HOW THE RED CROSS KNIGHT SLEW THE DRAGON

While Una was riding through forest and over plains, with her faithful

lion for her guard, the knight whom she sought had given himself over

into the care of Duessa (for such was the name of Sansfoy's companion),

by whom he was led to the gates of a splendid palace. The broad road up

to it was worn by the feet of hosts of travellers; but though many

peeped through the doors few returned. As the knight stood aside and

watched, all manner of strange people passed before him, though none

spoke. At length a man, but newly issued from the palace, and bearing a

shield with the words 'Sans joy' written across it, stopped suddenly in

front of the knight's page, then snatched from his arm a shield like his

own, bearing the name 'Sansfoy.' The page, overcome by the quickness of

the action, did not resist, but a blow on the helmet from the Red Cross

Knight made Sansjoy stagger where he stood.

The fight was fierce, and no one could tell with whom the victory lay

till the queen of that place came by, and bade them cease their

brawling, for on the morrow they should meet in the lists.

But the battle next day went against the Paynim, in spite of the

presence of the queen and the counsel of the false Duessa. Short would

have been his shrift had not thick darkness fallen about him, and when

the Red Cross Knight cried to him to begin the fray afresh, only silence

answered him.

Then the false Duessa, ever wont to take the side of him who wins,

hurried up to him, and whispered, as she had whispered to Sansjoy, 'The

conquest yours, I yours, the shield and glory yours;' but the knight did

not heed her, for his eye was ever bent on the wall of thick darkness

which shut in his foe. Indeed, so busy were his thoughts that he never

knew that blood was streaming from his wounds, till the queen ordered

him to be carried into the palace, and ointments to be laid on his body.

As was her custom, Duessa talked much and loudly of the care she would

give him, and of his speedy cure under her hands; but when night fell

she stole forth and came to the spot where Sansjoy lay, still covered

with the enchanted cloud. Then, in an iron chariot, borrowed from the

Queen of Darkness, she drove him down to the underworld, and across the

river which divides the kingdom of the living from that of the dead.

Here giving him into the hands of the oldest and greatest of physicians,

she went her way to the bedside of the Red Cross Knight.

But for all that concerned that knight she might well have stayed in the

kingdom of darkness; for in her absence the dwarf, wandering through the

palace, had come upon a dungeon full of wretched captives, who filled

the air with their wailings.

Filled with fear, the dwarf hastened back to his master and prayed him

to flee that place before the sun rose. Which the young knight gladly

did, creeping away through a secret postern, though it was hard to find

a footing amidst the corpses piled up on all sides, which had come to a

bad end by reason of their own folly.

* * * * *

[Illustration: UNA SAVED BY THE WOOD-FOLK]

And what had become of Una when she had fallen into the power of

Sansloy? Well, trembling she had followed him into the midst of a

forest, where, to her wonder, from every bush sprang a host of fauns and

people of the wood, and ran towards her. When the Saracen beheld

them, he was so distraught with fear that he galloped right away,

leaving Una behind him. But she, not knowing what to fear the most,

stood shaking with dread, till the wood folk pressed around her, and,

kneeling on the ground stroked lovingly her hands and feet. Then she

understood that she was safe amongst them, and let them lead her where

they would, and smiled at their songs and merry dances. If she could not

be with the Red Cross Knight, then it mattered little where she was, and

it gave her a feeling of rest and safety to lie hidden among the woods,

with a people who would let nothing harmful come near her.

So she stayed with them long, and taught them many things, while they in

their turn showed her how to play on their pipes and to dance the

prettiest and most graceful of their dances.

Time passed in this wise, when one day it chanced that a noble knight,

Satyrane by name, came to seek his kindred among the woodfolk. He

wondered greatly to find so lovely a maid among them, and still more to

see how eagerly they listened to her teachings, and henceforth he formed

part of the throng that sat at her feet when the heat of the day was

over.

In this manner Una and the knight Satyrane soon became friends, and at

length one day she poured out all her sad tale, and besought his help in

her search for the Red Cross Knight. It was not easy to escape from the

kind people who always thronged about her, and her heart was sore at the

thought of leaving them, but she felt that for her captive parents'

sake, as well as for the knight's, she could delay no longer.

Therefore one morning, when the wood folk had gone to hold a feast in

the forest, she rode away in company with Satyrane, and issuing from the

forest soon reached the open plain. Towards evening they met a weary

pilgrim, whose clothes were worn and soiled, and so true a pilgrim did

he look, that Una did not know him to be the wizard Archimago. The

knight instantly drew rein, and asked what tidings he could impart, and

Una begged with faltering voice that he would tell her aught concerning

a knight whose armour bore a red cross.

'Alas! dear dame,' answered he slowly, 'these eyes did see that knight,

both living and eke dead;' and with that he told her all his story.

When he had finished, it was Satyrane who spoke.

'Where is that Paynim's son, that him of life, and us of joy hath reft?'

And the pilgrim made answer that he was hard by, washing his wounds at a

fountain.

Satyrane wasted no more words, but went right straight to the fountain,

where he found Sansloy, whom he challenged instantly to fight. Sansloy

hastily buckled on his armour, and cried that, though he had not slain

the Red Cross Knight, he hoped to lay his champion in the dust. Then,

both combatants being ready, the battle began.

The sight was too dreadful for Una to bear, and she galloped away, not

knowing that her deadliest foe, the wizard Archimago, was following her.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Duessa had left the splendid palace, and was riding over the

country in pursuit of the Red Cross Knight, for it was bitter to her to

see any escape, who had ever been under her thrall. Her good fortune,

which never seemed to forsake her, before long led her to his side,

where he lay resting on the banks of a stream, and he greeted her

gladly.

The sun was hot, and the water rippling clear over the stones seemed

inviting. The knight was tired, and leaned down to drink, never knowing

that the stream was enchanted. But in a moment his strength seemed to

fail, and his arms grew weak as a child's, though he felt nothing till a

horrible bellowing sounded in the wood. At the dreadful sound he started

up and looked around for his armour, but before he could reach it a

hideous giant was upon him.

The fight did not take long, and in a short while the Red Cross Knight

was a prisoner in the hands of the giant, who, accompanied by the false

Duessa, carried his captive to a dungeon of his castle. After the door

was safely locked and barred, the two then retired into the large hall,

where they ate and made merry.

From that day the giant brought forth his choicest treasures with which

to deck Duessa. Her robes were purple, and a triple crown of gold was on

her head, and, what she liked not so well, he gave her a seven-headed

serpent to ride on.

Now the faithful dwarf had watched the fate of his master, and when he

saw him borne away senseless by the giant, he took up the armour which

had been lain aside in the hour of need, and set out he knew not

whither.

He had gone but a little distance when he met Una, who read at a glance

the evil tidings he had brought. She fell off her ass in a deadly swoon,

and the dwarf, whose heart was nigh as sore, rubbed her temples with

water and strove to bring her back to life. But when she heard the tale

of all that had befallen the Red Cross Knight since last she had parted

from him, she would fain have died, till the thought sprang suddenly

into her mind that perhaps she might still rescue him. So with fresh

hope she took the road to the giant's castle, but the way was far, and

she was woefully tired before even its towers were in sight. Brave

though she was, the maiden's courage failed her at last, and she began

to weep afresh, when her eyes happened to light upon a good knight

riding to meet her. He was clad in armour that shone more than any

man's, and well it might, as it had been welded by the great enchanter

Merlin. On the crest of his helmet a golden dragon spread his wings: and

in the centre of his breast-plate a precious stone shone forth amidst a

circle of smaller ones, 'like Hesperus among the lesser lights.'

As he drew near, and saw before him a lady in distress, he reined in his

horse, and with gentle words drew from her all her trouble.

'Be of good cheer,' he said, when the tale was ended, 'and take comfort;

for never will I forsake you till I have freed your captive knight.'

And, though she knew him not, at his promise Una took heart of grace,

and bade the dwarf lead them to the giant's castle.

* * * * *

Conducted by the dwarf and followed by the squire, the knight and lady

soon reached the castle. Bidding Una to await him outside, and calling

to his squire to come with him, they both walked up to the gates, which

were fast shut, though no man was guarding them.

'Blow your horn,' said the knight, and the squire blew a blast. At the

sound, the gates flew open, and the giant came foaming from his chamber

to see what insolent thief had dared disturb his peace.

And the giant did not come alone. Close after him rode Duessa, 'high

mounted on her many-headed beast'; and at this sight the knight raised

his shield and eagerly began the attack.

But, horrible though the serpent was, he was not the sole foe that the

knight had to fight with. The giant's only weapon was his club, but that

was as thick as a man's body, and studded with iron points besides.

Luckily for the knight, this was not the first giant to whom he had

given battle, and ere the mighty blow could fall he sprang lightly to

one side, and the club lay buried so deep in the ground that before the

giant could draw it out again, his left arm was smitten off by the

knight's sword.

[Illustration: ARTHUR FIGHTS THE SEVEN-HEADED SERPENT]

The giant's roars of pain might have been heard in the uttermost parts

of the kingdom, and Duessa quickly guided her baleful beast to the help

of her wounded friend. But her way was barred by the squire, who, sword

in hand, 'stood like a bulwark' between his lord and the serpent.

Duessa, full of wrath at being foiled, turned the serpent on him, but

not one foot would the squire move till, beside herself with anger, the

witch drew out her cup and sprinkled him with the poisonous water. Then

the strength went out of his arms and the courage from his heart, and he

sank helpless on the ground before the snake, who fain would have

trampled the life out of him, and it would have fared ill with him had

not the knight rushed swiftly to his rescue, and dealt the snake such a

wound that the garments of Duessa were all soaked in blood. She shrieked

to the giant that she would be lost if he did not come to her aid, and

the giant, whose one arm seemed to have gained the strength of two,

struck the knight such a blow on the helmet that he sank heavily on the

ground.

The giant raised a shout of joy, but he triumphed too soon. The knight,

in falling, caught the covering of his shield upon his spear, and rent

it from top to toe. The brilliance that flowed from it burnt into the

eyes of the giant, so that he was 'blinded by excess of light,' and sank

sightless on the ground. At a fresh cry from Duessa he struggled to his

feet, but all in vain. He had no power to hurt nor to defend, and fell

back so heavily that the very earth shook beneath him, and was an easy

prey for his foe, who smote his head from his body.

Duessa, as we know, never stayed with those with whom the world went

ill, and she was stealing away quietly, when once more the squire

stopped her.

'You are captive to my lord,' he said, and, holding her firmly, led her

back.

Then Una came running full of grateful words, but when she saw Duessa a

cloud of fierce wrath passed over her face.

'Beware lest that wicked woman escape,' cried she, 'for she it is who

has worked all this ill, and thrown my dearest lord into the dungeon.

Oh, hear how piteously he calls to you for aid!'

'I give her into your keeping,' answered the knight, turning to the

squire, 'and beware of her wiles, for they are many;' and, leaving the

rest behind him, he strode into the castle, meeting no man as he went.

At last there crept forth from one corner an old, old man with a huge

bunch of rusty keys hanging from his arm. The knight asked him in gentle

speech whence had gone all the people who dwelt in the castle, but he

answered only that he could not tell, till the knight waxed impatient,

and took the keys from him.

The doors of all the rooms opened easily enough, and inside he found the

strangest medley. Everywhere blood lay thick upon the floors, while the

walls were covered with cloth of gold and splendid tapestry. No signs

were there of any living creature, yet he knew that in some hiding-place

in the castle the captive lay concealed.

The knight had come to the last door of all. It was of iron, and no key

on the bunch would open it. On one side was a little grating, and

through it he called loudly, lest perchance any man might hear his

voice.

At that there answered him a hollow empty sound, and for a while he

could not make out any words. Then from out the wailing in the darkness

something spoke:

'Oh, who is that which brings me happy choice of death? Three moons have

waxed and waned since I beheld the face of heaven? Oh, welcome, welcome

art thou who hast come to end my weary life!'

The moaning sound of the voice thrilled the brave champion with horror.

Putting his shoulder to the iron door, he gave a mighty heave, and the

hinges gave way. Nothing could he see, for the darkness was terrible,

and his foot, which he stretched cautiously inward, touched no floor.

And, besides, the foul smells rushed out, poisoning him with their

fumes.

But when he had grown in some measure used to the darkness and the

odours, he began to think how he could best deliver the Red Cross Knight

from the pit into which he had fallen. To this end he sought through the

castle till he found some lengths of rope, which he carried back with

him, as he did not know how deep the pit might be. He knotted three or

four together and let the rope down, but even when a faint cry from the

captive told him that it had reached the bottom, his labours were not

ended yet. Twice the knots gave way, by good fortune, before the man was

more than a foot or two from the ground, and other pieces of rope had to

be fetched. Then, when all was made fast, the prisoner had grown so weak

that he could scarce draw himself up; and again the knight feared

greatly lest he himself should not have strength to hold fast the rope.

But at length his courage and patience prevailed, and the Red Cross

Knight, hollow-eyed, and thin as a skeleton, looked once more upon the

sun.

His parents might have gazed on him and not known him for their child,

but Una's heart leapt when the unknown knight brought him to her.

'Welcome,' she said, 'welcome in weal or woe. Your presence I have

lacked for many a day,' and fain would she have heard the tale of his

sufferings, had not the knight, who knew that men love not to speak of

their sorrows, begged her to tend the captive carefully, so that his

forces might come to him again. Further, he bade them remember that they

had in their power the woman who had been the cause of all their grief,

and the time had come to give sentence on her.

'I cannot slay her, now she is mine to slay,' answered Una, 'but strip

her robe of scarlet from off her, and let her go whither she will.'

With her robes and her jewels went all the magic arts that gave her

youth and beauty. Instead of the dazzling maiden who had wrought so much

havoc in the world, there stood before them an old bald-headed shaking

crone, that seemed as ancient as the earth itself. Silently they gazed,

then turned away in horror, while Duessa wandered into paths of which

she alone knew the ending.

* * * * *

It was not until they had rested themselves awhile in the castle that

the stranger knight told who he was and why he came there. He was, he

said, Arthur, the ward of Merlin, and had ridden far and long in quest

of the Faerie Queen. And having fulfilled his vow to Una, in delivering

the Red Cross Knight out of the power of the giant, he bade both

farewell, leaving behind him, as a remembrance of their friendship a

diamond box containing a precious ointment, which would cure any wound,

however deep or poisonous.

* * * * *

So they parted, but not yet was the Red Cross Knight able to face the

monstrous dragon who held captive Una's royal parents. For some weeks

therefore he rested in the castle till his strength came back, then once

more he and Una rode forth side by side.

They had not gone far when they beheld an armed knight galloping fast

towards them, and as he went ever glancing over his shoulder as if

fearful of some dread thing behind. His matted hair streamed in the wind

and the fingers which grasped the reins were like the claws of an eagle.

Stranger than all, round his neck was tied a hempen rope. 'He seems to

be afraid of himself,' thought the Red Cross Knight as he checked his

horse to offer help to the flying man before him.

At first it seemed as if his words fell on dumb ears, but patiently he

repeated them over and over again, and at length an answer came from

the shaking figure:

'For God's sake, Sir Knight, do not, I pray you, stay me, for look, HE

comes, HE comes fast after me;' and as he spoke he urged on his horse

afresh. But the Red Cross Knight caught his bridle and bade him fear

nothing, as he was safe with him, and to tell him why such awful fear

possessed his soul.

At last the stricken man poured forth his tale, and the Red Cross Knight

learned that once he was happy and free, like other men, till on an

ill-starred day he and a friend had fallen in with a cursed wight who

called himself 'Despair,' who had plucked all hope from their breasts,

and bade them seek death, the one with a rope, the other with a knife.

His friend, whose love had been disdained by a proud lady, fell an easy

prey to the persuasions of the giant, and it was the sight of his corpse

lying weltering in his blood that drove this man to ride away while yet

the rope hung loose. 'O sir,' he added when the sad tale was told--'O

sir, be warned by me, and never let yourself stray into his presence!

His subtle tongue, like dropping honey, melts into the heart, and ere

one be aware, his power is gone and weakness doth remain.'

But the Red Cross Knight made answer that he would never rest till he

had seen with his own eyes that baleful being, and begged the stranger,

whose name was Trevisan, to guide him hither.

'I will ride back with you, as you ask it of me,' said Sir Trevisan

unwillingly, 'but not for all the gold in the world will I stay with you

when you reach his cave, for sooner would I die than see his deadly

face!'

'Ride on, then, and I will follow,' answered the Red Cross Knight.

The cave lay in the side of a cliff, and was dark and gloomy as a tomb.

The only sounds they heard were the hooting of an owl and the wails and

howls of wandering ghosts; the only sights were the corpses of men

hanging on trees or lying stark upon the ground. Sir Trevisan turned

his horse's head and would fain have fled, but the Red Cross Knight

stopped him.

'You are safe with me,' he said confidently, and the other, who was ever

weak of will, waited.

They entered the cave, and found the doer of all that evil seated on the

floor, his eyes as the eyes of a dead man, and his body well nigh as

much a skeleton as any of his victims. On the grass beneath him lay a

body that was still warm, and in its bleeding wound a rusty knife still

stood. The sight stirred the blood in the knight's veins, and he

challenged the murderer to fight where he stood.

'Are you distraught, you foolish man,' was all his answer, 'that you

should talk in this wild way? It was his own guilt which drove him to

his end. He loathed his life, why should he then prolong it? Is it not

the part of a friend to free his feet when they stick fast in the mud,

and to point to the door that leads to rest, even if some little pain

must be suffered in the passage? Is not short pain well borne that

brings long ease--sleep after toil, port after stormy seas?'

The Red Cross Knight listened wonderingly. Then he answered:

'The soldier may not cease to watch nor leave his stand until his

captain bid.'

But the cursed wight replied boldly, 'The longer life, I wot, the

greater sin. The greater sin, the greater punishment. Therefore, I pray

you go no further, but lie down and betake you to your rest. A longer

life means old age and sickness, and every kind of sorrow. So lay it

down while things are yet well with you.'

[Illustration: IN THE CAVE OF DESPAIR]

In spite of Sir Trevisan's warning, the fair-sounding words found an

echo in the heart of the Red Cross Knight, as they had done in the

hearts of many men before him. The miscreant saw that his courage was

wavering, and forthwith he brought forth a store of swords, ropes,

poisons, and a brazier of fire, and bade him choose what manner of

death he would prefer. The knight gazed at them all, like one who walks

in sleep, but touched none of them, and the miscreant, beholding this,

chose out a dagger bright and new, and thrust it in his shaking hand.

The young man looked at it, his face reddened and then grew pale again,

and slowly, as if against his will, he lifted the dagger.

A shriek from Una, who had only just reached the cave, caused him to

drop his arm again, and in an instant she had snatched it from his limp

fingers, and had flung it on the ground.

'Come away, come away,' she cried, 'let no vain words bewitch you! What

have you to do with despair, after all the brave deeds you have done?

Arise, Sir knight, arise and leave this cursed place. Have you forgotten

that other work awaits you?'

The voice of Una broke the spell which had possessed him. Once more his

eye grew bright and his arm strong. He mounted his horse and rode away

by Una's side without ever looking behind him. If he had, he would have

seen that the miscreant had placed a rope round his own neck, and hanged

himself on a tree. But even so he could not die; the death to which he

drove others remained far from him.

* * * * *

The ease with which the Red Cross Knight had been mastered by the wily

talk of the gloomy miscreant in the cave showed Una that his mind, if

not his body, was still weak from his long imprisonment in the dungeon.

She saw that before he could fight the dragon who had carried off her

parents he needed yet more repose, and luckily she knew of a house not

far off where they would be made welcome for as long as they chose to

stay. Hither they fared, and for many weeks the knight's armour was laid

away, and the ladies who dwelt in that place gave him all the strength

and counsel that they could think of. Then, when at last he had become

what he had been of yore, Una bade farewell to her hosts with great

thanks, and set out for the royal castle. After three days the walls of

a high tower might be seen dimly across the plain.

'It is there that my parents are kept imprisoned by the dragon,' said

Una, pointing to it with her hand, 'and I see the watchman watching for

good tidings, if haply such there be. Ah, he has waited long!'

As she spoke, a roaring hideous sound was heard that seemed to shake the

ground and to fill all the air with terror. Turning their heads, they

beheld on their right a huge dragon, lying stretched upon the sunny side

of a great hill, himself like a great hill. But no sooner did he see the

shining armour of the knight than he roused himself and made ready for

battle.

Hastily the Red Cross Knight bade Una withdraw herself to another hill,

from which she could see the fight without herself being in danger.

Crouching behind a rock, she watched the dreadful beast approaching,

half flying and half walking as he went. Run he could not, his size was

too vast.

Her heart sank as she looked, for how could mortal man get the better of

such a creature! Besides the brazen scales which thickly covered his

body, his wings were like two sails, and at the tip of each huge feather

was a many-pronged claw; while his back was hidden with the folds of his

tail, which lay doubled in a hundred coils, and in his mouth were three

rows of sharp-pointed teeth. Una could look no more; she shut her eyes

and waited.

The knight felt that if he was to win the victory at all it must be by

means of his lightness of foot, as the monster was so large he could not

turn himself about quickly. So, getting a little behind his head, he

tried to pierce his neck between the scaly plates, but the spear glanced

off harmlessly, and a stroke from the tip of the tail laid both him and

his horse on the ground.

[Illustration: THE END OF THE DRAGON]

They rose again instantly, and returned to the charge, but a second blow

met with no better fate. Then the dragon in wrath spread wide his sails

and rose heavily above the earth, till, suddenly and swiftly darting

down his head, he snatched both horse and man off the ground. But here

the knight had the advantage, for with his spear he stung the beast so

sore that the monster speedily set his captives again on the earth.

Not giving the dragon time to gather himself up, the knight dealt him a

blow under the left wing. With a roar of agony, the beast snapped the

spear asunder with his claws, and pulled out the head. At that a sea of

blood gushed from the wound which would have turned a water-mill, and in

his pain and rage flames of fire gushed from his mouth.

Unwinding his tail from his back, he coiled it like lightning about the

legs of the horse, which fell to the ground with his rider. But in an

instant the knight was on his feet, and by the mere force of his blows

forced his enemy to reel, though the brazen scales were still unpierced.

Though his courage was as great as ever, the young man began to lose

patience, when of a sudden he noticed that the monster could no longer

rise into the air by reason of his wounded wing. That sight gave him

heart, and he drew near once more, only to be scorched by the deadly

fire from the dragon's jaws. Half blinded and suffocated, he staggered,

which the dragon seeing, he dealt the knight such a blow that he fell

backwards into a well that lay behind.

* * * * *

'So that is the end of him,' said the dragon to himself; but, if he had

only known, it was the beginning, for the well into which the knight had

fallen was the well of life, which could cure all hurts and heal all

wounds.

All night Una watched at her post, for darkness had come before the

knight received his final blow. In the morning, before the sun had risen

above the plain, she was looking for the knight, who was lying she knew

not where. Her eyes dropping by chance on the well, she was sore amazed

to see him rise out of it fairer and mightier than before. With a rush

he fell upon the dragon, who had gone to sleep, safe in the knowledge of

his victory, and, taking his sword in both hands, he drove right through

the brazen scales, and wounded him deep in his skull. In vain did the

monster roar and struggle; the blows rained thick and fast, and most of

his tail was cut from his body.

Again and again the knight was overthrown, and again and again he rose

to his feet, and laid about him as valiantly as ever. But while the

fight was still hanging in the balance, the dragon thrust his head

forward with wide-open jaws, thinking to swallow his enemy and make an

end of him. Quick as thought the knight sprang aside, and, thrusting his

sword in the yawning gulf up to the hilt, gave the dragon his

death-blow.

Down he fell, fire and smoke gushing from his nostrils--down he fell,

and men thought some mighty mountain must have cast up rocks on the

earth.

The victor himself trembled, and it was long ere Una dared draw near,

dreading lest the direful fiend should stir. But when at last she knew

him dead, she came joyfully forth, and, bursting into happy tears,

faltered her gratitude for the good he had wrought her.

There is little more to be told of Una and the Red Cross knight.

The watchman on the wall, who had seen the dreadful battle, was the

first to tell the king and queen that the dragon was dead and that they

were free. Then the king commanded the trumpets to sound and the people

to assemble, so that fitting rejoicings might be made at the destruction

of their foe.

This being done, a mighty procession came down, headed by the king and

queen, to lay laurel boughs at the feet of the victor, and to set a

garland of bay on the head of the maiden. Once more Duessa and

Archimago sought to prevent the betrothal of the Red Cross Knight and

Una by a plot to send the wizard in the guise of a messenger,

proclaiming the knight to have been already bound to the daughter of the

emperor, but the false tale was easily seen through, and Archimago

thrown into a dungeon.

After that the king himself performed the marriage rite, and a solemn

feast was held through the land, but the wedded pair were not long left

together. A vow the knight had made when he received his spurs to do the

Faerie Queen six years of service called him from Una's side, and, sad

though the parting might be, both held their word too high ever to break

it.

[From _The Faerie Queene_.]

_AMYS AND AMYLE_

Some time in the Middle Ages there lived in the Duchy of Lombardy,

which, as everybody knows, is part of Italy, two knights, who loved each

other like brothers. And, what is more to be wondered at, their wives

were the best friends in the world. To complete the happiness of the two

couples, two little boys were born to them on the same day, and they

were given the names of Amys and Amyle.

* * * * *

Now it generally happens that when parents are very anxious for their

children to be friends, because they are the same age, or neighbours, or

for some equally good reason, the young people make up their minds to

hate each other. However, Amys and Amyle did not disappoint their

fathers and mothers in this way. From the moment they could walk they

were never seen apart; if they ever _did_ quarrel no one ever heard of

it; and by the time they were twelve years old they had grown so like

each other that even their parents could hardly tell the difference

between them. Indeed, the likeness between them is supposed to have

given rise to the proverb, 'A miss is as good as a mile.'

It was in that year that the duke, their liege lord, bade all his

vassals to a great festival to be held in his castle, and many of them

took their sons with them, to show them some of the customs of chivalry.

Amys and Amyle went with the rest, and endless were the mistakes made

about them. The boys themselves, who were merry little fellows,

delighted in increasing the confusion, and played so many pranks that

the duke declared that they must remain at the court with him, as his

life would be too dull without them.

Perhaps the knights thought that their homes would be dull too, but, if

so, they did not dare say so; only their wives noticed, as they entered

the castle gates, that their heads were bowed, as if some ill had

befallen them.

At first the boys felt unhappy and lonely in this strange new world, and

clung to each other more closely than ever, but, after a little, they

got used to the change, and learned eagerly how to shoot at a mark and

tilt at a ring, or to sing sweet love-songs to the sound of a lute.

So the years passed away till Amys and Amyle were eighteen years old,

and thought themselves men, and were ready to cross lances with the

bravest. The first step they took towards proving to the world that no

tie of blood could bind them closer than the love they bore one to

another, was to swear the oaths which made them brothers in arms, and

obliged them to fight in each other's quarrels, avenge each other's

wrongs--even to sacrifice what the other held most dear in the service

of his friend. Marriage itself was not more sacred.

All this time the duke had been too busy with his own affairs to have

the youths much in his company, though he took care that they had the

best chances of learning everything that they ought to know. When,

however, he heard that Amys and Amyle had sworn the solemn oaths that

made them brothers in arms, he ordered a tournament to be held in their

honour, and, when it was over, knighted them on the field. He further

declared that henceforth Sir Amys should be his chief butler and Sir

Amyle his head steward over his household, thus the steward whom Amyle

displaced became their deadly enemy.

Although the young men knew a great deal about hunting, and wrestling,

and other such sports, they had no idea what the duties of a butler and

a steward might be. But what they _did_ know was that they would have to

be very careful, for the eyes of the old steward were watching eagerly

to report any mistakes to the duke their master. Luckily for them, they

were favourites with everyone, and if now and then they forgot their

work, or slipped away for a day's hunting, well! the task was done by

somebody, and not even the old steward could find out by whom.

Everything seemed going smoothly, and the new-made knights were in

danger of being spoilt by the favour of the ladies of the court, when a

sudden stop was put to all their pleasures. One day a man-at-arms riding

a jaded horse appeared at the palace gateway, and demanded to be led

into the presence of the good knight Sir Amyle.

'Oh, my lord,' said he, and knew not that it was Amys before whom he was

kneeling, 'it is grievous news that I bear unto you. Your father and

mother, that noble knight and his lady, died of a pestilence but seven

days agone, and none save you can take their place. Therefore am I sent

unto you.'

'_My_ father and mother?' cried Amys, staggering back.

'Yes, my lord, yours,' answered the man. 'At least----' he stammered, as

Sir Amyle came and stood by his friend, 'I know not if indeed it may be

yours. It is long years since I have seen you, and this knight and you

have but one face. But it is Sir Amyle with whom I would speak.'

Then Amys laid his hand on his brother's shoulder.

'Be comforted,' he said softly. 'Am I not with thee? and, though I

cannot go with thee now, I will follow thee shortly unless thou quickly

return to me.'

Early next morning Amyle started with a heavy heart for the home which

he had left six years before; but before his departure he had caused to

be made two cups of gold, delicately wrought with figures of birds and

beasts, such as he and Amys had often chased in the forests and lakes of

Lombardy. The cups were no more to be told from each other than were

Amys and Amyle themselves, and Amyle placed them in the pockets of his

saddle till the moment came for him to part from Sir Amys, who had

ridden with him as far as he might. Then, drawing out one of the cups,

Amyle placed it in his friend's hands.

'Farewell, my brother,' he said. 'Be true to me as I will be true to

you, according to the oath which we sware, that as long as we both shall

live nothing and nobody shall stand between me and thee.'

And Sir Amys repeated the words of his oath, then slowly turned his

horse's head towards the castle.

Seven days' hard riding brought Sir Amyle back to his native place, and

for many months he had much to do in setting aside the pretenders who

had sprung up to claim his father's lands. When at last peace was

restored and the false traitors had been thrown into prison, a petition

on the part of his vassals to take a wife and settle down amongst them,

turned his thoughts in other directions.

It was the custom of the country that the ruler of those lands should

choose his wife from the most beautiful maidens in the Duchy of

Lombardy, no matter what might be their degree. So a herald was sent

forth to proclaim that any damsel who wished to fill this high place was

to present herself in the courtyard of the palace on the morning

following the next new moon, where the chamberlain would receive her.

Oh, what a fluttering of hearts there was in the towns and villages, as

the herald, with his silver trumpet and his satin coat of red and

yellow, covered with figures of strange beasts, passed up and down the

streets! How the girls all ran to their mirrors, and turned themselves

this way and that to see if there could possibly be a chance for them!

Perhaps it was the fault of the headdress they wore that their faces

seemed so long and their noses so big, or surely something was wrong

with the glass that their cheeks looked so yellow! But even when it was

proved beyond a doubt that neither headdress nor mirror was to blame in

the matter, there were enough lovely maidens and to spare in the

courtyard of the castle on the day following the new moon.

[Illustration: THE TWO CUPS]

'He is certain to choose _you_,' said one, who in her secret heart

thought it was impossible that _she_ should be passed over.

'Oh no; fair men's eyes alway rest upon dark women,' answered the girl,

whose locks were brighter than the sun, though while she spoke she was

really thinking that no one could bear comparison with her. And then all

grew silent, for there was heard a blast of trumpets announcing that Sir

Amyle was at hand.

The young knight had donned for this occasion a close-fitting coat of

silver cloth, while a short blue velvet mantle hung from his shoulders.

He walked slowly down the ranks of the maidens, watching each carefully,

and noting the way in which she received his gaze. Some looked down and

blushed; some looked up and smiled, but one there was who did neither,

only stood calm and pale as the young man drew near.

She was a tall girl with dark hair and soft grey eyes, and the

chamberlain had doubted long, before he told her father that she might

take her stand with the rest. None would have chosen her as Queen of a

Tourney, or bidden her preside over a Court of Love, yet there was that

in her face which had caused Amyle to pause before her and to hold out

his hand.

So they were married, and by the side of his wife Sir Amyle for a while

forgot his brother.

Meanwhile Sir Amys dwelt sorrowfully at the court, defending himself as

best he might against the wiles of the black-hearted steward, who now

received him with smiles and fair words. Nay, he even desired that they

should become brothers at arms, but to this Sir Amys replied that,

having made oath to one brother at arms, the rules of chivalry did not

allow him to take another.

At these words the steward threw off the mask with which he had sought

to beguile Sir Amys.

'You will have cause to rue this day,' roared he, nearly choking in his

wrath; 'you dog, you white-livered cur!' but Amys only smiled, and bade

him do his worst.

By this time the duke's only daughter, Belisante, had reached the age of

fifteen, and on her birthday her father proclaimed a great tournament,

which was to last for fourteen days. Knights from far and near flocked

to break a lance in honour of the fair damsel, but, though many doughty

deeds were done, the prize fell to Sir Amys. When he came up to receive

the golden circlet from the hands of the duchess--for the duke held his

daughter to be of too tender years to be queen of the tourney--Belisante

looked earnestly at the knight whose praises had rung in her ears ever

since her childhood. It was almost the first time her eyes had beheld

him, for she had lived in one of her father's distant castles, and had

seldom visited the court.

Now we all know full well that whenever we form to ourselves the picture

of a man or woman of whom great things are said, woeful is in general

the disappointment. But even in that assembly Sir Amys was taller and

stronger and fairer to look upon than the rest.

'He shall be my knight,' said Belisante to herself, never dreaming that

any man alive could pass her by. But Sir Amys' thoughts dwelt not upon

women, and he hardly so much as marked her where she sat.

This slight was more than the spoiled damsel could bear. She fell sick

with love and anger, and for many days lay in bed, pondering how she

should win the love of Sir Amys.

A full week went by, and still she had never had speech of him--nor had

even so much as caught sight of him as he followed her father to the

chase. But one morning her lady brought her word--for indeed she had

guessed something of her mistress's heart--that Sir Amys had so wearied

himself in pursuit of a boar the previous evening that he had let his

lord ride forth alone. So Belisante bade her maiden bring her kirtle of

green silk, and clasp it with her golden belt set with precious

stones, and place a veil of shining white upon her hair; then seeking

her mother they went down into the garden together.

[Illustration: Softly she rose to her feet and stole out of the wood]

It was not long before her quick-glancing eyes beheld Sir Amys lying

under a tree by the side of a stream, but in her guile she took no heed

of him, but turned away and entered a little wood.

'I can sleep now,' she said, stretching herself on a bank of soft moss.

'Listen to the birds, how sweetly they sing! Methinks I hear the voice

of the nightingale, for the trees make such darkness that he knows not

night from day.'

'Let us leave her,' answered her mother, and signing to her ladies they

all returned to the castle.

For a moment Belisante lay still, feigning to sleep; then she raised

herself on her arm and looked about her. Nothing was to be seen save the

green darkness about her, nothing was to be heard save the songs of the

birds. Softly she rose to her feet, and stole out of the wood to the

orchard where Sir Amys was resting, thinking, though she guessed it not,

of his brother in arms Amyle.

He sprang to his feet in surprise as Belisante the Fair drew near him;

but she begged him to sit beside her, and told him how that she had been

sick of love, and besought him of his grace not to withhold this good

gift from her. Sir Amys hearkened to her words, not knowing if he had

heard aright, but, calling his wits to his aid, he answered that she was

the daughter of a great prince while he was only the son of a poor

knight, and that marriage between them might never be. This speech so

wrought upon Belisante that she broke out in such tears and entreaties

that Sir Amys, to gain time to ponder what best to do, replied that if

in eight days her mind was still set on him, he would ask her hand in

marriage.

By ill-luck for both the knight and the maiden, the steward, who had

been seeking a chance of doing Sir Amys an ill turn, had seen Belisante

leave the wood and go in search of Sir Amys. Creeping stealthily up to

them, he hid himself behind a clump of bushes and heard all that was

said. Cunningly he made his plan, and on the eighth day he waylaid the

duke and told him that Sir Amys was about to repay all the kindness

shown him by a secret marriage with the duke's daughter.

Sir Amys was keeping guard that day in the hall of the palace, when,

sword in hand, his liege lord stood before him charging him with

beguiling his daughter. In another moment Amys would have fallen dead,

but behind him was a little room, and into this he stepped, shutting the

door, so that the sword stuck in the hard wood as it came against it.

This mischance somewhat cooled the duke's anger, and, bidding Sir Amys

come out and speak with him, he again accused him of having sought to

steal away his daughter, whom he wished to betrothe to the emperor's

son.

Sir Amys was in sore straits. If he could have borne the penalty alone,

he would have suffered gladly whatever sentence the duke might have

passed on him; but this could not be. So, to save Belisante from her

father's wrath, he swore a great oath that there was no truth in that

tale, and, flinging down his glove, offered to fight any man whom the

duke should appoint, and prove his innocence on his body. Then the king

bade his steward pick up Sir Amys' glove, and fixed a morning, fourteen

days hence, when the two should meet in single combat.

Still it was not enough that Sir Amys and the steward should agree to

fight; it was needful also that sureties should be found, and such was

the steward's power at court that all men feared to come forward on

behalf of Sir Amys. The young man would have fared badly, and indeed

would at once have been thrown into prison, had not both Belisante and

her mother offered themselves as sureties for his presence when the day

arrived.

But not all the wiles of the fair Belisante could chase the gloom from

the face of Sir Amys. He never forgot that he had sworn a false oath,

and it was to no purpose that Belisante reminded him of all the ill

deeds done by the steward to him and others. 'This time,' he said sadly,

'_I_ have the wrong and _he_ the right, therefore I am afraid to fight,'

and no other answer could she wring from him.

Way out of the tangle there seemed none. Fight Sir Amys could not, with

the weight of a false oath on his soul, yet to run away were to confess

all, and leave Belisante to bear her father's anger alone. Turn his

thoughts which side he would, escape seemed barred, till the image of

Sir Amyle flashed across him. 'Fool, why had he not remembered him

earlier? Luckily there was yet time, and he could ride with full speed

to his brother's castle, and bid him return to take the battle on

himself.' With a gladder face than he had known for long, he sought out

the duchess and her daughter, and told them his plan.

Before the sun rose Sir Amys was in the saddle, and so busy was he with

all that had befallen him that he pushed on and never drew rein till his

horse dropped dead under him from sheer weariness. As there was no town

or house where he might find another, he was forced to proceed on foot.

But by-and-by he too fell from lack of sleep, and when Sir Amyle was

returning home through the forest after a day's hunting, he discovered

his brother stretched across the path in the shade of a tree.

Joy at meeting gave new life to Sir Amys, and, sitting up, he told his

friend all his woes, and how he dare not fight with a false oath on his

conscience.

'Oh! that is easily to be managed,' cried Sir Amyle, with a great laugh.

'Go home to my castle,' said he, 'and tell my wife that you have sent

the horse to Sir Amys, at court, as you heard he had sore need of one.

None will know you from me, no more than they did of old, and, as to my

wife, it was but now I told her that business called me to the most

distant parts of my lands, so this very night you can bid her farewell.'

Sir Amys did as his brother bade him, and Sir Amyle hastened with all

speed to the duke's palace.

He was only just in time. The hour for the fight had come, and the

steward had entered the lists, and, looking round in triumph, proclaimed

to all whom it might concern that his adversary knew himself to be a

traitor to his lord, and had fled. Therefore, according to all the rules

of chivalry, a fire should be made, and his sureties burned before all

the people.

At these dreadful words, the hearts of the king and his wife and

daughter trembled within them. For the steward had spoken truly, and the

order for the execution must be given. It was in vain that the men

worked right slowly; linger as they might, the pile was ready at last,

and with one despairing glance round, the duchess and her daughter were

bravely walking up to it, when Sir Amyle hastily pushed his way to the

duke and demanded that the captives should be instantly set free. Then,

followed by the duchess and Belisante, he entered the palace to gird

himself with the armour of Sir Amys.

When his helmet and sword were buckled on him, he prayed them to leave

him, as he would fain be alone for a short space before he mounted his

horse. So the two ladies embraced him and left him, wishing him

God-speed. As the door closed upon them, Sir Amyle held up his sword and

muttered a prayer before it.

'Come weal or woe, I will help my brother,' he said softly; then

mounting his horse he rode into the lists, and, kneeling, took the oath

that he was guiltless of wrong and would prove his innocence on the body

of his foe.

[Illustration: SIR AMYLE ARRIVES IN TIME TO SAVE THE LADIES]

The fight lasted but a short time; the steward's sword was keen, and he

knew how to use it, and it was not long before he had given Sir Amyle a

sharp thrust through the shoulder, and the young knight reeled in his

saddle. The steward uttered a cry of fierce joy, and raised his arm to

deal a second blow, when Sir Amyle suddenly spurred his horse to one

side and pierced his enemy to the heart. Then, all bleeding as he was,

the false Amys cut off the head of the traitor, and gave it to the

duke, proving to him and to all the court that the right had conquered.

But hardly had he done so when, faint from loss of blood, he fell

senseless on the ground, and was carried into the palace, where the

duke's best leeches were called in to attend him. In a few days the

fever left him, and he was able to receive a visit from the duke

himself.

'O Amys, my friend, how I have misjudged you!' cried the duke, falling

on his knees weeping; 'but I will let my people know that you were

always true, and you shall marry my daughter as soon as you can stand

upon your feet, and I will hold a feast, and proclaim you heir to my

duchy.'

And the wounded man gave him thanks and grace, but sent off a messenger

in all haste to Sir Amys, bidding him be by a spring in the forest, nine

days hence, which message Sir Amys obeyed, wondering what had passed.

Then the two knights changed their clothes once more, and Sir Amyle

returned to his wife and Sir Amys to his bride, and they lived happily

to the end of their lives.

[Adapted and shortened from _Early English Metrical Romances_.]

_THE TALE OF THE CID_

In the year 1025, when Canute the Dane was sitting on the throne of

England, there was born in the ancient Spanish city of Burgos a baby, to

whom was given the name of Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar. He came of noble blood

on both sides of the House, and his forefathers had borne some of the

highest offices of the land, and from his childhood the boy had been

taught that it was his duty never to fall one whit behind them in

courage and in honour. As he grew older, he burned more and more for a

chance to show the metal of which he was made, and longed to join the

companies of knights that were ever going forth to fight the Arabs, who

for nearly four hundred years had reigned over the fairest provinces of

Spain. But to all his prayers, his father, Don Diego Lainez, turned a

deaf ear.

* * * * *

'Wait, wait, my son!' he would say; 'the little shoot must first grow

into a tree. Go now and practise that sword-thrust in which you failed

yesterday.'

It was when he was sixteen that the longed-for opportunity came.

Don Diego Lainez, now old and weak, had gone to do his homage to King

Fernando, who had managed to unite the small kingdoms of Northern Spain

under his banner. Some dispute arose between him and the powerful count,

Don Lozano Gomez, probably as to which had the right to pass first into

the presence of their king, and in the presence of the whole court Don

Lozano spoke words of deadly insult to the old man, and even gave him a

buffet on the cheek. The courtiers all cried shame, and Don Diego's hand

clutched the pommel of his sword, but his rage had deprived him of the

little strength that remained, and he was powerless to draw it. At this

the count laughed scornfully, and, bowing mockingly to the king, who

held it best that men should settle their own quarrels, rode away to his

castle. Then, without another word, Don Diego turned and mounted his

horse and set out homewards.

A broken man and older by ten years was he when he entered his hall, but

many days passed before any could guess what had wrought this change in

him. All night he lay awake staring into the darkness, and when food was

brought him it was carried away untasted, and his wife whispered to her

ladies, 'If we rouse him not he will surely die! Would that I knew what

has stricken him like this?'

Fifteen days went by in this manner, and none thought to see him leave

his bed again, when one morning he strode into the hall with some of the

fire of his former years, and called his sons to him. One by one he

signed to each to draw near, and taking their soft hands in his palms,

pressed so hard that the boys cried to him to loosen his grasp, or they

would die of the pain. But when he came to Rodrigo, he heard no prayers

of mercy from _him_, only threats and hot words uttered with blazing

eyes and cheeks burning with anger. And the old man wept for joy, and

cried:

'Thou art indeed my true son; your rage calms me, your fury heals me. It

is you who will redeem my honour, which I held lost.' And then he told

the youth the tale of what had passed at court.

'Take my blessing,' were his last words, 'and take this sword also,

which shall deal the count his death-blow. After that, you shall do

greater deeds still.'

[Illustration: RODRIGO BRINGS HOME THE HEAD OF GOMEZ]

Young though he was, Rodrigo had heard enough of war to know Lozano

Gomez would not prove an easy prey; but, easy or not, he meant to

fight him. So, vowing to his sword that should he ever bring dishonour

on the weapon that had done his House good service, he would sheathe it

in his breast, he mounted his horse and rode to meet his foe.

'Is it a knightly or a brave deed, think you, to smite an old man who

cannot defend himself?' asked he. 'But when you dealt that blow you may

have thought that his sons were yet in their cradles, and that there was

none to avenge him. Well, traitor, you are wrong. _I_ am his son, and

his honour is mine, so look to yourself, lest I take your head home with

me.'

And Gomez laughed to hear him, and bade him cease crowing like a young

cock, but a furious onslaught from Rodrigo cut his words short, and

hardly did he escape being unhorsed. Before he had steadied himself in

the saddle Rodrigo had charged again, and this time his enemy was borne

to the ground.

'So may all dastards die!' cried the victor, as he cut off his head.

* * * * *

Don Diego Lainez was sitting at the table in his great hall, the tears

rolling down his cheeks as the shameful scene of his dishonour rose up

before him. Suddenly a clatter of hoofs was heard in the courtyard, and

the doors swung open. The men-at-arms gathered round the board rose to

their feet as Rodrigo entered, carrying the head of Count Gomez by the

long front lock. Taking Don Diego by the arm, he shook him roughly:

'Open your eyes wide, my father, and raise your head, and let your heart

be merry, for I have cut down the poisonous weed; I have stamped out the

plague-spot; the robe of your honour is stainless as of yore.'

For a moment the old man kept silence, and then he looked up, his face

shining.

'Son of my heart,' he said, 'it is enough. From henceforth the seat of

honour is yours, and you shall take my place as the head of my House.'

From that day the young knights vied with each other in gaining leave to

ride in the train of Rodrigo Diaz, or 'the Cid' as he was afterwards

called, and to this name was later added the proud title of 'Campeador.'

Three hundred youths in splendid attire followed him to the court of

Fernando, when he went in his turn to do the king homage, and stood by

his side as he challenged anyone of the blood of Count Lozano to fight

and avenge his death; but no one came. Then his father and his noble

company left their horses to kiss the hand of the king, but Rodrigo

remained in his saddle.

'Get down, get down, Rodrigo!' cried his father, fearing lest the king

should resent his rudeness. 'Swear fealty to thy lord, and kiss his

hand, as a loyal subject should do.'

Now, ever since he had fought with Count Gomez, Rodrigo had felt himself

to be a man, and, more than that, to be much greater than other men, and

he was not pleased to be scolded by his father in the presence of so

many people. Still, he was wise enough to know that it would do him no

good in the eyes of the nobles gathered round, to disobey his father,

and slowly he got down from his horse to do homage with the rest. But so

clumsy was he that, as he knelt, his sword nearly fell out of its

sheath, and the king, thinking Rodrigo meant to kill him, started back,

exclaiming:

'Away, away! you devil! If you have the form of a man, your deeds are

those of a lion.'

'It is base to kiss the hand of such a craven,' answered Rodrigo in

anger, 'and I hold that my father has heaped disgrace on his family by

humbling himself in such a fashion!' And so saying, he rode away, with

his followers behind him.

A few centuries later a man might have lost his head for such words, but

in those days people were accustomed to speak their minds even to

kings, and little harm came of it. Six weeks later, Rodrigo had

forgotten all about it, and, what was more to the purpose, so had the

king, at any rate he pretended to do so, and when Don Diego sent his son

to do his business with Fernando, who was at Burgos, the young man went

willingly. The morning after he reached the city he was dining in the

hall of the palace with the king and his nobles, when word was brought

to the royal table that Ximena, the daughter of Count Gomez, and her

train stood at the gates, and demanded an audience of the king. Fernando

rose from his seat, and, signing to his nobles to follow him, he went to

meet Ximena.

A figure of woe was she, clothed all in black, even her face hidden by a

black veil. Throwing herself on her knees, she implored that justice

might be done on the murderer of her father, for not till then would the

stain be wiped out which had killed her mother and was killing her. 'He

rides to and fro under my lattice,' said she, 'and the hawk on his wrist

slays my doves, and my mantle is sprinkled with their blood. If you do

not do me right, O king, you are not fit to reign, or to call yourself a

knight.'

Thus spake Ximena, and the king sat silent and pondered her words. 'I

cannot punish Don Rodrigo, either by imprisonment or death,' he said to

himself, 'for my nobles would not suffer it; I must find some other way

to satisfy Ximena.' Then turning to her, he bade her go home, and added

that no damsel should have cause to complain that wrong had been done

them at his hands.

Then Ximena rode away, and by-and-by Rodrigo departed also.

* * * * *

Six months later King Fernando was seated in the great hall of his

palace of Burgos, dispensing justice to high and low, when there entered

once more Ximena, followed by thirty esquires and pages.

'I come, though I know it is in vain,' she cried, when she had made her

way to the foot of the throne. 'Five times I have appeared to demand my

rights, and no longer will I be put off with empty words. No king are

you, who are swayed this way and that by every man that passes, and dare

not even avenge your friends, for fear of what may come of it.'

'Not so,' answered the king; 'but is there no other way by which your

quarrel may be appeased? Has Rodrigo on his side suffered no insult? You

have heard of the fame he has lately won, when he took captive the five

Moorish kings who broke suddenly into the land and ravaged it with fire

and sword. And to prove that it was fame and not gold he wanted he set

them all free, with only a promise of homage from them. Ah, if there

were but a few more like him, Spain would soon be rid of the Moors.

Happy is the woman he shall choose for his wife; she will live all her

days in safety and in honour.'

Then the king paused, and watched to see how Ximena took his words.

She was silent for some moments, but the king could not see her face, as

she had pulled her veil over it. Suddenly she raised her head, and cast

the veil back over her shoulders.

'It is true, O king, what you speak, and I will forego my vengeance.

Nay, I think my father himself would have it so. Give me Don Rodrigo for

my husband; all my days I will be a loyal wife to him, and his honour

shall be mine.'

Perhaps the king was not so surprised as some of his courtiers as they

listened to Ximena's request. If he smiled, his beard was thick enough

to hide it, and he answered gravely:

'You say well, my daughter, and I will to-day send a messenger bidding

Don Rodrigo meet me at Palencia, and I will give him lands and riches,

so that in wealth as in birth he may be equal to you.'

When the messengers reached Don Rodrigo, with the offer of Ximena's

hand, his heart was glad, and, calling his friends to dress themselves

in their most splendid cloaks and brightest armour, he rode at their

head towards the city of Palencia. Ximena with her train was already in

the royal palace, and in the presence of the king the two plighted their

troth. But Rodrigo swore by the cross on his sword that the marriage

rite should not be fulfilled till he had beaten five foes in the field,

and, leaving Ximena under the care of his mother, he bade her farewell,

and set forth to accomplish his vow.

However, he was not destined to be absent very long, for in those days

enemies were not far to seek, and in less than two months the wedding

preparations began. His brothers took pride in arraying him themselves,

and buttoning on the doublet of black satin which his father had worn in

many of his battles, while over this he wore a jacket of stout leather

and a loose cloak lined with plush.

At the last he girded on his sword Tizona, the Dread of the World, then,

surrounded by his friends and his family, the bridegroom walked to the

court, where the king, the bishop, and all the nobles were awaiting him.

Soon the noise of trumpets was heard, and there entered Ximena dressed

in a robe of fine white cloth, brought from London across the seas, with

a border of silver embroidered on it. On her head was a close hood of

the same stuff, and high shoes of red leather were on her feet. Round

her neck was a necklace made of eight round medals, with a little figure

of St. Michael hanging from them.

Don Rodrigo went forward to lift Ximena from her horse, and kissed her,

whispering as he did so:

'It is true, O my lady, that I killed your father, but I did it in fair

fight, as man to man. And in his stead you shall have a husband that

will care for you and protect you to the end of your life.'

Now, although Don Rodrigo was married, he did not stay at home much more

than he had done in other days, and his sword was ever unsheathed in the

service of his king. He was the champion chosen by Fernando to meet in

single combat Martino Gonzalez, the stoutest knight in Spain, and decide

a quarrel between Castile and Aragon. The victory lay with Rodrigo, and

no sooner was the duel over than he rode off to fight the Moors in the

North of Spain. At length the patience of Ximena was worn out, and she

wrote a letter to Fernando in which she told him plainly all that was in

her mind.

'What was the use,' she asked, 'of her marrying Rodrigo if the king kept

him for ever engaged in his service, and away from her?' She had no

father, and might as well have no husband, and she implored his master

to think upon her loneliness, and to let Rodrigo return to her side.

But the king would make no promises, and by-and-by Ximena had a little

girl to comfort her, to whom Fernando stood godfather.

It seems strange that after these great deeds King Fernando never

thought of making Don Rodrigo a knight, but so it was. Not till the long

siege of the city of Coimbra was ended, and the Moorish mosque turned

into a Christian church, was the order of knighthood conferred on Don

Rodrigo in return for the mighty works that he had done. But Don Rodrigo

knew well that his sword-thrusts would have availed him nothing had it

not been for the aid of a Greek bishop who dreamed when at the shrine of

St. James that the gates of the city would only fall when a successor of

the Apostle should appear before them. So the bishop arose and clad

himself in armour and rode into the Christian hosts, and as he drew

near, the walls fell down like Jericho of old, and the army entered in

triumph.

After this the Cid, as men now called him, from a Moorish word which

meant a man of great valour and fame, went home for a short space to see

his wife and his little daughter, who by this time was seven years old

and had never beheld her father. Rest was sweet to Don Rodrigo, but

before it could grow irksome to him he was summoned to court by the

death of Fernando, who left all his children under the wardship of the

Cid. Unluckily, the old man's will had not been a wise one, and bitter

quarrels soon raged between the new king Sancho and his brothers and

sisters. In vain Don Rodrigo tried to heal the feuds, but war soon broke

out, and by his oath of allegiance he was forced, sorely against his

wish, to fight under the king's banner. By his aid Sancho despoiled his

two brothers and one of his sisters of the lands which were theirs by

right, but when the king demanded that he should go as envoy and bid the

princess Doña Urraca yield up her town of Zamora in exchange for much

gold, the Cid prayed him to send someone else, for he could not take

arms against the princess whom he had known when they were children

together. His words, however, were useless. The king would listen to

nothing, and the Cid rode forth to Zamora with a heavy heart. Silently

he bore the reproaches of Doña Urraca, and returned in five days to tell

Fernando that the citizens of Zamora had sworn in his presence, that the

city would never be given up till they all lay dead upon her walls. This

answer so infuriated Don Sancho that he falsely accused the Cid of

having put the words into the mouths of his enemies, and bade him begone

out of the kingdom.

But a man like the Cid could not lightly be dismissed, and very soon the

king was forced to humble himself, and send messengers to beg his

forgiveness. The Campeador was too generous to bear malice, and rode

joyfully back, to find Sancho besieging Zamora. And an ill day it was

for the king when he resolved to wrest his sister's possessions from

her; for one of her citizens, spurred by love to his lady, gained

admittance into the royal camp and offered to betray the city. A

councillor of the princess, the old Arias Gonzalo, cried to the king

from the walls to lend no ear unto the man's words, for he was a

traitor; but Dolfos had a wily tongue, and easily persuaded Sancho to

come with him to see the small door across the trench by which the army

might enter. They were hardly outside the camp when Dolfos struck him

between the shoulders with his spear, and the king rolled in his death

agony on the ground. The sight was seen by Don Rodrigo, who had watched

eagerly and anxiously the movements of Dolfos, and now sprang towards

the traitor with his drawn sword. But Dolfos was too quick for him, and

the postern was flung open by some of the men of Zamora, before the Cid

could get across the trench.

'Oh, fool was I not to have fastened on my spurs, and then I should have

caught him!' cried Don Rodrigo shaking with rage, as he turned sadly

back to stand by the bedside of his dying master, waiting for the

vengeance which the future would bring.

* * * * *

Now directly she heard that King Sancho was dead, Doña Urraca, his

sister, the lady of Zamora, sent the tidings to her brother, Don

Alfonso, in exile at Toledo.

'We have been sent to summon you, King Alfonso,' said the messengers

when they found him, falling on their knees as they spoke. 'Don Sancho

was foully stabbed by Bellido el Dolfos, and the men of Castile and Leon

call on you to take his place. Don Rodrigo only hangs back, and swears

he will never take the oath of fealty till you have proved that you had

no part in the murder of your brother.'

Don Alfonso felt glad at their words. He had received nothing but ill at

the hands of his brother, and he hurried to place himself at the head of

the army of Castile. But the Arab ruler was not willing to let him go,

and many days passed before he was able to escape at night, climbing

silently with a few followers down the walls of Toledo; then, turning

the shoes on the feet of their horses, so that the track should point

south instead of north, they made the best of their way to Zamora.

The nobles received the king with joy, and, kneeling to kiss his hand,

vowed to be true to him. The Cid alone held aloof.

'You are heir to the throne, Don Alfonso,' said he, 'but before I bend

the knee to you I demand that you and twelve of your vassals shall swear

that you are innocent, in deed or in word, of the blood of your

brother.'

'I will swear it,' answered Alfonso, 'when and where you please, and

twelve men of Leon shall swear it likewise.'

'You shall swear to me in the holy cathedral of Santa Gadea in Burgos,'

said the Cid; and thither they all rode silently and solemnly, while Don

Rodrigo, standing at the altar, held out the crucifix to the kneeling

king. But though the oath was taken freely, both by Alfonso and his

vassals, deep in the heart of the Cid lay a doubt of his truth.

'You shall swear it thrice,' he said, and Alfonso, devoured as he was

with rage, knew the Cid's power too well to disobey, though his face

grew pale with wrath.

'You shall answer for this,' he cried as he rose to his feet, and from

that day the king never ceased to seek for an excuse to compass Don

Rodrigo's banishment. At last he found one.

The Moorish king of Toledo laid a complaint against the Cid that, in

spite of his alliance with Alfonso of Castile, his lands had been

ravaged and his people made captive. Well Alfonso knew that it was the

Moors themselves who had broken faith with him, and had wasted the

Spanish territories which lay along their borders, but he eagerly

snatched at the plea, and bade the Cid go, an exile, from Castile, while

his possessions were declared forfeit.

With every insult heaped on him that the king could invent, the Cid left

the city and rode to his castle of Bivar, only to find that his enemies

had been before him and had stripped it bare, while his wife and

children had sought refuge in the convent of San Pedro de Cardeña.

It was on his way thither that the Cid in his dire distress did the one

mean deed recorded of him, which he never ceased to bewail during his

life, and afterwards on his deathbed. He had reckoned on finding money

for his needs at Bivar, and there was none, and he knew not what to do.

In this strait he invited two rich Jews to his tent under the walls of

Burgos, and, pointing to two large chests which stood on the ground, he

told the Jews that they were filled with silver plate, and begged that

they would take them, and give him a thousand crowns in exchange. The

Jews, used though they were to being cheated and despoiled by

Christians, yet trusted to the honour of the Cid, and counted out the

money. Then, placing the coffers on the backs of two stout mules, they

returned with them into Burgos, first promising that they would not open

them till a year had passed. At the time appointed they lifted the lid,

and, behold, the coffers were full of sand!'

But except in this matter, for which his repentance was bitter, the Cid

never ceased in his exile to be true to his knighthood, and in all the

wars which he and his followers made on the Moors he always sent part of

the spoils to Alfonso. At length the king found that he could not do

without him. Young knights there were in plenty, but neither in battle

nor in the council chamber could they vie with Don Rodrigo; so after

many years, when the Cid had captured strong cities and great towns

from the Moors, Alfonso sent messengers to say that he was willing to

pardon him. And the Cid vowed anew to serve him, but his heart was heavy

for the death of his only son in the siege of Consuegra.

[Illustration: DON DIEGO AND DON FERNAN SHOW THAT THEY ARE COWARDS]

From time to time the king's jealousy broke out afresh, and more than

once Don Rodrigo was banished, but in the end the Cid always returned to

Castile, for in truth, as we have said, the land prospered but little in

his absence. After conquering the Moors in Valencia and elsewhere, his

fame and wealth grew greater than ever, and two of the proudest nobles

in Castile, the counts of Carrion, prayed Alfonso to use his rights as

liege lord, and to grant them the Cid's daughters in marriage. Now, the

proposal pleased Don Rodrigo but little, and his wife even less. He knew

something of the two young men who wished to be his sons-in-law, and he

felt that it was his wealth, and not his daughters, that was wooed.

Besides, he liked not the boastfulness of the two brothers, and feared

that beneath their proud and haughty ways the hearts of cowards might be

hidden. But outwardly all was fair-seeming, and when the king in a

meeting on the banks of the Tagus bade the Cid consider well the matter,

Don Rodrigo could only reply that, in his view, his daughters were as

yet too young to be wedded, but that they and all that belonged to him

were in the hands of the king, to be dealt with as he thought best. To

which the king answered that he knew the maidens to be wise beyond their

years, and, summoning the counts of Carrion to his presence, he informed

them that he had resolved to grant their desire, and bade them kneel and

kiss the Cid's hand, which they did with joy. So the next day they all

rode back to Valencia, and the Cid made a feast for fifteen days, and

the marriage rite was performed by the Bishop Geronymo, mighty in

battle.

It was not long after the wedding that the counts showed of what metal

they were made, and that the Cid had read them truly. One evening they

and Don Bermudo, nephew of the Cid, were sitting laughing and jesting in

the hall of the castle, when a cry arose from without, 'Beware of the

lion; he has broken from his den'; and in an instant the huge beast had

sprung through the door. Don Bermudo sat still, waiting to see what the

lion would do, but Don Diego, the elder count, took refuge in a closet,

while Don Fernan, his brother, hid himself under the bed on which the

Cid was stretched sleeping. The noise awoke Don Rodrigo, who sprang up,

when the lion at once lay down on the ground and began to lick his feet.

The Cid stooped and stroked its head, then calling to the beast to

follow, he led it back to its den, which it entered quietly, for it knew

its master well.

'Where are my sons-in-law?' asked he as he entered. 'Methought I heard

their voices but a moment agone.'

'Here,' cried one of his nephews, and 'here' cried another, and the

counts were dragged forth, their fine clothes disordered and their faces

pale with fear.

The Cid looked at them silently, till they grew red with shame and

anger.

'Are these your wedding garments?' said he at last. 'Truly I should

scarce have guessed it'; and he passed on, leaving hate and a longing

for revenge in the young men's hearts.

* * * * *

The matter of the lion did not dwell long in the mind of the Cid, for

news was speedily brought him that the Moorish king of Morocco was

advancing with an army to besiege the fair city of Valencia. He quickly

gathered together a host large enough to give battle in the plain

outside the walls, but while mounting his horse Babieca he counselled

his sons-in-law to remain in safety behind the walls of the town. This

they would gladly have done, but dared not set at naught the mocking

eyes of the knights around them, so, clad in shining armour, they rode

forth with the rest. Hardly had the fight begun, when a Moor attacked

the younger brother, who turned and fled. Another instant and he would

have sunk to the ground, pierced by the enemy's lance, when Don Bermudo

suddenly appeared, and engaged the Moor in deadly combat. After a hard

struggle the infidel was overborne and slain, and the victor turned to

Don Fernan Gonzalez:

'Take his horse and his armour,' he said, 'and tell the Cid it was you

who killed him; I will not gainsay you.' And, as cowards are generally

liars also, Don Fernan gladly snatched at the crown of glory that

belonged to another.

Don Bermudo was rewarded for his generous deed when he saw the joy of

the Cid. Perhaps he had condemned them wrongly, thought Don Rodrigo, and

that the souls of men were at last awaking in them. So he praised them

for their valour, and if there were those present who could have told a

different tale, they held their peace.

* * * * *

But whether they were, perforce, following the Cid in the field, or

basking in the wealth and pleasures of Valencia, the counts of Carrion

never forgot or forgave the scorn they had read in the eyes of the Cid

on the day when they had hidden from the lion. Together they plotted to

take vengeance on them, and it was a vengeance as mean as their souls.

One morning they entered the great hall of Valencia, where the Cid was

sitting, and prayed him to give them their wives, and let them depart

forthwith to their lands. Their words were fair, yet the Cid felt

troubled; why, he knew not.

'I gave you my daughters to wife, at my king's bidding,' answered he at

last, 'and I cannot withhold them from you if indeed you desire to take

them unto your own lands. But see that they are treated as beseems

them; if not, woe to you.'

And the counts of Carrion, with treason in their hearts, promised that

all honour should await their brides.

Eight days hence, the procession passed out of the city gates, and the

Cid went first, with Doña Elvira on his right hand, and Doña Sol on his

left. For the space of a league he rode, and then he reined up his

horse. Calling his nephew Don Ordoño to his side, he bade him follow

unperceived, and bring back news of what befell his daughters.

And so they parted.

For many miles the procession went slowly on, and was received with

kindness and hospitality by the great Moslem lords through whose country

the road lay, a kindness repaid whenever possible by theft and cruelty

by the counts of Carrion. Then, when they had reached a wood which was

neither in the lordship of the Cid nor of the Moors, they felt that the

time for which they had so long waited was come. Ordering the guards and

attendants to ride forward to the Castle of Carrion and prepare for

their reception, the counts scarcely delayed until they were out of

their sight before they dragged their wives from their mules, and

stripped their bodies bare. Next, seizing them by their hair, they flung

them to the ground, and dug their spurs into them till their bodies were

covered with blood.

'Farewell, beautiful damsels,' they cried mockingly, bowing low, 'you

were never fit mates for the counts of Carrion, and, besides, it was

needful to avenge the affront that the Cid your father put on us in the

matter of the fierce beast who would have slain us.' And, stooping low

from their horses, the base knights rode away.

From a distant hill Don Ordoño had seen and heard all that had passed,

and he now came forth to help and comfort his cousins. 'Take heart,' he

said, 'I will bring you your lost garments, and if you have lost your

husbands, who deserve nothing better than the fate of traitors, remember

that you have yet a father, without a peer throughout the world.'

None can tell the wrath of the Cid when his daughters came home. Little

he said, for he was ever a man of few words, but he sent forthwith

messengers to the king, telling him of the base deeds of the counts of

Carrion, and begging for leave to plead his cause before the Parliament

at Toledo. This permission Alfonso granted gladly, and bade the counts

of Carrion to be present also and answer the Cid.

Many days they waited ere Don Rodrigo, accompanied by his wife and

daughters, and followed by a train of nobles, rode through the gates.

The king was sitting surrounded by the Cortes or Parliament, but he

desired that the Cid should be brought to him at once, and then

commanded him to set forth his wrongs.

'It is you, O king, and not I, who gave my daughters in marriage to

these base men, therefore it is you, and not I, who must answer for

this. I ask you that you will force them to restore my swords Colada and

Tizona that I girded on them when they bore my children from Valencia.'

And the hearts of the counts were glad when they heard his words, and

they hasted to place the gold-pommelled swords in the hands of the Cid.

Next, Don Rodrigo demanded that the dowries of his daughters should be

given back to him, and this also the king adjudged to be his right.

Last, he set forth the treatment his daughters had suffered from the

counts of Carrion, and challenged them and also their uncle, who had

ever given them evil counsel, to fight with three of his knights that

day.

Before the combat could take place a sound as of armed men was heard in

the courtyard, and in rode two youths covered with golden armour and

tall plumed helmets, and one was Don Ramiro of Navarre, and the other

Don Sancho of Aragon.

'It has reached our ears,' said they, 'that the marriages between the

counts of Carrion and the daughters of the Cid are about to be set

aside, and we have come to pray that the ladies may be given to us to

wife.'

And the king answered: 'If it pleases the Cid, it pleases me also, but

the Cortes here present must grant its consent.'

So the Cid kissed the hand of the king in token of the honour done him,

and the Cortes cried with one voice that the man who allied himself with

Don Rodrigo de Bivar was honoured above all. Therefore, the weddings

were celebrated without delay, the counts of Carrion having been

pronounced outlaws and their former marriages null and void.

This matter being settled, the king directed that there should be no

more delay in arranging the fight between the champions of the Cid and

the counts of Carrion, which at the request of the counts was to be held

three weeks later in their own castle. Don Rodrigo himself did not mean

to fight. His honour was, he knew, safe in the hands of Don Bermudo and

his other nephews, and he rode blithely home to Valencia. But Alfonso

declared that he would be present to see that the combat was fairly

fought, and it was well that he went, for the counts, thinking

themselves safe on their own lands, had planned treachery. However, the

king, mistrusting them, made a proclamation that in case of false

dealing the traitor should be slain upon the field, and his possessions

be forfeit. Baulked in this direction, the counts then entreated the

king to forbid their foes to use the swords Tizona and Colada which they

had been forced to give up, but Alfonso answered that it was now too

late to make conditions, and they must get to the fight with stout

hearts. This they could not do, for they had not got them, but, finding

there was no help for it, they mounted their horses and put their lances

in rest.

Between such adversaries the combat lasted but a short while. Fernan

Gonzalez was soon unhorsed by Don Bermudo; Don Diego and his uncle

confessed themselves vanquished. Their lands were declared forfeit by

the judges, though their lives were granted them; but the tale of their

cowardice spread far and wide, and none would speak to them or have

dealings with them.

Thus was the Cid avenged.

For five years the Cid lived on in Valencia wearied of wars, and turning

his thoughts to repenting him of his sins, and chief among them the

wrong he had done many years before to the two Jews of Burgos. His

strength grew daily less, till at length he could rise from his bed no

more, neither could he eat food. While he lay in this manner, tidings

were brought him that the Moors were preparing to besiege Valencia. This

news roused the dying man, and for a moment it seemed as if he might be

well again. Clearly he gave his orders how best to resist the attack,

and bade his followers fight under the banner of Bishop Geronymo. 'As

for me,' he said, 'you shall take my body and fill it with sweet spices,

and shall set me once more on Babieca, and place Tizona in my hand. With

cords shall you fasten me to the saddle, and so you shall lead me forth

to my last fight with the Moors. Ximena my wife will care for Babieca,

and when he is dead she will bury him where no Moorish dogs may root up

his grave. And let no women be hired to make mourning for me. I want no

tears to be shed over me but the tears of Ximena my wife. But for the

Christians in this city, well know I that they are too few men to

conquer the Moors, therefore let them prepare their goods, and steal

forth by night, and take refuge in Castile. So farewell to you all, and

pray that God may have mercy on my soul.'

Thus the Cid died, and all was done as he had said, and the king put

rich garments on him, and set Tizona in his hand, and seated him in a

carved chair by the altar of San Pedro de Cardeña.

[_El Romanzo del Cid._]