noble 
knight, and hast been lief and dear to me. But now go again, and do as I bid 
thee, for thy long tarrying putteth me in jeopardy of my life." Then Sir 
Bedivere went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the 
waterside, and he bound the girdle about the hilt, and then he threw the 
sword as far into the water as he might. And there came an arm and a hand 
out of the water and met it, and caught it, and shook it thrice and 
brandished it, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water. 

Then Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he saw. "Help me 
hence," said the king, "for I fear I have tarried too long." Then Sir 
Bedivere took the king on his back, and so went with him to that water-side; 
and when they came there, even fast by the bank there rode a little barge 
with many fair ladies in it, and among them was a queen; and all had black 
hoods, and they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur. 

"Now put me in the barge," said the king. And there received him three 
queens with great mourning, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid his 
head. And the queen said, "Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so long? 
Alas! this wound on your head hath caught overmuch cold." And then they 
rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere beheld them go from him. Then he 
cried: "Ah, my lord Arthur, will ye leave me here alone among mine enemies?" 
"Comfort thyself," said the king, "for in me is no further help; for I will 
to the Isle of Avalon, to heal me of my grievous wound." And as soon as Sir 
Bedivere had lost sight of the barge he wept and wailed; then he took the 
forest, and went all that night, and in the morning he was ware of a chapel 
and a hermitage. 

Then went Sir Bedivere thither; and when he came into the chapel he saw 
where lay an hermit on the ground, near a tomb that was newly graven. "Sir," 
said Sir Bedivere, "what man is there buried that ye pray so near unto?" 
"Fair son," said the hermit, "I know not verily. 

But this night there came a number of ladies, and brought hither one dead, 
and prayed me to bury him." "Alas!" said Sir Bedivere, "that was my lord, 
King Arthur." Then Sir Bedivere swooned; and when he awoke he prayed the 
hermit he might abide with him, to live with fasting and prayers. "Ye are 
welcome," said the hermit. So there bode Sir Bedivere with the hermit; and 
he put on poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in fasting and in 
prayers. 

Thus of Arthur I find never more written in books that he authorized, nor 
more of the very certainty of his death; but thus was he led away in a ship, 
wherein were three queens; the one was King Arthur's sister, Queen Morgane 
le Fay; the other was Viviane, the Lady of the Lake and the third was the 
queen of North Galis. And this tale Sir Bedivere, knight of the Table Round, 
made to be written. 

Yet some men say that King Arthur is not dead, but hid away into another 
place, and men say that he shall come again and reign over England. But many 
say that there is written on his tomb this verse:- 

"Hic jacet Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rexque futurus." 
Here Arthur lies, King once and King to be.
And when Queen Guenever understood that King Arthur was slain, and all the 
noble knights with him, she stole away, and five ladies with her; and so she 
went to Almesbury, and made herself a nun, and ware white clothes and black, 
and took great penance as ever did sinful lady, and lived in fasting, 
prayers, and alms-deeds. And there she was abbess and ruler of the nuns. Now 
turn we from her, and speak of Sir Launcelot of the Lake. 

When Sir Launcelot heard in his country that Sir Modred was crowned king of 
England and made war against his own uncle, King Arthur, then was Sir 
Launcelot wroth out of measure, and said to his kinsmen: "Alas, that double 
traitor, Sir Modred! now it repenteth me that ever he escaped out of my 
hands." Then Sir Launcelot and his fellows made ready in all haste, with 
ships and galleys, to pass into England; and so he passed over till he came 
to Dover, and there he landed with a great army. Then Sir Launcelot was told 
that King Arthur was slain. "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "this is the 
heaviest tidings that ever came to me." Then he called the kings, dukes, 
barons, and knights, and said thus: "My fair lords, I thank you all for 
coming into this country with me, but we came too late, and that shall 
repent me while I live. But since it is so," said Sir Launcelot, "I will 
myself ride and seek my lady, Queen Guenever, for I have heard say she hath 
fled into the west; therefore ye shall abide me here fifteen days, and if I 
come not within that time, then take your ships and your host and depart 
into your country." 

So Sir Launcelot departed and rode westerly, and there he sought many days; 
and at last he came to a nunnery, and was seen of Queen Guenever as he 
walked in the cloister; and when she saw him, she swooned away. And when she 
might speak, she bade him to be called to her. And when Sir Launcelot was 
brought to her, she said: "Sir Launcelot, I require thee and beseech thee, 
for all the love that ever was betwixt us, that thou never see me more, but 
return to thy kingdom and take thee a wife, and live with her with joy and 
bliss; and pray for me to my Lord, that I may get my soul's health." "Nay, 
madam," said Sir Launcelot, "wit you well that I shall never do; but the 
same destiny that ye have taken you to will I take me unto, for to please 
and serve God." And so they parted, with tears and much lamentation; and the 
ladies bare the queen to her chamber, and Sir Launcelot took his horse and 
rode away, weeping. 

And at last Sir Launcelot was ware of a hermitage and a chapel, and then he 
heard a little bell ring to mass; and thither he rode and alighted, and tied 
his horse to the gate, and heard mass. And he that sang the mass was the 
hermit with whom Sir Bedivere had taken up his abode; and Sir Bedivere knew 
Sir Launcelot, and they spake together after mass. But when Sir Bedivere had 
told his tale, Sir Launcelot's heart almost burst for sorrow. Then he 
kneeled down, and prayed the hermit to shrive him, and besought that he 
might be his brother. Then the hermit said, "I will gladly"; and then he put 
a habit upon Sir Launcelot, and there he served God day and night, with 
prayers and fastings. 

And the great host abode at Dover till the end of the fifteen days set by 
Sir Launcelot, and then Sir Bohort made them to go home again to their own 
country; and Sir Bohort, Sir Hector de Marys, Sir Blanor, and many others, 
took on them to ride through all England to seek Sir Launcelot. So Sir 
Bohort by fortune rode until he came to the same chapel where Sir Launcelot 
was; and when he saw Sir Launcelot in that manner of clothing, he prayed the 
hermit that he might be in that same. And so there was a habit put upon him, 
and there he lived in prayers and fasting. And within half a year came 
others of the knights, their fellows, and took such a habit as Sir Launcelot 
and Sir Bohort had. Thus they endured in great penance six years. 

And upon a night there came a vision to Sir Launcelot, and charged him to 
haste him toward Almesbury, and "by the time thou come there, thou shalt 
find Queen Guenever dead." Then Sir Launcelot rose up early, and told the 
hermit thereof. Then said the hermit, "It were well that ye disobey not this 
vision." And Sir Launcelot took his seven companions with him, and on foot 
they went from Glastonbury to Almesbury, which is more than thirty miles. 
And when they were come to Almesbury, they found that Queen Guenever died 
but half an hour before. Then Sir Launcelot saw her visage, but he wept not 
greatly, but sighed. And so he did all the observance of the service 
himself, both the "dirige" at night, and at morn he sang mass, And there was 
prepared an horse-bier, and Sir Launcelot and his fellows followed the bier 
on foot from Almesbury until they came to Glastonbury; and she was wrapped 
in cered clothes, and laid in a coffin of marble. And when she was put in 
the earth, Sir Launcelot swooned, and lay long as one dead. 

And Sir Launcelot never after ate but little meat, nor drank; but 
continually mourned. And within six weeks Sir Launcelot fell sick; and he 
sent for the hermit and all his true fellows, and said, "Sir hermit, I pray 
you give me all my rights that a Christian man ought to have." "It shall not 
need," said the hermit and all his fellows; "it is but heaviness of your 
blood, and to-morrow morn you shall be well." 

"My fair lords," said Sir Launcelot, "my careful body will into the earth; I 
have warning more than now I will say; therefore give me my rights." So when 
he was houseled and aneled, and had all that a Christian man ought to have, 
he prayed the hermit that his fellows might bear his body to Joyous Garde. 
(Some men say it was Alnwick, and some say it was Bamborough.) "It repenteth 
me sore," said Sir Launcelot, "but I made a vow aforetime that in Joyous 
Garde I would be buried." Then there was weeping and wringing of hands among 
his fellows. And that night Sir Launcelot died; and when Sir Bohort and his 
fellows came to his bedside the next morning, they found him stark dead; and 
he lay as if he had smiled, and the sweetest savor all about him that ever 
they knew. 

And they put Sir Launcelot into the same horse-bier that Queen Guenever was 
laid in, and the hermit and they all together went with the body till they 
came to Joyous Garde. And there they laid his corpse in the body of the 
quire, and sang and read many psalms and prayers over him. And ever his 
visage was laid open and naked, that all folks might behold him. And right 
thus, as they were at their service, there came Sir Hector de Marys, that 
had seven years sought Sir Launcelot his brother, through all England, 
Scotland and Wales. 

And when Sir Hector heard such sounds in the chapel of Joyous Garde, he 
alighted and came into the quire. And all they knew Sir Hector. Then went 
Sir Bohort, and told him how there lay Sir Launcelot his brother, dead. Then 
Sir Hector threw his shield, his sword, and helm from him. And when he 
beheld Sir Launcelot's visage, it were hard for any tongue to tell the 
doleful complaints he made for his brother. 

"Ah, Sir Launcelot!" he said, "there thou liest. And now I dare to say thou 
wert never matched of none earthly knight's hand. And thou wert the 
courteousest knight that ever bare shield; and thou wert the truest friend 
to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou were the truest lover, of a 
sinful man, that ever loved woman; and thou wert the kindest man that ever 
struck with sword. And thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among 
press of knights. And thou wert the meekest man, and the gentlest, that ever 
ate in hall among ladies. And thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal 
foe that ever put spear in the rest." Then there was weeping and dolor out 
of measure. Thus they kept Sir Launcelot's corpse fifteen days, and then 
they buried it with great devotion. 

Then they went back with the hermit to his hermitage. And Sir Bedivere was 
there ever still hermit to his life's end. And Sir Bohort, Sir Hector, Sir 
Blanor and Sir Bleoberis went into the Holy Land. And these four knights did 
many battles upon the miscreants, the Turks; and there they died upon a Good 
Friday, as it pleased God. 

Thus endeth this noble and joyous book, entitled La Morte d'Arthur; 
notwithstanding it treateth of the birth, life and acts of the said King 
Arthur, and of his noble Knights of the Round Table, their marvellous 
enquests and adventures, the achieving of the Sangreal, and in the end, la 
Morte d'Arthur, with the dolorous death and departing out of this world of 
them all. Which book was reduced into English by Sir Thomas Mallory, Knight, 
and divided into twenty-one books, chaptered and imprinted and finished in 
the Abbey Westmestre, the last day of July, the year of our Lord MCCCCLXXXV. 
Caxton me fieri fecit. 

 

(1) Plunderers: the word is not now used. 

 


PART II. THE MABINOGEON.

CHAPTER XIX. THE BRITONS.

THE earliest inhabitants of Britain are supposed to have been a branch of 
that great family known in history by the designation of Celts. Cambria, 
which is a frequent name for Wales, is thought to be derived from Cymri, the 
name which the Welsh traditions apply to an immigrant people who entered the 
island from the adjacent continent. This name is thought to be identical 
with those of Cimmerians and Cimbri, under which the Greek and Roman 
historians describe a barbarous people, who spread themselves from the north 
of the Euxine over the whole of Northwestern Europe. 

The origin of the names Wales and Welsh has been much canvassed. Some 
writers make them a derivation from Gael or Gaul, which names are said to 
signify "woodlanders"; others observe that Walsh, in the Northern languages, 
signifies a stranger, and that the aboriginal Britons were so called by 
those who at a later era invaded the island and possessed the greater part 
of it, the Saxons and Angles. The Romans held Britain from the invasion of 
Julius Caesar till their voluntary withdrawal from the island, A.D. 420,- 
that is, about five hundred years. In that time there must have been a wide 
diffusion of their arts and institutions among the natives. The remains of 
roads, cities, and fortifications show that they did much to develop and 
improve the country, while those of their villas and castles prove that many 
of the settlers possessed wealth and taste for the ornamental arts. Yet the 
Roman sway was sustained chiefly by force, and never extended over the 
entire island. The northern portion, now Scotland, remained independent, and 
the western portion, constituting Wales and Cornwall, was only nominally 
subjected. 

Neither did the later invading hordes succeed in subduing the remoter 
sections of the island. For ages after the arrival of the Saxons under 
Hengist and Horsa, A.D. 449, the whole western coast of Britain was 
possessed by the aboriginal inhabitants, engaged in constant warfare with 
the invaders. 

It has, therefore, been a favorite boast of the people of Wales and 
Cornwall, that the original British stock flourishes in its unmixed purity 
only among them. We see this notion flashing out in poetry occasionally, as 
when Gray, in "The Bard," prophetically describing Queen Elizabeth, who was 
of the Tudor, a Welsh race, says: 

"Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line";
and, contrasting the princes of the Tudor with those of the Norman race, he 
exclaims:
"All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!" 
THE WELSH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE.

The Welsh language is one of the oldest in Europe. It possesses poems the 
origin of which is referred with probability to the sixth century. The 
language of some of these is so antiquated, that the best scholars differ 
about the interpretation of many passages; but, generally speaking, the body 
of poetry which the Welsh possess, from the year 1000 downwards, is 
intelligible to those who are acquainted with the modern language. 

Till within the last half-century these compositions remained buried in the 
libraries of colleges or of individuals, and so difficult of access that no 
successful attempt was made to give them to the world. This reproach was 
removed, after ineffectual appeals to the patriotism of the gentry of Wales, 
by Owen Jones, a furrier of London, who at his own expense collected and 
published the chief productions of Welsh literature, under the title of the 
Myvyrian Archaeology of Wales. In this task he was assisted by Dr. Owen and 
other Welsh scholars. 

After the cessation of Jones's exertions, the old apathy returned, and 
continued till within a few years. Dr. Owen exerted himself to obtain 
support for the publication of the Mabinogeon, or Prose Tales of the Welsh, 
but died without accomplishing his purpose, which has since been carried 
into execution by Lady Charlotte Guest. The legends which fill the remainder 
of this volume are taken from this work, of which we have already spoken 
more fully in the introductory chapter to the First Part. 

THE WELSH BARDS.

The authors to whom the oldest Welsh poems are attributed are Aneurin, who 
is supposed to have lived A.D. 500 and 550, and Taliesin, Llywarch Hen 
(Llywarch the Aged), and Myrddin or Merlin, who were a few years later. The 
authenticity of the poems which bear their names has been assailed, and it 
is still an open question how many and which of them are authentic, though 
it is hardly to be doubted that some are so. The poem of Aneurin, entitled 
the "Gododin," bears very strong marks of authenticity. Aneurin was one of 
the Northern Britons of Strath-Clyde, who have left to that part of the 
district they inhabited the name of Cumberland, or Land of the Cymri. In 
this poem he laments the defeat of his countrymen by the Saxons at the 
battle of Cattraeth, in consequence of having partaken too freely of the 
mead before joining in combat. The bard himself and two of his fellow-
warriors were all who escaped from the field. A portion of this poem has 
been translated by Gray, of which the following is an extract:-

"To Cattraeth's vale, in glittering row, 
Twice two hundred warriors go; 
Every warrior's manly neck
Chains of regal honor deck, 
Wreathed in many a golden link; 
From the golden cup they drink
Nectar that the bees produce, 
Or the grape's exalted juice. 
Flushed with mirth and hope they burn, 
But none to Cattraeth's vale return, 
Save Aeron brave, and Conan strong, 
Bursting through the bloody throng, 
And I, the meanest of them all, 
That live to weep, and sing their fall."
The works of Taliesin are of much more questionable authenticity. There is a 
story of the adventures of Taliesin so strongly marked with mythical traits 
as to cast suspicion on the writings attributed to him. This story will be 
found in the subsequent pages. 

THE TRIADS.

The Triads are a peculiar species of poetical composition, of which the 
Welsh bards have left numerous examples. They are enumerations of a triad of 
persons, or events, or observations, strung together in one short sentence. 
This form of composition, originally invented, in all likelihood, to assist 
the memory, has been raised by the Welsh to a degree of elegance of which it 
hardly at first sight appears susceptible. The Triads are of all ages, some 
of them probably as old as anything in the language. Short as they are 
individually, the collection in the Myvyrian Archaeology occupies more than 
one hundred and seventy pages of double columns. We will give some 
specimens, beginning with personal triads, and giving the first place to one 
of King Arthur's own composition:- 

"I have three heroes in battle; 
Mael the tall, and Llyr, with his army, 
And Caradoc, the pillar of Wales."
"The three principal bards of the island of Britain:- 
Merlin Ambrose
Merlin the son of Morfyn, called also Merlin the Wild, 
And Taliesin, the chief of the bards."
"The three golden-tongued knights of the Court of Arthur:- 
Gawain, son of Gwyar, 
Drydvas, son of Tryphin, 
And Eliwood, son of Madag, ap Uther."
"The three honorable feasts of the island of Britain:- 
The feast of Caswallaun, after repelling Julius Caesar from this isle; 
The feast of Aurelius Ambrosius, after he had conquered the Saxons; 
And the feast of King Arthur, at Caerleon upon Usk."
"Guenever, the daughter of Laodegan the giant, 
Bad when little, worse when great."
Next follow some moral triads:-
"Hast thou heard what Dremhidydd sung, 
An ancient watchman on the castle walls? 
A refusal is better than a promise unperformed."
"Hast thou heard what Llenleawg sung, 
The noble chief wearing the golden torques? 
The grave is better than a life of want."
"Hast thou heard what Garselit sung, 
The Irishman whom it is safe to follow? 
Sin is bad, if long pursued."
"Hast thou heard what Avaon sung, 
The son of Taliesin, of the recording verse? 
The cheek will not conceal the anguish of the heart."
"Didst thou hear what Llywarch sung, 
The intrepid and brave old man? 
Greet kindly, though there be no acquaintance." 




CHAPTER XX. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN.

KYNON'S ADVENTURE.

KING ARTHUR was at Caerleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his chamber, and 
with him were Owain the son of Urien, and Kynon the son of Clydno, and Kay 
the son of Kyner, and Guenever and her handmaidens at needlework by the 
window. In the centre of the chamber King Arthur sat, upon a seat of green 
rushes (1) over which was spread a covering of flame-colored satin, and a 
cushion of red satin was under his elbow. 

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

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

"And a little way from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his beard 
newly shorn, clad in a robe and mantle of yellow satin, and round the top of 
his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were shoes of variegated 
leather, (2) fastened by two bosses of gold. When I saw him I went towards 
him and saluted him; and such was his courtesy, that he no sooner received 
my greeting than he returned it. And he went with me towards the castle. Now 
there were no dwellers in the castle, except those who were in one hall. And 
there I saw four and twenty damsels, embroidering satin at a window. And 
this I tell thee, Kay, that the least fair of them was fairer than the 
fairest maid thou didst ever behold in the island of Britain; and the least 
lovely of them was more lovely than Guenever, the wife of Arthur, when she 
appeared loveliest, at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming, and 
six of them took my horse, and divested me of my armor, and six others took 
my arms, and washed them in a vessel till they were perfectly bright. And 
the third six spread cloths upon the tables, and prepared meat. And the 
fourth six took off my soiled garments, and placed others upon me, namely, 
an under vest and a doublet of fine linen, and a robe and a surcoat, and a 
mantle of yellow satin, with a broad gold band upon the mantle. And they 
placed cushions both beneath and around me, with coverings of red linen. And 
I sat down. Now the six maidens who had taken my horse unharnessed him as 
well as if they had been the best squires in the island of Britain. 

"Then behold they brought bowls of silver, wherein was water to wash, and 
towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a little 
while the man sat down at the table. And I sat next to him, and below me sat 
all the maidens, except those who waited on us. And the table was of silver, 
and the cloths upon the table were of linen. And no vessel was served upon 
the table that was not either of gold or of silver or of buffalo-horn. And 
our meat was brought to us. And verily, Kay, I saw there every sort of meat 
and every sort of liquor that I ever saw elsewhere; but the meat and the 
liquor were better served there than I ever saw them in any other place. 
"Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the damsels 
spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it would be more 
agreeable for me to converse than to eat any more, he began to inquire of me 
who I was. Then I told the man who I was, and what was the cause of my 
journey, and said that I was seeking whether any one was superior to me, or 
whether I could gain the mastery over all. The man looked upon me, and he 
smiled and said, 'If I did not fear to do thee a mischief, I would show thee 
that which thou seekest.' Then I desired him to speak freely. And he said: 
'Sleep here to-night, and in the morning arise early, and take the road 
upwards through the valley, until thou reachest the wood. A little way 
within the wood thou wilt come to a large sheltered glade, with a mound in 
the centre. And thou wilt see a black man of great stature on the top of the 
mound. He has but one foot, and one eye in the middle of his forehead. He is 
the wood-ward of that wood. And thou wilt see a thousand wild animals 
grazing around him. Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will 
reply to thee briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find 
that which thou art in quest of.' 

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

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

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

 

(1) The use of green rushes in apartments was by no means peculiar to the 
court of Caerleon upon Usk. Our ancestors had a great predilection for them, 
and they seem to have constituted an essential article, not only of comfort 
but of luxury. The custom of strewing the floor with rushes, it is well 
known, existed in England during the Middle Ages, and also in France. 

(2) Cordwal is the word in the original, and from the manner in which it is 
used it is evidently intended for the French Cordouan or Cordovan leather, 
which derived its name from Cordova, where it was manufactured. From this 
comes also our English word cordwainer. 

 


CHAPTER XXI. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN, CONTINUED.

OWAIN'S ADVENTURE.(1)

Amongst all the characters of early British history none is more interesting 
or occupies a more conspicuous place, than the hero of this tale. Urien, his 
father, was prince of Rheged, a district comprising the present Cumberland 
and part of the adjacent country. His valor and the consideration in which 
he was held are a frequent theme of Bardic song, and form the subject of 
several very spirited odes by Taliesin. Among the Triads there is one 
relating to him; it is thus translated:- 

"Three Knights of Battle were in the court of Arthur: Cadwr the Earl of 
Cornwall, Launcelot du Lac, and Owain the son of Urien. And this was their 
characteristic,- that they would not retreat from battle, neither for spear, 
nor for arrow, nor for sword. And Arthur never had shame in battle the day 
he saw their faces there. And they were called the Knights of Battle."
"Now," quoth Owain, "would it not be well to go and endeavor to discover 
that place?" 

"By the hand of my friend," said Kay, "often dost thou utter that with thy 
tongue which thou wouldest not make good with thy deeds." "In very truth," 
said Guenever, "it were better thou wert hanged, Kay, than to use such 
uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain." "By the hand of my friend, 
good lady," said Kay; "thy praise of Owain is not greater than mine." 

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

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

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

"It is, lord," said Owain. 

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

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

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

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

The next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the damsels, 
and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man was. And the 
stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain than it had done to 
Kynon; and Owain asked of him his road, and he showed it to him. And Owain 
followed the road till he came to the green tree; and he beheld the 
fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, and the bowl upon it. And Owain 
took the bowl and threw a bowlful of water upon the slab. And, lo! the 
thunder was heard, and after the thunder came the shower, more violent than 
Kynon had described, and after the shower the sky became bright. And 
immediately the birds came and settled upon the tree and sang. And when 
their song was most pleasing to Owain, he beheld a knight coming towards him 
through the valley; and he prepared to receive him, and encountered him 
violently. Having broken both their lances, they drew their swords and 
fought blade to blade. Then Owain struck the knight a blow through his 
helmet, head-piece, and visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the 
bone, until it wounded the very brain. Then the black knight felt that he 
had received a mortal wound, upon which he turned his horse's head and fled. 
And Owain pursued him, and followed close upon him, although he was not near 
enough to strike him with his sword. Then Owain descried a vast and 
resplendent castle; and they came to the castle gate. And the black knight 
was allowed to enter, and the portcullis was let fall upon Owain; and it 
struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in two, and carried away the 
rowels of the spurs that were upon Owain's heels. And the portcullis 
descended to the floor. And the rowels of the spurs and part of the horse 
were without, and Owain with the other part of the horse remained between 
the two gates, and the inner gate was closed, so that Owain could not go 
thence; and Owain was in a perplexing situation. 

And while he was in this state, he could see through an aperture in the gate 
a street facing him, with a row of houses on each side. And he beheld a 
maiden, with yellow, curling hair, and a frontlet of gold upon her head; and 
she was clad in a dress of yellow satin, and on her feet were shoes of 
variegated leather. And she approached the gate, and desired that it should 
be opened. "Heaven knows, lady," said Owain, "it is no more possible for me 
to open to thee from hence, than it is for thee to set me free." And he told 
her his name, and who he was. "Truly," said the damsel, "it is very sad that 
thou canst not be released; and every woman ought to succor thee, for I know 
there is no one more faithful in the service of ladies than thou. 
Therefore," quoth she, "whatever is in my power to do for thy release, I 
will do it. Take this ring, and put it on thy finger, with the stone inside 
thy hand, and close thy hand upon the stone. And as long as thou concealest 
it, it will conceal thee. When they come forth to fetch thee, they will be 
much grieved that they cannot find thee. And I will await thee on the 
horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be able to see me, though I cannot see 
thee. Therefore come and place thy hand upon my shoulder, that I may know 
that thou art near me. And by the way that I go hence, do thou accompany 
me." 

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

And Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed his 
hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed her, until 
they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and the maiden 
opened it, and they went in. And Owain looked around the chamber, and behold 
there was not a single nail in it that was not painted with gorgeous colors, 
and there was not a single panel that had not sundry images in gold 
portrayed upon it. The maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver 
bowl, and gave Owain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver 
table, inlaid with gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen, and she 
brought him food. And, of a truth, Owain never saw any kind of meat that was 
not there in abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever 
found it in any other place. And there was not one vessel from which he was 
served that was not of gold or of silver. And Owain ate and drank until late 
in the afternoon, when, lo! they heard a mighty clamor in the castle, and 
Owain asked the maiden what it was. "They are administering extreme 
unction," said she, "to the nobleman who owns the castle." And she prepared 
a couch for Owain which was meet for Arthur himself, and Owain went to 
sleep. 

And a little after daybreak he heard an exceeding loud clamor and wailing, 
and asked the maiden what was the cause of it. "They are bearing to the 
church the body of the nobleman who owned the castle." And Owain rose up, 
and clothed himself, and opened a window of the chamber, and looked towards 
the castle; and he could see neither the bounds nor the extent of the hosts 
that filled the streets. And they were fully armed; and a vast number of 
women were with them, both on horseback and on foot, and all the 
ecclesiastics in the city singing. In the midst of the throng he beheld the 
bier, over which was a veil of white linen; and wax tapers were burning 
beside and around it; and none that supported the bier was lower in rank 
than a powerful baron. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Luned returned home. And the next day, at noon, Owain arrayed himself in 
a coat and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a broad 
band of gold lace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated leather, 
which were fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And they 
proceeded to the chamber of the Countess. Right glad was the Countess of 
their coming. And she gazed steadfastly upon Owain, and said, "Luned, this 
knight has not the look of a traveller." "What harm is there in that, lady?" 
said Luned. "I am certain," said the Countess, "that no other man than this 
chased the soul from the body of my lord." "So much the better for thee, 
lady," said Luned, "for had he not been stronger than thy lord, he could not 
have deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past, be it 
as it may." "Go back to thine abode," said the Countess, "and I will take 
counsel." 

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

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

And Owain defended the fountain with lance and sword. And this is the manner 
in which he defended it. Whensoever a knight came there, he overthrew him, 
and sold him for his full worth. And what he thus gained he divided among 
his barons and his knights, and no man in the whole world could be more 
beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was thus for the space of three 
years.(2) 

 
(1) Before the sixth century all the silk used by Europeans had been brought 
to them by the Seres, the ancestors of the present Boukharians, whence it 
derived its Latin name of Serica. In 551 the silkworm was brought by two 
monks to Constantinople; but the manufacture of silk was confined to the 
Greek empire till the year 1130, when Roger, king of Sicily, returning from 
a crusade, collected some manufacturers from Athens and Corinth, and 
established them at Palermo, whence the trade was gradually disseminated 
over Italy. The varieties of silk stuffs known at this time were velvet, 
satin (which was called samite), and taffety (called cendal or sendall), all 
of which were occasionally stitched with gold and silver. 

(2) There exists an ancient poem, printed among those of Taliesin, called 
the Elegy of Owain ap Urien, and containing several very beautiful and 
spirited passages. It commences: 

"The soul of Owain ap Urien, 
May its Lord consider its exigencies! 
Reged's chief the green turf covers."
In the course of this Elegy, the bard, alluding to the incessant welfare 
with which this chieftain harassed his Saxon foes, exclaims: 

"Could England sleep with the light upon her eyes!" 
 


CHAPTER XXII. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN, CONTINUED. 

GAWAIN'S ADVENTURE. 

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

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

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

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

And the knight withdrew. And Arthur and his host encamped for the night. 

And when they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat upon 
the lance of the knight. Then, one by one, all the household of Arthur went 
forth to combat the knight, until there was not one that was not overthrown 
by him, except Arthur and Gawain. And Arthur armed himself to encounter the 
knight. "O my lord," said Gawain, "permit me to fight with him first." And 
Arthur permitted him. 

And he went forth to meet the knight, having over himself and his horse a 
satin robe of honor, which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of 
Rhangyr, and in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they 
charged each other, and fought all that day until the evening. And neither 
of them was able to unhorse the other. And so it was the next day; they 
broke their lances in the shock, but neither of them could obtain the 
mastery. 

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

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

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION.

And as Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerleon upon Usk, behold a 
damsel entered the hall, upon a bay horse,(1) with a curling name, and 
covered with foam; and the bridle, and as much as was seen of the saddle, 
were of gold. And the damsel was arrayed in a dress of yellow satin. And she 
came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his hand. "Thus," said she, 
"shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor, the faithless, the disgraced, 
and the beardless." And she turned her horse's head, and departed.

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

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

And the maiden departed from her, and went and poured of the balsam upon 
Owain, and left the horse and the garments hard by, and went a little way 
off and hid herself to watch him. In a short time she saw him begin to move; 
and he rose up and looked at his person, and became ashamed of the 
unseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the garments 
that were near him. And be clothed himself and with difficulty mounted the 
horse. Then the damsel discovered herself to him, and saluted him. And he 
and the maiden proceeded to the castle, and the maiden conducted him to a 
pleasant chamber, and kindled a fire, and left him. 

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

And as he journeyed he heard a loud yelling in a wood. And it was repeated a 
second and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and beheld a huge 
craggy mound, in the middle of the wood, on the side of which was a gray 
rock. And there was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent was within the cleft. 
And near the rock stood a black lion, and every time the lion sought to go 
thence the serpent darted towards him to attack him. And Owain unsheathed 
his sword, and drew near to the rock; and as the serpent sprung out he 
struck him with his sword and cut him in two. And he dried his sword, and 
went on his way as before. But behold the lion followed him, and played 
about him, as though it had been a greyhound that he had reared. 

They proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. And when it was 
time for Owain to take his rest he dismounted, and turned his horse loose in 
a flat and wooded meadow. And he struck fire, and when the fire was kindled 
the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three nights. And the lion 
disappeared. And presently the lion returned, bearing a fine large roebuck. 
And he threw it down before Owain, who went towards the fire with it. And 
Owain took the roebuck and skinned it, and placed collops of its flesh upon 
skewers round the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the lion to devour. 
While he was so employed he heard a deep groan near him, and a second, and a 
third. And the place whence the groans proceeded was a cave in the rock; and 
Owain went near, and called out to know who it was that groaned so 
piteously. And a voice answered, "I am Luned, the handmaiden of the Countess 
of the Fountain." "And what dost thou here?" said he. "I am imprisoned," 
said she, "on account of the knight who came from Arthur's court and married 
the Countess. And he stayed a short time with her, but he afterwards 
departed for the court of Arthur, and has not returned since. And two of the 
Countess's pages traduced him, and called him a deceiver. And because I said 
I would vouch for it he would come before long and maintain his cause 
against both of them they imprisoned me in this cave, and said that I should 
be put to death unless he came to deliver me by a certain day; and that is 
no further off than tomorrow, and I have no one to send to seek him for me. 
His name is Owain, the son of Urien." "And art thou certain that if that 
knight knew all this he would come to thy rescue?" "I am most certain of 
it," said she. 

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

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

And they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that, the 
lion came to Owain's assistance, and they two got the better of the young 
men. And they said to him, "Chieftain, it was not agreed that we should 
fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us to contend with 
yonder animal than with thee." And Owain put the lion in the place where 
Luned had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door with stones. And he went 
to fight with the young men as before. But Owain had not his usual strength, 
and the two youths pressed hard upon him. And the lion roared incessantly at 
seeing Owain in trouble. And he burst through the wall, until he found his 
way out, and rushed upon the young men and instantly slew them. So Luned was 
saved from being burned. 

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

 

(1) The custom of riding into a hall while the lord and his guests sat at 
meat might be illustrated by numerous passages of ancient romance and 
history. But a quotation from Chaucer's beautiful and half-told tale of 
Cambuscan is sufficient:

"And so befell that after the thridde cours, 
While that this king sat thus in his nobley, 
Herking his minstralles thir thinges play, 
Beforne him at his bord deliciously, 
In at the halle door all sodenly 
Ther came a knight upon a stede of bras, 
And in his hond a brod mirrour of glas, 
Upon his thombe he had of gold a ring, 
And by his side a naked sword hanging; 
And up he rideth to the highe bord. 
In all the halle ne was ther spoke a word, 
For mervaille of this knight; him to behold 
Full besily they waiten, young and old."
 



CHAPTER XXIII. GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN.

ARTHUR was accustomed to hold his court at Caerleon upon Usk. And there he 
held it seven Easters and five Christmases. And once upon a time he held his 
court there at Whitsuntide. For Caerleon was the place most easy of access 
in his dominions, both by sea and by land. And there were assembled nine 
crowned kings, who were his tributaries, and likewise earls and barons. For 
they were his invited guests at all the high festivals, unless they were 
prevented by any great hinderance. And when he was at Caerleon holding his 
court, thirteen churches were set apart for mass. And thus they were 
appointed: one church for Arthur and his kings, and his guests; and the 
second for Guenever and her ladies; and the third for the steward of the 
household and the suitors; and the fourth for the Franks and the other 
officers; and the other nine churches were for the nine masters of the 
household, and chiefly for Gawain, for he, from the eminence of his warlike 
fame, and from the nobleness of his birth, was the most exalted of the nine. 
And there was no other arrangement respecting the churches than that which 
we have here mentioned. 

And on Whit-Tuesday, as the king sat at the banquet, lo, there entered a 
tall, fair-headed youth, clad in a coat and surcoat of satin, and a golden-
hilted sword about his neck, and low shoes of leather upon his feet. And he 
came and stood before Arthur. "Hail to thee, lord," said he. "Heaven prosper 
thee," he answered, "and be thou welcome." "Dost thou bring any new 
tidings?" "I do, lord," he said. "I am one of thy foresters, lord, in the 
forest of Dean, and my name is Madoc, son of Turgadarn. In the forest I saw 
a stag, the like of which beheld I never yet." "What is there about him," 
asked Arthur, "that thou never yet didst see his like?" "He is of pure 
white, lord, and he does not herd with any other animal, through stateliness 
and pride, so royal is his bearing. And I come to seek thy counsel, lord, 
and to know thy will concerning him. "It seems best to me," said Arthur, "to 
go and hunt him to-morrow at break of day, and to cause general notice 
thereof to be given to-night, in all quarters of the court." 

And Arryfuerys was Arthur's chief huntsman, and Arelivri his chief page. And 
all received notice; and thus it was arranged. Then Guenever said to Arthur, 
"Wilt thou permit me, lord, to go to-morrow to see and hear the hunt of the 
stag of which the young man spoke?" "I will gladly," said Arthur. And Gawain 
said to Arthur, "Lord, if it seem well to thee, permit that into whose hunt 
soever the stag shall come, that one, be he a knight or one on foot, may cut 
off his head, and give it to whom he pleases, whether to his own lady-love, 
or to the lady of his friend." "I grant it gladly," said Arthur, "and let 
the steward of the household be chastised, if all things are not ready to-
morrow for the chase." 

And they passed the night with songs and diversions and discourse, and ample 
entertainment. And when it was time for them all to go to sleep, they went. 
And when the next day came, they arose. And Arthur called the attendants who 
guarded his couch. And there were four pages whose names were Cadyrnerth, 
the son of Gandwy, and Ambreu, the son of Bedwor, and Amhar, the son of 
Arthur, and Goreu, the son of Custennin. And these men came to Arthur and 
saluted him, and arrayed him in his garments. And Arthur wondered that 
Guenever did not awake, and the attendants wished to awaken her. "Disturb 
her not," said Arthur, "for she had rather sleep than go to see the 
hunting." 

Then Arthur went forth, and he heard two horns sounding, one from near the 
lodging of the chief huntsman, and the other from near that of the chief 
page. And the whole assembly of the multitudes came to Arthur, and they took 
the road to the forest. 

And after Arthur had gone forth from the palace, Guenever awoke, and called 
to her maidens, and apparelled herself. "Maidens," said she, "I had leave 
last night to go and see the hunt. Go one of you to the stable, and order 
hither a horse such as a woman may ride." And one of them went, and she 
found but two horses in the stable; and Guenever and one of her maidens 
mounted them, and went through the Usk, and followed the track of the men 
and the horses. And as they rode thus, they heard a loud and rushing sound; 
and they looked behind them, and beheld a knight upon a hunter foal of 
mighty size. And the rider was a fair-haired youth, bare-legged, and of 
princely mien; and a golden-hilted sword was at his side, and a robe and a 
surcoat of satin were upon him, and two low shoes of leather were upon his 
feet; and around him was a scarf of blue purple, at each corner of which was 
a golden apple. And his horse stepped stately and swift and proud; and he 
overtook Guenever, and saluted her. "Heaven prosper thee, Geraint," said 
she; "and why didst thou not go with thy lord to hunt?" 

"Because I knew not when he went," said he. "I marvel too," said she, "how 
he could go, unknown to me. But thou, O young man, art the most agreeable 
companion I could have in the whole kingdom; and it may be I shall be more 
amused with the hunting than they; for we shall hear the horns when they 
sound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to cry." 

So they went to the edge of the forest, and there they stood. "From this 
place," said she, "we shall hear when the dogs are let loose." And thereupon 
they heard a loud noise; and they looked towards the spot whence it came, 
and they beheld a dwarf riding upon a horse, stately and foaming and 
prancing and strong and spirited. And in the hand of the dwarf was a whip. 
And near the dwarf they saw a lady upon a beautiful white horse, of steady 
and stately pace; and she was clothed in a garment of gold brocade. And near 
her was a knight upon a war-horse of large size, with heavy and bright armor 
both upon himself and upon his horse. And truly they never before saw a 
knight, or a horse, or armor, of such remarkable size. 

"Geraint," said Guenever, "knowest thou the name of that tall knight 
yonder?" "I know him not," said he, "and the strange armor that he wears 
prevents my either seeing his face or his features." "Go, maiden," said 
Guenever, "and ask the dwarf who that knight is." Then the maiden went up to 
the dwarf; and she inquired of the dwarf who the knight was. "I will not 
tell thee," he answered. "Since thou art so churlish," said she, "I will ask 
him, myself." "Thou shalt not ask him, by my faith," said he. "Wherefore 
not?" said she. "Because thou art not of honor sufficient to befit thee to 
speak to my lord." Then the maiden turned her horse's head towards the 
knight, upon which the dwarf struck her with the whip that was in his hand 
across the face and the eyes, so that the blood flowed forth. And the maiden 
returned to Guenever, complaining of the hurt she had received. "Very rudely 
has the dwarf treated thee," said Geraint, and he put his hand upon the hilt 
of his sword. But he took counsel with himself, and considered that it would 
be no vengeance for him to slay the dwarf, and to be attacked unarmed by the 
armed knight; so he refrained. "Lady," said he, "I will follow him, with thy 
permission, and at last he will come to some inhabited place, where I may 
have arms, either as a loan or for a pledge, so that I may encounter the 
knight." "Go," said she, "and do not attack him until thou hast good arms; 
and I shall be very anxious concerning thee, until I hear tidings of thee." 
"If I am alive," said he, "thou shalt hear tidings of me by to-morrow 
afternoon;" and with that he departed. 

And the road they took was below the palace of Caerleon, and across the ford 
of the Usk; and they went along a fair and even and lofty ridge of ground, 
until they came to a town, and at the extremity of the town they saw a 
fortress and a castle. And as the knight passed through the town, all the 
people arose and saluted him, and bade him welcome. And when Geraint came 
into the town, he looked at every house to see if he knew any of those whom 
he saw. But he knew none, and none knew him, to do him the kindness to let 
him have arms, either as a loan or for a pledge. And every house he saw was 
full of men and arms and horses. And they were polishing shields, and 
burnishing swords, and washing armor, and shoeing horses. And the knight and 
the lady and the dwarf rode up to the castle, that was in the town, and 
every one was glad in the castle. And from the battlements and the gates 
they risked their necks, through their eagerness to greet them, and to show 
their joy. 

Geraint stood there to see whether the knight would remain in the castle; 
and when he was certain that he would do so, he looked around him. And at a 
little distance from the town he saw an old palace in ruins, wherein was a 
hall that was falling to decay. And as he knew not any one in the town, he 
went towards the old palace. And when he came near to the palace, he saw a 
hoary-headed man, standing by it, in tattered garments. And Geraint gazed 
steadfastly upon him. Then the hoary-headed man said to him, "Young man, 
wherefore art thou thoughtful?" "I am thoughtful," said he, "because I know 
not where to pass the night." "Wilt thou come forward this way, chieftain," 
said he, "and thou shalt have of the best that can be procured for thee." So 
Geraint went forward. And the hoary-headed man led the way into the hall. 
And in the hall he dismounted, and he left there his horse. Then he went on 
to the upper chamber with the hoary-headed man. And in the chamber he beheld 
an old woman, sitting on a cushion, with old, worn-out garments upon her; 
yet it seemed to him that she must have been comely when in the bloom of 
youth. And beside her was a maiden, upon whom were a vest and a veil, that 
were old, and beginning to be worn out. And truly he never saw a maiden more 
full of comeliness and grace and beauty than she. And the hoary-headed man 
sail to the maiden, "There is no attendant for the horse of this youth but 
thyself." "I will render the best service I am able," said she, "both to him 
and to his horse." And the maiden disarrayed the youth, and then she 
furnished his horse with straw and with corn; and then she returned to the 
chamber. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, "Go to the town, and 
bring hither the best that thou canst find, both of food and of liquor." "I 
will gladly, lord," said she. And to the town went the maiden. And they 
conversed together while the maiden was at the town. And behold, the maiden 
came back, and a youth with her, bearing on his back a costrel full of good 
purchased mead, ind a quarter of a young bullock. And in the hands of the 
maiden was a quantity of white bread, and she had some manchet bread in her 
veil, and she came into the chamber. "I could not obtain better than this," 
said she, "nor with better should I have been trusted." "It is good enough," 
said Geraint. And they caused the meat to be boiled; and when their food was 
ready, they sat down. And it was in this wise. Geraint sat between the 
hoary-headed man and his wife, and the maiden served them. And they ate and 
drank. 

And when they had finished eating, Geraint talked with the hoary-headed man, 
and he asked him in the first place to whom belonged the palace that he was 
in. "Truly," said he, "it was I that built it, and to me also belonged the 
city and the castle which thou sawest." "Alas!" said Geraint, "how is it 
that thou hast lost them now?" "I lost a great earldom as well as these," 
said he, "and this is how I lost them. I had a nephew, the son of my 
brother, and I took care of his possessions; but he was impatient to enter 
upon them, so he made war upon me, and wrested from me not only his own, but 
also my estates, except this castle." "Good sir," said Geraint, "wilt thou 
tell me wherefore came the knight and the lady and the dwarf just now into 
the town, and what is the preparation which I saw, and the putting of arms 
in order?" "I will do so," said he. "The preparations are for the game that 
is to be held to-morrow by the young earl, which will be on this wise. In 
the midst of a meadow which is here, two forks will be set up, and upon the 
two forks a silver rod, and upon the silver rod a sparrow-hawk, and for the 
sparrow-hawk there will be a tournament. And to the tournament will go all 
the array thou didst see in the city, of men and of horses and of arms. And 
with each man will go the lady he loves best; and no man can joust for the 
sparrow-hawk, except the lady he loves best be with him. And the knight that 
thou sawest has gained the sparrow-hawk these two years; and if he gains it 
the third year, he will be called the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk from that 
time forth." "Sir," said Geraint, "what is thy counsel to me concerning this 
knight, on account of the insult which the maiden of Guenever received from 
the dwarf?" And Geraint told the hoary-headed man what the insult was that 
the maiden had received. "It is not easy to counsel thee, inasmuch as thou 
hast neither dame nor maiden belonging to thee, for whom thou canst joust. 
Yet I have arms here, which thou couldst have, and there is my horse also, 
if he seem to thee better than thine own." "Ah, sir," said he, "Heaven 
reward thee! But my own horse, to which I am accustomed, together with thine 
arms, will suffice me. And if, when the appointed time shall come to-morrow, 
thou wilt permit me, sir, to challenge for yonder maiden that is thy 
daughter, I will engage, if I escape from the tournament, to love the maiden 
as long as I live." "Gladly will I permit thee," said the hoary-headed man; 
"and since thou dost thus resolve, it is necessary that thy horse and arms 
should be ready to-morrow at break of day. For then the Knight of the 
Sparrow-hawk will make proclamation, and ask the lady he loves best to take 
the sparrow-hawk; and if any deny it to her, by force will he defend her 
claim. And therefore," said the hoary-headed man, "it is needful for thee to 
be there at daybreak, and we three will be with thee." And thus was it 
settled. 

And at night they went to sleep. And before the dawn they arose and arrayed 
themselves; and by the time that it was day, they were all four in the 
meadow. And there was the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk making the proclamation 
and asking his lady-love to take the sparrow-hawk. "Take it not," said 
Geraint, "for here is a maiden who is fairer, and more noble, and more 
comely, and who has a better claim to it than thou." Then said the knight, 
"If thou maintainest the sparrow-hawk to be due to her, come forward and do 
battle with me." And Geraint went forward to the top of the meadow, having 
upon himself and upon his horse armor which was heavy and rusty, and of 
uncouth shape. Then they encountered each other, and they broke a set of 
lances; and they broke a second set, and a third. And when the earl and his 
company saw the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk gaining the mastery, there was 
shouting and joy and mirth amongst them; and the hoary-headed man and his 
wife and his daughter were sorrowful. And the hoary-headed man served 
Geraint with lances as often as he broke them, and the dwarf served the 
Knight of the Sparrow-hawk. Then the hoary-headed man said to Geraint, "O 
chieftain, since no other will hold with thee, behold, here is the lance 
which was in my hand on the day when I received the honor of knighthood, and 
from that time to this I never broke it, and it has an excellent point." 
Then Geraint took the lance, thanking the hoary-headed man. And thereupon 
the dwarf also brought a lance to his lord. "Behold, here is a lance for 
thee, not less good than his," said the dwarf. "And bethink thee that no 
knight ever withstood thee so long as this one has done." "I declare to 
Heaven," said Geraint, "that unless death takes me quickly hence, he shall 
fare never the better for thy service." And Geraint pricked his horse 
towards him from afar, and, warning him, he rushed upon him, and gave him a 
blow so severe, and furious, and fierce, upon the face of his shield, that 
he cleft it in two, and broke his armor, and burst his girths, so that both 
he and his saddle were borne to the ground over the horse's crupper. And 
Geraint dismounted quickly. And be was wroth, and he drew his sword, and 
rushed fiercely upon him. Then the knight also arose, and drew his sword 
against Geraint. And they fought on foot with their swords until their arms 
struck sparks of fire like stars from one another; and thus they continued 
fighting until the blood and sweat obscured the light from their eyes. At 
length Geraint called to him all his strength, and struck the knight upon 
the crown of his head, so that he broke all his head-armour, and cut through 
all the flesh and the skin, even to the skull, until he wounded the bone. 

Then the knight fell upon his knees, and cast his sword from his hand, and 
besought mercy from Geraint. "Of a truth," said he, "I relinquish my over-
daring and my pride, and crave thy mercy; and unless I have time to commit 
myself to Heaven for my sins, and to talk with a priest, thy mercy will 
avail me little." "I will grant thee grace upon this condition," said 
Geraint; "That thou go to Guenever, the wife of Arthur, to do her 
satisfaction for the insult which her maiden received from thy dwarf. 
Dismount not from the time thou goest hence until thou comest into the 
presence of Guenever, to make her what atonement shall be adjudged at the 
court of Arthur." "This will I do gladly; and who art thou?" "I am Geraint, 
the son of Erbin; and declare thou also who thou art." "I am Edeyrn, the son 
of Nudd." Then he threw himself upon his horse, and went forward to Arthur's 
court; and the lady he loved best went before him, and the dwarf, with much 
lamentation. 

Then came the young earl and his hosts to Geraint, and saluted him, and bade 
him to his castle. "I may not go," said Geraint; "but where I was last 
night, there will I be to-night also." "Since thou wilt none of my inviting, 
thou shalt have abundance of all that I can command for thee; and I will 
order ointment for thee, to recover thee from thy fatigues, and from the 
weariness that is upon thee." "Heaven reward thee," said Geraint, "and I 
will go to my lodging." And thus went Geraint and Earl Ynywl, and his wife 
and his daughter. And when they reached the old mansion, the household 
servants and attendants of the young earl had arrived, and had arranged all 
the apartments, dressing them with straw and with fire; and in a short time 
the ointment was ready, and Geraint came there, and they washed his head. 
Then came the young earl, with forty honorable knights from among his 
attendants, and those who were bidden to the tournament. And Geraint came 
from the anointing. And the earl asked him to go to the hall to eat. "Where 
is the Earl Ynywl," said Geraint, "and his wife and his daughter?" "They are 
in the chamber yonder," said the earl's chamberlain, "arraying themselves in 
garments which the earl has caused to be brought for them." "Let not the 
damsel array herself," said he, "except in her vest and her veil, until she 
come to the court of Arthur, to be clad by Guenever in such garments as she 
may choose." So the maiden did not array herself. 

Then they all entered the hall, and they washed, and sat down to meat. And 
thus were they seated. On one side of Geraint sat the young earl, and Earl 
Ynywl beyond him, and on the other side of Geraint was the maiden and her 
mother. And after these all sat according to their precedence in honor. And 
they ate. And they were served abundantly, and they received a profusion of 
divers kinds of gifts. Then they conversed together. And the young earl 
invited Geraint to visit him next day. "I will not, by Heaven," said 
Geraint. "To the court of Arthur will I go with this maiden to-morrow. And 
it is enough for me, as long as Earl Ynywl is in poverty and trouble; and I 
go chiefly to seek to add to his maintenance." "Ah, chieftain," said the 
young earl, "it is not by my fault that Earl Ynywl is without his 
possessions." "By my faith," said Geraint, "he shall not remain without 
them, unless death quickly takes me hence." "O chieftain," said he, "with 
regard to the disagreement between me and Ynywl, I will gladly abide by thy 
counsel, and agree to what thou mayest judge right between us." "I but ask 
thee," said Geraint, "to restore to him what is his, and what he should have 
received from the time he lost his possessions even until this day." "That 
will I do, gladly, for thee," answered he. "Then," said Geraint, "whosoever 
is here who owes homage to Ynywl, let him come forward, and perform it on 
the spot." And all the men did so; and by that treaty they abided. And his 
castle and his town, and all his possessions, were restored to Ynywl. And he 
received back all that he had lost, even to the smallest jewel. 

Then spoke Earl Ynywl to Geraint. "Chieftain," said he, "behold the maiden 
for whom thou didst challenge at the tournament; I bestow her upon thee." 
"She shall go with me," said Geraint, "to the court of Arthur, and Arthur 
and Guenever, they shall dispose of her as they will." And the next day they 
proceeded to Arthur's court. So far concerning Geraint. 




CHAPTER XXIV. GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN, CONTINUED.

Now this is how Arthur hunted the stag. The men and the dogs were divided 
into hunting-parties, and the dogs were let loose upon the stag. And the 
last dog that was let loose was the favorite dog of Arthur, Cavall was his 
name. And he left an the other dogs behind him, and turned the stag. And at 
the second turn the stag came toward the hunting-party of Arthur. And Arthur 
set upon him, and before he could be slain by any other Arthur cut off his 
head. Then they sounded the death-horn for slaying, and they all gathered 
round. 

Then came Kadyriath to Arthur, and spoke to him. "Lord," said he, "behold, 
yonder is Guenever, and none with her save only one maiden." "Command 
Gildas, the son of Caw, and all the scholars of the court," said Arthur, "to 
attend Guenever to the palace." And they did so. 

Then they all set forth, holding converse together concerning the head of 
the stag, to whom it should be given. One wished that it should be given to 
the lady best beloved by him and another to the lady whom he loved best. And 
so they came to the palace. And when Arthur and Guenever heard them 
disputing about the head of the stag, Guenever said to Arthur, "My lord, 
this is my counsel concerning the stag's head; let it not be given away 
until Geraint, the son of Erbin, shall return from the errand he is upon." 
And Guenever told Arthur what that errand was. "Right gladly shall it be 
so," said Arthur. And Guenever caused a watch to be set upon the ramparts 
for Geraint's coming. And after midday they beheld an unshapely little man 
upon a horse, and after him a dame or a damsel, also on horseback, and after 
her a knight of large stature, bowed down, and hanging his head low and 
sorrowfully, and clad in broken and worthless armor. And before they came 
near to the gate one of the watch went to Guenever, and told her what kind 
of people they saw, and what aspect they bore. "I know not who they are," 
said he. "But I know," said Guenever; "this is the knight whom Geraint 
pursued, and methinks he comes not here by his own free will. But Geraint 
has overtaken him, and avenged the insult to the maiden to the uttermost." 
And thereupon, behold, a porter came to the spot where Guenever was. "Lady," 
said he, "at the gate there is a knight, and I saw never a man of so pitiful 
an aspect to look upon as he. Miserable and broken is the armor that he 
wears, and the hue of blood is more conspicuous upon it than its own color." 
"Knowest thou his name?" said she. "I do," said he; "he tells me that he is 
Edeyrn, the son of Nudd." Then she replied, "I know him not." 

So Guenever went to the gate to meet him, and he entered. And Guenever was 
sorry when she saw the condition he was in, even though he was accompanied 
by the churlish dwarf. Then Edeyrn saluted Guenever. "Heaven protect thee," 
said she. "Lady," said he, "Geraint, the son of Erbin, thy best and most 
valiant servant, greets thee." "Did he meet with thee?" she asked. "Yes," 
said he, "and it was not to my advantage; and that was not his fault, but 
mine, lady. And Geraint greets thee well; and in greeting thee he compelled 
me to come hither to do thy pleasure for the insult which thy maiden 
received from the dwarf." "Now where did he overtake thee?" "At the place 
where we were jousting and contending for the sparrow-hawk, in the town 
which is now called Cardiff. And it was for the avouchment of the love of 
the maiden, the daughter of Earl Ynywl, that Geraint jousted at the 
tournament. And thereupon we encountered each other, and he left me, lady, 
as thou seest." "Sir," said she, "when thinkest thou that Geraint will be 
here?" "To-morrow, lady, I think he will be here with the maiden." 

Then Arthur came to them. And he saluted Arthur, and Arthur gazed a long 
time upon him, and was amazed to see him thus. And thinking that he knew 
him, he inquired of him, "Art thou Edeyrn, the son of Nudd?" "I am, lord," 
said he, "and I have met with much trouble and received wounds 
insupportable." Then he told Arthur all his adventure. "Well," said Arthur, 
"from what I hear it behooves Guenever to be merciful towards thee." "The 
mercy which thou desirest, lord," said she, "will I grant to him, since it 
is as insulting to thee that an insult should be offered to me as to 
thyself." "Thus will it be best to do," said Arthur; "let this man have 
medical care until it be known whether he may live. And if he live he shall 
do such satisfaction as shall be judged best by the men of the court. And if 
he die too much will be the death of such a youth as Edeyrn for an insult to 
a maiden." "This pleases me," said Guenever. And Arthur caused Morgan Tud to 
be called to him. He was chief physician. "Take with thee Edeyrn, the son of 
Nudd, and cause a chamber to be prepared for him, and let him have the aid 
of medicine as thou wouldst do unto myself if I were wounded; and let none 
into his chamber to molest him, but thyself and thy disciples, to administer 
to him remedies." "I will do so gladly, lord," said Morgan Tud. Then said 
the steward of the household, "Whither is it right, lord, to order the 
maiden?" "To Guenever and her handmaidens," said he. And the steward of the 
household so ordered her. 

The next day came Geraint towards the court; and there was a watch set on 
the ramparts by Guenever, lest he should arrive unawares. And one of the 
watch came to Guenever. "Lady," said he, "methinks that I see Geraint, and a 
maiden with him. He is on horseback, but he has his walking gear upon him, 
and the maiden appears to be in white, seeming to be clad in a garment of 
linen." "Assemble all the women," said Guenever, "and come to meet Geraint, 
to welcome him and wish him joy." And Guenever went to meet Geraint and the 
maiden. And when Geraint came to the place where Guenever was he saluted 
her. "Heaven prosper thee," said she, "and welcome to thee." "Lady," said 
he, "I earnestly desired to obtain thee satisfaction, according to thy will; 
and, behold here is the maiden through whom thou hadst thy revenge." 
"Verily," said Guenever, "the welcome of Heaven be unto her; and it is 
fitting that we should receive her joyfully." Then they went in and 
dismounted. And Geraint came to where Arthur was, and saluted him. "Heaven 
protect thee," said Arthur, "and the welcome of Heaven be unto thee. And 
inasmuch as thou hast vanquished Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, thou hast had a 
prosperous career." "Not upon me be the blame," said Geraint; "it was 
through the arrogance of Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, himself, that we were not 
friends." "Now," said Arthur, "where is the maiden for whom I heard thou 
didst give challenge?" "She is gone with Guenever to her chamber." Then went 
Arthur to see the maiden. And Arthur and all his companions, and his whole 
court, were glad concerning the maiden. And certain were they all that, had 
her array been suitable to her beauty, they had never seen a maid fairer 
than she. And Arthur gave away the maiden to Geraint. And the usual bond 
made between two persons was made between Geraint and the maiden, and the 
choicest of all Guenever's apparel was given to the maiden; and thus 
arrayed, she appeared comely and graceful to all who beheld her. And that 
day and the night were spent in abundance of minstrelsy, and ample gifts of 
liquor, and a multitude of games. And when it was time for them to go to 
sleep they went. And in the chamber where the couch of Arthur and Guenever 
was the couch of Geraint and Enid was prepared. And from that time she 
became his wife. And the next day Arthur satisfied all the claimants upon 
Geraint with bountiful gifts. And the maiden took up her abode in the 
palace, and she had many companions both men and women, and there was no 
maiden more esteemed than she in the island of Britain. 

Then spake Guenever. "Rightly did I judge," said she, "concerning the head 
of the stag, that it should not be given to any until Geraint's return; and 
behold, here is a fit occasion for bestowing it. Let it be given to Enid, 
the daughter of Ynywl, the most illustrious maiden. And I do not believe any 
will begrudge it her, for between her and every one there exists nothing but 
love and friendship." Much applauded was this by them all, and by Arthur 
also. And the head of the stag was given to Enid. And thereupon her fame 
increased, and her friends became more in number than before. And Geraint 
from that time forth loved the hunt, and the tournament, and hard 
encounters; and he came victorious from them all. And a year, and a second, 
and a third, he proceeded thus, until his fame had flown over the face of 
the kingdom. 

And, once upon a time, Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon upon Usk; 
and behold, there came to him ambassadors, wise and prudent, full of 
knowledge and eloquent of speech, and they saluted Arthur. "Heaven prosper 
you!" said Arthur; "and whence do you come?" "We come, lord," said they, 
"from Cornwall, and we are ambassadors from Erbin, the son of Custennin, thy 
uncle, and our mission is unto thee. And he greets thee well, as an uncle 
should greet his nephew, and as a vassal should greet his lord. And he 
represents unto thee that he waxes heavy and feeble, and is advancing in 
years. And the neighboring chiefs, knowing this, grow insolent towards him, 
and covet his land and possessions. And he earnestly beseeches thee, lord, 
to permit Geraint his son to return to him, to protect his possessions, and 
to become acquainted with his boundaries. And unto him be represents that it 
were better for him to spend the flower of his youth and the prime of his 
age in preserving his own boundaries, than in tournaments which are 
productive of no profit, although he obtains glory in them." "Well," said 
Arthur, "go and divest yourselves of your accoutrements, and take food, and 
refresh yourselves after your fatigues; and before you go from hence you 
shall have an answer." And they went to eat. And Arthur considered that it 
would go hard with him to let Geraint depart from him, and from his court; 
neither did he think it fair that his cousin should be restrained from going 
to protect his dominions and his boundaries, seeing that his father was 
unable to do so. No less was the grief and regret of Guenever, and all her 
women, and all her damsels, through fear that the maiden would leave them. 
And that day and that night was spent in abundance of feasting. And Arthur 
told Geraint the cause of the mission, and of the coming of the ambassadors 
to him out of Cornwall. "Truly," said Geraint, "be it to my advantage or 
disadvantage, lord, I will do according to thy will concerning this 
embassy." "Behold," said Arthur, "though it grieves me to part with thee, it 
is my counsel that thou go to dwell in thine own dominions, and to defend 
thy boundaries, and take with thee to accompany thee as many as thou wilt of 
those thou lovest best among my faithful ones, and among thy friends, and 
among thy companions in arms." "Heaven reward thee! and this will I do," 
said Geraint. "What discourse," said Guenever, "do I hear between you? Is it 
of those who are to conduct Geraint to his country?" "It is," said Arthur. 
"Then it is needful for me to consider," said she, "concerning companions 
and a provision for the lady that is with me." "Thou wilt do well." said 
Arthur. 

And that night they went to sleep. And the next day the ambassadors were 
permitted to depart, and they were told that Geraint should follow them. And 
on the third day Geraint set forth, and many went with him,- Gawain, the son 
of Gwyar, and Riogoned, the son of the king of Ireland, and Ondyaw, the son 
of the Duke of Burgundy, Gwilim, the son of the ruler of the Franks, Howel, 
the son of the Earl of Brittany, Perceval, the son of Evrawk, Gwyr, a judge 
in the court of Arthur, Bedwyr, son of Bedrawd, Kai, the son of Kyner, 
Odyar, the Frank, and Edeyrn, the son of Nudd. Said Geraint, "I think I 
shall have enough of knighthood with me." And they set forth. And never was 
there seen a fairer host journeying towards the Severn. And on the other 
side of the Severn were the nobles of Erbin, the son of Custennin, and his 
foster-father at their head, to welcome Geraint with gladness; and many of 
the women of the court, with his mother, came to receive Enid, the daughter 
of Ynywl, his wife. And there was great rejoicing and gladness throughout 
the whole court, and through all the country, concerning Geraint, because of 
the greatness of their love to him, and of the greatness of the fame which 
he had gained since he went from amongst them, and because he was come to 
take possession of his dominions, and to preserve his boundaries. And they 
came to the court. And in the court they had ample entertainment, and a 
multitude of gifts, and abundance of liquor, and a sufficiency of service, 
and a variety of games. And to do honor to Geraint, all the chief men of the 
country were invited that night to visit him. And they passed that day and 
that night in the utmost enjoyment. And at dawn next day Erbin arose, and 
summoned to him Geraint, and the noble persons who had borne him company. 
And he said to Geraint: "I am a feeble and an aged man, and whilst I was 
able to maintain the dominion for thee and for myself, I did so. But thou 
art young, and in the flower of thy vigor and of thy youth. Henceforth do 
thou preserve thy possessions." "Truly," said Geraint "with my consent thou 
shalt not give the power over thy dominions at this time into my hands, thou 
shalt not take me from Arthur's court." "Into thy hands will I give them," 
said Erbin, "and this day shalt thou receive the homage of thy subjects." 

Then said Gawain, "It were better for thee to satisfy those who have boons 
to ask, to-day, and to-morrow thou canst receive the homage of thy 
dominions." So all that had boons to ask were summoned into one place. And 
Kadyriath came to them to know what were the requests. And every one asked 
that which he desired. And the followers of Arthur began to make gifts, and 
immediately the men of Cornwall came, and gave also. And they were not long 
in giving, so eager was every one to bestow gifts. And of those who came to 
ask gifts, none departed unsatisfied. And that day and that night were spent 
in the utmost enjoyment. 

And the next day at dawn Erbin desired Geraint to send messengers to the men 
to ask them whether it was displeasing to them that he should come to 
receive their homage, and whether they had anything to object to him. Then 
Geraint sent ambassadors to the men of Cornwall to ask them this. And they 
all said that it would be the fulness of joy and honor to them for Geraint 
to come and receive their homage. So he received the homage of such as were 
there. And the day after, the followers of Arthur intended to go away. "It 
is too soon for you to go away yet," said he; "stay with me until I have 
finished receiving the homage of my chief men, who have agreed to come to 
me." And they remained with him until he had done so. Then they set forth 
towards the court of Arthur. And Geraint went to bear them company, and Enid 
also, as far as Diganwy; there they parted. And Ondyaw, the son of the Duke 
of Burgundy, said to Geraint, "Go, now, and visit the uttermost parts of thy 
dominions, and see well to the boundaries of thy territories; and if thou 
hast any trouble respecting them, send unto thy companions." "Heaven reward 
thee!" said Geraint; "and this will I do." And Geraint journeyed to the 
uttermost parts of his dominions. And experienced guides, and the chief men 
of his country, went with him. And the furthermost point that they showed 
him he kept possession of. 




CHAPTER XXV. GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN, CONTINUED.

GERAINT, as he had been used to do when he was at Arthur's court, frequented 
tournaments. And he became acquainted with valiant and mighty men, until he 
had gained as much fame there as he had formerly done elsewhere. And he 
enriched his court, and his companions, and his nobles, with the best horses 
and the best arms, and with the best and most valuable jewels, and he ceased 
not until his fame had flown over the face of the whole kingdom. When he 
knew that it was thus, he began to love ease and pleasure, for there was no 
one who was worth his opposing. And he loved his wife, and liked to continue 
in the palace, with minstrelsy and diversions. So he began to shut himself 
up in the chamber of his wife, and he took no delight in anything besides, 
insomuch that he gave up the friendship of his nobles, together with his 
hunting and his amusements, and lost the hearts of all the host in his 
court. And there was murmuring and scoffing concerning him among the 
inhabitants of the palace, on account of his relinquishing so completely 
their companionship for the love of his wife. These tidings came to Erbin. 
And when Erbin had heard these things, he spoke unto Enid, and inquired of 
her whether it was she that had caused Geraint to act thus, and to forsake 
his people and his hosts. "Not I, by my confession unto heaven," said she; 
"there is nothing more hateful unto me than this." And she knew not what she 
should do, for, although it was hard for her to own this to Geraint, yet was 
it not more easy for her to listen to what she heard, without warning 
Geraint concerning it. And she was very sorrowful. 

One morning in the summer-time they were upon their couch, and Geraint lay 
upon the edge of it. And Enid was without sleep in the apartment, which had 
windows of glass;(1) and the sun shone upon the couch. And the clothes had 
slipped from off his arms and his breast, and he was asleep. Then she gazed 
upon the marvellous beauty of his appearance, and she said, "Alas! and am I 
the cause that these arms and this breast have lost their glory, and the 
warlike fame which they once so richly enjoyed?" As she said this the tears 
dropped from her eyes, and they fell upon his breast. And the tears she 
shed, and the words she had spoken awoke him. And another thing contributed 
to awaken him, and that was the idea that it was not in thinking of him that 
she spoke thus, but that it was because she loved some other more than him, 
and that she wished for other society. Thereupon Geraint was troubled in his 
mind, and he called his squire; and when he came to him, "Go quickly," said 
he, and prepare my horse and my arms, and make them ready. And do thou 
arise," said he to Enid, "and apparel thyself; and cause thy horse to be 
accoutred, and clothe thee in the worst riding-dress that thou hast in thy 
possession. And evil betide me," said he, "if thou returnest here until thou 
knowest whether I have lost my strength so completely as thou didst say. And 
if it be so, it will then be easy for thee to seek the society thou didst 
wish for of him of whom thou wast thinking." So she arose, and clothed 
herself in her meanest garments. "I know nothing, lord," said she, "of thy 
meaning." "Neither wilt thou know at this time," said he.

Then Geraint went to see Erbin. "Sir," said he, "I am going upon a quest, 
and I am not certain when I may come back. Take heed, therefore, unto thy 
possessions until my return." "I will do so," said he; "but it is strange to 
me that thou shouldst go so suddenly. And who will proceed with thee, since 
thou art not strong enough to traverse the land of Loegyr alone?" "But one 
person only will go with me." "Heaven counsel thee, my son," said Erbin, 
"and may many attach themselves to thee in Loegyr." Then went Geraint to the 
place where his horse was, and it was equipped with foreign armor, heavy and 
shining. And he desired Enid to mount her horse, and to ride forward, and to 
keep a long way before him. "And whatever thou mayest see, and whatever thou 
mayest hear concerning me," said he, "do thou not turn back. And unless I 
speak unto thee, say not thou one word either." So they set forward. And he 
did not choose the pleasantest and most frequented road, but that which was 
the wildest and most beset by thieves and robbers and venomous animals. And 
they came to a high-road, which they followed till they saw a vast forest; 
and they saw four armed horsemen come forth from the forest. When the armed 
men saw them, they said one to another, "Here is a good occasion for us to 
capture two horses and armor, and a lady likewise; for this we shall have no 
difficulty in doing against yonder single knight, who hangs his head so 
pensively and heavily." 

Enid heard this discourse, and she knew not what she do through fear of 
Geraint, who had told her to be silent. "The vengeance of Heaven be upon 
me," said she, "if I would not rather receive my death from his hand than 
from the hand of any other; and though he should slay me, yet will I speak 
to him, lest I should have the misery to witness his death." So she waited 
for Geraint until he came near to her. 

"Lord," said she, "didst thou hear the words of those men concerning thee?" 
Then he lifted up his eyes, and looked at her angrily. "Thou hadst only," 
said he, "to hold thy peace, as I bade thee. I wish but for silence, and not 
for warning. And though thou shouldst desire to see my defeat and my death 
by the hands of those men, yet I do feel no dread." Then the foremost of 
them couched his lance, and rushed upon Geraint. And he received him, and 
that not feebly. But he let the thrust go by him, while he struck the 
horseman upon the centre of the shield, in such a manner that his shield was 
split, and his armor broken, so that a cubit's length of the shaft of 
Geraint's lance passed through his body, and sent him to the earth, the 
length of the lance over his horse's crupper. Then the second horseman 
attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. But with 
one thrust Geraint overthrew him also, and killed him as he had done the 
other. Then the third set upon him, and he killed him in like manner. And 
thus also he slew the fourth. Sad and sorrowful was the maiden as she saw 
all this. Geraint dismounted his horse, and took the arms of the men he had 
slain, and placed them upon their saddles, and tied together the reins of 
their horses; and he mounted his horse again. "Behold what thou must do," 
said he; "take the four horses, and drive them before thee, and proceed 
forward as I bade thee just now. And say not one word unto me, unless I 
speak first unto thee. And I declare unto Heaven," said he, "if thou doest 
not thus, it will be to thy cost." "I will do as far as I can, lord," said 
she, "according to thy desire." 

So the maiden went forward, keeping in advance of Geraint, as he had desired 
her; and it grieved him as much as his wrath would permit to see a maiden so 
illustrious as she having so much trouble with the care of the horses. Then 
they reached a wood, and it was both deep and vast, and in the wood night 
overtook them. "Ah, maiden," said he, "it is vain to attempt proceeding 
forward." "Well, lord," said she, "whatever thou wishest we will do." "It 
will be best for us," he answered, "to rest and wait for the day in order to 
pursue our journey." "That will we, gladly," said she. And they did so. 
Having dismounted himself, he took her down from her horse. "I cannot by any 
means refrain from sleep through weariness," said he; "do thou therefore 
watch the horses and sleep not." "I will, lord," said she. Then he went to 
sleep in his armor, and thus passed the night, which was not long at that 
season. And when she saw the dawn of day appear she looked around her to see 
if he were waking, and thereupon he awoke. Then he arose, and said unto her, 
"Take the horses and ride on, and keep straight on as thou didst yesterday." 
And they left the wood, and they came to an open country, with meadows on 
one hand, and mowers mowing the meadows. And there was a river before them, 
and the horses bent down and drank of the water. And they went up out of the 
river by a lofty steep; and there they met a slender stripling with a 
satchel about his neck, and they saw there was something in the satchel, but 
they knew not what it was. And he had a small blue pitcher in his hand, and 
a bowl on the mouth of the pitcher. And the youth saluted Geraint. "Heaven 
prosper thee!" said Geraint; "and whence dost thou come?" "I come," said he, 
"from the city that lies before thee. My lord," he added, "will it be 
displeasing to thee if I ask whence thou comest also?" "By no means; through 
yonder wood did I come." "Thou camest not through the wood to-day." "No," he 
replied; "we were in the wood last night." "I warrant," said the youth, 
"that thy condition there last night was not the most pleasant, and that 
thou hadst neither meat nor drink." "No, by my faith," said he. "Wilt thou 
follow my counsel," said the youth, "and take thy meal from me?" "What sort 
of meal?" he inquired. "The breakfast which is sent for yonder mowers, 
nothing less than bread and meat and wine; and if thou wilt, sir, they shall 
have none of it." "I will," said he, "and Heaven reward thee for it." 

So Geraint alighted, and the youth took the maiden from off her horse. Then 
they washed, and took their repast. And the youth cut the bread in slices, 
and gave them drink, and served them withal. And when they had finished the 
youth arose and said to Geraint, "My lord, with thy permission, I will now 
go and fetch some food, for the mowers." "Go first to the town," said 
Geraint, "and take a lodging for me in the best place thou knowest, and the 
most commodious one for the horses; and take thou whichever horse and arms 
thou choosest in payment for thy service and thy gift." "Heaven reward thee, 
lord!" said the youth; "and this would be ample to repay services much 
greater than those I have rendered unto thee." And to the town went the 
youth, and he took the best and most pleasant lodgings that he knew; and 
after that he went to the palace, having the horse and armor with him, and 
proceeded to the place where the earl was, and told him all his adventure. 
"I go now, lord," said he, "to meet the knight, and to conduct him to his 
lodging." "Go, gladly," said the earl, "and right joyfully shall he be 
received here, if he so come." And the youth went to meet Geraint, and told 
him that he would be received gladly by the earl in his own palace; but he 
would go only to his lodgings. And he had a goodly chamber, in which was 
plenty of straw and drapery, and a spacious and commodious place he had for 
the horses; and the youth prepared for them plenty of provender. After they 
had disarrayed themselves, Geraint spoke thus to Enid: "Go," said he, "to 
the other side of the chamber, and come not to this side of the house; and 
thou mayst call to thee the woman of the house if thou wilt." "I will do, 
lord," said she, "as thou sayest." Thereupon the man of the house came to 
Geraint, and welcomed him. And after they had eaten and drank Geraint went 
to sleep, and so did Enid also. 

In the evening, behold, the earl came to visit Geraint, and his twelve 
honorable knights with him. And Geraint rose up and welcomed him. Then they 
all sat down according to their precedence in honor. And the earl conversed 
with Geraint, and inquired of him the object of his journey. "I have none," 
he replied, "but to seek adventures and to follow my own inclination." Then 
the earl cast his eye upon Enid, and he looked at her steadfastly. And he 
thought he had never seen a maiden fairer or more comely than she. And he 
set all his thoughts and his affections upon her. Then he asked of Geraint, 
"Have I thy permission to go and converse with yonder maiden, for I see that 
she is apart from thee?" "Thou hast it gladly," said he. So the earl went to 
the place where the maiden was, and spake with her. "Ah! maiden," said he, 
"it cannot be pleasant to thee to journey with yonder man." "It is not 
unpleasant to me," said she. "Thou hast neither youths nor maidens to serve 
thee," said he. "Truly," she replied, "it is more pleasant for me to follow 
yonder man than to be served by youths and maidens." "I will give thee good 
counsel," said he; "all my earldom will I place in thy possession if thou 
wilt dwell with me." "That will I not, by Heaven," she said; "yonder man was 
the first to whom my faith was pledged, and shall I prove inconstant to 
him?" "Thou art in the wrong," said the earl; "if I slay the man yonder I 
can keep thee with me as long as I choose; and when thou no longer pleasest 
me I can turn thee away. But if thou goest with me by thy own goodwill, I 
protest that our union shall continue as long as I shall remain alive." Then 
she pondered those words of his, and she considered that it was advisable to 
encourage him in his request. "Behold then, chieftain, this is most 
expedient for thee to do to save me from all reproach; come here to-morrow 
and take me away as though I knew nothing thereof." "I will do so," said he. 
So he arose and took his leave, and went forth with his attendants. And she 
told not then to Geraint any of the conversation which she had had with the 
earl lest it should rouse his anger, and cause him uneasiness and care. 

And at the usual hour they went to sleep. And at the beginning of the night 
Enid slept a little; and at midnight she arose, and placed all Geraint's 
armor together, so that it might be ready to put on. And though fearful of 
her errand, she came to the side of Geraint's bed; and she spoke to him 
softly and gently, saying, "My lord, arise, and clothe thyself, for these 
were the words of the earl to me, and his intention concerning me." So she 
told Geraint all that had passed. And although he was wroth with her, he 
took warning, and clothed himself. And she lighted a candle that he might 
have light to do so. "Leave there the candle," said he, "and desire the man 
of the house to come here." Then she went, and the man of the house came to 
him. "Dost thou know how much I owe thee?" asked Geraint. "I think thou 
owest but little." "Take the three horses, and the three suits of armor." 

"Heaven reward thee, Lord," said he, "but I spent not the value of one suit 
of armor upon thee." "For that reason," said he, "thou wilt be the richer. 
And now, wilt thou come to guide me out of the town?" "I will, gladly," said 
he; "and in which direction dost thou intend to go?" "I wish to leave the 
town by a different way from that by which I entered it." So the man of the 
lodgings accompanied him as far as he desired. Then he bade the maiden to go 
on before him, and she did so, and went straight forward, and his host 
returned home. 

And Geraint and the maiden went forward along the high-road. And as they 
journeyed thus, they heard an exceeding loud wailing near to them. "Stay 
thou here," said he, "and I will go and see what is the cause of this 
wailing." "I will," said she. Then he went forward into an open glade that 
was near the road. And in the glade he saw two horses, one having a man's 
saddle, and the other a woman's saddle upon it. And behold there was a 
knight lying dead in his armor, and a young damsel in a riding-dress 
standing over him lamenting. "Ah, lady," said Geraint, "what hath befallen 
thee?" "Behold," she answered, "I journeyed here with my beloved husband, 
when lo! three giants came upon us, and without any cause in the world, they 
slew him." "Which way went they hence?" said Geraint. "Yonder by the high-
road," she replied. So he returned to Enid. "Go," said he, "to the lady that 
is below yonder, and await me there till I come." She was sad when he 
ordered her to do thus, but nevertheless she went to the damsel, whom it was 
ruth to hear, and she felt certain that Geraint would never return. 

Meanwhile Geraint followed the giants, and overtook them. And each of them 
was greater in stature than three other men, and a huge club was on the 
shoulder of each. Then he rushed upon one of them, and thrust his lance 
through his body. And having drawn it forth again, he pierced another of 
them through likewise. But the third turned upon him, and struck him with 
his club so that he split his shield and crushed his shoulder. But Geraint 
drew his sword, and gave the giant a blow on the crown of his head, so 
severe, and fierce, and violent, that his head and his neck were split down 
to his shoulders, and he fell dead. So Geraint left him thus, and returned 
to Enid. And when he reached the place where she was, he fell down lifeless 
from his horse. Piercing and loud and thrilling was the cry that Enid 
uttered. And she came and stood over him where he had fallen. And at the 
sound of her cries came the Earl of Limours, and they who journeyed with 
him, whom her lamentations brought out of their road. And the earl said to 
Enid, "Alas, lady, what hath befallen thee?" "Ah, good sir," said she, "the 
only man I have loved, or ever shall love, is slain." Then he said to the 
other, "And what is the cause of thy grief?" "They have slain my beloved 
husband also," said she. "And who was it that slew them?" "Some giants," she 
answered, "slew my best-beloved, and the other knight went in pursuit of 
them, and came back in the state thou seest." The earl caused the knight 
that was dead to be buried, but he thought that there still remained some 
life in Geraint; and to see if he yet would live, he had him carried with 
him in the hollow of his shield, and upon a bier. And the two damsels went 
to the court; and when they arrived there, Geraint was placed upon a little 
couch in front of the table that was in the hall. Then they all took off 
their travelling-gear, and the earl besought Enid to do the same, and to 
clothe herself in other garments. "I will not, by Heaven," said she. "Ah, 
lady," said he, "be not so sorrowful for this matter." "It were hard to 
persuade me to be otherwise," said she. "I will act towards thee in such 
wise that thou needest not be sorrowful, whether yonder knight live or die. 
Behold, a good earldom, together with myself, will I bestow upon thee; be 
therefore happy and joyful." "I declare to Heaven," said she, "that 
henceforth I shall never be joyful while I live." "Come," said he, "and 
eat." "No, by Heaven, I will not." "But by Heaven, thou shalt," said he. So 
he took her with him to the table against her will, and many times desired 
her to eat. "I call Heaven to witness," said she, "that I will not eat until 
the man that is upon yonder bier shall eat likewise." "Thou canst not fulfil 
that," said the earl; "yonder man is dead already." "I will prove that I 
can," said she. Then he offered her a goblet of liquor. "Drink this goblet," 
he said, "and it will cause thee to change thy mind." "Evil betide me," she 
answered, "if I drink aught until he drink also." "Truly," said the earl, 
"it is of no more avail for me to be gentle with thee than ungentle." And he 
gave her a box in the ear. Thereupon she raised a loud and piercing shriek, 
and her lamentations were much greater than they had been before; for she 
considered in her mind that, had Geraint been alive, he durst not have 
struck her thus. But behold, at the sound of her cry, Geraint revived from 
his swoon, and he sat up on the bier; and finding his sword in the hollow of 
his shield, he rushed to the place where the earl was, and struck him a 
fiercely-wounding, severely-venomous, and sternly-smiting blow upon the 
crown of his head, so that he clove him in twain, until his sword was staid 
by the table. Then all left the board and fled away. And this was not so 
much through fear of the living, as through the dread they felt at seeing 
the dead man rise up to slay them. And Geraint looked upon Enid, and he was 
grieved for two causes; one was to see that Enid had lost her color and her 
wonted aspect; and the other, to know that she was in the right. 

"Lady," said he, "knowest thou where our horses are?" "I know, lord, where 
thy horse is," she replied, "but I know not where is the other. Thy horse is 
in the house yonder." So he went to the house, and brought forth his horse, 
and mounted him, and took up Enid, and placed her upon the horse with him. 
And he rode forward. And their road lay between two hedges; and the night 
was gaining on the day. And lo! they saw behind them the shafts of spears 
betwixt them and the sky, and they heard the tramping of horses, and the 
noise of a host approaching. "I hear something following us," said he, "and 
I will put thee on the other side of the hedge." And thus he did. And 
thereupon, behold, a knight pricked towards him, and couched his lance. When 
Enid saw this, she cried out, saying, "O chieftain, whoever thou art, what 
renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?" 

"O Heaven!" said he, "is it Geraint?" "Yes, in truth," said she; "and who 
art thou?" "I am Gwiffert Petit," said he, "thy husband's ally, coming to 
thy assistance, for I heard that thou wast in trouble. Come with me to the 
court of a son-in-law of my sister, which is near here, and thou shalt have 
the best medical assistance in the kingdom." "I will do so gladly," said 
Geraint. And Enid was placed upon the horse of one of Gwiffert's squires, 
and they went forward to the baron's palace. And they were received there 
with gladness, and they met with hospitality and attention. The next morning 
they went to seek physicians; and it was not long before they came, and they 
attended Geraint until he was perfectly well. And while Geraint was under 
medical care, Gwiffert caused his armor to be repaired, until it was as good 
as it had ever been. And they remained there a month and a fortnight. Then 
they separated, and Geraint went towards his own dominions, and thenceforth 
he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and splendor lasted with 
renown and honor both to him and to Enid,(2) from that time forward.

The character of Enid is admirably sustained through the whole tale; and as 
it is more natural, because less overstrained, so perhaps it is even more 
touching, than that of Griselda, over which, however, Chaucer has thrown a 
charm that leads us to forget the improbability of her story. 

 

(1) The terms of admiration in which the older writers invariably speak of 
glass windows would be sufficient proof, if other evidence were wanting, how 
rare an article of luxury they were in the houses of our ancestors. They 
were first introduced in ecclesiastical architecture, to which they were for 
a long time confined. Glass is said not to have been employed in domestic 
architecture before the fourteenth century.

(2) Throughout the broad and varied regions of romance, it would be 
difficult do find a character of greater simplicity and truth than that of 
Enid, the daughter of Earl Ynywl. Conspicuous for her beauty and noble 
bearing, we are at a loss whether more to admire the patience with which she 
bore all the hardships she was destined to undergo, or the constancy and 
affection which finally achieved the triumph she so richly deserved. 

 


CHAPTER XXVI. PWYLL, PRINCE OF DYVED.

ONCE upon a time Pwyll was at Narberth, his chief palace, where a feast had 
been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of men. 

And after the first meal Pwyll arose to walk; and he went to the top of a 
mound that was above the palace, and was called Gorsedd Arberth. "Lord," 
said one of the court, "it is peculiar to the mound that whosoever sits upon 
it cannot go thence without either receiving wounds or blows, or else seeing 
a wonder." "I fear not to receive wounds or blows," said Pwyll; "but as to 
the wonder, gladly would I see it. I will therefore go and sit upon the 
mound." 

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

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

And the next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to meat. And 
when meat was ended, Pwyll said, "Where are the hosts that went yesterday to 
the top of the mound?" "Behold, lord, we are here," said they. "Let us go," 
said he, "to the mound, and sit there. And do thou," said he to the page who 
tended his, horse, "saddle my horse well, and hasten with him to the road, 
and bring also my spurs with thee." And the youth did thus. And they went 
and sat upon the mound; and ere they had been there but a short time, they 
beheld the lady coming by the same road, and in the same manner, and at the 
same pace. "Young man," said Pwyll, "I see the lady coming; give me my 
horse." And before he had mounted his horse she passed him. 

And he turned after her and followed her. And he let his horse go bounding 
playfully, and thought that he should soon come up with her. But he came no 
nearer to her than at first. Then he urged his horse to his utmost speed; 
yet he found that it availed not. Then said Pwyll, "O maiden, for the sake 
of him whom thou best lovest, stay for me." "I will stay gladly," said she; 
"and it were better for thy horse hadst thou asked it long since." So the 
maiden stopped; and she threw back that part of her headdress which covered 
her face. Then he thought that the beauty of all the maidens and all the 
ladies that he had ever seen was as nothing compared to her beauty. "Lady," 
he said, "wilt thou tell me aught concerning thy purpose?" "I will tell 
thee," said she; "my chief quest was to see thee." "Truly," said Pwyll, 
"this is to me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst have come; and 
wilt thou tell me who thou art?" "I will tell thee, lord," said she. "I am 
Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd, and they sought to give me to a husband 
against my will. But no husband would I have, and that because of my love 
for thee; neither will I yet have one, unless thou reject me; and hither 
have I come to hear thy answer." "By Heaven," said Pwyll, "behold this is my 
answer. If I might choose among all the ladies and damsels in the world, 
thee would I choose." "Verily," said she, "if thou art thus minded, make a 
pledge to meet me ere I am given to another." "The sooner I may do so, the 
more pleasing will it be to me," said Pwyll; "and wheresoever thou wilt, 
there will I meet with thee." "I will that thou meet me this day twelvemonth 
at the palace of Heveydd." "Gladly," said he, "will I keep this tryst." So 
they parted, and he went back to his hosts, and to them of his household. 
And whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the damsel, he always 
turned the discourse upon other matters. 

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

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

So Gawl went forth to his possessions, and Pwyll went also back to Dyved. 
And they both spent that year until it was the time for the feast at the 
palace of Heveydd. Then Gawl, the son of Clud, set out to the feast that was 
prepared for him; and he came to the palace, and was received there with 
rejoicing. Pwyll, also, the chief of Dyved, came to the orchard with a 
hundred knights, as Rhiannon had commanded him. And Pwyll was clad in coarse 
and ragged garments, and wore large, clumsy old shoes upon his feet. And 
when he knew that the carousal after the meat had begun, he went toward the 
hall; and when he came into the hall he saluted Gawl, the son of Clud, and 
his company, both men and women. "Heaven prosper thee," said Gawl, "and 
friendly greeting be unto thee!" "Lord," said he, "may Heaven reward thee! I 
have an errand unto thee." "Welcome be thine errand, and if thou ask of me 
that which is right, thou shalt have it gladly." "It is fitting," answered 
he; "I crave but from want, and the boon I ask is to have this small bag 
that thou seest filled with meat." "A request within reason is this," said 
he, "and gladly shalt thou have it. Bring him food." A great number of 
attendants arose and began to fill the bag; but for all they put into it, it 
was no fuller than at first. "My soul," said Gawl, "will thy bag ever be 
full?" "It will not, I declare to Heaven," said he, "for all that may be put 
into it, unless one possessed of lands, and domains, and treasure, shall 
arise and tread down with both his feet the food that is within the bag, and 
shall say, 'Enough has been put therein.'" Then said Rhiannon unto Gawl, the 
son of Clud, "Rise up quickly." "I will willingly arise," said he. 

So he rose up, and put his two feet into the bag. And Pwyll turned up the 
sides of the bag, so that Gawl was over his head in it. And he shut it up 
quickly, and slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his horn. And 
thereupon, behold, his knights came down upon the palace. And they seized 
all the host that had come with Gawl, and cast them into his own prison. And 
Pwyll threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his tattered array. And as 
they came in every one of Pwyll's knights struck a blow upon the bag, and 
asked, "What is here?" "A badger," said they. And in this manner they 
played, each of them striking the bag, either with his foot or with a staff. 
And thus played they with the bag. And then was the game of Badger in the 
Bag first played. 

"Lord," said the man in the bag, "if thou wouldst but hear me, I merit not 
to be slain in a bag." Said Heveydd, "Lord, he speaks truth; it were fitting 
that thou listen to him, for he deserves not this." 

"Verily," said Pwyll, "I will do thy counsel concerning him." "Behold, this 
is my counsel then," said Rhiannon. "Thou art now in a position in which it 
behooves thee to satisfy suitors and minstrels. Let him give unto them in 
thy stead, and take a pledge from him that he will never seek to revenge 
that which has been done to him. And this will be punishment enough." "I 
will do this gladly," said the man in the bag. "And gladly will I accept 
it," said Pwyll, since it is the counsel of Heveydd and Rhiannon. Seek 
thyself sureties." "We will be for him," said Heveydd, "until his men be 
free to answer for him." And upon this he was let out of the bag, and his 
liegemen were liberated. "Verily, lord," said Gawl, "I am greatly hurt, and 
I have many bruises. With thy leave I will go forth. I will leave nobles in 
my stead to answer for me in all that thou shalt require." 

"Willingly," said Pwyll, "mayest thou do thus." So Gawl went to his own 
possessions. And the hall was set in order for Pwyll and the men of his 
host, and for them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and sat 
down. And as they had sat at that time twelve-month, so sat they that night. 
And they ate and feasted, and spent the night in mirth and tranquillity. And 
the time came that they should sleep, and Pwyll and Rhiannon went to their 
chamber. 

And next morning at break of day, "My lord," said Rhiannon, "arise and begin 
to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one to-day that may claim 
thy bounty." "Thus shall it be gladly," said Pwyll, "both to-day and every 
day while the feast shall last." So Pwyll arose, and he caused silence to be 
proclaimed, and desired all the suitors and minstrels to show and to point 
out what gifts they desired. And this being done, the feast went on, and he 
denied no one while it lasted. And when the feast was ended, Pwyll said unto 
Heveydd, "My lord, with thy permission, I will set out for Dyved to-morrow." 
"Certainly," said Heveydd; "may Heaven prosper thee! Fix also a time when 
Rhiannon shall follow thee." "By Heaven," said Pwyll, "we will go hence 
together." "Willest thou this, lord?" said Heveydd. "Yes, lord," answered 
Pwyll. 

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



CHAPTER XXVII. BRANWEN, THE DAUGHTER OF LLYR.

BENDIGEID VRAN, the son of Llyr, was the crowned king of this island, and he 
was exalted from the crown of London. And one afternoon be was at Harlech, 
in Ardudwy, at his court; and he sat upon the rock of Harlech, looking over 
the sea. And with him were his brother, Manawyddan, the son of Llyr, and his 
brothers by his mother's side, Nissyen and Evnissyen, and many nobles 
likewise, as was fitting to see around a king. His two brothers by the 
mother's side were sons of Euroswydd, and one of these youths was a good 
youth, and of gentle nature, and would make peace between his kindred, and 
cause his family to be friends when their wrath was at the highest, and this 
one was Nissyen; but the other would cause strife between his two brothers 
when they were most at peace. And as they sat thus they beheld thirteen 
ships coming from the south of Ireland, and making towards them; and they 
came with a swift motion, the wind being behind them; and they neared them 
rapidly. "I see ships afar," said the king, "coming swiftly towards the 
land. Command the men of the court that they equip themselves, and go and 
learn their intent." So the men equipped themselves, and went down towards 
them. And when they saw the ships near, certain were they that they had 
never seen ships better furnished. Beautiful flags of satin were upon them. 
And, behold, one of the ships outstripped the others, and they saw a shield 
lifted up above the side of the ship, and the point of the shield was 
upwards, in token of peace. And the men drew near, that they might hold 
converse. Then they put out boats, and came toward the land. And they 
saluted the king. Now the king could hear them from the place where he was 
upon the rock above their heads. "Heaven prosper you," said he, "and be ye 
welcome! To whom do those ships belong, and who is the chief amongst you?" 
"Lord," said they, "Matholch, king of Ireland, is here, and these ships 
belong to him." "Wherefore comes he?" asked the king, "and will he come to 
the land?" "He is a suitor unto thee, lord," said they, "and he will not 
land unless he have his boon." "And what may that be?" inquired the king. 
"He desires to ally himself, lord, with thee," said they, "and he comes to 
ask Branwen, the daughter of Llyr, that, if it seem well to thee, the Island 
of the Mighty (1) may be leagued with Ireland, and both become more 
powerful." "Verily," said he, "let him come to land, and we will take 
counsel thereupon." And this answer was brought to Matholch. "I will go 
willingly," said he. So he landed, and they received him joyfully; and great 
was the throng in the palace that night between his hosts and those of the 
court; and next day they took counsel, and they resolved to bestow Branwen 
upon Matholch. Now she was one of the three chief ladies of this island, and 
she was the fairest damsel in the world.

And they fixed upon Aberfraw as the place where she should become his bride. 
And they went thence, and towards Aberfraw the hosts proceeded, Matholch and 
his host in their ships, Bendigeid Vran and his host by land, until they 
came to Aberfraw. And at Aberfraw they began the feast, and sat down. And 
thus sat they: the king of the Island of the Mighty and Manawyddan, the son 
of Llyr, on one side, and Matholch on the other side, and Branwen, the 
daughter of Llyr, beside him. And they were not within a house, but under 
tents. No house could ever contain Bendigeid Vran. And they began the 
banquet, and caroused and discoursed. And when it was more pleasing to them 
to sleep than to carouse, they went to rest, and Branwen became Matholch's 
bride. 

And the next day they arose, and all they of the court, and the officers 
began to equip, and to range the horses and the attendants, and they ranged 
them in order as far as the sea. 

And, behold, one day Evnissyen, the quarrelsome man, of whom it is spoken 
above, came by chance into the place where the horses of Matholch were, and 
asked whose horses they might be. "They are the horses of Matholch, king of 
Ireland, who is married to Branwen, thy sister; his horses are they." "And 
is it thus they have done with a maiden such as she, and moreover my sister, 
bestowing her, without my consent? They could have offered me no greater 
insult than this," said he. And thereupon he rushed under the horses, and 
cut off their lips at the teeth, and their ears close to their heads, and 
their tails close to their backs; and he disfigured the horses, and rendered 
them useless. 

And they came with these tidings unto Matholch, saying that the horses were 
disfigured and injured, so that not one of them could ever be of any use 
again. "Verily, lord," said one, "it was an insult unto thee, and as such 
was it meant." "Of a truth, it is a marvel to me that, if they desire to 
insult me, they should have given me a maiden of such high rank, and so much 
beloved by their kindred, as they have done." "Lord," said another, "thou 
seest that thus it is, and there is nothing for thee to do but to go to thy 
ships." And thereupon towards his ships he set out. 

And tidings came to Bendigeid Vran that Matholch was quitting the court 
without asking leave, and messengers were sent to him to inquire wherefore 
he did so. And the messengers that went were Iddic, the son of Anarawd, and 
Heveyd Hir. And these overtook him, and asked of him what he designed to do, 
and wherefore he went forth. "Of a truth," said he "if I had known I had not 
come hither. I have been altogether insulted; no one had ever worse 
treatment than I have had here." "Truly, lord, it was not the will of any 
that are of the court," said they, "nor of any that are of the council, that 
thou shouldst have received this insult; and as thou hast been insulted the 
dishonor is greater unto Bendigeid Vran than unto thee." "Verily," said he, 
"I think so. Nevertheless he cannot recall the insult." These men returned 
with that answer to the place where Bendigeid Vran was, and they told him 
what reply Matholch had given them. "Truly," said he, "there are no means by 
which we may prevent his going away at enmity with us that we will not 
take." "Well, lord," said they, "send after him another embassy." "I will do 
so," said he. "Arise, Manawyddan, son of Llyr, and Heveyd Hir, and go after 
him, and tell him that he shall have a sound horse for every one that has 
been injured. And besides that, as an atonement for the insult, he shall 
have a staff of silver as large and as tall as himself, and a plate of gold 
of the breadth of his face. And show unto him who it was that did this, and 
that it was done against my will; but that he who did it is my brother, and 
therefore it would be hard for me to put him to death. And let him come and 
meet me," said he, "and we will make peace in any way he may desire." The 
embassy went after Matholch, and told him all these sayings in a friendly 
manner; and he listened thereunto. "Men," said he, "I will take counsel." So 
to the council he went. And in the council they considered that, if they 
should refuse this, they were likely to have more shame rather than to 
obtain so great an atonement. They resolved, therefore, to accept it, and 
they returned to the court in peace. 

Then the pavilions and tents were set in order after the fashion of a hall; 
and they went to meat, and as they had sat at the beginning of the feast so 
sat they there. And Matholch and Bendigeid Vran began to discourse; and, 
behold, it seemed to Bendigeid Vran, while they talked, that Matholch was 
not so cheerful as he had been before. And he thought that the chieftain 
might be sad because of the smallness of the atonement which he had for the 
wrong that had been done him. "O man," said Bendigeid Vran, "thou dost not 
discourse to-night so cheerfully as thou wast wont. And if it be because of 
the smallness of the atonement thou shalt add thereunto whatsoever thou 
mayest choose, and to-morrow I will pay thee for the horses." "Lord," said 
he, "Heaven reward thee!" "And I will enhance the atonement," said Bendigeid 
Vran, "for I will give thee a caldron, the property of which is that if one 
of thy men be slain to-day, and be cast therein, to-morrow he will be as 
well as ever he was at the best, except that he will not regain his speech." 
And thereupon he gave him great thanks, and very joyful was he for that 
cause. 

That night they continued to discourse as much as they would, and had 
minstrelsy and carousing; and when it was more pleasant to them to sleep 
than to sit longer, they went to rest. And thus was the banquet carried on 
with joyousness; and when it was finished, Matholch journeyed towards 
Ireland, and Branwen with him; and they went from Aber Menei with thirteen 
ships, and came to Ireland. And in Ireland was there great joy because of 
their coming. And not one great man nor noble lady visited Branwen unto whom 
she gave not either a clasp or a ring, or a royal jewel to keep, such as it 
was honorable to be seen departing with. And in these things she spent that 
year in much renown, and she passed her time pleasantly, enjoying honor and 
friendship. And in due time a son was born unto her, and the name that they 
gave him was Gwern, the son of Matholch, and they put the boy out to be 
nursed in a place where were the best men of Ireland. 

And, behold, in the second year a great tumult arose in Ireland, on account 
of the insult which Matholch had received in Wales, and the payment made him 
for his horses. And his foster-brothers, and such as were nearest to him, 
blamed him openly for that matter. And he might have no peace by reason of 
the tumult, until they should revenge upon him this disgrace. And the 
vengeance which they took was to drive away Branwen from the same chamber 
with him, and to make her cook for the court; and they caused the butcher, 
after he had cut up the meat, to come to her and give her every day a blow 
on the ear; and such they made her punishment. 

"Verily, lord," said his men to Matholch, "forbid now the ships and the 
ferry-boats, and the coracles, that they go not into Wales, and such as come 
over from Wales hither, imprison them, that they go not back for this thing 
to be known there." And he did so; and it was thus for no less than three 
years. 

And Branwen reared a starling in the cover of the kneading-trough, and she 
taught it to speak, and she taught the bird what manner of man her brother 
was. And she wrote a letter of her woes, and the despite with which she was 
treated, and she bound the letter to the root of the bird's wing, and sent 
it toward Wales. And the bird came to that island; and one day it found 
Bendigeid Vran at Caer Seiont in Arvon, conferring there, and it alighted 
upon his shoulder, and ruffled its feathers, so that the letter was seen, 
and they knew that the bird had been reared in a domestic manner. 

Then Bendigeid Vran took the letter and looked upon it. And when he had read 
the letter, he grieved exceedingly at the tidings of Branwen's woes. And 
immediately he began sending messengers to summon the island together. And 
he caused sevenscore and four of his chief men to come unto him, and he 
complained to them of the grief that his sister endured. So they took 
counsel. And in the council they resolved to go to Ireland, and to leave 
seven men as princes at home, and Caradoc,(2) the son of Bran, as the chief 
of them.

Bendigeid Vran, with the host of which we spoke, sailed towards Ireland; and 
it was not far across the sea, and he came to shoal water. Now the 
swineherds of Matholch were upon the seashore, and they came to Matholch. 
"Lord," said they, "greeting be unto thee." "Heaven protect you!" said he; 
"have you any news?" "Lord," said they, "we have marvellous news. A wood 
have we seen upon the sea, in a place where we never yet saw a single tree." 
"This is indeed a marvel," said he; "saw you aught else?" "We saw, lord," 
said they, "a vast mountain beside the wood, which moved, and there was a 
lofty ridge on the top of the mountain, and a lake on each side of the 
ridge. And the wood and the mountain, and all these things moved." "Verily," 
said he, "there is none who can know aught concerning this unless it be 
Branwen." 

Messengers then went unto Branwen. "Lady," said they, "what thinkest thou 
that this is?" "The men of the Island of the Mighty, who have come hither on 
hearing of my ill-treatment and of my woes." "What is the forest that is 
seen upon the sea?" asked they. "The yards and the masts of ships," she 
answered. "Alas!" said they; "what is the mountain that is seen by the side 
of the ships?" "Bendigeid Vran, my brother," she replied, "coming to shoal 
water, and he is wading to the land." "What is the lofty ridge, with the 
lake on each side thereof?" "On looking towards this island he is wroth, and 
his two eyes on each side of his nose are the two lakes on each side of the 
ridge." 

The warriors and chief men of Ireland were brought together in haste, and 
they took counsel. "Lord," said the neighbors unto Matholch, "there is no 
other counsel than this alone. Thou shalt give the kingdom to Gwern, the son 
of Branwen his sister, as a compensation for the wrong and despite that have 
been done unto Branwen. And he will make peace with thee." And in the 
council it was resolved that this message should be sent to Bendigeid Vran, 
lest the country should be destroyed. And this peace was made. And Matholch 
caused a great house to be built for Bendigeid Vran, and his host. Thereupon 
came the hosts into the house. The men of the island of Ireland entered the 
house on the one side, and the men of the Island of the Mighty on the other. 
And as soon as they had sat down, there was concord between them; and the 
sovereignty was conferred upon the boy. When the peace was concluded, 
Bendigeid Vran called the boy unto him, and from Bendigeid Vran the boy went 
unto Manawyddan, and he was beloved by all that beheld him. And from 
Manawyddan the boy was called by Nissyen, the son of Euroswydd, and the boy 
went unto him lovingly. "Wherefore," said Evnissyen, "comes not my nephew, 
the son of my sister, unto me? Though he were not king of Ireland, yet 
willingly would I fondle the boy." "Cheerfully let him go to thee," said 
Bendigeid Vran; and the boy went unto him cheerfully. "By my confession to 
Heaven," said Evnissyen in his heart, "unthought of is the slaughter that I 
will this instant commit." 

Then he arose and took up the boy, and before any one in the house could 
seize hold of him he thrust the boy headlong into the blazing fire. And when 
Branwen saw her son burning in the fire, she strove to leap into the fire 
also, from the place where she sat between her two brothers. But Bendigeid 
Vran grasped her with one hand, and his shield with the other. Then they all 
hurried about the house, and never was there made so great a tumult by any 
host in one house as was made by them, as each man armed himself. And while 
they all sought their arms Bendigeid Vran supported Branwen between his 
shield and his shoulder. And they fought. 

Then the Irish kindled a fire under the caldron of renovation, and they cast 
the dead bodies into the caldron until it was full; and the next day they 
came forth fighting men, as good as before, except that they were not able 
to speak. Then when Evnissyen saw the dead bodies of the men of the Island 
of the Mighty nowhere resuscitated, he said in his heart, "Alas! woe is me, 
that I should have been the cause of bringing the men of the Island of the 
Mighty into so great a strait. Evil betide me if I find not a deliverance 
therefrom." And he cast himself among the dead bodies of the Irish; and two 
unshod Irishmen came to him, and taking him to be one of the Irish, flung 
him into the caldron. And he stretched himself out in the caldron, so that 
he rent the caldron into four pieces, and burst his own heart also. In 
consequence of this the men of the Island of the Mighty obtained such 
success as they had; but they were not victorious, for only seven men of 
them all escaped, and Bendigeid Vran himself was wounded in the foot with a 
poisoned dart. Now the men that escaped were Pryderi, Manawyddan, Taliesin, 
and four others. 

And Bendigeid Vran commanded them that they should cut off his head. "And 
take you my head," said he, "and bear it even unto the White Mount in 
London, and bury it there with the face towards France. And so long as it 
lies there, no enemy shall ever land on the island." So they cut off his 
head, and these seven went forward therewith. And Branwen was the eighth 
with them. And they came to land on Aber Alaw, and they sat down to rest. 
And Branwen looked towards Ireland, and towards the Island of the Mighty, to 
see if she could descry them. "Alas!" said she, "woe is me that I was ever 
born; two islands have been destroyed because of me." Then she uttered a 
groan, and there broke her heart. And they made her a four-sided grave, and 
buried her upon the banks of the Alaw. 

Then the seven men journeyed forward, bearing the head with them; and as 
they went, behold, there met them a multitude of men and women. "Have you 
any tidings?" said Manawyddan. "We have, none," said they, "save that 
Caswallawn, (3) the son of Beli, has conquered the Island of the Mighty, and 
is crowned king in London." "What has become," said they, "of Caradoc, the 
son of Bran, and the seven men who were left with him in this island?" 
"Caswallawn came upon them, and slew six of the men, and Caradoc's heart 
broke for grief thereof." And the seven men journeyed on towards London, and 
they buried the head in the White Mount, as Bendigeid Vran had directed 
them.(4)

 

(1) The Island of the Mighty is one of the many names bestowed upon Britain 
by the Welsh.

(2) Caractacus.

(3) Cassivellaunus. 

(4) There is a Triad upon the story of the head buried under the White Tower 
of London, as a charm against invasion. Arthur, it seems, proudly 
disinterred the head, preferring to hold the island by his own strength 
alone. 

 


CHAPTER XXVIII. MANAWYDDAN.

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

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

"Heaven reward thee for thy friendship! I will go with thee to seek 
Rhiannon, and to look at thy possessions." "Thou wilt do well," he answered; 
"and I believe thou didst never hear a lady discourse better than she, and 
when she was in her prime, none was ever fairer. Even now her aspect is not 
uncomely." 

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

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

And after his return Pryderi and Manawyddan feasted and took their ease and 
pleasure. And they began a feast at Narberth, for it was the chief palace. 
And when they had ended the first meal, while those who served them ate, 
they arose and went forth, and proceeded to the Gorsedd, that is, the Mound 
of Narberth, and their retinue with them. And as they sat thus, behold a 
peal of thunder, and with the violence of the thunder-storm, lo! there came 
a fall of mist, so thick that not one of them could see the other. And after 
the mist it became light all around. And when they looked towards the place 
where they were wont to see cattle and herds and dwellings, they saw nothing 
now, neither house, nor beast, nor smoke, nor fire, nor man, nor dwelling, 
but the buildings of the court empty, and desert, and uninhabited, without 
either man or beast within them. And truly all their companions were lost to 
them, without their knowing aught of what had befallen them, save those four 
only. 

"In the name of Heaven," said Manawyddan, "where are they of the court, and 
all my host beside? Let us go and see." So they came to the castle, and saw 
no man, and into the hall, and to the sleeping-place, and there was none; 
and in the mead-cellar and in the kitchen there was naught but desolation. 
Then they began to go through the land, and all the possessions that they 
had; and they visited the houses and dwellings, and found nothing but wild 
beasts. And when they had consumed their feast and all their provisions, 
they fed upon the prey they killed in hunting, and the honey of the wild 
swarms. 

And one morning Pryderi and Manawyddan rose up to hunt, and they ranged 
their dogs and went forth. And some of the dogs ran before them, and came to 
a bush which was near at hand; but as soon as they were come to the bush, 
they hastily drew back, and returned to the men, their hair bristling up 
greatly. "Let us go near to the bush," said Pryderi, "and see what is in 
it." And as they came near, behold, a wild boar of a pure white color rose 
up from the bush. Then the dogs, being set on by the men, rushed towards 
him; but he left the bush, and fell back a little way from the men, and made 
a stand against the dogs, without retreating from them, until the men had 
come near. And when the men came up, he fell back a second time, and betook 
him to flight. Then they pursued the boar until they beheld a vast and lofty 
castle, all newly built, in a place where they had never before seen either 
stone or building. And the boar ran swiftly into the castle, and the dogs 
after him. Now when the boar and the dogs had gone into the castle, the men 
began to wonder at finding a castle in a place where they had never seen any 
building whatsoever. And from the top of the Gorsedd they looked and 
listened for the dogs. But so long as they were there, they heard not one of 
the dogs, nor aught concerning them. 

"Lord," said Pryderi, "I will go into the castle to get tidings if the 
dogs." "Truly," he replied, "thou wouldst be unwise to go into this castle, 
which thou hast never seen till now. If thou wouldst follow my counsel, thou 
wouldst not enter therein. Whosoever has cast a spell over this land, has 
caused this castle to be here." "Of a truth," answered Pryderi, "I cannot 
thus give up my dogs." And for all the counsel that Manawyddan gave him, yet 
to the castle he went. When he came within the castle neither man, nor 
beast, nor boar, nor do, nor house, nor dwelling, saw he within it. But in 
the centre of the castle floor he beheld a fountain with marble-work around 
it, and on the margin of the fountain a golden bowl upon a marble slab, and 
chains banging from the air, to which he saw no end. 

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

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

When Kicva, the daughter of Gwynn Gloy, saw that there was no one in the 
palace but herself and Manawyddan, she sorrowed so that she cared not 
whether she lived or died. And Manawyddan saw this. "Thou art in the wrong," 
said he, "if through fear of me thou grievest thus. I call Heaven to witness 
that thou hast never seen friendship more pure than that which I will bear 
thee, as long as Heaven will that thou shouldst be thus. I declare to thee 
that, were I in the dawn of youth, I would keep my faith unto Pryderi, and 
unto thee also will I keep it. Be there no fear upon thee, therefore." 
"Heaven reward thee!" she said; "and that is what I deemed of thee." And the 
damsel thereupon took courage, and was glad. 

"Truly, lady," said Manawyddan, "it is not fitting for us to stay here; we 
have lost our dogs, and cannot get food. Let us go into England; it is 
easier for us to find support there." "Gladly, lord," said she, "we will do 
so." And they set forth together to England. "Lord," said she, "what craft 
wilt thou follow? Take up one that is seemly." "None other will I take," 
answered he, "but that of making shoes." "Lord," said she, "such a craft 
becomes not a man so nobly born as thou." "By that however will I abide," 
said he. "I know nothing thereof," said Kicva. "But I know," answered 
Manawyddan, "and I will teach thee to stitch. We will not attempt to dress 
the leather, but we will buy it ready dressed, and will make the shoes from 
it." 

So they went into England, and went as far as Hereford; and they betook 
themselves to making shoes. And he began by buying the best cordwain that 
could be had in town, and none other would he buy. And he associated himself 
with the best goldsmith in the town, and caused him to make clasps for the 
shoes, and to gild the clasps; and he marked how it was done until be 
learned the method. And therefore is he called one of the three makers of 
gold shoes. And when they could be had from him not a shoe nor hose was 
bought from any of the cordwainers in the town. But when the cordwainers 
perceived that their gains were failing (for as Manawyddan shaped the work 
so Kicva stitched it), they came together and took counsel, and agreed that 
they would slay them. And he had warning thereof, and it was told him how 
the cordwainers had agreed to slay him. 

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

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

And thus passed the seasons of the year until the harvest came. And he went 
to look at one of his crofts, and, behold, it was ripe. "I will reap this 
to-morrow," said he. And that night he went back to Narberth, and on the 
morrow, in the gray dawn, he went to reap the croft; and when he came there 
he found nothing but the bare straw. Every one of the ears of the wheat was 
cut off from the stalk, and all the ears carried entirely away, and nothing 
but the straw left. And at this he marvelled greatly. 

Then he went to look at another croft, and, behold, that also was ripe. 
"Verily," said he, "this will I reap to-morrow." And on the morrow he came 
with the intent to reap it; and when he came there he found nothing but the 
bare straw. "O gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed, "I know that whomsoever has 
begun my ruin is completing it, and has also destroyed the country with me." 

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

And at midnight he heard something stirring among the wheat; and he looked, 
and behold, the mightiest host of mice in the world, which could neither be 
numbered nor measured. And he knew not what it was until the mice had made 
their way into the croft, and each of them, climbing up the straw, and 
bending it down with its weight, had cut off one of the ears of wheat, and 
had carried it away, leaving there the stalk; and he saw not a single straw 
there that had not a mouse to it. And they all took their way, carrying the 
ears with them. In wrath and anger did he rush upon the mice; but he could 
no more come up with them than if they had been gnats or birds of the air, 
except one only, which, though it was but sluggish, went so fast that a man 
on foot could scarce overtake it. And after this one he went, and he caught 
it, and put it in his glove, and tied up the opening of the glove with a 
string, and kept it with him, and returned to the palace. Then he came to 
the hall where Kicva was, and he lighted a fire, and hung the glove by the 
string upon a peg. "What hast thou there, lord?" said Kicva. "A thief," said 
he, "that I found robbing me." "What kind of a thief may it be, lord, that 
thou couldst put into thy glove?" said she. Then he told her how the mice 
came to the last of the fields in his sight. "And one of them was less 
nimble than the rest, and is now in my glove; to-morrow I will hang it." "My 
lord," said she, "this is marvellous; but yet it would be unseemly for a man 
of dignity like thee to be hanging such a reptile as this." "Woe betide me," 
said he "if I would not hang them all, could I catch them, and such as I 
have I will hang." "Verily, lord," said she, "there is no reason that I 
should succor this reptile, except to prevent discredit unto thee. Do 
therefore, lord, as thou wilt." 

Then he went to the Mound of Narberth, taking the mouse with him. And he set 
up two forks on the highest part of the mound. And while he was doing this, 
behold, he saw a scholar coming towards him, in old and poor and tattered 
garments. And it was now seven years since he had seen in that place either 
man or beast, except those four persons who had remained together until two 
of them were lost. "My lord," said the scholar, "good day to thee." "Heaven 
prosper thee, and my greeting be unto thee! And whence dost thou come, 
scholar?" asked he. "I come, lord, from singing in England; and wherefore 
dost thou inquire?" "Because for the last seven years," answered he, "I have 
seen no man here save four secluded persons, and thyself this moment." 
"Truly, lord," said he, "I go through this land unto mine own. And what work 
art thou upon, lord?" "I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said 
he. "What manner of thief is that?" asked the scholar. "I see a creature in 
thy hand like unto a mouse, and ill does it become a man of rank equal to 
thine to touch a reptile such as this. Let it go forth free." "I will not 
let it go free, by Heaven," said he, "I caught it robbing me, and the doom 
of a thief will I inflict upon it, and I will hang it." 

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

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

"All this shalt thou have. And truly thou hast done wisely in asking this. 
Upon thy head would have lit all this trouble." "Yea," said he, "for fear 
thereof was it that I required this." "Set now my wife at liberty." "I will 
not," said he, "until I see Pryderi and Rhiannon with me free." "Behold, 
here they come," she answered. And thereupon behold Pryderi and Rhiannon. 
And he rose up to meet them, and greeted them, and sat down beside them. 
"Ah, chieftain, set now my wife at liberty," said the bishop. "Hast thou not 
received all thou didst ask?" "I will release her, gladly," said he. And 
thereupon he set her free. 

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

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

And thus ends this portion of the Mabinogi.

The following allusions to the preceding story are found in a letter of the 
poet Southey to John Rickman, Esq., dated June 6th, 1802:- "You will read 
the Mabinogeon, concerning which I ought to have talked to you. In the last, 
that most odd and Arabian-like story of the mouse, mention is made of a 
begging scholar, that helps to the date; but where did the Cymri get the 
imagination that could produce such a tale? That enchantment of the basin 
hanging by the chain from heaven is in the wildest spirit of the Arabian 
Nights. I am perfectly astonished that such fictions should exist in Welsh. 
They throw no light on the origin of romance, everything being utterly 
dissimilar to what we mean by that term, but they do open a new world of 
fiction; and if the date of their language be fixed about the twelfth or 
thirteenth century, I cannot but think the mythological substance is of far 
earlier date; very probably brought from the East by some of the first 
settlers or conquerors." 




CHAPTER XXIX. KILWICH AND OLWEN.

KILYDD, the son of Prince Kelyddon, desired a wife as a helpmate, and the 
wife that he chose was Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd. And after 
their union the people put up prayers that they might have an heir. And they 
had a son through the prayers of the people; and called his name Kilwich. 

After this the boy's mother, Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd, fell 
sick. Then she called her husband to her, and said to him, "Of this sickness 
I shall die, and thou wilt take another wife. Now wives are the gift of the 
Lord, but it would be wrong for thee to harm thy son. Therefore I charge 
thee that thou take not a wife until thou see a briar with two blossoms upon 
my grave." And this he promised her. Then she besought him to dress her 
grave every year, that no weeds might grow thereon. So the queen died. Now 
the king sent an attendant. every morning to see if anything were growing 
upon the grave. And at the end of the seventh year they neglected that which 
they had promised to the queen. 

One day the king went to hunt; and he rode to the place of burial, to see 
the grave, and to know if it were time that he should take a wife; and the 
king saw the briar. And when he saw it, the king took counsel where he 
should find a wife. Said one of his counsellors, "I know a wife that will 
suit thee well; and she is the wife of King Doged." And they resolved to go 
to seek her; and they slew the king, and brought away his wife. And they 
conquered the king's lands. And he married the widow of King Doged, the 
sister of Yspadaden Penkawr. And one day his stepmother said to Kilwich, "It 
were well for thee to have a wife." "I am not yet of an age to wed," 
answered the youth. Then said she unto him, "I declare to thee that it is 
thy destiny not to be suited with a wife until thou obtain Olwen, the 
daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." And the youth blushed, and the love of the 
maiden diffused itself through all his frame, although he had never seen 
her. And his father inquired of him, "What has come over thee, my son, and 
what aileth thee?" "My stepmother has declared to me that I shall never have 
a wife until I obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." "That will 
be easy for thee," answered his father. "Arthur is thy cousin. Go, 
therefore, unto Arthur, to cut thy hair, and ask this of him as a boon." 

And the youth pricked forth upon a steed with head dappled gray, four 
winters old, firm of limb, with shell-formed hoofs, having a bridle of 
linked gold on his head, and upon him a saddle of costly gold. And in the 
youth's hand were two spears of silver, sharp, well tempered, headed with 
steel, three ells in length, of an edge to wound the wind, and cause blood 
to flow, and swifter than the fall of the dew-drop from the blade of reed-
grass, when the dew of June is at the heaviest. A gold-hilted sword was upon 
his thigh, the blade of which was gilded, bearing a cross of inlaid gold of 
the hue of the lightning of heaven. His war-horn was of ivory. Before him 
were two brindled, white-breasted greyhounds, having strong collars of 
rubies about their necks, reaching from the shoulder to the ear. And the one 
that was upon the left side bounded across to the right side, and the one on 
the right to the left, and, like two sea-swallows, sported around him. And 
his courser cast up four sods, with his four hoofs, like four swallows in 
the air, about his head, now above, now below. About him was a four-cornered 
cloth of purple, and an apple of gold was at each corner, and every one of 
the apples was of the value of an hundred kine. And there was precious gold 
of the value of three hundred kine upon his shoes, and upon his stirrups, 
from his knee to the tip of his toe. And the blade of grass bent not beneath 
him, so light was his courser's tread, as he journeyed toward the gate of 
Arthur's palace. 

Spoke the youth: "Is there a porter?" "There is; and if thou holdest not thy 
peace, small will be thy welcome. I am Arthur's porter every first day of 
January." "Open the portal." "I will not open it." "Wherefore not?" "The 
knife is in the meat, and the drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in 
Arthur's hall; and none may enter therein but the son of a king of a 
privileged country, or a craftsman bringing his craft. But there will be 
refreshment for thy dogs and for thy horse; and for thee there will be 
collops cooked and peppered, and luscious wine, and mirthful songs; and food 
for fifty men shall be brought unto thee in the guest-chamber, where the 
stranger and the sons of other countries eat, who come not into the 
precincts of the palace of Arthur. Thou wilt fare no worse there than thou 
wouldst with Arthur in the court. A lady shall smooth thy couch, and shall 
lull thee with songs; and early to-morrow morning, when the gate is open for 
the multitude that come hither to-day, for thee shall it be opened first, 
and thou mayest sit in the place that thou shalt choose in Arthur's hall, 
from the upper end to the lower." Said the youth: "That will I not do. If 
thou openest the gate, it is well. If thou dost not open it, I will bring 
disgrace upon thy lord, and evil report upon thee. And I will set up three 
shouts at this very gate, than which none were ever heard more deadly." 
"What clamor soever thou mayest make," said Glewlwyd the porter, "against 
the laws of Arthur's palace, shalt thou not enter therein, until I first go 
and speak with Arthur." 

Then Glewlwyd went into the hall. And Arthur said to him, "Hast thou news 
from the gate?" "Half of my life is passed," said Glewlwyd, "and half of 
thine. I was heretofore in Kaer Se and Asse, in Sach and Salach, in Lotor 
and Fotor, and I have been in India the Great and India the Lesser, and I 
have also been in Europe and Africa, and in the islands of Corsica, and I 
was present when thou didst conquer Greece in the East. Nine supreme 
sovereigns, handsome men, saw we there, but never did I behold a man of 
equal dignity with him who is now at the door of the portal." Then said 
Arthur, "If walking thou didst enter here, return thou running. It is 
unbecoming to keep such a man as thou sayest he is in the wind and the 
rain." Said Kay: "By the hand of my friend, if thou wouldst follow my 
counsel, thou wouldst not break through the laws of the court because of 
him." "Not so, blessed Kay," said Arthur; "it is an honor to us to be 
resorted to, and the greater our courtesy, the greater will be our renown 
and our fame and our glory." 

And Glewlwyd came to the gate, and opened the gate before Kilwich; and 
although all dismounted upon the horse-block at the gate, yet did he not 
dismount, but he rode in upon his charger. Then said he, "Greeting be unto 
thee, sovereign ruler of this island, and be this greeting no less unto the 
lowest than unto the highest. and be it equally unto thy guests and thy 
warriors and thy chieftains; let all partake of it as completely as thyself. 
And complete be thy favor and thy fame and thy glory, throughout all this 
island." "Greeting unto thee also," said Arthur; "sit thou between two of my 
warriors, and thou shalt have minstrels before thee, and thou shalt enjoy 
the privileges of a king born to a throne, as long as thou remainest here. 
And when I dispense my presents to the visitors and strangers in this court, 
they shall be in thy hand at my commencing." Said the youth: "I came not 
here to consume meat and drink; but if I obtain the boon that I seek, I will 
requite it thee, and extol thee; but if I have it not I will bear forth thy 
dispraise to the four quarters of the world, as far as thy renown has 
extended." Then said Arthur, "Since thou wilt not remain here, chieftain, 
thou shalt receive the boon, whatsoever thy tongue may name, as far as the 
wind dries, and the rain moistens, and the sun revolves, and the sea 
encircles, and the earth extends; save only my ship Prydwen, and my mantle, 
and Caleburn, my sword, and Rhongomyant, my lance, and Guenever, my wife. By 
the truth of Heaven, thou shalt have it cheerfully, name what thou wilt." "I 
would that thou bless my hair," said he. "That shall be granted thee." 

And Arthur took a golden comb, and scissors whereof the loops were of 
silver, and he combed his hair. And Arthur inquired of him who he was; "for 
my heart warms unto thee, and I know that thou art come of my blood. Tell 
me, therefore, who thou art." "I will tell thee," said the youth. "I am 
Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon, by Goleudid my 
mother, the daughter of Prince Anlawd." "That is true," said Arthur; "thou 
art my cousin. Whatsoever boon thou mayest ask, thou shalt receive, be it 
what it may that thy tongue shall name." "Pledge the truth of Heaven and the 
faith of thy kingdom thereof." "I pledge it thee gladly." "I crave of thee, 
then, that thou obtain for me Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr, to 
wife; and this boon I likewise seek at the hands of thy warriors. I seek it 
from Kay and from Bedwyr; and from Gwynn, the son of Nudd, and Gadwy, the 
son of Geraint, and Prince Flewddur Flam, and Iona, king of France, and Sel, 
the son of Selgi, and Taliesin, the chief of the bards, and Geraint, the son 
of Erbin, Garanwyn, the son of Kay, and Amren, the son of Bedwyr, Ol, the 
son of Olwyd, Bedwin, the bishop, Guenever, the chief lady, and Guenhywach, 
her sister, Morved, the daughter of Urien, and Gwenlian Deg, the majestic 
maiden, Creiddylad,(1) the daughter of Lludd, the constant maiden, and 
Ewaedan, the daughter of Kynvelyn,(2) the half-man." All these did Kilwich, 
the son of Kilydd, adjure to obtain his boon.

Then said Arthur, "O chieftain, I have never heard of the maiden of whom 
thou speakest, nor of her kindred, but I will gladly send messengers in 
search of her. Give me time to seek her." And the youth said, "I will 
willingly grant from this night to that at the end of the year to do so." 
Then Arthur sent messengers to every land within his dominions to seek for 
the maiden, and at the end of the year Arthur's messengers returned without 
having gained any knowledge or intelligence concerning Olwen more than on 
the first day. Then said Kilwich, "Every one has received his boon, and I 
yet lack mine. I will depart, and bear away thine honor with me." Then said 
Kay, "Rash chieftain! dost thou reproach Arthur? Go with us, and we will not 
part until thou dost either confess that the maiden exists not in the world, 
or until we obtain her." Thereupon Kay rose up. And Arthur called Bedwyr, 
who never shrank from any enterprise upon which Kay was bound. None were 
equal to him in swiftness throughout this island except Arthur alone; and 
although he was one-handed, three warriors could not shed blood faster than 
he on the field of battle. And Arthur called to Kyndelig, the guide, "Go 
thou upon this expedition with the chieftain." For as good a guide was he in 
a land which he had never seen as he was in his own. 

He called Gurhyr Gwalstat, because he knew all tongues. He called Gawain, 
the son of Gwyar, because he never returned home without achieving the 
adventure of which he went in quest. And Arthur called Meneu, the son of 
Teirgwed, in order that, if they went into a savage country, be might cast a 
charm and an illusion over them, so that none might see them whilst they 
could see every one. They journeyed until they came to a vast open plain, 
wherein they saw a great castle, Which was the fairest of the castles of the 
world. And when they came before the castle they beheld a vast flock of 
sheep. And upon the top of a mound there was a herdsman keeping the sheep. 
And a rug made of skins was upon him, and by his side was a shaggy mastiff, 
larger than a steed nine winters old. 

Then said Kay, "Gurhyr Gwalstat, go thou and salute yonder man." "Kay," said 
he, "I engaged not to go further than thou thyself." "Let us go then 
together," answered Kay. Said Meneu, "Fear not to go thither, for I will 
cast a spell upon the dog so that he shall injure no one." And they went up 
to the mound whereon the herdsman was, and they said to him, "How dost thou 
fare, herdsman?" "Not less fair be it to you than to me." "Whose are the 
sheep that Thou dost keep, and to whom does yonder castle belong?" "Stupid 
are ye, truly! not to know that this is the castle of Yspadaden Penkawr. And 
ye also, who are ye?" "We are an embassy from Arthur, come to seek Olwen, 
the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." "O men! the mercy of Heaven be upon you; 
do not that for all the world. None who ever came hither on this quest has 
returned alive." And the herdsman rose up. And as he rose Kilwich gave unto 
him a ring of gold. And he went home and gave the ring to his spouse to 
keep. And she took the ring when it was given her, and she said, "Whence 
came this ring, for thou art not wont to have good fortune?" "O wife, him to 
whom this ring belonged thou shalt see here this evening." "And who is he?" 
asked the woman. "Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, by Goleudid, the daughter of 
Prince Anlawd, who is come to seek Olwen as his wife." And when the heard 
that she had joy that her nephew, the son of her sister, was coming to her, 
and sorrow because she had never known any one depart alive who had come on 
that quest. 

And the men went forward to the gate of the herdsman's dwelling. And when 
she heard their footsteps approaching she ran out with joy to meet them. And 
Kay snatched a billet out of the pile. And when she met them she sought to 
throw her arms about their necks. And Kay placed the log between her two 
hands, and she squeezed it so that it became a twisted coil. "O woman," said 
Kay, "if thou hadst squeezed me thus none could ever again set their 
affections on me. Evil love were this." They entered into the house and were 
served; and soon after they all went forth to amuse themselves. Then the 
woman opened a stone chest that was before the chimney-corner, and out of it 
rose a youth with yellow, curling hair. Said Gurhyr, "It is a pity to hide 
this youth. I know that it is not his own crime that is thus visited upon 
him." "This is but a remnant," said the woman. "Three and twenty of my sons 
has Yspadaden Penkawr slain, and I have no more hope of this one than of the 
others." Then said Kay, "Let him come and be a companion with me and he 
shall not be slain unless I also am slain with him." And they ate. And the 
woman asked them, "Upon what errand come you here?" "We come to seek Olwen 
for this youth." Then said the woman, "In the name of Heaven, since no one 
from the castle hath yet seen you, return again whence you came." "Heaven is 
our witness that we will not return until we have seen the maiden. Does she 
ever come hither, so that she may be seen?" "She comes here every Saturday 
to wash her head, and in the vessel where she washes she leaves all her 
rings, and she never either comes herself or sends any messenger to fetch 
them." "Will she come here if she is sent to?" "Heaven knows that I will not 
destroy my soul, nor will I betray those that trust me; unless you will 
pledge me your faith that you will not harm her I will not send to her." "We 
pledge it," said they. So a message was sent, and she came. 

The maiden was clothed in a robe of flame-colored silk, and about her neck 
was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and rubies. More 
yellow was her head than the flower of the broom,(3) and her skin was whiter 
than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than 
the blossoms of the wood-anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. 
The eye of the trained hawk was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more 
snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek was redder than the 
reddest roses. Whoso beheld her was filled with her love. Four white 
trefoils sprung up wherever she trod. And therefore was she called Olwen.

She entered the house and sat beside Kilwich upon the foremost bench; and as 
soon as he saw her he knew her. And Kilwich said unto her, "Ah! maiden, thou 
art she whom I have loved; come away with me lest they speak evil of thee 
and of me. Many a day have I loved thee." "I cannot do this, for I have 
pledged my faith to my father not to go without his counsel, for his life 
will last only until the time of my espousals. Whatever is to be, must be. 
But I will give thee advice, if thou wilt take it. Go ask me of my father, 
and that which he shall require of thee, grant it, and thou wilt obtain me; 
but if thou deny him anything, thou wilt not obtain me, and it will be well 
for thee if thou escape with thy life." "I promise all this, if occasion 
offer," said he. 

She returned to her chamber, and they all rose up, and followed her to the 
castle. And they slew the nine porters, that were at the nine gates, in 
silence And they slew the nine watch-dogs without one of them barking. And 
they went forward to the hall. 

"The greeting of Heaven and of man be unto thee, Yspadaden Penkawr," said 
they. "And you, wherefore come you?" "We come to ask thy daughter Olwen for 
Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon." "Where are my pages 
and my servants? Raise up the forks beneath my two eyebrows, which have 
fallen over my eyes, that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law." And they 
did so. "Come hither to-morrow, and you shall have an answer." 

They rose to go forth, and Yspadaden Penkawr seized one of the three 
poisoned darts that lay beside him, and threw it after them. And Bedwyr 
caught it, and flung it, and pierced Yspadaden Penkawr grievously with it 
through the knee. Then he said, "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly! I 
shall ever walk the worse for his rudeness, and shall ever be without a 
cure. This poisoned iron pains me like the bite of a gad-fly. Cursed be the 
smith who forged it, and the anvil on which it was wrought! So sharp is it! 
That night also they took up their abode in the house of the herdsman. The 
next day, with the dawn, they arrayed themselves and proceeded to the 
castle, and entered the hall; and they said, "Yspadaden Penkawr, give us thy 
daughter in consideration of her dower and her maiden fee, which we will pay 
to thee, and to her two kinswomen likewise." Then he said, "Her four great-
grandmothers, and her four great-grandsires are yet alive; it is needful 
that I take counsel of them." "Be it so," they answered; "we will go to 
meat." As they rose up, he took the second dart that was beside him, and 
cast it after them. And Meneu, the son of Gawedd, caught it, and flung it 
back at him, and wounded him in the centre of the breast. "A cursed ungentle 
son-in-law, truly!" said he; "the hard iron pains me like the bite of a 
horse-leech. Cursed be the hearth whereon it was heated, and the smith who 
formed it! So sharp is it! Henceforth, whenever I go up hill, I shall have a 
scant in my breath, and a pain in my chest, and I shall often loathe my 
food." And they went to meat. 

And the third day they returned to the palace. And Yspadaden Penkawr said to 
them, "Shoot not at me again, unless you desire death. Where are my 
attendants? Lift up the forks of my eyebrows, which have fallen over my 
eyeballs, that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law." Then they arose, 
and, as they did so, Yspadaden Penkawr took the third poisoned dart and cast 
it at them. And Kilwich caught it, and threw it vigorously, and wounded him 
through the eyeball. "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly! As long as I 
remain alive, my eyesight will be the worse. Whenever I go against the wind, 
my eyes will water; and peradventure my head will burn, and I shall have a 
giddiness every new moon. Like the bite of a mad dog is the stroke of this 
poisoned iron. Cursed be the fire in which it was forged!" And they went to 
meat. 

And the next day they came again to the palace, and they said, "Shoot not at 
us any more, unless thou desirest such hurt and harm and torture as thou now 
hast, and even more." Said Kilwich, "Give me thy daughter; and if thou wilt 
not give her, thou shalt receive thy death because of her." "Where is he 
that seeks my daughter? Come hither, where I may see thee." And they placed 
him a chair face to face with him. 

Said Yspadaden Penkawr, "Is it thou that seekest my daughter?" "It is I," 
answered Kilwich. 

"I must have thy pledge that thou wilt not do toward me otherwise than is 
just; and when I have gotten that which I shall name, my daughter thou shalt 
have." 

"I promise thee that, willingly," said Kilwich; "name what thou wilt." 

"I will do so," said he. "Seest thou yonder red tilled ground?" "I see it." 

"When first I met the mother of this maiden, nine bushels of flax were sown 
therein, and none has yet sprung up, white or black. I require to have the 
flax to sow in the new land yonder, that when it grows up it may make a 
white wimple for my daughter's head on the day of thy wedding." 

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will 
not be easy." 

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get,- the harp 
of Teirtu, to play to us that night. When a man desires that it should play, 
it does so of itself; and when he desires that it should cease, it ceases. 
And this he will not give of his own free will, and thou wilt not be able to 
compel him." 

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think that it 
will not be easy." 

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. I require 
thee to get me for my huntsman Mabon, the son of Modron. He was taken from 
his mother when three nights old, and it is not known where he now is, nor 
whether he is living or dead." "It will be easy for me to compass this, 
although thou mayest think it will not be easy." 

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get,- the two 
cubs of the wolf Gast Rhymhi; no leash in the world will hold them, but a 
leash made from the beard of Dillus Varwawc, the robber. And the leash will 
be of no avail unless it be plucked from his beard while he is alive. While 
he lives, he will not suffer this to be done to him, and the leash will be 
of no use should he be dead, because it will be brittle." 

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will 
not be easy." 

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get,- the sword 
of Gwernach the Giant; of his own free will he will not give it, and thou 
wilt never be able to compel him." 

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it will 
not be easy." 

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. 
Difficulties shalt thou meet with, and nights without sleep, in seeking 
this, and if thou obtain it not, neither shalt thou obtain my daughter." 

"Horses shall I have, and chivalry; and my lord and kinsman, Arthur, will 
obtain for me all these things. And I shall gain thy daughter, and thou 
shalt lose thy life." 

"Go forward. And thou shalt not be chargeable for food or raiment for my 
daughter while thou art seeking these things; and when thou hast compassed 
all these marvels, thou shalt have my daughter for thy wife." 

 

(1) Creiddylad is no other than Shakespeare's Cordelia, whose father, King 
Lear, is by the Welsh authorities called indiscriminately Llyr or Llydd. All 
the old chroniclers give the story of her devotion to her aged parent, but 
none of them seems to have been aware that she is destined to remain with 
him till the day of doom. whilst Gwyn ap Nudd, the king of the fairies, and 
Gwythyr ap Greidiol, fight for her every first of May, and whichever of them 
may be fortunate enough to be the conqueror at that time will obtain her as 
his bride. 

(2) The Welsh have a fable on the subject of the half-man, taken to be 
illustrative of the force of habit. In this allegory Arthur is supposed to 
be met by a sprite, who appears at first in a small and indistinct form, but 
who, on approaching nearer, increases in size, and, assuming the semblance 
of half a man, endeavors to provoke the king to wrestle. Despising his 
weakness, and considering that he should gain no credit by the encounter, 
Arthur refuses to do so, and delays the contest until at length the half-man 
(Habit) becomes so strong that it requires his utmost efforts to overcome 
him.

(3) The romancers dwell with great complacency on the fair hair and delicate 
complexion of their heroines. This taste continued for a long time, and to 
render the hair light was an object of education. Even when wigs came into 
fashion they were all flaxen. Such was the color of the hair of the Gauls 
and of their German conquerors. It required some centuries to reconcile 
their eyes to the swarthy beauties of their Spanish and Italian neighbors.

 


CHAPTER XXX. KILWICH AND OLWEN, CONTINUED.

ALL that day they journeyed until the evening, and then they beheld a vast 
castle, which was the largest in the world. And lo! a black man, larger than 
three of the men of this world, came out from the castle. And they spoke 
unto him, and said, "O man, whose castle is that?" "Stupid are ye, truly, O 
men! There is no one in the world that does not know that this is the castle 
of Gwernach the Giant." "What treatment is there for guests and strangers 
that alight in that castle?" "O chieftain, Heaven protect thee! No guest 
ever returned thence alive, and no one may enter therein unless he brings 
with him his craft." 

Then they proceeded towards the gate. Said Gurhyr Gwalstat, "Is there a 
porter!" "There is; wherefore dost thou call?" "Open the gate." "I will not 
open it." "Wherefore wilt thou not?" "The knife is in the meat, and the 
drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in the hall of Gwernach the 
Giant; and except for a craftsman who brings his craft, the gate will not be 
opened to-night." "Verily, porter," then said Kay, "my craft bring I with 
me." "What is thy craft?" "The best burnisher of swords am I in the world." 
"I will go and tell this unto Gwernach the Giant, and I will bring thee an 
answer." 

So the porter went in, and Gwernach said to him, "Hast thou news from the 
gate?" "I have. There is a party at the door of the gate who desire to come 
in." "Didst thou inquire of them if they possessed any art?" "I did 
inquire," said he, "and one told me that he was well skilled in the 
burnishing of swords." "We have need of him then. For some time have I 
sought for some one to polish my sword, and could find no one. Let this man 
enter, since he brings with him his craft." 

The porter thereupon returned and opened the gate. And Kay went in by 
himself, and he saluted Gwernach the Giant. And a chair was placed for him 
opposite to Gwernach. And Gwernach said to him, "O man, is it true that is 
reported of thee, that thou knowest how to burnish swords?" "I know full 
well how to do so," answered Kay. Then was the sword of Gwernach brought to 
him. And Kay took a blue whet-stone from under his arm, and asked whether he 
would have it burnished white or blue. "Do with it as it seems good to thee, 
or as thou wouldst if it were thine own." Then Kay polished one half of the 
blade, and put it in his band. "Will this please you?" asked he. "I would 
rather than all that is in my dominions that the whole of it were like this. 
It is a marvel to me that such a man as thou should be without a companion." 
"O noble sir, I have a companion, albeit he is not skilled in this art." 
"Who may he be?" "Let the porter go forth, and I will tell him whereby he 
may know him. The head of his lance will leave its shaft, and draw blood 
from the wind, and will descend upon its shaft again." Then the gate was 
opened, and Bedwyr entered. And Kay said, "Bedwyr is very skilful, though he 
knows not this art." 

And there was much discourse among those who were without, because that Kay 
and Bedwyr had gone in. And a young man who was with them, the only son of 
the herdsman, got in also; and he contrived to admit all the rest, but they 
kept themselves concealed. 

The sword was now polished, and Kay gave it unto the hand of Gwernach the 
Giant, to see if he were pleased with his work. And the Giant said, "The 
work is good; I am content therewith." Said Kay, "It is thy scabbard that 
hath rusted thy sword; give it to me, that I may take out the wooden sides 
of it, and put in new ones." And he took the scabbard from him, and the 
sword in the other hand. And he came and stood over against the giant, as if 
he would have put the sword into the scabbard; and with it he struck at the 
head of the giant, and cut off his head at one blow. Then they despoiled the 
castle, and took from it what goods and jewels they would. And they returned 
to Arthur's court, bearing with them the sword of Gwernach the Giant. 

And when they told Arthur how they had sped, Arthur said, "It is a good 
beginning." Then they took counsel, and said, "Which of these marvels will 
it be best for us to seek next?" "It will be best," said one, "to seek 
Mabon, the son of Modron; and he will not be found unless we first find 
Eidoel, the son of Aer, his kinsman." Then Arthur rose up, and the warriors 
of the island of Britain with him, to seek for Eidoel; and they proceeded 
until they came to the castle of Glivi, where Eidoel was imprisoned. Glivi 
stood on the summit of his castle, and he said, "Arthur, what requirest thou 
of me, since nothing remains to me in this fortress, and I have neither joy 
nor pleasure in it, neither wheat nor oats? Seek not, therefore, to do me 
harm." Said Arthur, "Not to injure thee came I hither, but to seek for the 
prisoner that is with thee." "I will give thee my prisoner, though I had not 
thought to give him up to any one, and therewith shalt thou have my support 
and my aid." 

His followers said unto Arthur, "Lord, go thou home; thou canst not proceed 
with thy host in quest of such small adventures as these." Then said Arthur, 
"It were well for thee, Gurhyr Gwalstat, to go upon this quest, for thou 
knowest all languages, and art familiar with those of the birds and the 
beasts. Thou, Eidoel, oughtest likewise to go with thy men in search of thy 
cousin. And as for you, Kay and Bedwyr, I have hope of whatever adventure ye 
are in quest of, that ye will achieve it. Achieve ye this adventure for me." 

They went forward until they came to the Ousel of Cilgwri. And Gurhyr 
adjured her, saying, "Tell me if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of 
Modron, who was taken when three nights old from between his mother and the 
wall?" And the Ousel answered, "When I first came here, there was a smith's 
anvil in this place, and I was then a young bird; and from that time no work 
has been done upon it, save the pecking of my beak every evening; and now 
there is not so much as the size of a nut remaining thereof; yet during all 
that time I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, 
I will do that which is fitting that I should for an embassy from Arthur. 
There is a race of animals who were formed before me, and I will be your 
guide to them." 

So they proceeded to the place where was the Stag of Redynvre. "Stag of 
Redynvre, behold, we are come to thee, an embassy from Arthur, for we have 
not heard of any animal older than thou. Say, knowest thou aught of Mabon, 
the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when three nights old?" The 
Stag said, "When first I came hither there was a plain all around me, 
without any trees save one oak sapling, which grew up to be an oak with an 
hundred branches; and that oak has since perished, so that now nothing 
remains of it but the withered stump; and from that day to this I have been 
here, yet have I never heard of the man for whom you inquire. Nevertheless, 
being an embassy from Arthur, I will be your guide to the place where there 
is an animal which was formed before I was, and the oldest animal in the 
world, and the one that has travelled most, the Eagle of Gwern Abwy." 

Gurhyr said, "Eagle of Gwern Abwy, we have come to thee, an embassy from 
Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who 
was taken from his mother when he was three nights old?" The Eagle said, "I 
have been here for a great space of time, and when I first came hither there 
was a rock here from the top of which I pecked at the stars every evening; 
and it has crumbled away, and now it is not so much as a span high. All that 
time I have been here, and I have never heard of the man for whom you 
inquire, except once when I went in search of food as far as Llyn Llyw. And 
when I came there I struck my talons into a salmon, thinking he would serve 
me as food for a long time. But he drew me into the water, and I was 
scarcely able to escape from him. After that I made peace with him. And I 
drew fifty fish-spears out of his back, and relieved him. Unless he know 
something of him you seek I cannot tell who may. However, I will guide you 
to the place where he is." 

So they went thither; and the Eagle said, "Salmon of Llyn Llyw, I have come 
to thee with an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of 
Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken away at three nights old from his 
mother." "As much as I know I will tell thee. With every tide I go along the 
river upward, until I come near to the walls of Gloucester, and there have I 
found such wrong as I never found elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give 
credence thereto, let one of you go thither upon each of my two shoulders." 
So Kay and Gurhyr Gwalstat went upon the two shoulders of the Salmon, and 
they proceeded until they came unto the wall of the prison; and they heard a 
great wailing and lamenting from the dungeon. Said Gurhyr, "Who is it that 
laments in this house of stone?" "Alas! it is Mabon, the son of Modron, who 
is here imprisoned; and no imprisonment was ever so grievous as mine." "Hast 
thou hope of being released for gold or for silver, or for any gifts of 
wealth, or through battle and fighting?" "By fighting will whatever I may 
gain be obtained." 

Then they went thence, and returned to Arthur, and they told him where 
Mabon, the son of Modron, was imprisoned. And Arthur summoned the warriors 
of the island, and they journeyed as far as Gloucester, to the place where 
Mabon was in prison. Kay and Bedwyr went upon the shoulders of the fish, 
whilst the warriors of Arthur attacked the castle. And Kay broke through the 
wall into the dungeon, and brought away the prisoner upon his back, whilst 
the fight was going on between the warriors. And Arthur returned home, and 
Mabon with him at liberty. On a certain day as Gurhyr Gwalstat was walking 
over a mountain he heard a wailing and a grievous cry. And when he heard it 
he sprang forward, and went towards it. And when he came there he saw a fire 
burning among the turf, and an ant-hill nearly surrounded with the fire. And 
he drew his sword, and smote off the ant-hill close to earth, so that it 
escaped being burned in the fire. And the ants said to him, "Receive from us 
the blessing of Heaven, and that which no man can give we will give thee." 
Then they fetched the nine bushels of flaxseed which Yspadaden Penkawr had 
required of Kilwich, and they brought the full measure, without lacking any, 
save one flaxseed, and that the lame pismire brought in before night. 

Then said Arthur, "Which of the marvels will it be best for us to seek 
next?" "It will be best to seek for the two cubs of the wolf Gast Rhymhi." 

"Is it known," said Arthur, "where she is?" "She is in Aber Cleddyf," said 
one. Then Arthur went to the house of Tringad, in Aber Cleddyf, and he 
inquired of him whether he had heard of her there. "She has often slain my 
herds, and she is there below in a cave of Aber Cleddyf." 

Then Arthur went in his ship Prydwen by sea, and the others went by land to 
hunt her. And they surrounded her and her two cubs, and took them, and 
carried them away. 

As Kay and Bedwyr sat on a beacon-cairn on the summit of Plinlimmon, in the 
highest wind that ever was, they looked around them and saw smoke afar off. 
Then said Kay, "By the hand of my friend, yonder is the fire of a robber." 
Then they hastened towards the smoke, and they came so near it that they 
could see Dillus Varwawc scorching a wild boar. "Behold, yonder is the 
greatest robber that ever fled from Arthur," said Bedwyr to Kay. "Dost thou 
know him?" "I do know him," answered Kay; "he is Dillus Varwawc, and no 
leash in the world will be able to hold the cubs of Gast Rhymhi save a leash 
made from the beard of him thou seest yonder. And even that will be useless 
unless his beard be plucked out alive, with wooden tweezers; for if dead it 
will be brittle." "What thinkest thou that we should do concerning this?" 
said Bedwyr. "Let us suffer him to eat as much as he will of the meat, and 
after that he will fall asleep." And during that time he they employed 
themselves in making the wooden tweezers. And when Kay knew certainly that 
he was asleep, he made a pit under his feet, and he struck him a violent 
blow, and squeezed him into the pit. And there they twitched out his beard 
completely with the wooden tweezers, and after that they slew him 
altogether. And from thence they went, and took the leash made of Dillus 
Varwawc's beard, and they gave it into Arthur's hand. 

Thus they got all the marvels that Yspadaden Penkawr had required of 
Kilwich; and they set forward, and took the marvels to his court. And 
Kilwich said to Yspadaden Penkawr, "Is thy daughter mine now?" "She is 
thine," said he, "but therefore needest thou not thank me, but Arthur, who 
hath accomplished this for thee." Then Goreu, the son of Custennin, the 
herdsman, whose brothers Yspadaden Penkawr had slain, seized him by the hair 
of his head, and dragged him after him to the keep, and cut off his head, 
and placed it on a stake in the citadel. Then they took possession of his 
castle, and of his treasures. And that night Olwen became Kilwich's bride, 
and she continued to be his wife as long as she lived. 



CHAPTER XXXI. PEREDUR, THE SON OF EVRAWC.

ARTHUR was in Caerleon upon the Usk; and he went to hunt, and Peredur (1) 
went with him. And Peredur let loose his dog upon a hart, and the dog killed 
the hart in a desert place. And a short space from him he saw signs of a 
dwelling, and towards the dwelling he went, and he beheld a hall, and at the 
door of the hall he found bold swarthy youths playing at chess. And when he 
entered he beheld three maidens sitting on a bench, and they were all 
clothed alike, as became persons of high rank. And he came and sat by them 
on the bench; and one of the maidens looked steadfastly at Peredur and wept. 
And Peredur asked her wherefore she was weeping. "Through grief that I shall 
see so fair a youth as thou art slain." "Who will slay me?" inquired 
Peredur. "If thou art so daring as to remain here to-night I will tell 
thee." "How great soever my danger may be from remaining here I will listen 
unto thee." "This palace is owned by him who is my father," said the maiden, 
"and he slays every one who comes hither without his leave." "What sort of a 
man is thy father that he is able to slay every one thus?" "A man who does 
violence and wrong unto his neighbors, and who renders justice unto none." 
And hereupon he saw the youths arise and clear the chessmen from the board. 
And he heard a great tumult; and after the tumult there came in a huge black 
one-eyed man, and the maidens arose to meet him. And they disarrayed him, 
and he went and sat down; and after he had rested and pondered awhile, he 
looked at Peredur, and asked who the knight was. "Lord," said one of the 
maidens, "he is the fairest and gentlest youth that ever thou didst see. And 
for the sake of Heaven, and thine own dignity, have patience with him." "For 
thy sake I will have patience, and I will grant him his life this night." 
Then Peredur came towards them to the fire, and partook of food and liquor, 
and entered into discourse with the ladies. And being elated with the 
liquor, he said to the black man, "It is a marvel to me, so mighty as thou 
sayest thou art, who could have put out thine eye?" "It is one of my 
habits," said the black man, "that whosoever puts to me the question which 
thou hast asked shall not escape with his life, either as a free gift, or 
for a price." "Lord," said the maiden, "whatsoever he may say to thee in 
jest, and through the excitement of liquor, make good that which thou 
saidest and didst promise me just now." "I will do so, gladly, for thy 
sake," said he. "Willingly will I grant him his life this night." And that 
night thus they remained.

And the next day the black man got up and put on his armor, and said to 
Peredur, "Arise, man, and suffer death." And Peredur said unto him, "Do one 
of two things, black man; if thou wilt fight with me, either throw off thy 
own armor, or give arms to me that I may encounter thee." "Ha! man," said 
he, "couldst thou fight if thou hadst arms? Take then what arms thou dost 
choose." And thereupon the maiden came to Peredur with such arms as pleased 
him; and he fought with the black man and forced him to crave his mercy. 
"Black man, thou shalt have mercy, provided thou tell me who thou art, and 
who put out thine eye." "Lord, I will tell thee. I lost it in fighting with 
the Black Serpent of the Carn. There is a mound which is called the Mound of 
Mourning; and on the mound there is a carn, and in the carn there is a 
serpent, and on the tail of the serpent there is a stone, and the virtues of 
the stone are such that whosoever should hold it in one hand, in the other 
he will have as much gold as he may desire. And in fighting with this 
serpent was it that I lost my eye. And the Black Oppressor am I called. And 
for this reason I am called the Black Oppressor, that there is not a single 
man around me whom I have not oppressed, and justice have I done unto none." 
"Tell me," said Peredur, "how far is it hence?" "The same day that thou 
settest forth thou wilt come to the Palace of the Sons of the King of the 
Tortures." "Wherefore are they called thus?" "The Addanc (2) of the Lake 
slays them once every day. When thou goest thence thou wilt come to the 
Court of the Countess of Achievements." "What achievements are these?" said 
Peredur. "Three hundred men are there in her household, and unto every 
stranger that comes to the Court the achievements of her household are 
related. And this is the manner of it,- the three hundred men of the 
household sit next unto the Lady; and that not through disrespect unto the 
guests, but that they may relate the achievements of the household. And the 
day that thou goest there thou wilt reach the Mound of Mourning, and round 
about the mound there are the owners of three hundred tents guarding the 
serpent." "Since thou hast indeed been an oppressor so long," said Peredur, 
"I will cause that thou continue so no longer." So he slew him.

Then the maiden spoke, and began to converse with him. "If thou wast poor 
when thou camest here henceforth thou wilt be rich through the treasure of 
the black man whom thou hast slain. Thou seest the many lovely maidens that 
there are in this court, thou shalt have her whom thou likest best for the 
lady of thy love." "Lady, I came not hither from my country to woo; but 
match yourselves as it liketh you with the comely youths I see here; and 
none of your goods do I desire, for I need them not." Then Peredur rode 
forward, and he came to the Palace of the Sons of the King of the Tortures; 
and when he entered the palace he saw none but women; and they rose up and 
were joyful at his coming; and as they began to discourse with him he beheld 
a charger arrive, with a saddle upon it, and a corpse in the saddle. And one 
of the women arose, and took the corpse from the saddle and anointed it in a 
vessel of warm water, which was below the door, and placed precious balsam 
upon it; and the man rose up alive, and came to the place where Peredur was, 
and greeted him, and was joyful to see him. And two other men came in upon 
their saddles, and the maiden treated these two in the same manner as she 
had done the first. Then Peredur asked the chieftain wherefore it was thus. 
And they told him there was an Addanc in a cave, which slew them once every 
day. And thus they remained one night. 

And next morning the youths arose to sally forth, and Peredur besought them, 
for the sake of the ladies of their love, to permit him to go with them; but 
they refused him, saying, "If thou shouldst be slain thou hast none to bring 
thee back to life again." And they rode forward and Peredur followed after 
them; and after they had disappeared out of his sight he came to a mound, 
whereon sat the fairest lady he had ever beheld. "I know thy quest," said 
she; "thou art going to encounter the Addanc, and he will slay thee, and 
that not by courage but by craft. He has a cave, and at the entrance of the 
cave there is a stone pillar, and he sees every one that enters, and none 
sees him; and from behind the pillar he slays every one with a poisonous 
dart. And if thou wouldst pledge me thy faith, to love me above all women, I 
would give thee a stone, by which thou shouldst see him when thou goest in, 
and he should not see thee." "I will, by my faith," said Peredur, "for when 
first I beheld thee I loved thee; and where shall I seek thee?" "When thou 
seekest me seek towards India." And the maiden vanished after placing the 
stone in Peredur's hand. 

And he came towards a valley, through which ran a river; and the borders of 
the valley were wooded, and on each side of the river were level meadows. 
And on one side of the river he saw a flock of white sheep, and on the other 
side a flock of black sheep. And whenever one of the white sheep bleated one 
of the black sheep would cross over and become white; and when one of the 
black sheep bleated one of the white sheep would cross over and become 
black. And he saw a tall tree by the side of the river, one-half of which 
was in flames from the root to the top, and the other half was green and in 
full leaf. And nigh thereto he saw a youth sitting upon a mound, and two 
greyhounds, white-breasted and spotted, in leashes, lying by his side. And 
certain was he that he had never seen a youth of so royal a bearing as he. 
And in the wood opposite he heard hounds raising a herd of deer. And Peredur 
saluted the youth, and the youth greeted him in return. And there were three 
roads leading from the mound; two of them were wide roads and the third was 
more narrow. And Peredur inquired where the three roads went. "One of them 
goes to my palace," said the youth. "And one of two things I counsel thee to 
do, either to proceed to my palace, which is before thee, and where thou 
wilt find my wife, or else to remain here to see the hounds chasing the 
roused deer from the wood to the plain. And thou shalt see the best 
greyhounds thou didst ever behold, and the boldest in the chase, kill them 
by the water beside us; and when it is time to go to meat my page will come 
with my horse to meet me, and thou shalt rest in my palace to-night." 
"Heaven reward thee; but I cannot tarry, and onward must I go." "The other 
road leads to the town, which is near here, wherein food and liquor may be 
bought; and the road which is narrower than the other goes towards the cave 
of the Addanc." "With thy permission, young man, I will go that way." 

And Peredur went towards the cave. And he took the stone in his left hand, 
and his lance in his right. And as he went in he perceived the Addanc, and 
he pierced him through with his lance, and cut off his head. And as he came 
forth from the cave, behold the three companions were at the entrance; and 
they saluted Peredur, and told him that there was a prediction that he 
should slay the monster. 

And Peredur gave the head to the young man, and they offered him in marriage 
which ever of the three sisters he might choose, and half their kingdom with 
her. "I came not hither to woo," said Peredur, "but if peradventure I took a 
wife, I should prefer your sister to all others." And Peredur rode forward, 
and he heard a noise behind him. And he looked back, and saw a man upon a 
red horse, and red armor upon him; and the man rode up by his side, and 
wished him the favor of Heaven and of man. And Peredur greeted the youth 
kindly. "Lord, I come to make a request unto thee." "What wouldst thou?" 
"That thou shouldst take me as thy attendant." "Who should I take as my 
attendant if I did so?" "I will not conceal from thee what kindred I am of. 
Etlym Gleddyv Coch am I called, an Earl from the East Country." "I marvel 
that thou shouldst offer to become attendant to a man whose possessions are 
no greater than thine own; for I have but an earldom like thyself. But now 
thou desirest to be my attendant, I will take thee joyfully." 

And they went forward to the Court of the Countess, and all they of the 
Court were glad at their coming; and they were told it was not through 
disrespect they were placed below the household, but that such was the usage 
of the Court. For whoever should overthrow the three hundred men of her 
household would sit next the Countess, and she would love him above all 
other men. And Peredur, having overthrown the three hundred of her 
household, sat down beside her, and the Countess said, "I thank Heaven that 
I have a youth so fair and so radiant as thou, since I have not obtained the 
man whom best I love." "Whom is he whom best thou lovest? By my faith, Etlym 
Gleddyv Coch is the man whom I love best, and I have never seen him." "Of a 
truth, Etlym is my companion; and behold here he is, and for his sake did I 
come to joust with thy household. And he would have done so better than I 
had it pleased him." "Heaven reward thee, fair youth, and I will take the 
man whom I love above all others." And the Countess became Etlym's bride 
from that moment. 

And the next day Peredur set forth toward the Mound of Mourning. "By thy 
hand, lord, but I will go with thee," said Etlym. Then they went forward 
till they came in sight of the mound and the forts. "Go unto yonder men," 
said Peredur to Etlym, "and desire them to come and do me homage." So Etlym 
went unto them, and said unto them thus: "Come and do homage to my lord." 
"Who is thy lord?" said they. "Peredur, with the long lance, is my lord," 
said Etlym. "Were it permitted to slay a messenger, thou shouldst not go 
back to thy lord alive, for making unto kings and earls and barons so 
arrogant a demand as to go and do him homage." On this Peredur desired him 
to go back to them, and to give them their choice, either to do him homage 
or to do battle with him. And they chose rather to do battle. And that day 
Peredur overthrew the owners of a hundred tents. And the next day he 
overthrew the owners of a hundred more; and the third day the remaining 
third took counsel, to do homage to Peredur. And Peredur inquired of them 
wherefore they were there. And they told him they were guarding the serpent 
until he should die. "For then should we fight for the stone among 
ourselves, and whoever should be conqueror among us would have the stone." 
"Wait here," said Peredur, "and I will go to encounter the serpent." "No, 
no, lord," said they; "we will go all together to encounter the serpent." 
"Verily," said Peredur, "that will I not permit; for if the serpent be 
slain, I shall derive no more fame therefrom than one of you." Then he went 
to the place where the serpent was, and slew it, and came back to them, and 
said, "Reckon up what you have spent since you have been here, and I will 
repay you to the full." And he paid to each what he said was his claim. And 
he required of them only that they should acknowledge themselves his 
vassals. And he said to Etlym, "Go back unto her whom thou lovest best, and 
I will go forwards, and I will reward thee for having been my attendant." 
And he gave Etlym the stone. "Heaven repay thee and prosper thee," said 
Etlym. 

And Peredur rode thence, and he came to the fairest valley he had ever seen, 
through which ran a river; and there he beheld many tents of various colors. 
And he marvelled still more at the number of windmills and of water-mills 
that he saw. And there rode up with him a tall, auburn-haired man, in a 
workman's garb, and Peredur inquired of him who he was. "I am the chief 
miller," said he, "of all the mills yonder." "Wilt thou give me lodging?" 
said Peredur. "I will, gladly," he answered. And Peredur came to the 
miller's house, and the miller had a fair and pleasant dwelling. And Peredur 
asked money as a loan from the miller, that he might buy meat and liquor for 
himself, and for the household, and he promised him that he would pay him 
ere he went thence. And he inquired of the miller wherefore such a multitude 
were there assembled. Said the miller to Peredur, "One thing is certain; 
either thou art a man from afar, or thou art beside thyself. The Empress of 
Cristonobyl the Great is here; and she will have no one but the man who is 
most valiant; for riches she does not require. And it was impossible to 
bring food for so many thousands as are here, therefore were all these mills 
constructed." And that night they took their rest. 

And the next day Peredur arose, and he equipped himself and his horse for 
the tournament. And among other tents he beheld one which was the fairest he 
had ever seen. And saw a beauteous maiden leaning her head out of a window 
of a tent, and he had never seen a maiden more lovely than she. And upon her 
was a garment of satin. And he gazed fixedly on the maiden and began to love 
her greatly. And he remained there, gazing upon the maiden from morning 
until midday, and from midday until evening; and then the tournament was 
ended; and he went to his lodging and drew off his armor. Then he asked 
money of the miller as a loan, and the miller's wife was wroth with Peredur; 
nevertheless the miller lent him the money. And the next day he did in like 
manner as he had done the day before. And at night he came to his lodging, 
and took money as a loan from the miller. And the third day, as he was in 
the same place, gazing upon the maiden, he felt a hard blow between the neck 
and the shoulder from the edge of an axe. 

And when he looked behind he saw that it was the miller; and the miller said 
unto him, "Do one of two things; either turn thy head from hence or go to 
the tournament." And Peredur smiled on the miller, and went to the 
tournament; and all that encountered him that day he overthrew. And as many 
as he vanquished he sent as a gift to the Empress, and their horses and arms 
he sent as a gift to the wife of the miller, in payment of the borrowed 
money. And the Empress sent to the Knight of the Mill, to ask him to come 
and visit her. And Peredur went not for the first nor for the second 
message. And the third time she sent one hundred knights to bring him 
against his will, and they went to him, and told him their mission from the 
Empress. And Peredur fought well with them, and caused them to be bound like 
stags, and thrown into the mill dyke. And the Empress sought advice of a 
wise man. "With thy permission, I will go to him myself." So he came to 
Peredur and besought him, for the sake of the lady of his love, to come and 
visit the Empress. And they went together with the miller. And Peredur went 
and sat down in the outer chamber of the tent, and she came and placed 
herself at his side. And there was but little discourse between them. And 
Peredur took his leave, and went to his lodging. 

And the next day he came to visit her, and when he came into the tent there 
was no one chamber less decorated than the others. And they knew not where 
he would sit. And Peredur went and sat beside the Empress, and discoursed 
with her courteously. And while they were there they beheld a black man 
enter with a goblet full of wine in his hand. And he dropped upon his knee 
before the Empress, and besought her to give it to no one who would not 
fight him for it. And she looked upon Peredur. "Lady," said he, "bestow upon 
me the goblet." And Peredur drank the wine, and gave the goblet to the 
miller's wife. And while they were thus, behold there entered a black man, 
of larger stature than the other, with a wild beast's claw in his hand, 
wrought into the form of a goblet, and filled with wine. And he presented it 
to the Empress, and besought her to give it to no one but the man who would 
fight with him. "Lady," said Peredur, "bestow it upon me." And she gave it 
to him. And Peredur drank the wine, and sent the goblet to the wife of the 
miller. And when they were thus, behold a rough-looking crisp-haired man, 
taller than either of the others, came in with a bowl in his hands full of 
wine; and he bent upon his knee, and gave it into the hands of the Empress, 
and he besought her to give it to none but him who would fight with him for 
it; and she gave it to Peredur, and he sent it to the miller's wife. And 
that night Peredur returned to his lodging; and the next day he accoutred 
himself and his horse, and went to the meadow, and slew the three men. Then 
Peredur proceeded to the tent, and the Empress said to him, "Goodly Peredur, 
remember the faith thou didst pledge me when I gave thee the stone, and thou 
didst kill the Addanc." "Lady," answered he, "thou sayest truth, I do 
remember it." For she was the maiden who had been sitting on the mound when 
Peredur had gone in search of the Addanc. 

 

(1) Peredur, the son of Evrawc, is the Welsh for Perceval, a part of whose 
story in the preceding pages is taken from the Mabinogeon. 

(2) The Addanc was a mighty aquatic monster.

 


CHAPTER XXXII. TALIESIN.

GWYDDNO GARANHIR was sovereign of Gwaelod, a territory bordering on the sea. 
And he possessed a weir upon the strand between Dyvi and Aberstwyth, near to 
his own castle, and the value of an hundred pounds was taken in that weir 
every May eve, And Gwyddno had an only son named Elphin, the most helpless 
of youths, and the most needy. And it grieved his father sore, for he 
thought he was born in an evil hour. By the advice of his council his father 
had granted him the drawing of the weir that year, to see if good luck would 
ever befall him, and to give him something wherewith to begin the world. And 
this was on the twenty-ninth of April. 

The next day, when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the weir but a 
leather bag upon a pole of the weir. Then said the wier-ward unto Elphin, 
"All thy ill-luck aforetime was nothing to this; and now thou hast destroyed 
the virtues of the weir, which always yielded the value of an hundred pounds 
every May eve; and to-night there is nothing but this leathern skin in it." 
"How now," said Elphin, "there may be therein the value of a hundred 
pounds." Well! they took up the leathern bag, and he who opened it saw the 
forehead of an infant, the fairest that was ever seen; and he said, "Behold 
a radiant brow!" (in the Welsh language, taliesin.) "Taliesin be he called," 
said Elphin. And he lifted the bag in his arms, and, lamenting his bad luck, 
placed the boy sorrowfully behind him. And he made his horse amble gently, 
that before had been trotting, and he carried him as softly as if he had 
been sitting in the easiest chair in the world. And presently the boy made a 
Consolation and praise to Elphin; and the Consolation was as you may here 
see:-

"Fair Elphin, cease to lament! 
Never in Gwyddno's weir 
Was there such good luck as this night. 
Being sad will not avail; 
Better to trust in God than to forebode ill; 
Weak and small as I am, 
On the foaming beach of the ocean, 
In the day of trouble I shall be 
Of more service to thee than three hundred salmon."

This was the first poem that Taliesin ever sung, being to console Elphin in 
his grief for that the produce of the weir was lost and, what was worse, 
that all the world would consider that it was through his fault and ill-
luck. Then Elphin asked him what he was, whether man or spirit. And he sung 
thus:-

"I have been formed a comely person; 
Although I am but little, I am highly gifted; 
Into a dark leathern bag I was thrown, 
And on a boundless sea I was set adrift. 
From seas and from mountains 
God brings wealth to the fortunate man."

Then came Elphin to the house of Gwyddno, his father, and Taliesin with him. 
Gwyddno asked him if he had had a good haul at the weir, and he told him 
that he had got that which was better than fish. "What was that?" said 
Gwyddno. "A bard," said Elphin. Then said Gwyddno, "Alas! what will he 
profit thee?" And Taliesin himself replied and said, "He will profit him 
more than the weir ever profited thee." Asked Gwyddno, "Art thou able to 
speak, and thou so little?" And Taliesin answered him, "I am better able to 
speak than thou to question me," "Let me hear what thou canst say," quoth 
Gwyddno. Then Taliesin sang:-

"Three times have I been born, I know by meditation; 
All the sciences of the world are collected in my breast, 
For I know what has been, and what hereafter will occur." 

Elphin gave his haul to his wife, and she nursed him tenderly and lovingly. 
Thenceforward Elphin increased in riches more and more, day by day, and in 
love and favor with the king; and there abode Taliesin until he was thirteen 
years old, when Elphin, son of Gwyddno, went by a Christmas invitation to 
his uncle, Maelgan Gwynedd, who held open court at Christmas-tide in the 
castle of Dyganwy, for all the number of lords of both degrees, both 
spiritual and temporal, with a vast and thronged host of knights and 
squires. And one arose and said, "Is there in the whole world a king so 
great as Maelgan, or one on whom Heaven has bestowed so many gifts as upon 
him,- form, and beauty, and meekness, and strength, besides all the powers 
of the soul?" And together with these they said that Heaven had given one 
gift that exceeded all the others, which was the beauty, and grace, and 
wisdom, and modesty of his queen, whose virtues surpassed those of all the 
ladies and noble maidens throughout the whole kingdom. And with this they 
put questions one to another, Who had braver men? Who had fairer or swifter 
horses or greyhounds? Who had more skilful or wiser bards than Maelgan? 

When they had all made an end of their praising the king and his gifts, it 
befell that Elphin spoke on this wise: "Of a truth, none but a king may vie 
with a king; but were he not a king, I would say that my wife was as 
virtuous as any lady in the kingdom, and also that I have a bard who is more 
skilful than all the king's bards." In a short space some of his fellows 
told the king all the boastings of Elphin; and the king ordered him to be 
thrown into a strong prison until he might show the truth as to the virtues 
of his wife and the wisdom of his bard. 

Now when Elphin had been put in a tower of the castle with a thick chain 
about his feet (it is said that it was a silver chain, as he was of royal 
blood), the king, as the story relates, sent his son Rhun to inquire into 
the demeanor of Elphin's wife. Now Rhun was the most graceless man in the 
world, and there was neither wife nor maiden with whom he held converse but 
was evil spoken of. While Rhun went in haste towards Elphin's dwelling, 
being fully minded to bring disgrace upon his wife, Taliesin told his 
mistress how that the king had placed his master in durance in prison, and 
how that Rhun was coming in haste to strive to bring disgrace upon her. 
Wherefore he caused his mistress to array one of the maids of the kitchen in 
her apparel; which the noble lady gladly did, and she loaded her hands with 
the best rings that she and her husband possessed. 

In this guise Taliesin caused his mistress to put the maiden to sit at the 
board in her room at supper; and he made her to seem as her mistress, and 
the mistress to seem as the maid. And when they were in due time seated at 
their supper, in the manner that has been said, Rhun suddenly arrived at 
Elphin's dwelling, and was received with joy, for the servants knew him; and 
they brought him to the room of their mistress, in the semblance of whom the 
maid rose up from supper and welcomed him gladly. And afterwards she sat 
down to supper again, and Rhun with her. Then Rhun began jesting with the 
maid, who still kept the semblance of the mistress. And verily this story 
shows that the maiden became so intoxicated that she fell asleep; and the 
story relates that it was a powder that Rhun put into the drink that made 
her sleep so soundly that she never felt it when he cut off from her hand 
her little finger, whereon was the signet ring of Elphin, which he had sent 
to his wife as a token a short time before. And Rhun returned to the king 
with the finger and the ring as a proof, to show that he had cut it off from 
her hand without her awaking from her sleep of intemperance. 

The king rejoiced greatly at these tidings, and he sent for his councillors, 
to whom he told the whole story from the beginning. And he caused Elphin to 
be brought out of prison, and he chided him because of his boast. And he 
spake on this wise: "Elphin, be it known to thee beyond a doubt, that it is 
but folly for a man to trust in the virtues of his wife further than he can 
see her; and that thou mayest be certain of thy wife's vileness, behold her 
finger, with thy signet ring upon it, which was cut from her hand last 
night, while she slept the sleep of intoxication." Then thus spake Elphin: 
"With thy leave, mighty king, I cannot deny my ring, for it is known of 
many; but verily I assert that the finger around which it is was never 
attached to the hand of my wife; for in truth and certainty there are three 
notable things pertaining to it, none of which ever belonged to any of my 
wife's fingers. The first of the three is, that it is certainly known to me 
that this ring would never remain upon her thumb, whereas you can plainly 
see that it is hard to draw it over the joint of the little finger of the 
hand whence this was cut. The second thing is, that my wife has never let 
pass one Saturday since I have known her, without paring her nails before 
going to bed, and you can see fully that the nail of this little finger has 
not been pared for a month. The third is, truly, that the hand whence this 
finger came was kneading rye dough within three days before the finger was 
cut therefrom, and I can assure your highness that my wife has never kneaded 
rye dough since my wife she has been." 

The king was mightily wroth with Elphin for so stoutly withstanding him, 
respecting the goodness of his wife; wherefore he ordered him to his prison 
a second time, saying that he should not be loosed thence until he had 
proved the truth of his boast, as well concerning the wisdom of his bard as 
the virtues of his wife. 

In the meantime his wife and Taliesin remained joyful at Elphin's dwelling. 
And Taliesin showed his mistress how that Elphin was in prison because of 
them; but he bade her be glad, for that he would go to Maelgan's court to 
free his master. So he took leave of his mistress, and came to the court of 
Maelgan, who was going to sit in his hall, and dine in his royal state, as 
it was the custom in those days for kings and princes to do at every chief 
feast. As soon as Taliesin entered the hall, he placed himself in a quiet 
corner, near the place where the bards and the minstrels were wont to come, 
in doing their service and duty to the king, as is the custom at the high 
festivals, when the bounty is proclaimed. So, when the bards and the heralds 
came to cry largess, and to proclaim the power of the king, and his 
strength, at the moment when they passed by the corner wherein he was 
crouching, Taliesin pouted out his lips after them, and played, "Blerwm, 
blerwm!" with his finger upon his lips. Neither took they much notice of him 
as they went by, but proceeded forward till they came before the king, unto 
whom they made their obeisance with their bodies, as they were wont, without 
speaking a single word, but pouting out their lips, and making mouths at the 
king, playing "Blerwm, blerwm!" upon their lips with their fingers, as they 
had seen the boy do. This sight caused the king to wonder, and to deem 
within himself that they were drunk with many liquors. Wherefore he 
commanded one of his lords, who served at the board, to go to them and 
desire them to collect their wits, and to consider where they stood, and 
what it was fitting for them to do. And this lord did so gladly. But they 
ceased not from their folly any more than before. Whereupon he sent to them 
a second time, and a third, desiring them to go forth from the hall. And the 
last the king ordered one of his squires to give a blow to the chief of 
them, named Heinin Vardd; and the squire took a broom and struck him on the 
head, so that he fell back in his seat. 

Then he arose, and went on his knees, and besought leave of the king's grace 
to show that this their fault was not through want of knowledge, neither 
through drunkenness, but by the influence of some spirit that was in the 
hall. And he spoke on this wise: "O honorable king, be it known to your 
grace that not from the strength of drink, or of too much liquor, are we 
dumb, but through the influence of a spirit that sits in the corner yonder, 
in the form of a child." Forthwith the king commanded the squire to fetch 
him; and he went to the nook where Taliesin sat, and brought him before the 
king, who asked him what he was, and whence he came. And be answered the 
king in verse:- 

"Primary chief bard am I to Elphin, 
And my native country is the region of the summer stars; 
I have been in Asia with Noah in the ark, 
I have seen the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, 
I was in India when Rome was built, 
I have now come here to the remnant of Troia."

When the king and his nobles had heard the song, they wondered much, for 
they had never heard the like from a boy so young as he. And when the king 
knew that he was the bard of Elphin, he bade Heinin, his first and wisest 
bard, to answer Taliesin, and to strive with him. But when he came, he could 
do no other than play "Blerwm!" on his lips; and when he sent for the others 
of the four and twenty bards, they all did likewise, and could do no other. 
And Maelgan asked the boy Taliesin what was his errand, and he answered him 
in song:-

"Elphin, the son of Gwyddno, 
Is in the land of Artro, 
Secured by thirteen locks, 
For praising his instructor. 
Therefore I, Taliesin, 
Chief of the bards of the west, 
Will loosen Elphin 
Out of a golden fetter."

Then he sang to them a riddle:-

"Discover thou what is 
The strong creature from before the flood, 
Without flesh, without bone, 
Without vein, without blood, 
Without head, without feet; 
It will neither be older nor younger 
Than at the beginning. 
Behold how the sea whitens 
When first it comes, 
When it comes from the south, 
When it strikes on coasts. 
It is in the field, it is in the wood, 
But the eye cannot perceive it. 
One Being has prepared it, 
By a tremendous blast, 
To wreak vengeance 
On Maelgan Gwynedd."

While he was thus singing his verse, there arose a mighty storm of wind, so 
that the king and all his nobles thought that the castle would fall upon 
their heads. And the king caused them to fetch Elphin in haste from his 
dungeon, and placed him before Taliesin. And it is said that immediately he 
sung a verse, so that the chains opened from about his feet. 

After that Taliesin brought Elphin's wife before them, and showed that she 
had not one finger wanting. And in this manner did he set his master free 
from prison, and protect the innocence of his mistress, and silence the 
bards so that not one of them dared to say a word, Right glad was Elphin, 
right glad was Taliesin. 



PART III. THE KNIGHTS OF ENGLISH HISTORY.

CHAPTER XXXIII. KING RICHARD AND THE THIRD CRUSADE.

THE Crusades were the mightiest or rather the most ambitious undertaking of 
the chivalry of Europe. From the year 1096 for more than a century the 
knights of all countries looked to the Holy Land as a field for winning 
their spurs and obtaining pardon of their sins. And it is most natural that 
in giving a picture of English chivalry as it is shown in history that we 
should give a description of King Richard's exploits in Palestine. 

In the last decade of the twelfth century Richard I. of England took the 
cross, which had come to him as a sort of legacy from his father, and sailed 
for Antioch, which was being besieged by the Christians, to assist in the 
war in the Holy Land. At the same time Philip Augustus of France and 
Frederick Barbarossa joined the Crusaders. Frederick was drowned in a river 
of Cilicia, and his force had so dwindled that when they reached Antioch 
hardly a tenth of the number were left that had started. Philip of France 
reached Antioch with his army, and there, as we shall learn later, he fought 
with the Turk and quarrelled with the Christian for a time, until he finally 
set sail for France without having accomplished the capture of the Holy 
City. As for Richard, he was not more successful, and although his deeds 
were so glorious as to cover him with honor, he was obliged to return home, 
leaving Jerusalem still in the hands of infidels.

THE EXPLOITS OF KING RICHARD.

Now as the ships were proceeding, some being before others, two of the three 
first, driven by the violence of the winds, were broken on the rocks near 
the port of Cyprus the third, which was English, more speedy than they, 
having turned back into the deep, escaped the peril. Almost all the men of 
both ships got away alive to land, many of whom the hostile Cypriotes slew, 
some they took captive, some, taking refuge in a certain church, were 
besieged. Whatever also in the ships was cast up by the sea fell a prey to 
the Cypriotes. The prince also of that island coming up, received for his 
share the gold and the arms; and he caused the shore to be guarded by all 
the armed force he could summon together, that he might not permit the fleet 
which followed to approach, lest the king should take again what had been 
thus stolen from him. Above the port was a strong city, and upon a natural 
rock, a high and fortified castle. The whole of that nation was warlike and 
accustomed to live by theft. They placed beams and planks at the entrance of 
the port, across the passage, the gates, and entrances; and the whole land 
with one mind prepared themselves for a conflict with the English. God so 
willed that the cursed people should receive the reward of their evil deeds 
by the hands of one who would not spare. The third English ship, in which 
were the women, having cast out their anchors, rode out at sea, and watched 
all things from opposite, to report the misfortunes to the king,(1) lest 
haply, being ignorant of the loss and disgrace, he should pass the place 
unavenged. The next line of the king's ships came up after the other, and 
they are stopped at the first. A full report reached the king, who, sending 
heralds to the lord of the island, and obtaining no satisfaction, commanded 
his entire army to arm, from the first even to the last, and to get out of 
the great ships into the galleys and boats, and follow him to the shore. 
What he commanded was immediately performed; they came in arms to the port. 

The king being armed, leaped first from the galley, and gave the first blow 
in the war; but before he was able to strike a second he had three thousand 
of his followers with him striking away at his side. All the timber that had 
been placed as a barricade in the port was cast down instantly, and the 
brave fellows went up into, the city as ferocious as lionesses are wont to 
be when robbed of their young. The fight was carried on manfully against 
them, numbers fell wounded on both sides, and the swords of both parties 
were made drunk with blood. The Cypriotes are vanquished, the city is taken, 
with the castle besides; whatever the victors choose is ransacked; and the 
lord of the island is himself taken and brought to the king. He being taken, 
supplicates and obtains pardon; he offers homage to the king, and it is 
received; and he swears, though unasked, that henceforth be will hold the 
island of him as his liege lord, and will open all the castles of the land 
to him, and make satisfaction for the damage already done; and further bring 
presents of his own. On being dismissed after the oath, he is commanded to 
fulfil, the conditions in the morning.

That night the king remained peaceably in the castle; and his newly-sworn 
vassal, flying, retired to another castle, and caused the whole of the men 
of the land, who were able to bear arms, to be summoned to repair to him, 
and so they did. The king of Jerusalem, however, that same night landed in 
Cyprus, that he might assist the king and salute him, whose arrival he had 
desired above that of any other in the whole world. On the morrow the lord 
of Cyprus was sought for and found to have fled. The king seeing that he was 
abused, and having been informed where he was, directed the king of 
Jerusalem to follow the traitor by land with the best of the army, while he 
conducted the other part by water, intending to be in the way that he might 
not escape by sea. The divisions reassembled around the city in which he had 
taken refuge, and he, having sallied out against the king, fought with the 
English, and the battle was carried on sharply by both sides. The English 
would that day have been beaten had they not fought under the command of 
King Richard. They at length obtained a dear-bought victory, the Cypriote 
flies, and the castle is taken. The kings pursue him as before, the one by 
land and the other by water, and he is besieged in the third castle. Its 
walls are cast down by engines hurling huge stones; he, being overcome, 
promises to surrender, if only he might not be put in iron fetters. The king 
consents to the prayers of the supplicant, and caused silver shackles to be 
made for him. The prince of the pirates being thus taken, the king traversed 
the whole island, and took all its castles, and placed his constables in 
each, and constituted justiciaries and sheriffs, and the whole land was 
subjected to him in everything just like England. The gold, and the silks 
and the jewels from the treasuries that were broken open, he retained for 
himself; the silver and victuals he gave to the army. To the king of 
Jerusalem also he made a handsome present out of the booty. 

The king proceeding thence, came to the siege of Acre, and was welcomed by 
the besiegers with as great a joy as if it had been Christ that had come 
again on earth to restore the kingdom of Israel. The king of the French had 
arrived at Acre first, and was very highly esteemed by the natives; but on 
Richard's arrival he became obscured and without consideration, just as the 
moon is wont to relinquish her lustre at the rising of the sun. 

The king of the English, unused to delay, on the third day of his arrival at 
the siege, caused his wooden fortress, which he had called "Mate Grifun," 
when it was made in Sicily, to be built and set up, and before the dawn of 
the fourth day the machine stood erect by the walls of Acre, and from its 
height looked down upon the city lying beneath it; and there were thereon by 
sunrise archers casting missiles without intermission on the Turks and 
Thracians. Engines also for casting stones, placed in convenient positions, 
battered the walls with frequent volleys. More important than these, the 
sappers, making themselves a way beneath the ground, undermined the 
foundations of the walls; while soldiers, bearing shields, having planted 
ladders, sought an entrance over the ramparts. The king himself was running 
up and down through the ranks, directing some, reproving some, and urging 
others, and thus was he everywhere present with every one of them, so that 
whatever they all did ought properly to be ascribed to him. The king of the 
French also did not lightly assail them, making as bold an assault as he 
could on the tower of the city which is called Cursed. 

The renowned Carracois and Mestocus, after Saladin, the most powerful 
princes of the heathen, had at that time the charge of the besieged city, 
who, after a contest of many days, promised by their interpreters the 
surrender of the city, and a ransom for their heads; but the king of the 
English desired to subdue their obstinacy by force; and wished that the 
vanquished should pay their heads for the ransom of their bodies, but by the 
mediation of the king of the French their life and indemnity of limbs only 
was accorded, if, after the surrender of the city and yielding of everything 
they possessed, the Holy Cross should be given up. 

All the heathen warriors in Acre were chosen men, and were in number nine 
thousand; many of whom, swallowing many gold coins, made a purse of their 
stomachs, because they foresaw that whatever they had of any value would be 
turned against them, even against themselves, if they should again oppose 
the cross, and would only fall a prey to the victors. So all of them came 
out before the kings entirely disarmed, and outside the city, without money, 
were given into custody; and the kings, with triumphal banners, having 
entered the city, divided the whole with all its stores into two parts 
between themselves and their soldiers; the pontiff's seat alone its bishop 
received by their united gift. The captives, being divided, Mestocus fell by 
lot to the portion of the king of the English, and Carracois, as a drop of 
cold water, fell into the mouth of the thirsty Philip, king of the French. 

Messengers on the part of the captives having been sent to Saladin for their 
ransom, when the heathen could by no entreaty be moved to restore the Holy 
Cross, the king of the English beheaded all his, with the exception of 
Mestocus only, who on account of his nobility was spared, and declared 
openly, without any ceremony, that he would act in the same way toward 
Saladin himself. 

The king of the English, then, having sent for the commanders of the French, 
proposed that in the first place they should conjointly attempt Jerusalem 
itself; but the dissuasion of the French discouraged the hearts of both 
parties, dispirited the troops, and restrained the king, thus destitute of 
men, from his intended march on that metropolis. The king, troubled at this, 
though not despairing, from that day forth separated his army from the 
French, and directing his arms to the storming of castles along the 
seashore, he took every fortress that came in his way from Tyre to Ascalon, 
though after hard fighting and deep wounds.(2)

This was the order of the army, as it advanced gradually, to prevent 
separation; for the less close the line of battle, the less effective was it 
for resistance. King Richard and the Duke of Burgundy, with a chosen retinue 
of warriors, rode up and down, narrowly watching the position and manner of 
the Turks, to correct anything in their own troops, if they saw occasion, 
for they had need, at that moment, of the utmost circumspection. 

It was now nearly nine o'clock, when there appeared a large body of the 
Turks, ten thousand strong, coming down upon us at full charge, and throwing 
darts and arrows as far as they could, while they mingled their voices in 
one horrible yell. There followed after them an infernal race of men, of 
black color, and bearing a suitable appellation, expressive of their 
blackness. With them also were the Saracens, who live in the desert, called 
Bedouins; they are a savage race of men, blacker than soot; they fight on 
foot, and carry a bow, quiver, and round shield, and are a light and active 
race. These men dauntlessly attacked our army. Beyond these might be seen 
the well-arranged phalanxes of the Turks, with ensigns fixed to their 
lances, and standards and banners of separate distinctions. Their army was 
divided into troops, and the troops into companies, and their numbers seemed 
to exceed twenty thousand. They came on with irresistible charge, on horses 
swifter than eagles, and urged on like lightning to attack our men; and as 
they advanced they raised a cloud of dust, so that the air was darkened. In 
front came certain of their admirals, as it was their duty, with clarions 
and trumpets; some had horns, others had pipes and timbrels, gongs, cymbals, 
and other instruments, producing a horrible noise and clamor. The earth 
vibrated from the loud and discordant sounds, so that the crash of thunder 
could not be heard amidst the tumultuous noise of horns and trumpets. They 
did this to excite their spirit and courage, for the more violent their 
clamor became, the more bold were they for the fray. Thus the impious Turks 
threatened us, both on the side towards the sea and from the side of the 
land; and for the space of two miles not so much earth as could be taken up 
in one hand could be seen, on account of the hostile Turks who covered it. 
Oh, how obstinately they pressed on, and continued their stubborn attacks, 
so that our men suffered severe loss of their horses, which were killed by 
their darts and arrows. Oh, how useful to us on that day were our 
arbalesters and bowmen, who closed the extremities of the lines, and did 
their best to repel the obstinate Turks. 

The enemy came rushing down, like a torrent, to the attack; and many of our 
arbalesters, unable to restrain the weight of their terrible and calamitous 
charge, threw away their arms, and, fearing lest they should be shut out, 
took refuge, in crowds, behind the dense lines of the army; yielding through 
fear of death to sufferings which they could not support. Those whom shame 
forbade to yield, or the hope of an immortal crown sustained, were animated 
with greater boldness and courage to persevere in the contest, and fought 
with indefatigable valor face to face against the Turks, whilst they at the 
same time receded step by step, and so reached their retreat. The whole of 
that day, on account of the Turks pressing them closely from behind, they 
faced around and went on skirmishing, rather than proceeding on their march. 

Oh, how great was the strait they were in on that day! how great was their 
tribulation! when some were affected with fears, and no one had such 
confidence or spirit as not to wish, at that moment, he had finished his 
pilgrimage, and, had returned home, instead of standing with trembling heart 
the chances of a doubtful battle. In truth our people, so few in number, 
were so hemmed in by the multitudes of the Saracens, that they had no means 
of escape, if they tried; neither did they seem to have valor sufficient to 
withstand so many foes,- nay, they were shut in like a flock of sheep in the 
jaws of wolves, with nothing but the sky above, and the enemy all around 
them. O Lord God! what feelings agitated that weak flock of Christ! 
straitened by such a perplexity, whom the enemy pressed with such unabating 
vigor, as if they would pass them through a sieve. What army was ever 
assailed by so mighty a force? There you might have seen our troopers, 
having lost their chargers, marching on foot with the footmen, or casting 
missiles from the arbalests, or arrows from bows, against the enemy, and 
repelling their attacks in the best manner they were able. The Turks, 
skilled in the bow, pressed unceasingly upon them; it rained darts; the air 
was filled with the shower of arrows, and the brightness of the sun was 
obscured by the multitude of missiles, as if it had been darkened by a fall 
of winter's hail or snow. Our horses were pierced by the darts and arrows, 
which were so numerous that the whole face of the earth around was covered 
with them, and if any one wished to gather them up, he might take twenty of 
them in his hand at a time. 

The Turks pressed with such boldness that they nearly crushed the 
Hospitallers; on which the latter sent word to King Richard that they could 
not withstand the violence of the enemy's attack, unless he would allow 
their knights to advance at full charge against them. This the king dissuade 
them from doing, but advised them to keep in a close body; they therefore 
persevered and kept together, though scarcely able to breathe for the 
pressure. By these means they were able to proceed on their way, though the 
heat happened to be very great on that day; so that they labored under two 
disadvantages,-the hot weather and the attacks of the enemy. These approved 
martyrs of Christ sweated in the contest; and he who could have seen them 
closed up in a narrow space, so patient under the heat and toil of the day 
and the attacks of the enemy, who exhorted each other to destroy the 
Christians, could not doubt in his mind that it augured ill to our success 
from their straitened and perilous position, hemmed in as they were by so 
large a multitude; for the enemy thundered at their backs as if with 
mallets, so that, having no room to use their bows, they fought hand to hand 
with swords, lances, and clubs, and the blows of the Turks, echoing from 
their metal armor, resounded as if they had been struck upon an anvil. They 
were now tormented with the heat, and no rest was allowed them. The battle 
fell heavy on the extreme line of the Hospitallers, the more so as they were 
unable to resist, but moved forward with patience under their wounds, 
returning not even a word for the blows which fell upon them, and advancing 
on their way because they were not able to bear the weight of the contest. 
Then they pressed on for safety upon the centre of the army which was in 
front of them, to avoid the fury of the enemy who harassed them in the rear. 
Was it wonderful that no one could withstand so continuous an attack, when 
he could not even return a blow to the numbers who pressed on him? The 
strength of all Paganism had gathered together from Damascus and Persia, 
from the Mediterranean to the East; there was not left in the uttermost 
recesses of the earth one man of fame or power, one nation's valor, or one 
bold soldier, whom the sultan had not summoned to his aid, either by 
entreaty, by money, or by authority, to crush the Christian race; for he 
presumed to hope he could blot them from the face of the earth; but his 
hopes were vain, for their numbers were sufficient, through the assistance 
of God, to effect their purpose. The flower of the chosen youth and soldiers 
of Christendom had indeed assembled together, and were united in one body, 
like ears of corn on their stalks, from every region of the earth; and if 
they had been utterly destroyed, there is no doubt that there were some left 
to make resistance. 

A cloud of dust obscured the air as our men marched on; and, in addition to 
the heat, they had an enemy pressing them in the rear, insolent, and 
rendered obstinate by the instigation of the devil. Still the Christians 
proved good men, and secure in their unconquerable spirit, kept constantly 
advancing, while the Turks threatened them without ceasing in the rear; but 
their blows fell harmless upon the defensive armor, and this caused the 
Turks to slacken in courage at the failure of their attempts, and they began 
to murmur in whispers of disappointment, crying out in their rage, "that our 
people were made of iron and would yield to no blow." Then the Turks, about 
twenty thousand strong, rushed again upon our men pell-mell, annoying them 
in every possible manner; when, as if overcome by their savage fury, brother 
Garnier de Napes, one of the Hospitallers, suddenly exclaimed with a loud 
voice, "O excellent St. George! will you leave us to be thus put to 
confusion? The whole of Christendom is now on the point of perishing, 
because it fears to return a blow against this impious race." 

Upon this the master of the Hospitallers went to the king, and said to him, 
"My lord the king, we are violently pressed by the enemy, and are in danger 
of eternal infamy, as if we did not dare to return their blows; we are each 
of us losing our horses one after another, and why should we bear with them 
any further?" To whom the king replied, "Good master, it is you who must 
sustain their attack; no one can be everywhere at once." On the master 
returning, the Turks again made a fierce attack on them from the rear, and 
there was not a prince or count amongst them but blushed with shame, and 
they said to each other, "Why do we not charge them at full gallop? Alas! 
alas! we shall forever deserve to be called cowards, a thing which never 
happened to us before, for never has such a disgrace befallen so great an 
army, even from unbelievers. Unless we defend ourselves by immediately 
charging the enemy we shall gain everlasting scandal, and so much the 
greater the longer we delay to fight." O, how blind is human fate! On what 
slippery points it stands! Alas, on how uncertain wheels doth it advance, 
and with what ambiguous success doth it unfold the course of human things! A 
countless multitude of the Turks would have perished if the aforesaid 
attempt had been orderly conducted; but to punish us for our sins, as it is 
believed, the potter's ware produces a paltry vessel instead of the grand 
design which he had conceived. For when they were treating on this point, 
and had come to the same decision about charging the enemy, two knights, who 
were impatient of delay, put everything in confusion. It had been resolved 
by common consent that the sounding of six trumpets in three different parts 
of the army should be a signal for a charge, viz., two in front, two in the 
rear, and two in the middle, to distinguish the sounds from those of the 
Saracens, and to mark the distance of each. If these orders had been 
attended to, the Turks would have been utterly discomfited; but from the too 
great haste of the aforesaid knights the success of the affair was marred. 

They rushed at full gallop upon the Turks, and each of them prostrated his 
man by piercing him through with his lance. One of them was the marshal of 
the Hospitallers, the other was Baldwin de Carreo, a good and brave man, and 
the companion of King Richard, who had brought him in his retinue. When the 
other Christians observed these two rushing forward, and heard them calling 
with a clear voice on St. George for aid, they charged the Turks in a body 
with all their strength; then the Hospitallers, who had been distressed all 
day by their close array, following the two soldiers, charged the enemy in 
troops, so that the van of the army became the rear from their position in 
the attack, and the Hospitallers, who had been the last, were the first to 
charge. 

The Count of Champagne also burst forward with his chosen company, and James 
d'Avennes with his kinsmen, and also Robert Count of Dreux, the bishop of 
Beauvais and his brother, as well as the Earl of Leicester, who made a 
fierce charge on the left towards the sea. Why need we name each? Those who 
were in the first line of the rear made a united and furious charge; after 
them the men of Poictou, the Bretons, and the men of Anjou, rushed swiftly 
onward, and then came the rest of the army in a body: each troop showed its 
valor, and boldly closed with the Turks, transfixing them with their lances, 
and casting them to the ground. The sky grew black with the dust that was 
raised in the confusion of that encounter. The Turks, who had purposely 
dismounted from their horses in order to take better aim at our men with 
their darts and arrows, were slain on all sides in that charge, for on being 
prostrated by the horse-soldiers they were beheaded by the foot-men. King 
Richard, on seeing his army in motion and in encounter with the Turks, flew 
rapidly on his horse at full speed through the Hospitallers, who had led the 
charge, and to whom he was bringing assistance with all his retinue, and 
broke into the Turkish infantry, who were astonished at his blows and those 
of his men, and gave way to the right and to the left. 

Then might be seen numbers prostrated on the ground, horses without their 
riders in crowds, the wounded lamenting with groans their hard fate, and 
others drawing their last breath, weltering in their gore, and many lay 
headless, whilst their lifeless forms were trodden under foot both by friend 
and foe. Oh, how different are the speculations of those who meditate amidst 
the columns of the cloister from the fearful exercise of war! There the 
king, the fierce, the extraordinary king, cut down the Turks in every 
direction, and none could escape the force of his arm, for wherever he 
turned, brandishing his sword, he carved a wide path for himself; and as he 
advanced and gave repeated strokes with his sword, cutting them down like a 
reaper with his sickle, the rest, warned by the sight of the dying, gave him 
more ample space, for the corpses of the dead Turks which lay on the face of 
the earth extended over half a mile. In fine, the Turks were cut down, the 
saddles emptied of their riders, and the dust which was raised by the 
conflict of the combatants proved very hurtful to our men, for on becoming 
fatigued from slaying so many, when they were retiring to take fresh air, 
they could not recognize each other on account of the thick dust, and struck 
their blows indiscriminately to the right and to the left; so that unable to 
distinguish friend from foe they took their own men for enemies and cut them 
down without mercy. Then the Christians pressed hard on the Turks, the 
latter gave way before them: but for a long time the battle was doubtful; 
they still exchanged blows, and either party strove for the victory; on both 
sides were seen some retreating, covered with wounds, while others fell 
slain to the ground. 

Oh, how many banners and standards of different forms, and pennons and many-
colored ensigns, might there be seen torn and fallen on the earth; swords of 
proved steel, and lances made of cane with iron heads, Turkish bows, and 
maces bristling with sharp teeth, darts and arrows covering the ground, and 
missiles enough to load twenty wagons or morel There lay the headless trunks 
of the Turks who had perished, whilst others retained their courage for a 
time until our men increased in strength, when some of them concealed 
themselves in the copses, some climbed up trees, and, being shot with 
arrows, fell with a fearful groan to the earth; others, abandoning their 
horses, betook themselves by slippery footpaths to the seaside, and tumbled 
headlong into the waves from the precipitous cliffs that were five poles in 
height. The rest of the enemy were repulsed in so wonderful a manner that 
for the space of two miles nothing could be seen but fugitives, although 
they had before been so obstinate and fierce, and puffed up with pride; but 
by God's grace their pride was humbled, and they continued still to fly, for 
when our men ceased the pursuit fear alone added wings to their feet. Our 
army had been ranged in divisions when they attacked the Turks; the Normans 
and English also, who had the care of the standard, came up slowly towards 
the troops which were fighting with the Turks,- for it was very difficult to 
disperse the enemy's strength, and they stopped at a short distance 
therefrom, that all might have a rallying point. On the conclusion of the 
slaughter our men paused; but the fugitives, to the number of twenty 
thousand, when they saw this, immediately recovering their courage, and 
armed with maces, charged the hindmost of those who were retiring, and 
rescued some from our men who had, just struck them down. 

Oh, how dreadfully were our men then pressed! for the darts and arrows, 
thrown at them as they were falling back, broke the heads, arms, and other 
limbs of our horsemen, so that they bent, stunned, to their saddle-bows; but 
having quickly regained their spirits and resumed their strength, and 
thirsting for vengeance with greater eagerness, like a lioness when her 
whelps are stolen, they charged the enemy, and broke through them like a 
net. Then you might have seen the horses with their saddles displaced, and 
the Turks, who had but just now fled, returning, and pressing upon our 
people with the utmost fury; every cast of their darts would have told had 
our men kept marching, and not stood still in a compact, immovable body. The 
commander of the Turks was an admiral, named Tekedmus, a kinsman of the 
sultan, having a banner with a remarkable device; namely that of a pair of 
breeches carved thereon, a symbol well known to his men. He was a most cruel 
persecutor, and a persevering enemy of the Christians; and he had under his 
command seven hundred chosen Turks of great valor, of the household troops 
of Saladin, each of whose companies bore a yellow banner with pennons of a 
different color. 

These men, coming at full charge, with clamor and haughty bearing, attacked 
our men, who were turning off from them towards the standard, cutting at 
them, and piercing them severely, so that even the firmness of our chiefs 
wavered under the weight of the pressure; yet our men remained immovable, 
compelled to repel force by force. And the conflict grew thicker, the blows 
were redoubled, and the battle waxed fiercer than before: the one side 
labored to crush, the other to repel; both exerted their strength, and 
although our men were by far the fewest in numbers, they made havoc of great 
multitudes of the enemy; and that portion of the army which thus toiled in 
the battle could not return to the standard with ease, on account of the 
immense mass which pressed upon them so severely; for thus hemmed in they 
began to flag in courage, and but few dared to renew the attack of the 
enemy. In truth, the Turks were furious in the assault, and greatly 
distressed our men, whose blood poured forth in a stream beneath their 
blows. On perceiving them reel and give way, William de Barris, a renowned 
knight, breaking through the ranks, charged the Turks with his men; and such 
was the vigor of the onset that some fell by the edge of his sword, while 
others only saved themselves by rapid flight. For all that, the king, 
mounted on a bay Cyprian steed, which had not its match, bounded forward in 
the direction of the mountains, and scattered those he met on all sides; for 
the enemy fled from his sword and gave way, while helmets tottered beneath 
it, and sparks flew forth from its strokes. So great was the fury of his 
onset, and so many and deadly his blows that day, in his conflict with the 
Turks, that in a short space of time the enemy were all scattered, and 
allowed our army to proceed; and thus our men, having suffered somewhat, at 
last returned to the standard, and proceeded on their march as far as Arsur, 
and there they pitched their tents outside its walls. 

While they were thus engaged a large body of the Turks made an attack on the 
extreme rear of our army. On hearing the noise of the assailants, King 
Richard, encouraging his men to battle, rushed at full speed, with only 
fifteen companions, against the Turks, crying out, with a loud voice, "Aid 
us, O God! and the Holy Sepulchre!" and this he exclaimed a second and a 
third time; and when our men heard it they made haste to follow him, and 
attacked, routed, and put them to flight; pursuing them as far as Arsur, 
whence they had first come out, cutting them down and subduing them. Many of 
the Turks fell there also. The king returned thence from the slaughter of 
the fugitives to his camp; and the men, overcome with the fatigue and 
exertions of the day, rested quietly that night. 

Whoever was greedy of gain, and wished to plunder the booty, returned to the 
place of battle, and loaded himself to his heart's desire; and those who 
returned from thence reported that they had counted thirty-two Turkish 
chiefs who were found slain on that day, and whom they supposed to be men of 
great influence and power from the splendor of their armor and the 
costliness of their apparel. The Turks also made search for them to carry 
them away as being of the most importance; and besides these the Turks 
carried off seven thousand mangled bodies of those who were next in rank, 
besides of the wounded, who went off in straggling parties; and when their 
strength failed lay about the fields and died. But by the protection of God 
we did not lose a tenth, nor a hundredth part so many as fell in the Turkish 
army. Oh, the disasters of that day! Oh, the trials of the warriors! for the 
tribulations of the just are many. Oh, mournful calamity and bitter 
distress. How great must have been the blackness of our sins to require so 
fiery an ordeal to purify it, for if we had striven to overcome the urgent 
necessity by pious long-suffering, and without a murmur, the sense of our 
obligations would have been deeper. 

And again the Christians were put in great peril, in the following manner. 
At the siege of Joppa a certain depraved set of men among the Saracens, 
called Menelones of Aleppo and Cordivi, an active race, met together to 
consult what should be done in the existing state of things. They spoke of 
the scandal which lay against them, that so small an army, without horses, 
had driven them out of Joppa, and they reproached themselves with cowardice 
and shameful baseness, and arrogantly made a compact among themselves that 
they would seize King Richard in his tent, and bring him before Saladin, 
from whom they would receive a most munificent reward. 

So they prepared themselves in the middle of the night to surprise the king, 
and sallied forth armed, by the light of the moon, conversing with one 
another about the object they had in hand. Oh, hateful race of unbelievers! 
they are anxiously bent upon seizing Christ's steadfast soldier while he is 
asleep. They rush on in numbers to seize him, unarmed and apprehensive of no 
danger. They were not far from his tent, and were preparing to lay hands on 
him, when, lo! the God of mercy, who never neglects those who trust in Him, 
and acts in a wonderful manner even to those who know Him not, sent the 
spirit of discord among the aforesaid Cordivi and Menelones. The Cordivi 
said, "You shall go in on foot to take the king and his followers, whilst we 
will remain on horseback to prevent their escaping into the castle." But the 
Menelones replied, "Nay, it is your place to go in on foot, because our rank 
is higher than yours; but this service on foot belongs to you rather than 
us." Whilst thus the two parties were contending which of them were the 
greatest, their combined dispute caused much delay; and when at last they 
came to a decision how their nefarious attempt should be achieved, the dawn 
of the day appeared, viz., the Wednesday next following the feast of St. 
Peter ad vincula. But now by the providence of God, who had decreed that his 
holy champion should not be seized whilst asleep by the infidels, a certain 
Genoese was led by the divine impulse to go out early in the morning into 
the fields, where he was alarmed by the noise of men and horses advancing, 
and returned speedily, but just had time to see helmets reflecting back the 
light which now fell upon them. He immediately rushed with speed into the 
camp, calling out, "To arms! to arms!" The king was awakened by the noise, 
and leaping startled from his bed, put on his impenetrable coat of mail, and 
summoned his men to the rescue. 

God of all mercies! lives there a man who would not be shaken by such a 
sudden alarm? The enemy rushed unawares, armed against unarmed, many against 
few, for our men had no time to arm or even to dress themselves. The king 
himself, therefore, and many others with him, on the urgency of the moment, 
proceeded without their cuishes to the fight, some even without their 
breeches, and they armed themselves in the best manner they could, though 
they were going to fight the whole day. Whilst our men were thus arming in 
haste, the Turks drew near, and the king mounted his horse, with only ten 
other knights with him. These alone had horses, and some even of them had 
base and impotent horses, unused to arms; the common men were drawn 
skilfully out in ranks and troops, with each a captain to command them. The 
knights were posted nearer to the sea, having the church of St. Nicholas on 
the left, because the Turks had directed their principal attack on that 
quarter, and the Pisans and Genoese were posted beyond the suburban gardens, 
having other troops mingled with them. Oh, who could fully relate the 
terrible attacks of the infidels? The Turks at first rushed on with horrid 
yells, hurling their javelins and shooting their arrows. Our men prepared 
themselves as they best could to receive their furious attack, each fixing 
his right knee in the ground, that so they might the better hold together 
and maintain their position; whilst there the thighs of their left legs were 
bent, and their left hands held their shields or bucklers; stretched out 
before them in their right hands they held their lances, of which the lower 
ends were fixed in the ground, and their iron heads pointed threateningly 
towards the enemy. 

Between every two of the men who were thus covered with their shields, the 
king, versed in arms, placed an arbalester, and another behind him to 
stretch the arbalest as quickly as possible, so that the man in front might 
discharge his shot whilst the other was loading. This was found to be of 
much benefit to our men, and did much harm to the enemy. Thus everything was 
prepared as well as the shortness of the time allowed, and our little army 
was drawn up in order. The king ran along the ranks, and exhorted every man 
to be brave and not to flinch. "Courage, my brave men," said he; "and let 
not the attack of the enemy disturb you. Bear up against the powers of 
fortune, and you will rise above them. Everything may be borne by brave men; 
adversity sheds a light upon the virtues of mankind. as certainly as 
prosperity casts over them a shade; there is no room for flight, for the 
enemy surround us, and to attempt to flee is to provoke certain death. Be 
brave, therefore, and let the urgency of the case sharpen up your valor; 
brave men should either conquer nobly or gloriously die. Martyrdom is a boon 
which we should receive with willing mind; but before we die, let us, whilst 
still alive, do what we may to avenge our deaths, giving thanks to God that 
it has been our lot to die martyrs. This will be the end of our labors, the 
termination of our life and of our battles. These words were hardly spoken, 
when the hostile army rushed with ferocity upon them, in seven troops, each 
of which contained about a thousand horse. Our men received their attack 
with their right feet planted firm against the sand, and remained immovable. 
Their lances formed a wall against the enemy, who would have assuredly 
broken through, if our men had in the least given way. 

The first line of the Turks, perceiving, as they advanced, that our men 
stood immovable, recoiled a little, when our men plied them with a shower of 
missiles, slaying large numbers of men and horses. Another line of Turks at 
once came on in like manner, and were again encountered and driven back. In 
this way the Turks came on like a whirlwind, again and again, making the 
appearance of an attack, that our men might be induced to give way, and when 
they were close up they turned their horses off in another direction. The 
king and his knights, who were on horseback, perceiving this, put spurs to 
their horses, and charged into the middle of the enemy, upsetting them right 
and left, and piercing a large number through the body with their lances; at 
last they pulled up their horses, because they found that they had 
penetrated entirely through the Turkish lines. The king, now looking about 
him, saw the noble earl of Leicester fallen from his horse, and fighting 
bravely on foot. No sooner did he see this, than he rushed to his rescue, 
snatched him out of the hands of the enemy,and replaced him on his horse. 
What a terrible combat was then waged! A multitude of Turks advanced, and 
used every exertion to destroy our small army; vexed at our success, they 
rushed toward the royal standard of the lion, for they would rather have 
slain the king than a thousand others. In the midst of the melee the king 
saw Ralph de Mauleon dragged off prisoner by the Turks, and spurring his 
horse to speed, in a moment released him from their hands, and restored him 
to the army; for the king was a very giant in the battle, and was everywhere 
in the field,- now here, now there, wherever the attacks of the Turks raged 
the hottest. So bravely did he fight, that there was no one, however 
gallant, that would not readily and deservedly yield to him the pre-
eminence. On that day he performed the most gallant deeds on the furious 
army of the Turks, and slew numbers with his sword, which shone like 
lightning; some of them were cloven in two, from their helmet to their 
teeth, whilst others lost their heads, arms, and other members, which were 
lopped off at a single blow. While the king was thus laboring with 
incredible exertions in the fight, a Turk advanced towards him, mounted on a 
foaming steed. He had been sent by Saphadin of Archadia, brother to Saladin, 
a liberal and munificent man, if he had not rejected the Christian faith. 
This man now sent to the king, as a token of his well-known honorable 
character, two nobles horses, requesting him earnestly to accept them, and 
make use of them, and if he returned safe and sound out of that battle, to 
remember the gift and recompense it in any manner he pleased. The king 
readily received the present, and afterwards nobly recompensed the giver. 
Such is bravery, cognizable even in an enemy; since a Turk, who was our 
bitter foe, thus honored the king for his distinguished valor. The king, 
especially at such a moment of need, protested that he would have taken any 
number of horses equally good from any one even more a foe than Saphadin, so 
necessary were they to him at that moment. Fierce now raged the fight, when 
such numbers attacked so few; the whole earth was covered with the javelins 
and arrows of the unbelievers; they threw them, several at a time, at our 
men, of whom many were wounded. Thus the weight of battle fell heavier up on 
us than before, and the galleymen withdrew in the galleys which brought 
them; and so, in their anxiety to be safe, they sacrificed their character 
for bravery. Meanwhile a shout was raised by the Turks, as they strove who 
should first occupy the town, hoping to slay those of our men whom they 
should find within. The king, hearing the clamor, taking with him only two 
knights and two crossbow-men, met three Turks, nobly caparisoned, in one of 
the principal streets. Rushing bravely upon them, he slew the riders in his 
own royal fashion, and made booty of two horses. The rest of the Turks who 
were found in the town were put to the rout in spite of their resistance, 
and dispersing in different directions, sought to make their escape, even 
where there was no regular road. The king also commanded the parts of the 
walls which were broken down to be made good, and placed sentinels to keep 
watch lest the town should be again attacked. 

These matters settled, the king went down to the shore, where many of our 
men had taken refuge on board the galleys. These the king exhorted by the 
most cogent arguments to return to the battle, and share with the rest 
whatever might befall them. Leaving five men as guards on board each galley, 
the king led back the rest to assist his hard-pressed army, and he no sooner 
arrived than with all his fury he fell upon the thickest ranks of the enemy, 
driving them back and routing them, so that even those who were at a 
distance and untouched by him were overwhelmed by the throng of the troops 
as they retreated, Never was there such an attack made by an individual. He 
pierced into the middle of the hostile army, and performed the deeds of a 
brave and distinguished warrior. The Turks at once closed upon him, and 
tried to overwhelm him. In the meantime our men, losing sight of the king, 
were fearful lest he should have been slain, and when one of them proposed 
that they should advance to find him, our lines could hardly contain 
themselves. But if by any chance the disposition of our troops had been 
broken, without doubt they would all have been destroyed. What, however, was 
to be thought of the king, who was hemmed in by the enemy, a single man 
opposed to so many thousands? The hand of the writer faints to see it, and 
the mind of the reader to hear it. Who ever heard of such a man? His bravery 
was ever of the highest order, no adverse storm could sink it; his valor was 
ever becoming, and if we may from a few instances judge of many, it was ever 
indefatigable in war. Why then do we speak of the valor of Antaeus, who 
regained his strength every time he touched his mother earth, for Antaeus 
perished when he was lifted up from the earth in the long wrestling match. 
The body of Achilles also, who slew Hector, was invulnerable, because he was 
dipped in the Stygian waves; yet Achilles was mortally wounded in the very 
part by which he was held when they dipped him. Likewise Alexander, the 
Macedonian, who was stimulated by ambition to subjugate the whole world, 
undertook a most difficult enterprise, and with a handful of choice soldiers 
fought many celebrated battles, but the chief part of his valor consisted of 
the excellence of his soldiers. In the same manner the brave Judas 
Maccabeus, of whom all the world discoursed, performed many wonderful deeds 
worthy forever to be remembered, but when he was abandoned by his soldiers 
in the midst of a battle, with thousands of enemies to oppose him, he was 
slain, together with his brothers. But King Richard, inured to battle from 
his tenderest years, and to whom even famous Roland could not be considered 
equal, remained invincible, even in the midst of the enemy; and his body, as 
if it were made of brass, was impenetrable to any kind of weapon. In his 
right hand he brandished his sword, which in its rapid descent broke the 
ranks on either side of him. Such was his energy amid that host of Turks 
that, fearing nothing, he destroyed all around him, mowing men down with his 
scythe as reapers mow down the corn with their sickles. Who could describe 
his deeds? Whoever felt one of his blows had no need of a second. Such was 
the energy of his courage that it seemed to rejoice at having found an 
occasion to display itself. The sword wielded by his powerful hand cut down 
men and horses alike, cleaving them to the middle. The more he was himself 
separated from his men, and the more the enemy sought to overwhelm him, the 
more did his valor shine conspicuous. Among other brave deeds which he 
performed on that occasion he slew by one marvellous stroke an admiral, who 
was conspicuous above the rest of the enemy by his rich caparisons. This man 
by his gestures seemed to say that he was going to do something wonderful, 
and whilst he reproached the rest with cowardice he put spurs to his horse 
and charged full against the king, who, waving his sword as he saw him 
coming, smote off at a single blow not only his head, but his shoulder and 
right arm. The Turks were terror-struck at the sight, and, giving way on all 
sides, scarcely dared to shoot at him from a distance with their arrows. The 
king now returned safe and unhurt to his friends, and encouraged them more 
than ever with the hope of victory. How were their minds raised from despair 
when they saw him coming safe out of the enemy's ranks! They knew not what 
had happened to him, but they knew that without him all the hopes of the 
Christian army would be in vain. 

The king's person was stuck all over with javelins, like a deer pierced by 
the hunters, and the trappings of his horse were thickly covered with 
arrows. Thus, like a brave soldier, he returned from the contest, and a 
bitter contest it was, for it had lasted from the morning sun to the setting 
sun. It may seem wonderful and even incredible, that so small a body of men 
endured so long a conflict; but by God's mercy we cannot doubt the truth of 
it, for in that battle only one or two of our men were slain. But the number 
of the Turkish horses that lay dead on the field is said to have exceeded 
fifteen hundred; and of the Turks themselves more than seven hundred were 
killed, and yet they did not carry back King Richard, as they had boasted, 
as a present to Saladin; but, on the contrary, he and his horse performed so 
many deeds of valor in the sight of the Turks that the enemy shuddered to 
behold him. 

In the meantime our men having by God's grace escaped destruction, the 
Turkish army returned to Saladin, who is said to have ridiculed them by 
asking where Melech Richard was, for they had promised to bring him a 
prisoner? "Which of you," continued he "first seized him, and where is he? 
Why is he not produced?" To whom one of the Turks that came from the 
furthest countries of the earth replied, "In truth, my lord, Melech Richard, 
about whom you ask, is not here; we have never heard since the beginning of 
the world that there ever was such a knight, so brave and so experienced in 
arms. In every deed of arms he is ever the foremost; in deeds he is without 
a rival, the first to advance and the last to retreat; we did our best to 
seize him, but in vain, for no man can escape from his sword; his attack is 
dreadful; to engage with him is fatal, and his deeds are beyond human 
nature." 

 

(1) Richard I. of England.

(2) The preceding narrative is taken from the Chronicle of Richard of 
Devizes. What follows is from the Chronicle of Geoffrey de Vinsauf.On the 
Saturday, the eve of the Nativity of the blessed Virgin Mary, at earliest 
dawn, our men armed themselves with great care to receive the Turks, who 
were known to have preceded their march, and whose insolence nothing but a 
battle could check. The enemy had ranged themselves in order, drawing 
gradually nearer and nearer; and our men also took the utmost care to place 
themselves in as good order as possible. King Richard, who was most 
experienced in military affairs, arranged the army in squadrons, and 
directed who should march in front and who in the rear. He divided the army 
into twelve companies, and these again into five divisions, marshalled 
according as the men ranked in military discipline; and none could be found 
more warlike, if they had only had confidence in God, who is the giver of 
all good things. On that day the Templars formed the first rank, and after 
them came, in due order, the Bretons and men of Anjou; then followed King 
Guy, with the men of Pictou; and in the fourth line were the Normans and 
English, who had the care of the royal standard, and last of all marched the 
Hospitallers: this line was composed of chosen warriors, divided into 
companies. They kept together so closely that an apple, if thrown, would not 
have fallen to the ground without touching a man or a horse; and the army 
stretched from the army of Saracens to the seashore. There you might have 
seen their most appropriate distinctions,- standards, and ensigns of various 
forms, and hardy soldiers, fresh and full of spirits, and well fitted for 
war. Henry, Count of Champagne, kept guard on the mountain side, and 
maintained a constant lookout on the flank; the foot-soldiers, bowmen, and 
arbalesters were on the outside, and the rear of the army was closed by the 
post horses and wagons, which carried provisions and other things, and 
journeyed along between the army and the sea, to avoid an attack from the 
enemy. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. ROBIN HOOD OF SHERWOOD FOREST.

In this our spacious isle I think there is not one, 
But he of ROBIN HOOD hath heard and Little John; 
And to the end of time the tales shall ne'er be done 
Of Scarlock, George a Green, and Much the miller's son, 
Of Tuck, the merry friar, which many a sermon made 
In praise of ROBIN HOOD, his outlaws and their trade. 

DRAYTON.

EVERY reader of "Ivanhoe," at the mention of Richard the Crusader, will be 
reminded of Robin Hood, the noble outlaw of Sherwood Forest, and his band of 
merry bowmen. With these we next concern ourselves, and if the reader will 
pardon the dry outlines of the historian before proceeding to the more 
interesting and imaginative story of the ballad-singer, we will at first 
state what so careful an antiquary as Mr. Ritson considers to be truly 
trustworthy in Robin Hood's history. 

Robin Hood was born at Locksley, in the county of Nottingham, in the reign 
of King Henry II, and about the year of Christ 1160. His extraction was 
noble, and his true name Robert Fitzooth, which vulgar pronunciation easily 
corrupted into Robin Hood. He is frequently styled, and commonly reputed to 
have been, Earl of Huntingdon; a title to which, in the latter part of his 
life at least, he actually appears to have had some sort of pretension. In 
his youth he is reported to have been of a wild and extravagant disposition, 
insomuch that, his inheritance being consumed or forfeited by his excesses, 
and his person outlawed for debt, either from necessity or choice he sought 
an asylum in the woods and forests, with which immense tracts, especially in 
the northern part of the kingdom, were at that time covered. Of these he 
chiefly affected Barnsdale, in Yorkshire; Sherwood in Nottinghamshire, and, 
according to some, Plompton Park in Cumberland. Here he either found or was 
afterwards joined by a number of persons in similar circumstances, who 
appear to have considered and obeyed him as their chief or leader.... Having 
for a long series of years maintained a sort of independent sovereignty, and 
set kings, judges, and magistrates at defiance, a proclamation was 
published, offering a considerable reward for bringing him in either dead or 
alive; which, however, seems to have been productive of no greater success 
than former attempts for that purpose. At length the infirmities of old age 
increasing upon him, and desirous to be relieved, in a fit of sickness, by 
being let blood, he applied for that purpose to the prioress of Kirkley 
nunnery in Yorkshire, his relative (women, and particularly religious women, 
being in those times somewhat better skilled in surgery than the sex is at 
present), by whom he was treacherously suffered to bleed to death. This 
event happened on the 18th November, 1247, being the thirty-first year of 
King Henry III.; and if the date assigned to his birth be correct, about the 
eighty-seventh year of his age. He was interred under some trees at a short 
distance from the house; a stone being placed over his grave, with an 
inscription to his memory. 

There are some who will have it that Robin Hood was not alive in the reign 
of Richard I., and who will have it that he preferred other forests to 
Sherwood. But the stories that we have chosen are of the Robin Hood of 
Sherwood Forest and of King Richard the Lion-hearted. 

LITTLE JOHN.

The lieutenant of Robin Hood's band was named Little John, not so much from 
his smallness in stature (for he was seven feet high and more), as for a 
reason which I shall tell later. And the manner in which Robin Hood, to whom 
he was very dear, met him was this. Robin Hood on one occasion being hunting 
with his men and finding the sport to be poor, said: "We have had no sport 
now for some time. So I go abroad alone. And if I should fall into any peril 
whence I cannot escape I will blow my horn that ye may know of it and bear 
me aid." And with that he bade them adieu and departed alone, having with 
him his bow and the arrows in his quiver. And passing shortly over a brook 
by a long bridge he met at the middle a stranger. And neither of the two 
would give way to the other. And Robin Hood being angry fitted an arrow to 
his bow and made ready to fire. "Truly," said the stranger at this, "thou 
art a fine fellow that you must draw your long bow on me who have but a 
staff by me." "That is just truly," said Robin; "and so I will lay by my bow 
and get me a staff to try if your deeds be as good as your words." And with 
that he went into a thicket and chose him a small ground oak for a staff and 
returned to the stranger. "Now," said he, "I am a match for you, so let us 
play upon this bridge, and if one should fall in the stream the other will 
have the victory." "With all my heart," said the stranger; "I shall not be 
the first to give out." And with that they began to make great play with 
their staves. And Robin Hood first struck the stranger such a blow as warmed 
all his blood, and from that they rattled their sticks as though they had 
been threshing corn. And finally the stranger gave Robin such a crack on his 
crown that he broke his head and the blood flowed. But this only urged him 
the more, so that he attacked the stranger with such vigor that he had like 
to have made an end of him. But he growing into a fury finally fetched him 
such a blow that he tumbled him from the bridge into the brook. Whereat the 
stranger laughed loudly and long, and cried out to him, "Where art thou now, 
I prythee, my good fellow?" And Robin replied, "Thou art truly a brave soul, 
and I will have no more to do with thee to-day; so our battle is at an end, 
and I must allow that thou hast won the day." 

And then wading to the bank he pulled out his horn and blew a blast on it so 
that the echoes flew throughout the valley. And at that came fifty bold 
bowmen out of the wood, all clad in green, and they made for Robin Hood, and 
said William Stukely, "What is the matter, my master? you are wet to the 
skin?" "Truly, nothing is the matter," said Robin, "but that the lad on the 
bridge has tumbled me into the stream." And on that the archers would have 
seized the stranger to duck him as well, but Robin Hood forbade them. "No 
one shall harm thee, friend," said he. "These are all my bowmen, threescore 
and nine, and if you will be one of us you shall straightway have my livery 
and accoutrements, fit for a man. What say you?" "With all my heart," said 
the stranger; "here is my hand on it. My name is John Little, and I will be 
a good man and true to you." "His name shall be changed," said William 
Stukely on this. "We will call him Little John, and I will be his 
godfather." 

So they fetched a pair of fat does and some humming strong ale, and there 
they christened their babe Little John, for he was seven feet high and an 
ell round at his waist.

FRIAR TUCK.

Now Robin Hood had instituted a day of mirth for himself and all his 
companions, and wagers were laid amongst them who should exceed at this 
exercise and who at that; some did contend who should jump farthest, some 
who should throw the bar, some who should be swiftest afoot in a race five 
miles in length; others there were with which Little John was most 
delighted, who did strive which of them should draw the strongest bow, and 
be the best marksman. "Let me see," said Little John, "which of you can kill 
a buck, and who can kill a doe, and who is he can kill a hart, being distant 
from it by the space of five hundred feet." With that, Robin Hood going 
before them, they went directly to the forest, where they found good store 
of game feeding before them. William Scarlock, that drew the strongest bow 
of them all, did kill a buck, and Little John made choice of a barren fat 
doe, and the well-directed arrow did enter in the very heart of it; and 
Midge, the miller's son, did kill a hart above five hundred feet distant 
from him. The hart falling, Robin Hood stroked him gently on the shoulder, 
and said unto him, "God's blessing on thy heart, I will ride five hundred 
miles to find a match for thee." William Scarlock, hearing him speak these 
words, smiled and said unto him, "Master, what needs that? Here is a Curtal 
Friar(1) not far off, that for a hundred pound will shoot at what distance 
yourself will propound, either with Midge or with yourself. An experienced 
man he is, and will draw a bow with great strength; he will shoot with 
yourself, and with all the men you have, one after another." 

"Sayest thou so, Scarlock?" replied Robin Hood. "By the grace of God I will 
neither eat nor drink till I see this Friar thou dost speak of." And having 
prepared himself for his journey, he took Little John and fifty of his best 
archers with him, whom he bestowed in a convenient place, as he himself 
thought fitting. This being done, he ran down into the dale, where he found 
the Curtal Friar walking by the water side. He no sooner espied him, but 
presently he took unto him his broadsword and buckler, and put on his head a 
steel bonnet. The Friar, not knowing who he was, or for what intent he came, 
did presently arm himself to encounter with him. Robin Hood, coming near 
unto him, alighted from his horse, which he tied to a thorn that grew hard 
by, and looking wistfully on the Friar, said unto him, "Carry me over the 
water, thou Curtal Friar, or else thy life lies at the stake." The Friar 
made no more ado, but took up Robin Hood and carried him on his back; deep 
water he did stride; he spake not so much as one word to him, but having 
carried him over, he gently laid him down on the side of the bank; which 
being done, the Friar said to Robin Hood, "It is now thy turn; therefore 
carry me over the water, thou bold fellow, or sure I shall make thee repent 
it." Robin Hood, to requite the courtesy, took the Friar on his back, and 
not speaking the least word to him, carried him over the water, and laid him 
gently down on the side of the bank; and turning to him, he spake unto him 
as at first, and bade him carry him over the water once more, or he should 
answer it with the forfeit of his life. The Friar in a smiling manner took 
him up, and spake not a word till he came in the midst of the stream, when, 
being up to the middle and higher, he did shake him from off his shoulders, 
and said unto him, "Now choose thee, bold fellow, whether thou wilt sink or 
swim." 

Robin Hood, being soundly washed, got him up on his feet, and prostrating 
himself, did swim to a bush of broom on the other side of the bank; and the 
Friar swam to a willow tree which was not far from it. Then Robin Hood, 
taking his bow in his hand, and one of his best arrows, did shoot at the 
Friar, which the Friar received in his buckler of steel, and said unto him, 
"Shoot on, thou bold fellow; if thou shootest at me a whole summer's day I 
will stand your mark still." "That will I," said Robin Hood, and shot arrow 
after arrow at him, until he had not an arrow left in his quiver. He then 
laid down his bow, and drew out his sword, which but two days before had 
been the death of three men. Now hand to hand they went with sword and 
buckler; the steel buckler defends whatsoever blow is given; sometimes they 
make at the head, sometimes at the foot, sometimes at the side; sometimes 
they strike directly down, sometimes they falsify their blows, and come in 
foot and arm, with a free thrust at the body; and being ashamed that so long 
they exercise their unprofitable valor and cannot hurt one another, they 
multiply their blows, they hack, they hew, they slash, they foam. At last 
Robin Hood desired the Friar to hold his hand, and to give him leave to blow 
his horn. 

"Thou wantest breath to sound it," said the Friar; "take thee a little 
respite, for we have been five hours at it by the Fountain Abbey clock." 
Robin Hood took his horn from his side, and having sounded it three times, 
behold where fifty lusty men, with their bended bows, came to his 
assistance. The Friar, wondering at it, "Whose men," said he, "be these?" 
"They are mine," said Robin Hood; "what is that to thee?" "False loon," said 
the Friar; and making a little pause, he desired Robin Hood to show him the 
same courtesy which he gave him. "What is that?" said Robin Hood. "Thou 
soundest thy horn three times," said the Friar; "let me now but whistle 
three times." "Ay, with all my heart," said Robin Hood; "I were to blame if 
I should deny thee that courtesy." With that the Friar set his fist to his 
mouth, and whistled three times so shrilly that the place echoed again with 
it; and behold three and fifty fair ban-dogs (their hair rising on their 
back, betokening their rage), were almost on the backs of Robin Hood and his 
companions. "Here is for every one of thy men a dog," said the Friar, "and 
two for thee." "That is foul play," said Robin Hood. He had scarce spoken 
that word but two dogs came upon him at once, one before, another behind 
him, who, although they could not touch his flesh (his sword had made so 
swift a despatch of them), yet they tore his coat into two pieces. By this 
time the men had so laid about them that the dogs began to fly back, and 
their fury to languish into barking. Little John did so bestir himself, that 
the Curtal Friar, admiring at his courage and his nimbleness, did ask him 
who he was. He made him answer, "I will tell the truth, and not lie. I am he 
who is called Little John, and de belong to Robin Hood, who hath fought with 
thee this day, five hours together; and if thou wilt not submit unto him, 
this arrow shall make thee." The Friar, perceiving how much he was 
overpowered, and that it was impossible for him to deal with so many at 
once, did come to composition with Robin Hood. And the articles of agreement 
were these: That the Friar should abandon Fountain Dale and Fountain Abbey, 
and should live with Robin Hood, at his place not far from Nottingham, where 
for saying of mass, he should receive a noble for every Sunday through out 
the year, and for saying mass on every holy day, a new change of garment. 
The Friar, contented with these conditions, did seal the agreement. And thus 
by the courage of Robin Hood and his yeomen, he was enforced at the last to 
submit, having for seven long years kept Fountain Dale, not all the power 
thereabouts being able to bring him on his knees. 

But Friar Tuck was the only man of the clergy with whom Robin had friendly 
dealings. As a rule these churchmen fared as did the Bishop of Hereford in 
the following ballad, which we add for the sake of an example of the manner 
in which this True History of Robin Hood has come down to us from the year 
1245:-

THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD'S ENTERTAINMENT BY ROBIN HOOD AND LITTLE JOHN AND 
THEIR COMPANY, IN MERRY BARNSDALE.

SOME they will talk of bold Robin Hood, 
And some of barons bold; 
But I'll tell you how he served the Bishop of Hereford, 
When he robbed him of his gold. 
As it befell in merry Barnsdale, 
All under the greenwood tree, 
The Bishop of Hereford was to come by, 
With all his company. 
"Come, kill me a venison," said bold Robin Hood, 
"And dress it by the highway side, 
And we will watch the bishop narrowly, 
Lest some other way he should ride." 
Robin Hood dressed himself in shepherd's attire, 
With six of his men also, 
And, when the Bishop of Hereford came by, 
They about the fire did go. 
"O, what is the matter?" then said the bishop, 
"Or for whom do you make this ado? 
Or why do you kill the king's ven'son, 
When your company is so few?" 
"We are shepherds," said bold Robin Hood, 
"And we keep sheep all the year; 
And we are disposed to be merry this day, 
And to kill of the king's fat deer." 
"You are brave fellows," said the bishop, 
"And the king of your doings shall know; 
Therefore make haste, and come along with me, 
For before the king you shall go." 
"O pardon, O pardon," said bold Robin Hood, 
"O pardon, I thee pray; 
For it becomes not your lordship's coat 
To take so many lives away." 
"No pardon, no pardon," said the bishop, 
"No pardon I thee owe; 
Therefore make haste, and come along with me, 
For before the king you shall go." 
Then Robin he set his back against a tree, 
And his foot against a thorn, 
And from underneath his shepherd's coat 
He pulled out a bugle horn. 
He put the little end to his mouth, 
And a loud blast did he blow, 
Till threescore and ten of bold Robin's men 
Came running all in a row: 
All making obeisance to bold Robin Hood; 
'Twas a comely sight for to see. 
"What is the matter, master," said Little John, 
"That you blow so lustily?" 
"O here is the Bishop of Hereford, 
And no pardon we shall have." 
"Cut off his head, master," said Little John, 
"And throw him into his grave." 
"O pardon, O pardon," said the bishop, 
"O pardon, I thee pray; 
For if I had known it had been you, 
I'd have gone some other way." 
"No pardon, no pardon," said bold Robin Hood, 
"No pardon I thee owe; 
Therefore make haste, and come along with me, 
For to merry Barnsdale you shall go." 
Then Robin he took the bishop by the hand, 
And led him to merry Barnsdale; 
He made him stay and sup with him that night, 
And to drink wine, beer, and ale. 
"Call in a reckoning," said the bishop, 
"For methinks it grows wondrous high." 
"Send me your purse, master," said Little John, 
"And I'll tell you bye and bye." 
Then Little John took the bishop's cloak, 
And spread it upon the ground, 
And out of the bishop's portmantua 
He told three hundred pound. 
"Here's money enough, master," said Little John, 
"And a comely sight 'tis to see; 
It makes me in charity with the bishop, 
Though he heartily loveth not me." 
Robin Hood took the bishop by the hand, 
And he caused the music to play; 
And he made the old bishop to dance in his boots, 
And glad to get so away. 

  

"The Curtal Friar," Dr. Stukely says, "is Cordelier, from the cord or rope 
which they wore round their waist, to whip themselves with. They were," adds 
he, "of the Franciscan order. Our Friar, however, is undoubtedly so called 
from his Curtal dogs, or curs, as we now say." Thoms. Early Prose Romances: 
in which, by the way, may be found many of the tales of Robin Hood printed 
here, and much more besides of interest. 



CHAPTER XXXV. ROBIN HOOD AND HIS ADVENTURES.

"They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with 
him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England... and fleet the 
time carelessly as they did in the golden world."- AS YOU LIKE IT.

AS has been already said, some of the ballad makers have so far erred from 
the truth as to represent Robin Hood as being outlawed by Henry VIII., and 
several stories are told of Queen Katherine's interceding with her husband 
for the pardon of the bold outlaw.(1) 

However this may be, it is known that Robin Hood once shot a match on the 
queen's side against the king's archers, and here is the story:-

THE NOBLE BIRTH AND THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF ROBIN HOOD.

"Robin Hood was descended from the noble family of the Earl of Huntingdon, 
and being outlawed by Henry VIII. for many extravagancies and outrages he 
had committed, he did draw together a company of such bold and licentious 
persons as himself, who lived for the most part on robberies committed in or 
near unto Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire. He had these always ready at 
his command, so that if need did require he at the winding of his horn would 
have fifty or more of them in readiness to assist him. He whom he most 
affected was called Little John by reason of his low stature, though not 
inferior to any of them in strength of body and stoutness of spirit. He 
would not entertain any into his service whom he had not first fought with 
himself and made sufficient trial of his courage and dexterity how to use 
his weapons, which was the reason that oftentimes he came home hurt and 
beaten as he was; which was nevertheless no occasion of the diminution of 
his love to the person whom he fought with, for ever afterwards he would be 
the more familiar with him, and better respect him for it. Many petitions 
were referred to the king for a pardon for him, which the king 
(understanding of the many mad pranks he and his associates played) would 
give no ear unto; but being attended with a considerable guard, did make a 
progress himself to find him out and bring him to condign punishment. At 
last, by the means and mediation of Queen Katherine the king's wrath was 
qualified, and his pardon sealed, and he spent his old age in peace, at a 
house of his own, not far from Nottingham, being generally beloved and 
respected by all."

Robin Hood on one occasion sent a present to Queen Katherine with which she 
was so pleased that she swore she would be a friend to the noble outlaw as 
long as she might live. So one day the queen went to her chamber and called 
to her a page of her company and bade him make haste and prepare to ride to 
Nottinghamshire to find Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest; for the queen had 
made a match with the king, her archers against his archers, and the queen 
proposed to have Robin Hood and his band to shoot on her side against the 
king's archers. 

Now as for the page, he started for Nottingham and posted all the way, and 
inquired on the road for Robin Hood, where he might be, but he could not 
find any one who could let him know exactly. So he took up his quarters at 
an inn at Nottingham. And in the room of the inn he sat him down and called 
for a bottle of Rhenish wine, and he drank the queen's health out of it. Now 
at his side was sitting a yeoman of the country, clad in Lincoln green, with 
a long bow in his hand. And he turned to the page and asked him, "What is 
thy business, my sweet boy, so far in the north country, for methinks you 
must come from London?" So then the page told him that it was his business 
to find Robin Hood the outlaw, and for that he asked every yeoman that he 
met. 

And he asked his friend if he knew anything which might help him. "Truly," 
said the yeoman, "that I do. And if you will get to horse early to-morrow 
morning I will show you Robin Hood and all his gay yeomen." 

So the next morning they got them to horse and rode out into the forest, and 
the yeoman brought the page to where were Robin Hood and his yeomen. And the 
page fell down on his knee and said to Robin Hood, "Queen Katherine greets 
you well by me, and hath sent you this ring as a token. She bids you post up 
to London town, for that there shall be some sport there in which she has a 
mind you shall have a hand." And at this Robin took off his mantle of 
Lincoln green from his back and sent it by the page to Queen Katherine with 
a promise that he and his band would follow him as soon as they might. 

So Robin Hood clothed all his men in Lincoln green and himself in scarlet, 
and each man wore a black hat with a white feather stuck therein. And thus 
Robin Hood and his band came up to London. And Robin fell down on his knees 
before the queen, and she bade him welcome with all his band. For the match 
between the queen's archers and the king's was to come off the next day in 
Finsbury fields. 

Here first came the king's archers marching with bold bearing, and then came 
Robin Hood and his archers for the queen. And they laid out the marks there. 
And the king laid a wager with the queen on the shooting. Now the wager was 
three hundred tun of Rhenish, and three hundred tun of good English beer, 
and three hundred fat harts. So then the queen asked if there were any 
knights with the king who would take her side. But they were unwilling, for 
said they, "How shall we bet on these men whom we have never seen, when we 
know Clifton and the rest of the king's archers, and have seen them shoot?" 
Now this Clifton was one of the king's archers and a great boaster. And when 
he had reached the shooting field he had cried out, "Measure no marks for 
us, my lord the king, for we will shoot at the sun and moon." But for all 
that Robin Hood beat him at the shooting. And the queen asked the Bishop of 
Herefordshire to back her archers. But he swore by his mitre that he would 
not bet a single penny on the queen's archers for he knew them not. "What 
will you bet against them," asked Robin Hood at this, "since you think our 
shooting is the worse?" "Truly," said the bishop, "I will bet all the money 
that may be in my purse," and he pulled it up from where it hung at his 
side. "What is in your purse?" asked Robin Hood. And the bishop tossed it 
down on the ground saying, "Fifteen rose-nobles, and that's an hundred 
pound." So Robin Hood tossed out a bag beside the bishop's purse on the 
green. 

And with that they began shooting, and shot three bouts and they came out 
even; the king's and the queen's. "The next three shots," said the king, 
"shall pay for all." And so the king's archers shot, and then Robin Hood, 
and Little John and Midge the miller's son shot for the queen, and came 
every man of them nearer the prick in the willow wand than did any of the 
king's men. So the queen's archers having beaten, Queen Katherine asked a 
boon of the king, and he granted it. "Give me, I pray you," said the queen, 
"safe conduct for the archers of my party to come and to go home and to stay 
in London here some time to enjoy themselves." "I grant it," said the king. 

"Then you are welcome, Robin Hood," said the queen, "and so is Little John 
and Midge the miller's son and every one of you." "Is this Robin Hood?" 
asked the king, "for I had heard that he was killed in a quarrel in the 
north country." And the bishop too asked, "Is this Robin Hood? If I had 
known that I would not have bet a penny with him. He took me one Saturday 
evening and bound me fast to a tree, and there he made me sing a mass for 
him and his yeomanry about." "Well, if I did," said Robin Hood, "surely I 
needed all the masses that I might get for my soul." And with that he and 
his yeomanry departed, and when their safe conduct was expired they 
journeyed north again to Sherwood Forest.

ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR.

But Robin Hood, once having supplied himself with good store of money, which 
he had gotten of the sheriff of Nottingham, bought him a stout gelding, and 
riding on him one day towards Nottingham, it was his fortune to meet with a 
poor beggar. Robin Hood was of a frolic spirit, and no accepter of persons; 
but observing the beggar to have several sorts of bags, which were fastened 
to his patched coat, he did ride up to him, and giving him the time of day, 
he demanded of him what countryman he was. "A Yorkshireman," said the 
beggar; "and I would desire of you to give me something." "Give thee!" said 
Robin Hood; "why, I have nothing to give thee. I am a poor ranger in the 
forest, and thou seemest to be a lusty knave; shall I give thee a good 
bastinado over thy shoulders?" "Content, content," said the beggar; "I durst 
lay all my bags to a threaden joust, thou wilt repent it." 

With that Robin Hood alighted, and the beggar, with his long quarterstaff, 
so well defended himself, that, let Robin Hood do what he could, he could 
not come within the beggar, to flash him to a remembrance of his 
overboldness; and nothing vexed him more than to find that the beggar's 
staff was as hard and as obdurate as iron itself; but not so Robin Hood's 
head, for the beggar with all his force did let his staff descend with such 
a side blow, that Robin Hood, for all his skill, could not defend it, but 
the blood came trickling down his face, which, turning Robin Hood's courage 
into revenge and fury, he let fly at him with his trusty sword, and doubled 
blow upon blow; but perceiving that the beggar did hold him so hard to it 
that one of his blows was but the forerunner of another, and every blow to 
be almost the Postilion of Death, he cried out to him to hold his hand. 
"That will I not do," said the beggar, "unless thou wilt resign unto me thy 
horse, and thy sword, and thy clothes, with all the money thou hast in thy 
pockets." "The change is uneven," said Robin Hood, "but for once I am 
content." 

So, putting on the beggar's clothes, the beggar was the gentleman, and Robin 
Hood was the beggar, who, entering into Nottingham town with his patched 
coat and several wallets, understood that three brethren were that day to 
suffer at the gallows, being condemned for killing the king's deer, he made 
no more ado, but went directly to the sheriff's house, where a young 
gentleman, seeing him to stand at the door, demanded of him what he would 
have. Robin Hood returned answer that he came to crave neither meat nor 
drink, but the lives of these three brothers who were condemned to die. 
"That cannot be," said the young gentleman, "for they are all this day to 
suffer according to law, for stealing of the king's deer, and they are 
already conveyed out of the town to the place of execution." "I will be with 
them presently," said Robin Hood, and coming to the gallows he found many 
making great lamentation for them. Robin Hood did comfort them, and assured 
them they should not die; and blowing his horn, behold on a sudden a hundred 
brave archers came unto him, by whose help, having released the prisoners, 
and killed the, hangman, and hurt many of the sheriff's officers, they took 
those who were condemned to die for killing the king's deer along with them, 
who, being very thankful for the preservation of their lives, became 
afterwards of the yeomanry of Robin Hood.

ROBIN HOOD AND KING RICHARD.

Now King Richard, hearing of the deeds of Robin Hood and his men, wondered 
much at them, and desired greatly himself to see him, and his men as well. 
So he with a dozen of his lords rode to Nottingham town and there took up 
his abode. And being at Nottingham, the king one day with his lords put on 
friars' gowns every one, and rode forth from Fountain Abbey down to 
Barnsdale. And as they were riding there they saw Robin Hood and all his 
band standing ready to assail them. The king, being taller than the rest, 
was thought by Robin to be the abbot. So he made up to him, and seized his 
horse by the head, and bade him stand. "For," said he, "it is against such 
knaves as you that I am bound to make war." "But," said the king himself, 
"we are messengers from the king, who is but a little away, waiting to speak 
with you." "God save the king," said Robin Hood, "and all his well-wishers. 
And accursed be every one who may deny his sovereignty." "You are cursing 
yourself," said the king, "for you are a traitor." "Now," said Robin Hood, 
"if you were not the king's messenger, I would make you rue that word of 
yours. I am as true a man to the king as lives. And I never yet injured any 
honest man and true, but only those who make their living by stealing from 
others. I have never in my life harmed either husbandman or huntsman. But my 
chief spite lies against the clergy, who have in these days great power. But 
I am right glad to have met you here. Come with me, and you shall taste our 
greenwood cheer." But the king and his lords marvelled, wondering what kind 
of cheer Robin might provide for them. And Robin took the king's horse by 
the head, and led him towards his tent. "It is because thou comest from the 
king," said he, "that I use you in this wise; and hadst thou as much gold as 
ever I had, it should be all of it safe for good King Richard's sake." And 
with that he took out his horn, and blew on it a loud blast. And thereat 
came marching forth from the wood five score and ten of Robin's followers, 
and each one bent the knee before Robin Hood. "Surely," thought the king, 
"it is a goodly sight to see; for they are more humble to their master than 
my servants are to me, Here may the court learn something from the 
greenwood." And here they laid a dinner for the king and his lords, and the 
king swore that he had never feasted better. Then Robin Hood, taking a can 
of ale, said, "Let us now begin, each man with his can. Here's a health to 
the king." And they all drank the health to the king, the king himself, as 
well as another. 

And after the dinner they all took their bows, and showed the king such 
archery that the king said he had never seen such men as they in any foreign 
land. And then said the king to Robin Hood, "If I could get thee a pardon 
from King Richard, wouldst thou serve the king well in everything?" "Yes, 
with all my heart," said Robin. And so said all his men. 

And with that the king declared himself to them, and said, "I am the king, 
your sovereign, that is now before you." And at this Robin and all his men 
fell down on their knees; but the king raised them up, saying to them that 
he pardoned each one of them, and that they should every one of them be in 
his service. So the king returned to Nottingham, and with him returned Robin 
Hood and his men, to the great joy of the townspeople, whom they had for a 
long time sorely vexed. 

"And they are gone to London court, 
Robin Hood and all his train; 
He once was there a noble peer, 
And now he's there again."

THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD.

But Robin Hood returned to Sherwood Forest, and there met his death. 

For one day, being wounded in a fight, he fled out of the battle with Little 
John. And being at some distance, Robin Hood said to his lieutenant, "Now 
truly I cannot shoot even one shot more, for the arrows will not fly. For I 
am sore wounded. So I will go to my cousin, the abbess, who dwelleth near 
here in Kirkley Hall, and she shall bleed me, that I may be well again." So 
Robin Hood left Little John, and he went his way to Kirkley; and reaching 
the Hall, his strength nearly left him, yet he knocked heavily at the door. 
And his cousin came down first to let him in. And when she saw him she knew 
that it was her cousin Robin Hood, and she received him with a joyful face. 

Then said Robin, "You see me, my cousin, how weak I am. Therefore I pray you 
to bleed me, that I may be whole again." And his cousin took him by the 
hand, and led him into an upper room, and laid him on a bed, and she bled 
him. But the treacherous woman tied not up the vein again, but left him so 
that his life began to flow from him. And he, finding his strength leaving 
him, thought to escape; but he could not, for the door was locked, and the 
casement window was so high that he might not leap down from it. Then, 
knowing that he must die, he reached forth his hand to his bugle horn, which 
lay by him on the bed. And setting the horn to his mouth, be blew weakly, 
though with all his strength, three blasts upon it. And Little John, as he 
sat under the tree in the greenwood, heard his blowing, and he said, "Now 
must Robin be near death, for his blast is very weak." 

And he got up and ran to Kirkley Hall as fast as he might. And coming to the 
door, he found it locked; but he broke it down, and so came to Robin Hood. 
And coming to the bed, he fell upon his knees, and said, "Master, I beg a 
boon of thee,- that thou lettest me burn down Kirkley Hall and all the 
nunnery." "Nay," quoth Robin Hood; "nay, I cannot grant you your boon; for 
never in my life did I hurt woman, or man in woman's company, nor shall it 
be done when I die. But for me, give me my long bow, and I will let fly an 
arrow, and where you shall find the arrow, there bury me. And make my grave 
long and broad, that I may rest easily; and place my head upon a green sod, 
and place my bow at my side." And these words Little John readily promised 
him, so that Robin Hood was pleased. And they buried him as he had asked, an 
arrow-shot from Kirkley Hall. 

 

(1) This seems to have been the opinion of the author from whom we draw the 
following account of our hero's life,- to show how the doctors will disagree 
even on a topic as important as Robin Hood:- 

 


CHAPTER XXXVI. CHEVY CHASE.

"The Perse out of Northumberlande, 
And a vowe to God mayde he, 
That he wold hunte in the mountayns 
Off Chyviat within days thre, 
In the mauger of doughte Dogles, 
And all that ever with him be." 
PERCY: Reliques of Ancient Poetry.

SCARCELY less famous than Robin Hood as a subject for ballad makers was the 
battle of Chevy Chase. This battle was one of the many struggles rising out 
of the never-ending border quarrels between Scotland and England, of which 
poets are never tired of singing. Sometimes the Earl of Douglas, the great 
Scotch border-lord, would make an incursion into Northumberland, and then to 
revenge the insult Lord Percy would come riding over the Tweed into 
Scotland. 

In the battle of Chevy Chase it would seem as if Earl Percy was the 
aggressor. As a matter of fact it mattered little which began the quarrel at 
any particular time. The feud was ever smouldering, and needed little to 
make it burst forth.

THE BALLAD OF CHEVY CHASE.

God prosper Long our noble king, 
Our lives and safetyes all; 
A woefull hunting once there did 
In Chevy Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound and horne, 
Erle Percy took his way, 
The child may rue that is unborne 
The hunting of that day. 

The stout Erle of Northumberland 
A vow to God did make, 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 
Three summer days to take; 

The cheefest harts in Chevy Chase 
To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Erle Douglas came, 
In Scotland where he lay, 

Who sent Erle Percy present word 
He would prevent his sport. 
The English Erle not fearing that, 
Did to the woods resort, 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold; 
All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well in time of neede 
To ayme their shafts aright. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 
To chase the fallow deere: 
On Monday they began to hunt 
Ere daylight did appear; 

And long before high noon they had 
An hundred fat buckes slaine; 
Then having dined the drovyers went 
To rouse the deer again. 

The bowmen mustered on the hill, 
Well able to endure; 
Their backsides all, with special care, 
That day were guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, 
The nimble deere to take, 
That with their cryes the hills and dales 
An eccho shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went, 
To view the slaughtered deer; 
Quoth he, Erle Douglas promised 
This day to meet me heere; 

But if I thought he would not come, 
Noe longer would I stay. 
With that a brave young gentleman 
Thus to the Erle did say:- 

Loe, yonder doth Erle Douglas come, 
His men in armour bright; 
Full twenty hundred Scottish speres 
All marching in our sight; 

All men of pleasant Tivydale, 
Fast by the river Tweede: 
O cease your sports, Erle Percy said, 
And take your bowes with speede. 

And now with me, my countrymen, 
Your courage forth advance; 
For there was never champion yett 
In Scotland or in France, 

That ever did on horseback come, 
But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 
With him to break a spere. 

Erle Douglas on his milk-white steede, 
Most like a baron bold, 
Rode foremost of his company, 
Whose armour shone like gold. 

Show me, sayd he, whose men you be, 
That hunt so boldly heere, 
That without my consent doe chase 
And kill my fallow deere. 

The first man that did answer make 
Was noble Percy he; 
Who sayd, We list not to declare, 
Nor show whose men we be. 

Yet we will spend our deerest blood, 
Thy cheefest harts to slay. 
The Douglas swore a solempne oathe, 
And thus in rage did say, 

Ere thus I will outbraved be, 
One of us two shall dye: 
I know thee well an erle thou art; 
Lord Percy, soe am I. 

But trust me, Percy, pittye it were 
And great offence to kill 
Any of these our guiltless men, 
For they have done no ill. 

Let thou and I the battell trye, 
And set our men aside. 
Accurst be he, Erle Percy sayd, 
By whom this is denyed. 

Then stept a gallant squier forth, 
Witherington was his name, 
Who said, I wold not have it told 
To Henry our king for shame, 

That ere my captaine fought on foot 
And I stood looking on. 
You be two erles, sayd Witherington, 
And I a squier alone: 

Ile doe the best that doe I may, 
While I have power to stand: 
While I have power to wield my sword, 
Ile fight with hart and hand. 

Our English archers bent their bowes 
Their harts were good and trew; 
At the first flight of arrowes sent, 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

Yet bides Erle Douglas on the bent, 
As cheeftain stout and good, 
As valiant captain, all unmoved, 
The shock he firmly stood. 

His host he parted had in three, 
As leader ware and tryd, 
And soon his spearmen on his foes 
Bare down on every side. 

To drive the deere with hound and horne, 
Douglas bade on the bent: 
Two captaines moved with mickle might 
Their speares to shivers went. 

Throughout the English archery 
They dealt full many a wound; 
But still our valiant Englishmen 
All firmly kept their ground: 

And throwing straight their bowes away, 
They grasped their swords so bright: 
And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, 
On shields and helmets light. 

They closed full fast on every side, 
No slackness there was found; 
And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 

O Christ! it was a griefe to see, 
And likewise for to heare, 
The cries of men lying in their gore, 
And scattered here and there. 

At last these two stout erles did meet, 
Like captaines of great might; 
Like lyons wood, they layd on lode 
And made a cruell fight: 

They fought until they both did sweat, 
With swords of tempered steele; 
Until the blood, like drops of rain, 
They trickling down did feele. 

Yield thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd; 
In faith I will thee bringe, 
Where thou shalt high advanced be 
By James our Scottish king: 

Thy ransome I will freely give, 
And this report of thee: 
Thou art the most courageous knight 
That ever I did see. 

Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then, 
Thy proffer I do scorne; 
I will not yield to any Scott, 
That ever yet was borne. 

With that there came an arrow keene, 
Out of an English bow, 
Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart, 
A deepe and deadly blow: 

Who never spake more words than these, 
Fight on, my merry men all; 
For why, my life is at an end; 
Lord Percy sees my fall. 

Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke 
The dead man by the hand; 
And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life 
Wold I have lost my land. 

O Christ, my very hart doth bleed 
With sorrow for thy sake; 
For sure a more redoubted knight 
Mischance cold never take. 

A knight among the Scotts there was 
Who saw Erle Douglas dye, 
Who streight in wrath did vow revenge 
Upon the Lord Percy. 

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, 
Who, with a spear most bright, 
Well mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran fiercely through the fight; 

And past the English archers all, 
Without all dread and feare; 
And through Earl Percy's body then 
He thrust his hatefull speare; 

With such a vehement force and might 
He did his body gore, 
The staff ran through the other side 
A large cloth-yard or more. 

So thus did both these nobles dye, 
Whose courage none could staine: 
An English archer then perceived 
The noble erle was slaine; 

He had a bow bent in his hand, 
Made of a trusty tree; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 
Up to the head drew he: 

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery, 
So right the shaft he sett, 
The grey goose-wing that was thereon, 
In his hart's blood was wett. 

This fight did last from break of day 
Till setting of the sun; 
For when they rang the evening-bell 
The battle scarce was done. 

With stoute Erle Percy there was slaine 
Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, 
Sir James that bold barron: 

And with Sir George and stoute Sir James 
Both knights of good account, 
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slaine, 
Whose prowese did surmount. 

For Witherington my hart is woe, 
That ever he slain should be; 
For when his legs were hewn in two 
He knelt and fought on his knee. 

And with Erle Douglas there was slaine 
Sir Hugh Montgomery, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 
One foot wold never flee. 

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff too, 
His sister's sonne was he; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd, 
Yet saved cold not be, 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 
Did with Erle Douglas dye: 
Of twenty hundred Scottish speres 
Scarce fifty-five did flye. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 
Went home but fifty-three; 
The rest were slaine in Chevy Chase, 
Under the greene woode tree. 

Next day did many widowes come, 
Their husbands to bewayle; 
They washed their wounds in brinish teares, 
But all wold not prevayle. 

Theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, 
They bore with them away; 
They kist them dead a thousand times, 
Ere they were cladd in clay. 

The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, 
Where Scotland's king did raigne, 
That brave Erle Douglas suddenlye 
Was with an arrow slaine. 

O heavy newes, King James did say, 
Scotland may witness be, 
I have not any captain more 
Of such account as he.

Like tydings to King Henry came, 
Within as short a space, 
That Percy of Northumberland 
Was slaine in Chevy Chase:

Now God be with him, said the king, 
Sith it will noe better be; 
I trust I have within my realme, 
Five hundred as good as he.

Yet shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, 
But I will vengeance take; 
Ile be revenged on them all 
For brave Erle Percy's sake.

This vow full well the king performed 
After at Humbledowne; 
In one day fifty knights were slaine, 
With lords of great renowne;

And of the rest of small account, 
Did many thousands dye: 
Thus ended the hunting of Chevy Chase 
Made by the Erle Percy.

God save our king, and bless this land 
With plentye, joy, and peace; 
And grant henceforth that foule debate 
'Twixt noblemen may cease. 

 


CHAPTER XXXVII. THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.

It fell about a Lamass-tide, 
When husbands wynn their hay, 
The doughty Douglas bound him to ride 
In England to take a pray.

ANOTHER famous battle in the border-warfare between England and Scotland was 
fought at Otterbourne. This is a town in Northumberland, and here, as in 
Chevy Chase, the Douglas and the Percy matched their strength. Earl Douglas 
was killed in the fight, and Sir Henry Percy, called Hotspur, was taken 
prisoner. The story as it is told here is from the works of that most 
entertaining and long-winded historian of chivalry, Sir John Froissart. 

We begin in medias res with a Scotch foray, in which the Douglas, with the 
earl of March and Dunbar and the earl of Moray, has penetrated as far into 
England as the city of Durham and is now returning to Scotland. 

The three Scots lords, having completed the object of their expedition into 
Durham, lay before Newcastle three days, where there was an almost continual 
skirmish. The sons of the earl of Northumberland, from their great courage, 
were always the first at the barriers, where many valiant deeds were done 
with lances hand to hand. 

The earl of Douglas had a long conflict with Sir Henry Percy, and in it, by 
gallantry of arms, won his pennon, to the great vexation of Sir Henry and 
the other English. The earl of Douglas said, "I will carry this token of 
your prowess with me to Scotland, and place it on the tower of my castle at 
Dalkeith, that it may be seen from afar." "By Heaven, Earl of Douglas," 
replied Sir Henry, "you shall not even bear it out of Northumberland: be 
assured you shall never have this pennon to brag of." "You must come then," 
answered Earl Douglas, "this night and seek for it. I will fix your pennon 
before my tent, and shall see if you will venture to take it away." 

As it was now late the skirmish ended, and each party retired to their 
quarters to disarm and comfort themselves. They had plenty of everything, 
particularly flesh meat. The Scots kept up a very strict watch, concluding 
from the words of Sir Henry Percy they should have their quarters beaten up 
this night; they were disappointed, for Sir Henry Percy was advised to defer 
it. 

On the morrow the Scots dislodged from before Newcastle; and, taking the 
road to their own country, they came to a town and castle called Ponclau, of 
which Sir Raymond de Laval, a very valiant knight of Northumberland, was the 
lord. They halted there about four o'clock in the morning, as they learned 
the knight to be within it, and made preparations for the assault. This was 
done with such courage that the place was won, and the knight made prisoner. 
After they had burnt the town and castle, they marched away for Otterbourne, 
which was eight English leagues from Newcastle, and there encamped 
themselves. 

This day they made no attack; but very early on the morrow their trumpets 
sounded, and they made ready for the assault, advancing towards the castle, 
which was tolerably strong, and situated among the marshes. They attacked it 
so long and so unsuccessfully that they were fatigued, and therefore sounded 
a retreat. When they had retired to their quarters, the chiefs held a 
council how to act; and the greater part were for decamping on the morrow, 
without attempting more against the castle, to join their countrymen in the 
neighborhood of Carlisle. But the earl of Douglas overruled this by saying, 
"In despite of Sir Henry Percy, who the day before yesterday declared he 
would take from me his pennon, that I conquered by fair deeds of arms before 
Newcastle, I will not return home for two or three days; and we will renew 
our attack on the castle, for it is to be taken: we shall thus gain double 
honor, and see if within that time he will come for his pennon; if he do it 
shall be well defended." Every one agreed to what Earl Douglas had said; for 
it was not only honorable, but he was the principal commander; and from 
affection to him they quietly returned to their quarters. They made huts of 
trees and branches, and strongly fortified themselves. They placed their 
baggage and servants at the entrance of the marsh on the road to Newcastle, 
and the cattle they drove into the marsh lands. 

I will return to Sir Henry and Sir Ralph Percy, who were greatly mortified 
that the earl of Douglas should have conquered their pennon in the skirmish 
before Newcastle. They felt the more for this disgrace because Sir Henry had 
not kept his word; for he had told the earl that he should never carry his 
pennon out of England, and this he explained to the knights who were with 
him in Newcastle. The English imagined the army under the earl of Douglas to 
be only the van of the Scots, and that the main body was behind; for which 
reason those knights who had the most experience in arms, and were best 
acquainted with war-like affairs, strongly opposed the proposal of Sir Henry 
Percy to pursue them. They said, "Sir, many losses happen in war: if the 
earl of Douglas has won your pennon he has bought it dear enough; for he has 
come to the gates to seek it, and has been well fought with. Another time 
you will gain from him as much if not more. We say so, because you know as 
well as we do that the whole power of Scotland has taken the field. We are 
not sufficiently strong to offer them battle; and perhaps this skirmish may 
have been only a trick to draw us out of the town; and if they be, as 
reported, forty thousand strong, they will surround us, and have us at their 
mercy. It is much better to lose a pennon than two or three hundred knights 
and squires, and leave our country in a defenceless state." This speech 
checked the eagerness of the two brothers Percy, for they would not act 
contrary to the opinion of the council, when other news was brought them by 
some knights and squires who had followed and observed the Scots, their 
numbers, disposition, and where they had halted. This was all fully related 
by knights who had traversed the whole extent of country the Scots had 
passed through, that they might carry to their lords the most exact 
information. 

They thus spoke: "Sir Henry and Sir Ralph Percy, we come to tell you that we 
have followed the Scottish army, and observed all the country where they now 
are. They first halted at Ponclau, and took Sir Raymond de Laval in his 
castle; thence they went to Otterbourne, and took up their quarters for the 
night. We are ignorant of what they did on the morrow, but they seem to have 
taken measures for a long stay. 

We know for certain that their army does not consist of more than three 
thousand men, including all sorts." Sir Henry Percy on hearing this was 
greatly rejoiced, and cried out, "To horse! to horse! for by the faith I owe 
my God, and to my lord and father, I will seek to recover my pennon and to 
beat up their quarters this night." Such knights and squires in Newcastle as 
learned this were willing to be of the party, and made themselves ready. 

The Bishop of Durham was expected daily at the town; for he had heard of the 
irruption of the Scots, and that they were before it, in which were the sons 
of the Earl of Northumberland preparing to offer them combat. The bishop had 
collected a number of men, and was hastening to their assistance, but Sir 
Henry Percy would not wait; for he was accompanied by six hundred spears, of 
knights and squires, and upwards of eight thousand infantry, which he said 
would be more than enough to fight the Scots, who were but three hundred 
lances and two thousand others. When they were all assembled they left 
Newcastle after dinner, and took the field in good array, following the road 
the Scots had taken, making for Otterbourne, which was eight short leagues 
distant; but they could not advance very fast, that their infantry might 
keep up with them. 

As the Scots were supping,- some indeed had gone to sleep, for they had 
labored hard during the day at the attack of the castle, and intended 
renewing it in the cool of the morning,- the English arrived, and mistook, 
at their entrance, the huts of the servants for those of their masters. They 
forced their way into the camp, which was, however, tolerably strong, 
shouting out, "Percy! Percy!" In such cases you may suppose an alarm is soon 
given, and it was fortunate for the Scots that the English had made their 
first attack on the servants' quarters, which checked them some little. The 
Scots, expecting the English, had prepared accordingly; for while the lords 
were arming themselves they ordered a body of infantry to join their 
servants and keep up the skirmish. As their men were armed, they formed 
themselves under the pennons of the three principal barons, who each had his 
particular appointment. In the meantime the night advanced, but it was 
sufficiently light, for the moon shone, and it was the month of August, when 
the weather is temperate and serene. 

When the Scots were quite ready, and properly arrayed, they left their camp 
in silence, but did not march to meet the English. They skirted the side of 
the mountain which was hard by; for during the preceding day they had well 
examined the country round, and said among themselves, "Should the English 
come to beat up our quarters we will do so and so," and thus settled their 
plans beforehand, which was the saving of them; for it is of the greatest 
advantage to men-at-arms when attacked in the night to have previously 
arranged their mode of defence, and well to have weighed the chance of 
victory or defeat. The English had soon overpowered their servants; but as 
they advanced into the camp they found fresh bodies ready to oppose them, 
and to continue the fight. The Scots, in the meantime, marched along the 
mountain side, and fell upon the enemy's flank quite unexpectedly, shouting 
their cries. This was a great surprise to the English, who however formed 
themselves in better order and reinforced that part of their army. The cries 
of Percy and Douglas resounded on either side. 

The battle now raged: great was the pushing of lances, and very many of each 
party was struck down at the first onset. The English being more numerous, 
and anxious to defeat the enemy, kept in a compact body, and forced the 
Scots to retire, who were on the point of being discomfited. The earl of 
Douglas being young, and impatient to gain renown in arms, ordered his 
banner to advance, shouting, "Douglas! Douglas!" Sir Henry and Sir Ralph 
Percy, indignant for the affront the earl of Douglas had put on them, by 
conquering their pennon, and desirous of meeting him, hastened to the place 
from whence the sounds came, calling out, "Percy! Percy!" The two banners 
met, and many gallant deeds of arms ensued. The English were in superior 
strength, and fought so lustily that they drove back the Scots. Sir Patrick 
Hepburn and his son of the same name did honor to their knighthood and 
country by their gallantry, under the banner of Douglas, which would have 
been conquered but for the vigorous defence they made; and this circumstance 
not only contributed to their personal credit, but the memory of it is 
continued with honor to their descendants. 

The knights and squires of either party were anxious to continue the combat 
with vigor as long as their spears might be capable of holding. Cowardice 
was there unknown, and the most splendid courage was everywhere exhibited by 
the gallant youths of England and Scotland; they were so closely intermixed 
that the archer's' bows were useless, and they fought hand to hand, without 
either battalion giving way. The Scots behaved most valiantly, for the 
English were three to one. I do not mean to say the English did not acquit 
themselves well; for they would sooner be slain or made prisoners in battle 
than reproached with flight. As I before mentioned, the two banners of 
Douglas and Percy met, and the men-at-arms under each exerted themselves by 
every means to gain the victory; but the English, at this attack, were so 
much the stronger, that the Scots were driven back. The earl of Douglas, who 
was of a high spirit, seeing his men repulsed, seized a battle-axe with both 
his hands, like a gallant knight, and to rally his men dashed into the midst 
of his enemies, and gave such blows on all around him that no one could 
withstand them, but all made way for him on every side; for there was none 
so well armed with helmets and plates but that they suffered from his 
battle-axe. Thus he advanced, like another Hector, thinking to recover and 
conquer the field, from his own prowess, until he was met by three spears 
that were pointed at him. One struck him on the shoulder, another on the 
stomach, and the third entered his thigh. He could never disengage himself 
from these spears, but was borne to the ground, fighting desperately. From 
that time he never rose again. Some of his knights and squires had followed 
him, but not all; for, though the moon shone, it was rather dark. The three 
English lancers knew that they had struck down some person of considerable 
rank, but never thought it was Earl Douglas. Had they known it, they would 
have been so rejoiced that their courage would have been redoubled, and the 
fortune of the day had consequently been determined to their side. The Scots 
were ignorant also of their loss until the battle was over, otherwise they 
would certainly, from despair, have been discomfited. 

I will relate what befell the earl afterward. As soon as he fell, his head 
was cleaved by a battle-axe, the spear thrust through his thigh, and the 
main body of the English marched over him, without paying any attention, not 
supposing him to be their principal enemy. 

In another part of the field, the earl of March and Dunbar combated 
valiantly; and the English gave the Scots full employment who had followed 
the earl of Douglas, and had engaged with the two Percies. The earl of Moray 
behaved so gallantly in pursuing the English, that they knew not how to 
resist him. Of all the battles that have been described in this history, 
great and small, this of which I am now speaking was the best fought and the 
most severe; for there was not a man, knight, or squire who did not acquit 
himself gallantly, hand to hand with the enemy. It resembled something that 
of Cocherel, which was as long and as hardily disputed. The sons of the earl 
of Northumberland, Sir Henry and Sir Ralph Percy, who were the leaders of 
this expedition, behaved themselves like good knights in the combat. Almost 
a similar accident befel Sir Ralph as that which happened to the earl of 
Douglas; for, having advanced too far, he was surrounded by the enemy and 
severely wounded, and, being out of breath, surrendered himself to a Scots 
knight, called Sir John Maxwell, who was under the command and of the 
household of the earl of Moray. 

When made prisoner, the knight asked him who he was, for it was dark, and he 
knew him not. Sir Ralph was so weakened by loss of blood, which was flowing 
from his wound, that he could scarcely avow himself to be Sir Ralph Percy. 
"Well," replied the knight, "Sir Ralph, rescued or not, you are my prisoner; 
my name is Maxwell." "I agree to it," said Sir Ralph. "But pay some 
attention to me; for I am so desperately wounded, that my drawers and 
greaves are full of blood." Upon this the Scots knight was very attentive to 
him; when suddenly hearing the cry of Moray hard by, and perceiving the 
earl's banner advancing to him, Sir John addressed himself to the earl of 
Moray, and said, "My lord, I present you with Sir Ralph Percy as a prisoner; 
but let good care be taken of him, for he is very badly wounded." The earl 
was much pleased at this, and replied, "Maxwell, thou hast well earned thy 
spurs this day." He then ordered his men to take every care of Sir Ralph, 
who bound up and staunched his wounds. The battle still continued to rage, 
and no one could say at that moment which side would be the conqueror, for 
there were very many captures and rescues that never came to my knowledge. 

The young earl of Douglas had this night performed wonders in arms. When he 
was struck down there was a great crowd round him, and he could not raise 
himself; for the blow on his head was mortal. His men had followed him as 
closely as they were able, and there came to him his cousins, Sir James 
Lindsay, Sir John and Sir Walter Sinclair, with other knights and squires. 
They found by his side a gallant knight, that had constantly attended him, 
who was his chaplain, and had at this time exchanged his profession for that 
of a valiant man-at-arms. The whole night he had followed the earl, with his 
battle-axe in hand, and had by his exertions more than once repelled the 
English. This conduct gained the thanks of his countrymen, and turned out to 
his advantage, for in the same year he was promoted to the archdeaconry, and 
made canon of Aberdeen. His name was Sir William of North Berwick. To say 
the truth, he was well formed in all his limbs to shine in battle, and was 
severely wounded at this combat. When these knights came to the earl of 
Douglas they found him in a melancholy state, as well as one of his knights, 
Sir Robert Hart, who had fought by his side the whole of the night, and now 
lay beside him, covered with fifteen wounds from lances and other weapons. 

Sir John Sinclair asked the earl, "Cousin, how fares it with you?" "But so 
so," replied he. "Thanks to God, there are but few of my ancestors who have 
died in chambers or in their beds. I bid you, therefore, revenge my death, 
for I have but little hope of living, as my heart becomes every minute more 
faint. Do you, Walter and Sir John Sinclair, raise up my banner, for 
certainly it is on the ground, from the death of David Campbell, that 
valiant squire who bore it, and who refused knighthood from my hands this 
day, though he was equal to the most eminent knights for courage and 
loyalty; and continue to shout 'Douglas!' but do not tell friend or foe 
whether I am in your company or not; for, should the enemy know the truth, 
they will be greatly rejoiced." 

The two brothers Sinclair and Sir John Lindsay obeyed his orders. The banner 
was raised, and "Douglas!" shouted. Their men, who had remained behind, 
hearing the shouts of "Douglas!" so often repeated, ascended a small 
eminence, and pushed their lances with such courage that the English were 
repulsed, and many killed or struck to the ground. The Scots, by thus 
valiantly driving the enemy beyond the spot where the earl of Douglas lay 
dead,- for he had expired on giving his last orders,- arrived at his banner, 
which was borne by Sir John Sinclair. Numbers were continually increasing, 
from the repeated shouts of "Douglas!" and the greater part of the Scots 
knights and squires were now there. The earls of Moray and March, with their 
banners and men, came thither also. When they were all thus collected, 
perceiving the English retreat, they renewed the battle with greater vigor 
than before. 

To say the truth, the English had harder work than the Scots, for they had 
come by a forced march that evening from Newcastle-on-Tyne, which was eight 
English leagues distant, to meet the Scots, by which means the greater part 
were exceedingly fatigued before the combat began. The Scots, on the 
contrary, had reposed themselves, which was to them of the utmost advantage, 
as was apparent from the event of the battle. In this last attack they so 
completely repulsed the English, that the latter could never rally again, 
and the former drove them far beyond where the earl of Douglas lay on the 
ground. Sir Henry Percy, during this attack, had the misfortune to fall into 
the hands of the Lord Montgomery, a very valiant knight of Scotland. They 
had long fought hand to hand with much valor, and without hindrance from any 
one; for there was neither knight nor squire of either party who did not 
find there his equal to fight with, and all were fully engaged. In the end, 
Sir Henry was made prisoner by the Lord Montgomery. 

 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE.

"ICH DIEN".

THE last hero of English chivalry with whom we have to do is Edward the 
Black Prince. And as the most characteristic part of the knighthood of this 
most knightly of English princes, we have selected the battles of Crecy and 
of Poitiers.

THE BATTLE OF CRECY.

The English, who were drawn up in three divisions, and seated on the ground, 
on seeing their enemies advance, rose undauntedly up, and fell into their 
ranks. That of the prince (1) was the first to do so, whose archers were 
formed in the manner of a portcullis or harrow, and the men-at-arms in the 
rear. The earls of Northumberland and Arundel, who commanded the second 
division, had posted themselves in good order on his wing, to assist and 
succor the prince if necessary.

You must know that these kings, earls, barons, and lords of France did not 
advance in any regular order, but one after the other, or anyway most 
pleasing to themselves. As soon as the king of France came in sight of the 
English, his blood began to boil, and he cried out to his marshals, "Order 
the Genoese forward, and begin the battle, in the name of God and St. 
Denis." There were about fifteen thousand Genoese cross-bowmen, but they 
were quite fatigued, having marched on foot that day six leagues, completely 
armed and with their cross-bows. They told the constable they were not in a 
fit condition to do any great things that day in battle. The earl of 
Alencon, hearing this, said, "This is what one gets by employing such 
scoundrels, who fall off when there is any need of them." During this time a 
heavy rain fell, accompanied by thunder and a very terrible eclipse of the 
sun; and before this rain a great flight of crows hovered in the air over 
all those battalions, making a loud noise. Shortly afterwards it cleared up, 
and the sun shone very bright, but the Frenchmen had it in their faces, and 
the Englishmen in their backs. When the Genoese were somewhat in order, and 
approached the English, they set up a loud shout, in order to frighten them; 
but they remained quite still, and did not seem to attend to it. 

Then they set up a second shout, and advanced a little forward, but the 
English never moved. They hooted a third time, advancing with their 
crossbows presented, and began to shoot. The English archers then advanced 
one step forward, and shot their arrows with such force and quickness that 
it seemed as if it snowed. When the Genoese felt these arrows, which pierced 
their arms, heads, and through their armor, some of them cut the strings of 
their crossbows, others flung them on the ground, and all turned about and 
retreated quite discomfited. The French had a large body of men-at-arms on 
horseback, richly dressed, to support the Genoese. The king of France, 
seeing them thus fall back, cried out, "Kill me those scoundrels, for they 
stop up our road without any reason." You would then have seen the above-
mentioned men-at-arms lay about them, killing all they could of these 
runaways. 

The English continued shooting as vigorously and quickly as before; some of 
their arrows fell among the horsemen who were sumptuously equipped, and, 
killing and wounding many, made them caper and fall among the Genoese, so 
that they were in such confusion that they could never rally again. The 
valiant king of Bohemia was slain there. He was called Charles of 
Luxembourg, for he was the son of the gallant king and emperor, Henry of 
Luxembourg. 

Having heard the order of the battle, he inquired where his son, the lord 
Charles, was. His attendants answered that they did not know, but believed 
he was fighting. The king said to them, "Gentlemen, you are all my people, 
my friends and brethren at arms this day; therefore, as I am blind, I 
request of you to lead me so far into the engagement that I may strike one 
stroke with my sword." The knights replied they would directly lead him 
forward; and in order that they might not lose him in the crowd, they 
fastened all the reins of their horses together, and put the king at their 
head, that he might gratify his wish, and advanced towards the enemy. The 
lord Charles of Bohemia, who already signed his name as king of Germany, and 
bore the arms, had come in good order to the engagement; but when he 
perceived that it was likely to turn against the French, he departed, and I 
do not well know what road he took. The king, his father, had rode in among 
the enemy, and made good use of his sword, for he and his companions had 
fought most gallantly. They had advanced so far that they were all slain; 
and on the morrow they were found on the ground, with their horses all tied 
together. 

The earl of Alencon advanced in regular order upon the English to fight with 
them, as did the earl of Flanders in another part. These two lords, with 
their detachments, coasting, as it were, the archers, came to the prince's 
battalion, where they fought valiantly for a length of time. The king of 
France was eager to march to the place where, he saw their banners 
displayed, but there was a hedge of archers before him. He had that day made 
a present of a handsome black horse to Sir John of Hainault, who had mounted 
on it a knight of his that bore his banner, which horse ran off with him and 
forced his way through the English army, and, when about to return, stumbled 
and fell into a ditch and severely wounded him. He would have been dead if 
his page had not followed him round the battalions and found him unable to 
rise. He had not, however, any other hindrance than from his horse; for the 
English did not quit the ranks that day to make prisoners, The page 
alighted, and raised him up; but he did not return the way he came, as he 
would have found it difficult from the crowd. 

This battle, which was fought on a Saturday between la Broyes and Crecy, was 
very murderous and cruel; and many gallant deeds of arms were performed that 
were never known. Towards evening, many knights and squires of the French 
had lost their masters. They wandered up and down the plain, attacking the 
English in small parties. They were soon destroyed, for the English had 
determined that day to give no quarter, or hear of ransom from any one. 

Early in the day, some French, Germans, and Savoyards had broken through the 
archers of the prince's battalion and had engaged with the men-at-arms; upon 
which the second battalion came to his aid, and it was time, for otherwise 
he would have been hard pressed. The first division, seeing the danger they 
were in, sent a knight in great haste to the king of England, who was posted 
upon an eminence near a windmill. On the knight's arrival, he said, "Sir, 
the earl of Warwick, the lord Stafford, the lord Reginald Cobham, and the 
others who are about your son, are vigorously attacked by the French; and 
they entreat that you would come to their assistance with your battalion, 
for, if their numbers should increase, they fear he will have too much to 
do." The king replied, "Is my son dead, unhorsed, or so badly wounded that 
he cannot support himself?" "Nothing of the sort, thank God," rejoined the 
knight; "but he is in so hot an engagement that he has great need of your 
help." The king answered, "Now, Sir Thomas, return back to those that sent 
you, and tell them from me, not to send again for me this day, or expect 
that I shall come, let what will happen, as long as my son has life; and say 
that I command them to let the boy win his spurs; for I am determined, if it 
please God, that all the glory and honor of this day shall be given to him, 
and to those into whose care I have entrusted him." The knight returned to 
his lords, and related the king's answer, which mightily encouraged them, 
and made them repent they ever sent such a message. 

Late after vespers the king of France had not more about him than sixty men, 
every one included. Sir John of Hainault, who was of the number, had once 
remounted the king; for his horse had been killed under him by an arrow. He 
said to the king, "Sir, retreat whilst you have an opportunity, and do not 
expose yourself so simply; if you have lost this battle, another time you 
will be the conqueror." After he had said this, he took the bridle of the 
king's horse and led him off by force, for he had before entreated him to 
retire. The king rode on until he came to the castle of la Broyes, where he 
found the gates shut, for it was very dark. The king ordered the governor of 
it to be summoned. He came upon the battlements, and asked who it was that 
called at such an hour. The king answered, "Open, open, governor; it is the 
fortune of France." The governor, hearing the king's voice, immediately 
descended, opened the gate, and let down the bridge. The king and his 
company entered the castle; but he had only with him five barons, Sir John 
of Hainault and four more. The king would not bury himself in such a place 
as that, but, having taken some refreshments, set out again with his 
attendants about midnight, and rode on, under the direction of guides who 
were well acquainted with the country, until, about daybreak; he came to 
Amiens, where he halted. This Saturday the English never quitted their ranks 
in pursuit of any one, but remained an the field, guarding their position, 
and defending themselves against all who attacked them. The battle was ended 
at the hour of vespers. 

When on this Saturday night, the English heard no more hooting or shouting, 
nor any more crying out to particular lords or their banners, they looked 
upon the field as their own, and their enemies as beaten. They made great 
fires and lighted torches because of the obscurity of the night. King Edward 
then came down from his post, who all that day had not put on his helmet, 
and, with his whole battalion, advanced to the prince of Wales, whom he 
embraced in his arms and kissed, and said, "Sweet son, God give you good 
perseverance; you are my son, for most loyally have you acquitted yourself 
this day; you are worthy to be a sovereign." The prince bowed down very low 
and humbled himself, giving all honor to the king, his father. The English 
during the night made frequent thanksgiving to the Lord for the happy issue 
of the day, and without rioting; for the king had forbidden all riot or 
noise. 

At Crecy the Black Prince won his spurs, but the great achievement of his 
life was his victory at Poitiers,- a battle fought by him alone with his 
army, when his father, Edward III., was absent from France in England. At 
the peace of Bretagne, agreed upon after the battle, several provinces were 
ceded by France to England, and these Edward added to his dominions in 
Guienne, and formed for himself a separate kingdom, which he ruled until his 
death. He never came to the throne of England; his son, Richard II., 
succeeded Edward III.

THE BATTLE OF POITIERS.

On Sunday morning, the king of France, who was very impatient to combat the 
English, ordered a solemn mass to be sung in his pavilion, and he and his 
four sons received the communion. Mass being over, there came to him many 
barons of France, as well as other great lords who held fiefs in the 
neighborhood, according to a summons they had received for a council. They 
were a considerable time debating; at last it was ordered that the whole 
army should advance into the plain, and that each lord should display his 
banner, and push forward in the name of God and St. Denis. Upon this the 
trumpets of the army sounded, and every one got himself ready, mounted his 
horse, and made for that part of the plain where the king's banner was 
fluttering in the wind. There might be seen all the nobility of France, 
richly dressed out in brilliant armor, with banners and pennons gallantly 
displayed; for all the flower of the French nobility was there; no knight 
nor squire, for fear of dishonor, dared to remain at home. By the advice of 
the constable and the marshals, the army was divided into three battalions, 
each consisting of sixteen thousand men-at-arms, who had before shown 
themselves men of tried courage. The duke of Orleans commanded the first 
battalion, where there were thirty-six banners and twice as many pennons. 
The second was under command of the duke of Normandy, and his two brothers, 
the lord Lewis and lord John. The king of France commanded the third. 

Whilst these battalions were forming, the king called to him the lord 
Eustace de Ribeaumont, the lord John de Landas, and the lord Guiscard de 
Beaujeu, and said to them, "Ride forward as near the English army as you 
can, and observe their countenance, taking notice of their numbers, and 
examine which will be the most advantageous manner to combat them, whether 
on horseback or on foot." The three knights left the king to obey his 
commands. The king was mounted on a white palfrey, and, riding to the head 
of his army, said aloud, "You men of Paris, Chartres, Rouen, and Orleans, 
have been used to threaten what you would do to the English if you could 
find them, and wished much to meet them in arms; now that wish shall be 
granted. I will lead you to them, and let us see how you will revenge 
yourselves for all the mischief and damage they have done you. Be assured we 
will not part without fighting." Those who heard him replied, "Sir, through 
God's assistance we will most cheerfully meet them." 

At this instant the three knights returned, and pushing through the crowd, 
came to the king, who asked what news they had brought. Sir Eustace de 
Ribeaumont, whom his companions had requested to be their spokesman, 
answered, "Sir, we have observed accurately the English; they may amount, 
according to our estimate, to about two thousand men-at-arms, four thousand 
archers, and fifteen hundred footmen. They are in a very strong position; 
but we do not imagine they can make more than one battalion; nevertheless, 
they have posted themselves with great judgment, have fortified all the road 
along the hedge side, and lined the hedges with part of their archers; for, 
as that is the only road for an attack, one must pass through the midst of 
them. This lane has no other entry; for it is so narrow, that scarcely can 
four men ride abreast in it. At the end of this lane, amidst vines and 
thorns, where it is impossible to ride or march in any regular order, are 
posted the men-at-arms on foot; and they have drawn up before them their 
archers in the manner of a harrow, so that it will be no easy matter to 
defeat them." The king asked in what manner they would advise him to attack 
them. "Sir," replied Sir Eustace, "on foot; except three hundred of the most 
expert, to break, if possible, this body of archers; and then your 
battalions must advance quickly on foot, attack the men-at-arms hand to 
hand, and combat them valiantly. This is the best advice that I can give 
you, and if any one know a better, let him say it." The king replied, "Thus 
shall it be, then." And, in company with his two marshals, he rode from 
battalion to battalion, and selected, in conformity to their opinions, three 
hundred knights and squires of the greatest repute in his army, each well 
armed, and mounted on the best of horses. 

Soon after, the battalion of the Germans was formed, who were to remain on 
horseback, to assist the marshals; they were commanded by the earls of 
Salzburg, Neydo, and Nassau. King John was armed in royal armor, and 
nineteen others like him. 

When the battalions of the king of France were drawn up, and each lord 
posted under his proper banner, and informed how they were to act, it was 
ordered that all those who were armed with lances should shorten them to the 
length of five feet, that they might be the more manageable, and that every 
one should take off his spurs. As the French were on the point of marching 
to their enemies, the cardinal of Perigord, who had left Poitiers that 
morning early, came full gallop to the king, making him a low reverence, and 
entreated him that he might be allowed to go to the prince of Wales, to 
endeavor to make peace between him and the king of France. The king 
answered, "It is very agreeable to us; but make haste back again." 

So then the cardinal set off, and went in all speed to the prince; but 
though he spent all this Sunday in riding from one army to another, he could 
not make terms which were thought honorable alike by the king and by the 
prince of Wales. That same day, the French kept in their quarters, where 
they lived at their ease, having plenty of provisions; whilst the English, 
on the other hand, were but badly off, nor did they know whither to go for 
forage, as they were so straitly kept by the French they could not move 
without danger. This Sunday they made many mounds and ditches round where 
the archers were posted, the better to secure them. 

On Monday morning the prince and his army were soon in readiness, and as 
well arranged as on the former day. The French were also drawn out by 
sunrise. The cardinal, returning again that morning, imagined that by his 
exhortations he could pacify both parties; but the French told him to return 
when he pleased, and not attempt bringing them any more treaties or 
pacifications, else worse might betide him. When the cardinal saw that he 
labored in vain, he took leave of the king of France, and set out towards 
the prince of Wales, to whom he said, "Fair son, exert yourself as much as 
possible, for there must be a battle; I cannot by any means pacify the king 
of France." The prince replied, "that such were the intentions of him and 
his army; and God defend the right." The cardinal then took leave of him, 
and returned to Poitiers. 

The arrangement of the prince's army, in respect to the battalions, was 
exactly the same as what the three knights before named had related to the 
king of France, except that at this time he had ordered some valiant and 
intelligent knights to remain on horseback, similar to the battalion of the 
French marshals, and had also commanded three hundred men-at-arms, and as 
many archers on horseback, to post themselves on the right, on a small hill, 
that was not too steep nor too high, and, by passing over its summit, to get 
round the wings of the duke of Normandy's battalions, who was in person at 
the foot of it. These were all the alterations the prince had made in his 
order of battle; he himself was with the main body, in the midst of the 
vineyards, the whole completely armed, with their horses near, if there 
should be any occasion for them. They had fortified and inclosed the weaker 
parts with their wagons and baggage. 

And when the prince of Wales saw, from the departure of the cardinal without 
being able to obtain any honorable terms, that a battle was inevitable, and 
that the king of France held both him and his army in great contempt, he 
thus addressed himself to them: "Now, my gallant fellows, what though we be 
a small body when compared to the army of our enemies; do not let us be cast 
down on that account, for victory does not always follow numbers, but where 
the Almighty God pleases to bestow it. If, through good fortune, the day 
shall be ours, we will gain the greatest honor and glory in this world; if 
the contrary should happen, and we be slain, I have a father and beloved 
brethren alive, and you all have some relations or good friends, who will be 
sure to revenge our deaths. I therefore entreat of you to exert yourselves, 
and combat manfully; for, if it please God and St. George, you shall see me 
this day act like a true knight." By such words and arguments as these the 
prince harangued his men, as did the marshals, by his orders, so that they 
were all in high spirits. Sir John Chandos placed himself near the prince, 
to guard and advise him; and never, during the day, would he, on any 
account, quit his post. 

The lord James Audley remained also a considerable time near him; but, when 
he saw that they must certainly engage, he said to the prince: "Sir, I have 
ever served most loyally my lord your father, and yourself, and shall 
continue so to do as long as I have life. Dear sir, I must now acquaint you 
that formerly I made a vow, if ever I should be engaged in any battle where 
the king, your father, or any of his sons were, that I would be the foremost 
in the attack, and the best combatant on his side, or die in the attempt. I 
beg, therefore, most earnestly, as a reward for any services I may have 
done, that you would grant me permission honorably to quit you, that I may 
post myself in such wise to accomplish my vow." The prince granted this 
request, and, holding out his hand to him, said: "Sir James, God grant that 
this day you may shine in valor above all other knights." The knight then 
set off, and posted himself at the front of the battalion, with only four 
squires whom he had detained with him to guard his person. The lord James 
was a prudent and valiant knight; and by his advice the army had thus been 
drawn up in order of battle. The lord James began to advance, in order to 
fight with the battalion of the marshals. Sir Eustace d'Ambreticourt, being 
mounted, placed his lance in its rest, and, fixing his shield, struck spurs 
into his horse and galloped up to this battalion. A German knight, 
perceiving Sir Eustace quit his army, left his battalion that was under the 
command of earl John of Nassau, and made up to him. The shock of their 
meeting was so violent that they both fell to the ground. The German was 
wounded in the shoulder, so that he could not rise again so nimbly as Sir 
Eustace, who, when upon his legs, after he had taken breath, was hastening 
to the knight that lay on the ground; but five German men-at-arms came upon 
him, struck him down, and made him prisoner. They led him to those that were 
attached to the earl of Nassau, who did not pay much attention to him, nor 
do I know if they made him swear himself their prisoner; but they tied him 
to a car with some of their harness. 

The engagement now began on both sides, and the battalion of the marshals 
was advancing before those who were intended to break the battalion of the 
archers, and had entered the lane where the hedges on both sides were lined 
by the archers, who, as soon as they saw them fairly entered, began shooting 
with their bows in such an excellent manner from each side of the hedge, 
that the horses, smarting under the pain of the wounds made by their bearded 
arrows, would not advance, but turned about, and, by their unruliness, threw 
their masters, who could not manage them; nor could those that had fallen 
get up again for the confusion, so that this battalion of the marshals could 
never approach that of the prince. However, there were some knights and 
squires so well mounted, that by the strength of their horses they passed 
through and broke the hedge, but, in spite of their efforts, could not get 
up to the battalion of the prince. The lord James Audley, attended by his 
four squires, had placed himself, sword in hand, in front of this battalion 
much before the rest, and was performing wonders. He had advanced through 
his eagerness so far that he engaged the lord Arnold d'Andreghen, marshal of 
France, under his banner when they fought a considerable time, and the lord 
Arnold was roughly enough treated. The battalion of the marshals was soon 
after put to the rout by the arrows of the archers and the assistance of the 
men-at-arms, who rushed among them as they were struck down and seized and 
slew them at their pleasure. The lord Arnold d'Andreghen was there made 
prisoner, but by others than the lord James Audley or his four squires, for 
that knight never stopped to make any one his prisoner that day, but was the 
whole time employed in fighting and following his enemies. In another part, 
the lord John Clermont fought under his banner as long as he was able, but 
being struck down, he could neither get up again nor procure his ransom; he 
was killed on the spot. In a short time this battalion of the marshals was 
totally discomfited; for they fell back so much on each other that the army 
could not advance, and those who were in the rear, not being able to get 
forward, fell back upon the battalion commanded by the duke of Normandy, 
which was broad and thick in the front, but it was soon thin enough in the 
rear; for when they learnt that the marshals had been defeated, they mounted 
their horses and set off. At this time a body of English came down from the 
hill, and, passing along the battalions on horseback, accompanied by a large 
body of archers, fell upon one of the wings of the duke of Normandy's 
division. To say the truth, the English archers were of infinite service to 
their army, for they shot so thickly and so well that the French did not 
know what way to turn themselves to avoid their arrows. By this means they 
kept advancing by little and little and gained ground. When the English men-
at-arms perceived that the first battalion was beaten, and that the one 
under the duke of Normandy was in disorder and beginning to open, they 
hastened to mount their horses, which they had ready prepared close at hand. 
As soon as they were all mounted, they gave a shout of "St. George for 
Guienne!" and Sir John Chandos said to the prince, "Sir, sir, now push 
forward, for the day is ours. God will this day put it in your hand. Let us 
make for our adversary, the king of France; for where he is will lie the 
main stress of the business. I well know that his valor will not let him 
fly; and he will remain with us, if it please God and St. George; but he 
must be well fought with, and you have before said that you would show 
yourself this day a good knight." 

The prince replied: "John, get forward; you shall not see me turn my back 
this day, but I will always be among the foremost." He then said to Sir 
Walter Woodland, his banner-bearer, "Banner, advance, in the name of God and 
St. George." The knight obeyed the commands of the prince; and the prince 
upon this charged the division of the duke of Athens, and very sharp the 
encounter was, so that many were beaten down. The French, who fought in 
large bodies, cried out, "Montjoye St. Denis!" and the English answered them 
with "St. George for Guienne!" 

The prince next met the battalion of Germans under command of the earl of 
Salzburg, the earl of Nassau, and the earl of Neydo; but they were soon 
overthrown and put to flight. The English archers shot so well that none 
dared to come within reach of their arrows, and they put to death many who 
could not ransom themselves. Then the above-named earls were slain there, as 
well as many other knights and squires attached to them. In the confusion, 
Sir Eustace d'Ambreticourt was rescued by his own men, who remounted him. He 
afterwards performed many gallant deeds of arms, and made good captures that 
day. 

When the battalion of the duke of Normandy saw the prince advancing so quick 
upon them, they bethought themselves how to escape. The sons of the king, 
the duke of Normandy, the earl of Poitiers, and the earl of Touraine, who 
were very young, too easily believed what those under whose management they 
were placed said to them. However, the lord Guiscard d'Angle and Sir John de 
Saintre, who were near the earl of Poitiers, would not fly, but rushed into 
the thickest of the combat. The three sons of the king, according to the 
advice given them, galloped away, with upwards of eighty lances who had 
never been near the enemy, and took the road to Chavigny. 

Now the king's battalion advanced in good order to meet the English; many 
hard blows were given with swords, battle-axes, and other warlike weapons. 
The king of France, with the lord Philip, his youngest son, attacked the 
division of the marshals, the earls of Warwick and Suffolk, and in this 
combat were engaged many very noble lords on both sides. 

The lord James Audley, with the assistance of his four squires, was always 
engaged in the heat of the battle. He was severely wounded in the body, 
head, and face; and as long as his breath permitted him, he maintained the 
fight and advanced forward. He continued to do so until he was covered with 
blood. Then, toward the close of the engagement, his four squires, who were 
his body guard, took him, and led him out of the engagement, very weak and 
wounded, towards a hedge, that he might cool and take breath. They disarmed 
him as gently as they could, in order to examine his wounds, dress them, and 
sew up the most serious. 

It often happens that fortune in war and love turns out more favorable and 
wonderful than could have been hoped for or expected. To say the truth, this 
battle, which was fought near Poitiers, in the plains of Beauvoir and 
Maupertuis, was very bloody and perilous. Many gallant deeds of arms were 
performed that were never known, and the combatants on either side suffered 
much. King John himself did wonders. He was armed with a battle-axe, with 
which he fought and defended himself; and if a fourth of his people had 
behaved as well the day would have been his own. The earl of Tancarville, in 
endeavoring to break through the crowd, was made prisoner close to him, as 
were also Sir James de Bourbon, earl of Ponthieu, and the lord John 
d'Artois, earl of Eu. The pursuit continued even to the gates of Poitiers, 
where there was much slaughter and overthrow of men and horses; for the 
inhabitants of Poitiers had shut their gates and would suffer none to enter; 
upon which account there was great butchery on the causeway before the gate, 
where such numbers were killed or wounded that several surrendered 
themselves the moment they spied an Englishman; and there were many English 
archers who had four, five, or six prisoners. 

There was much pressing at this time through eagerness to take the king; and 
those who were nearest to him and knew him, cried out, "Surrender yourself, 
surrender yourself, or you are a dead man." In that part of the field was a 
young knight from St. Omer, who was engaged by a salary in the service of 
the king of England. His name was Denys de Morbeque, who for five years had 
attached himself to the English on account of having been banished in his 
younger days from France for a murder committed in an affray at St. Omer. It 
fortunately happened for this knight that he was at the time near to the 
king of France when he was so much pulled about. He by dint of force, for he 
was very strong and robust, pushed through the crowd, and said to the king 
in very good French, "Sire, sire, surrender yourself." The king, who found 
himself very disagreeably situated, turning to him, asked, "To whom shall I 
surrender myself; to whom? Where is my cousin, the prince of Wales? if I 
could see him I would speak to him." "Sire," replied Sir Denys, "he is not 
here; but surrender yourself to me and I will lead you to him." "Who are 
you?" said the king. "Sire, I am Denys de Morbeque, a knight from Artois, 
but I serve the king of England because I cannot belong to France, having 
forfeited all I possess there." The king then gave him his right-hand glove, 
and said, "I surrender myself to you." There was much crowding and pushing 
about, for every one was eager to cry out, "I have taken him." Neither the 
king nor his youngest son Philip were able to get forward, and free 
themselves from the throng. The prince of Wales, who was as courageous as a 
lion, took great delight that day to combat his enemies. Sir John Chandos, 
who was near his person and had never quitted it during the whole of the 
day, nor stopped to take any prisoners, said to him toward the end of the 
battle, "Sir, it will be proper for you to halt here and plant your banner 
on the top of this bush, which will serve to rally your forces that seem 
very much scattered; for I do not see any banners or pennons of the French, 
nor any considerable bodies able to rally against us; and you must refresh 
yourself a little, as I perceive you are very much heated." Upon this, the 
banner of the prince was placed on a high bush; the minstrels began to play, 
and trumpets and clarions to do their duty. The prince took off his helmet, 
and the knights attendant on his person and belonging to his chamber were 
soon ready, and pitched a small pavilion of crimson color, which the prince 
entered. Liquor was then brought to him and the other knights who were with 
him. They increased every moment; for they were returning from the pursuit, 
and stopped there, surrounded by their prisoners. 

As soon as the two marshals were come back, the prince asked them if they 
knew anything of the king of France. They replied, "No, sir, not for a 
certainty; but we believe he must be either killed or taken prisoner, since 
he has never quitted his battalion." The prince then, addressing the earl of 
Warwick and lord Cobham, said, "I beg of you to mount your horses and ride 
over the field, so that on your return you may bring me some certain 
intelligence of him." The two barons, immediately mounting their horses, 
left the prince and made for a small hillock, that they might look about 
them. From their stand they perceived a crowd of men-at-arms on foot, who 
were advancing very slowly. The king of France was in the midst of them, and 
in great danger; for the French and Gascons had taken him from Sir Denys de 
Morbeque and were disputing who should have him, the stoutest bawling out, 
"It is I who have got him." "No, no," replied the others, "we have him." The 
king to escape his peril, said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, I pray you conduct me 
and my son in a courteous manner to my cousin the prince; and do not make 
such a riot over my capture, for I am so great a lord that I can make all 
sufficiently rich." These words, and others which fell from the king, 
appeased them a little, but the disputes were always beginning again, and 
they did not move a step without rioting. When the two barons saw this troop 
of people, they descended from the hillock, and, sticking spurs into their 
horses, made up to them. On their arrival, they asked what was the matter. 
They were answered that it was the king of France, who had been made 
prisoner, and that upwards of ten knights and squires challenged him at the 
same time as belonging to each of them. The two barons then pushed through 
the crowd by main force and ordered all to draw aside. They commanded, in 
the name of the prince and under pain of instant death, that every one 
should keep his distance, and not approach unless ordered or desired so to 
do. They all retreated behind the king; and the two barons, dismounting, 
advanced to the king with profound reverence, and conducted him in a 
peaceable manner to the prince of Wales. 

Soon after the earl of Warwick and the lord Reginald Cobham had left the 
prince, as has been above related, he inquired from those knights around him 
of lord James Audley, and asked if any one knew what was become of him. 
"Yes, sir," replied some of the company, "he is very badly wounded, and is 
lying in a litter hard by." "By my troth," replied the prince, "I am sore 
vexed that he is so wounded. See, I beg of you, if he be able to bear being 
carried hither; otherwise I will come and visit him." Two knights directly 
left the prince, and, coming to lord James, told him how desirous the prince 
was of seeing him. "A thousand thanks to the prince," answered Lord James, 
"for condescending to remember so poor a knight as myself." He then called 
eight of his servants and had himself borne in his litter to where the 
prince was. When he was come into his presence, the prince bent down over 
him and embraced him, saying, "My lord James, I am bound to honor you very 
much, for by your valor this day you have acquired glory and renown above us 
all, and your prowess has proved you the bravest knight." Lord James 
replied, "My lord, you have a right to say whatever you please, but I wish 
it were as you have said. If I have this day been forward to serve you it 
has been to accomplish a vow that I had made, and ought not to be so much 
thought of." "Sir James," answered the prince, "I and all the rest of us 
deem you the bravest knight on our side in this battle; and to increase your 
renown and furnish you withal to pursue your career of glory in war, I 
retain you henceforward forever as my knight, with five hundred marcs of 
yearly revenue, which I will secure to you from my estates in England." 
"Sir," said lord James, "God make me deserving of the good fortune you 
bestow upon me." At these words he took leave of the prince, as he was very 
weak, and his servants carried him back to his tent. He could not have been 
at a great distance when the earl of Warwick and lord Reginald Cobham 
entered the pavilion of the prince and presented the king of France to him. 
The prince made a very low obeisance to the king and gave him as much 
comfort as he was able, which he well knew how to administer. He ordered 
wine and spices to be brought, which he presented to the king himself, as a 
mark of great affection. 

Thus was this battle won, as you have heard related, in the plains of 
Maupertuis, two leagues from the city of Poitiers, on the 19th day of 
September, 1356. It commenced about nine o'clock and was ended by noon; but 
the English were not all returned from the pursuit, and it was to recall his 
people that the prince had placed his banner upon a high bush. They did not 
return till late after vespers from pursuing the enemy. It was reported that 
all the flower of French knighthood was slain, and that, with the king and 
his son the lord Philip, seventeen earls, without counting barons, knights, 
or squires, were made prisoners, and from five to six thousand of all sorts 
left dead in the field. When they were all collected, they found they had 
twice as many prisoners as themselves. They therefore consulted, if, 
considering the risk they might run, it would not be more advisable to 
ransom them on the spot. This was done, and the prisoners found the English 
and Gascons very civil; for there were many set at liberty that day on their 
promise of coming to Bordeaux before Christmas to pay their ransom. 

When all were returned to their banners, they retired to their camp, which 
was adjoining to the field of battle. Some disarmed themselves and did the 
same to their prisoners, to whom they showed every kindness; for whoever 
made any prisoners they were solely at his disposal to ransom or not, as he 
pleased. It may be easily supposed that all those who accompanied the prince 
were very rich in glory and wealth, as well by the ransoms of his prisoners 
as by the quantities of gold and silver plate, rich jewels, and trunks 
stuffed full of belts that were weighty from their gold and silver ornaments 
and furred mantles. They set no value on armor, tents, or other things; for 
the French had come there as magnificently and richly dressed as if they had 
been sure of gaining the victory. 

When the lord James Audley was brought back to his tent after having most 
respectfully thanked the prince for his gift, he did not remain long before 
he sent for his brother, Sir Peter Audley, and some more. They were all of 
his relations. He then sent for his four squires that had attended upon him 
that day, and, addressing himself to the knights, said: "Gentlemen, it has 
pleased my lord the prince to give me five hundred marcs as a yearly 
inheritance, for which gift I have done him very trifling bodily service. 
You see here these four squires who have always served me most loyally, and 
especially in this day's engagement. What glory I may have gained has been 
through their means and by their valor, on which account I wish to reward 
them. I therefore give and resign into their hands the gift of five hundred 
marcs which my lord the prince has been pleased to bestow on me, in the same 
form and manner that it has been presented to me. I disinherit myself of it 
and give it to them simply and without a possibility of revoking it." The 
knights looked on each other, and said, "It is becoming the noble mind of 
lord James to make such a gift;" and then unanimously added: "May the Lord 
God remember you for it! We will bear witness of this gift to them 
wheresoever and whensoever they may call upon us." They then took leave of 
him, when some went to the prince of Wales, who that night was to give a 
supper to the king of France from his own provisions; for the French had 
brought vast quantities with them, which were now fallen into the hands of 
the English, many of whom had not tasted bread for the last three days. 

When evening was come, the prince of Wales gave a supper in his pavilion to 
the king of France and to the greater part of the princes and barons who 
were prisoners. The prince seated the king of France and his son the lord 
Philip at an elevated and well-covered table; and with them were some other 
French lords of high rank. The other knights and squires were placed at 
different tables. The prince himself served the king's table, as well as the 
others, with every mark of humility, and would not sit down at it, in spite 
of all his entreaties for him to do so, saying that he was not worthy of 
such an honor, nor did it appertain to him to seat himself at the table of 
so great a king or of so valiant a man as he had shown himself by his 
actions that day. He added also, with a noble air: "Dear sir, do not make a 
poor meal because the Almighty God has not gratified your wishes in the 
event of this day; for be assured that my lord and father will show you 
every honor and friendship in his power, and will arrange for your ransom so 
reasonably that you will henceforward always remain friends. In my opinion, 
you have cause to be glad that the success of this battle did not turn out 
as you desired; for you have this day acquired such high renown for prowess 
that you have surpassed all the best knights on your side. I do not, dear 
sir, say this to flatter you, for all those of our side who have seen and 
observed the actions of each party have unanimously allowed this to be your 
due, and decree you the prize and garland for it." At the end of this speech 
there were murmurs of praise heard from every one; and the French said the 
prince had spoken truly and nobly, and that he would be one of the most 
gallant princes in Christendom if God should grant him life to pursue his 
career of glory.

THE END 

 

(1) Edward the Black Prince; son of Edward III.