THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES WHO TURNED OUT TO BE FLOCKS OF SHEEP

The first adventure of the new knight did not turn out at all to his

liking, nor answered his expectations, for in all the books of chivalry

which he had read, never had he heard of a good knight being sorely

wounded by a mere pack of common fellows, as happened to himself shortly

after leaving the inn; though indeed he comforted his soul by thinking

that, had not Rozinante stumbled over a stone and fallen, it would have

fared ill with his foes.

He lay upon the ground for some time, aching in every bone, and

repeating in a weak voice some lines out of his favourite romance of the

'Marquis of Mantua,' when a labourer from his own village came by and

went to see if the man stretched on his back across the road was dead or

only wounded.

'What ails you, master?' asked he; but as the vizor over the Don's face

prevented his answer being understood, the labourer pulled it off with

some trouble, and then stood, staring with surprise.

'Master Quixada!' cried he, wiping off the blood as he spoke, 'what

villain has served you like this?' but, as Don Quixote only replied to

his questions with long stories of the heroes of romance, the man gave

it up, and after gathering up the stray bits of armour, and even the

broken lance, helped the Don on to his own ass and took Rozinante by the

bridle.

In this manner Don Quixote returned home.

When the knight dismounted and entered the house he found his

housekeeper and niece filled with dismay, and bewailing his loss to the

priest and the barber, who were wont to spend many an hour in company

with the Don, listening to the strange tales that were always on his

tongue. The joy with which they heard his well-known knock, in the

middle of their discourses, was somewhat spoilt when they saw the

condition he was in, and he stopped them quickly when they flew to

embrace him.

'Let no one touch me,' cried he, 'for by the falling of my horse I am

sore wounded. Carry me to bed, and summon the wise woman Urganda to heal

me with her enchanted water.'

'Oh, never fear, your worship, we can cure you without her,' answered

the housekeeper; 'and right glad we are to see you back, wounded or

not.'

So between them all they bore him up the narrow stairs and laid him on

his bed. And when he was undressed they sought his wounds, but found

none, only a black bruise so they told him.

'Is it so?' he answered. 'Then the deeds that I did were yet more

valorous than I thought. It was while I was fighting with ten giants,

the biggest and strongest who ever gave battle to any Christian knight,

that Rozinante fell, and I with him.'

'Oh! so there are giants in the dance now,' whispered the priest to the

barber. 'I will not close my eyes this night till the books which have

brought this evil are safely in the fire.' And, so saying, they left Don

Quixote to sleep.

* * * * *

He was still sleeping next morning, when the priest came to ask for the

keys of the little room where Don Quixote kept the old books he so much

loved. They were handed to him with joy by the girl, who held books to

be the enemy of all mankind, and when they all four entered they found

more than a hundred volumes large and small, which was a great number

for so poor a gentleman. One by one the priest examined them, and

condemned them to the flames, unless by chance there was any doubt about

their wickedness; that is, unless they had been written by a friend of

the priest. In these cases, after the barber had been consulted, the

books escaped the doom of the rest.

For fifteen days Don Quixote stayed at home and seemed content to stay

there, passing the evenings in talk with the priest and the barber.

Nothing was needed, he said, to put right the wrongs of the world, save

a new order of knighthood, of which he had set the example. After much

of this talk he suddenly remembered that a knight ever had a squire

riding behind him, and that before he rode forth on his next quest he

must needs provide himself with such an one. This was almost as hard a

matter as finding a liege lady, but at length he bethought him of a poor

peasant living in the same village, who possessed a wife and children,

and not much else. This man he sent for, and promised him such great

things and such noble rewards that Sancho Panza, for such was his name,

readily agreed to serve him. 'Who knows,' said Don Quixote, 'what island

I may conquer, and it would then fall to you to be the governor, or if

you disdain the island, and would prefer to follow my fortune, I can

make you Count at least! But, remember, my business admits of no delay,

and next week we go forth to seek adventures. Meanwhile, I will give you

money wherewith to provide all that is needful for our journeying, and

take heed that you bring wallets with you.'

'Worshipful knight,' answered Sancho Panza, 'I will do all that you bid

me, but, by your leave, I will bring my ass also, for she is a good ass,

and never did I walk when a beast was at hand.'

'I know not,' replied Don Quixote, 'if any knight was ever yet followed

by a squire mounted on an ass's back. Yet, bring the beast, for it will

doubtless not be long before I meet some discourteous knight, whom I

will speedily overcome, and his horse shall be yours.'

When all was ready, Sancho Panza bade his wife and children farewell,

and, joining his master, they rode for some hours across a wide plain

without seeing anything which would enable them to prove their valour.

At length Don Quixote reined up Rozinante with a jerk, and turning to

his squire he said:

'Fortune is on our side, friend Sancho. Look there, what huge giants are

standing in a row! thirty of them at the least! It is a glorious chance

for a new-made knight to give battle to these giants, and to rid the

country of this wretched horde.'

'What giants?' asked Sancho, staring about him. 'I see none.'

'Those drawn up over there,' replied the Don. 'Never did I behold such

arms! Those nearest us must be two miles long.'

'Go not within reach of them, good master,' answered Sancho anxiously,

'for they are no giants, but windmills, and what you take for arms are

the sails, by which the wind turns the mill-stones.'

'How little do you know, friend Sancho, of these sorts of adventures!'

replied Don Quixote. 'I tell you, those are no windmills, but giants.

Know, however, that I will have no man with me who shivers with fear at

the sight of a foe, so if you are afraid you had better fall to praying,

and I will fight them alone.'

[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE DETERMINES TO ATTACK THE WINDMILLS]

And with that he put spurs to Rozinante and galloped towards the

windmills, heedless of the shouts of Sancho Panza, which indeed he never

heard. Bending his body and holding his lance in rest, like all the

pictures of knights when charging, he rushed on, crying as he went, 'Do

not fly from me, cowards that you are! It is but a single knight with

whom you must do battle!' And, calling on the Lady Dulcinea to come

to his aid, he thrust his lance through the sail of the nearest

windmill, which happened to be turned by a sharp gust of wind. The sail

struck Rozinante so violently on the side that he and his master rolled

over together, while the lance broke into small pieces.

When Sancho Panza saw what had befallen the Don--though indeed it was no

more than he had expected--he rode up hastily to give him help. Both man

and horse were half stunned with the blow; but, though Don Quixote's

body was bruised, his spirit was unconquered, and to Sancho's complaint

that no one could have doubted that the windmills were giants save those

who had other windmills in their brains, he only answered:

'Be silent, my friend, and do not talk of things of which you know

nothing. For of this I am sure, that the enchanter Friston, who robbed

me of my books, has changed these knights into windmills to rob me of my

glory also. But in the end, his black arts will have little power

against my keen blade!'

'I pray that it may be so,' said Sancho, as he still held the stirrup

for his master, when he struggled, not without pain, to mount Rozinante.

'Sit straighter in your saddle,' went on the worthy man; 'you lean too

much on one side, but that doubtless comes from the fall you have had.'

'You speak truly,' replied Don Quixote; 'and if I do not complain of my

hurt, it is because it was never heard that any knight complained of a

wound, however sore!'

'If that is so, I am thankful that I am only a squire,' answered Sancho;

'for this I can say, that I shall cry as loud as I please for any pain,

however little it may be--unless squires are forbidden to cry out as

well as knights-errant.'

At this Don Quixote laughed, in spite of his hurts, and bade him

complain whenever he pleased, for squires might lawfully do what was

forbidden to knighthood. And with that the conversation ended, as

Sancho declared it was their hour for dinner.

Towards three o'clock they returned to the road, which Don Quixote had

left on catching sight of the windmills. But before entering it the

knight thought well to give a warning to his squire.

'I would have you know, brother Sancho,' said he, 'that in whatsoever

danger you may see me you shall stand aside, and never seek to defend

me, unless those who set on me should come of base forefathers, and not

be people of gentle birth. For if those who attack me are knights, it is

forbidden by the laws of chivalry that a knight be attacked by any man

that has himself not received the honour of knighthood.'

'Your lordship shall be obeyed in all that you say,' answered Sancho,

'and the more readily that I am a man of peace, and like not brawls.

But, see, who are these that approach us?'

The question was natural, for the procession advancing along the road

was a strange one, even at that day. First came two monks of the Order

of St. Benedict, mounted on mules so large that Don Quixote, with some

reason, took them to be dromedaries. The better to conceal their faces

they had masks, and carried parasols. After them came a coach which had

for a guard four or five mounted men and two muleteers, and inside the

coach was seated a lady on her way to join her husband in the city of

Seville. In reality the monks were strangers to her, and had nothing to

do with her party, but this Don Quixote did not know, and, being ever on

the watch to give help to any who needed it, he said:

'Either my eyes deceive me, or this is the most wonderful adventure that

ever fell to the lot of a knight. For those black shapeless monsters

that you see yonder are magicians carrying off some princess, and I must

undo this wrong with all the strength I have.'

'Look you, master,' answered Sancho hastily, 'if you take up with this

adventure, you will fare worse than you did with the windmills. Those

are no magicians but monks of St. Benedict, while the others are

travellers, journeying for business or pleasure. Think, I pray you, lest

it be a snare of the Evil One.'

'I have often told you, Sancho, that, being what you are, you can know

nothing of adventures,' replied Don Quixote; 'but what I have said, I

do, as you will see'; and as he spoke he planted himself in the middle

of the road, and awaited the approach of the friars.

As soon as they drew near enough for his voice to reach their ears, Don

Quixote cried loudly:

'Fiends and scum of all the wicked, set free on this instant the captive

princess whom you hold imprisoned in that coach, or else prepare for

death, which is the just punishment of all your crimes.'

The monks reined in their mules and stared at Don Quixote, whose figure,

to say truth, was no less startling than his words. At first they were

very angry, then gentler counsels prevailed, and they answered:

'Fair sir, we are neither fiends nor scum, but only two friars of St.

Benedict, who are riding peacefully along the king's highway, and know

nothing of any captive princess.'

'Miscreants that you are, do you think I am a man to be deceived by

false speeches?' cried the Don, now beside himself with fury, and,

dashing with his lance in rest at the friar next him, he would indeed

have given him his last shrift had not the monk slipped cleverly from

the other side of his saddle, so that the lance passed over his head.

His companion, fearing that like treatment was in store for him,

galloped away with all his might.

As for the squire, directly he saw the man fall to the ground he ran up

and began to strip off his clothes, till he was stopped in this

proceeding by a blow on his head from one of the attendants of the two

monks. The friar, left to himself, jumped on his mule, and rode off

pale and trembling to rejoin his companion, while Don Quixote busied

himself with conversing with the lady in the coach, and assuring her of

his protection.

* * * * *

It were long indeed to tell of the many battles delivered by Don

Quixote, who troubled himself little about the sore wounds he received

on his own body as long as he could give aid to those in distress. What

grieved him far more than mere sword-thrusts or bruises was the loss of

his helmet.

But, come what might, his spirit was never daunted, though he could not

deny that, as Sancho Panza truly said, never had they gained any battle,

unless they counted one which was doubtful, and even at that the knight

had come off the poorer by half an ear and half a helmet.

'From the first day we set out,' went on the good squire, 'until this

moment, we have received nothing but blows and more blows, beatings and

more beatings, over and above the tossing I once got in a blanket. And

you tell me that the fellows who maltreat me so are enchanted, and would

not feel my blows if I had a chance of returning them. In truth, my eyes

are too dull to see where lies the pleasure of conquering one's foes, of

which your worship is always telling me.'

'Ah, Sancho, that is just what grieves me,' answered Don Quixote sadly;

'but henceforth I will seek to gird myself always with a sword that

shall be enchanted in such a manner that it will defend me from any

spells they may try to throw over me. Maybe that Fortune will send me

that of Amadis, one of the keenest blades in the world, and the best

sword that ever knight had. But look, do you see that cloud of dust

rising out there? That tells us that a large army, made up of men and

nations without number, are marching towards us.'

'By that way of reckoning,' answered the squire, 'another army must be

advancing to meet them, for behind us the cloud is just as thick.'

Filled with joy at the thought of fighting two armies, Don Quixote

turned to look, and his heart beat high. The dust was so thick that

neither he nor Sancho could perceive that the clouds of dust were caused

by two immense flocks of sheep. To the mind of the knight they _could_

be nothing but vast armies, and this he declared so positively that at

length Sancho Panza came to believe it also. The squire, however, looked

on the fact with very different feelings to his master, and asked

anxiously:

'Noble sir, what are we to do?'

'What _can_ we do,' replied the knight, 'except fly to the help of those

who need it? For you must know, friend Sancho, that the army in front of

us is led by the Emperor Alifanfaron, while the other, which is marching

to meet him, is Pentapolin of the Uplifted Arm, so called because he

rides into battle with his right arm bare.'

'And what is their quarrel?' asked Sancho.

'Alifanfaron is a Moslem, yet desires to marry the daughter of

Pentapolin,' replied Don Quixote, 'but her father will not give her to

him till he ceases to be an unbeliever.'

'By my beard,' cried Sancho, 'if I see this Pentapolin driven back I

will strike a blow for him with all my might.'

'And you will do well,' replied Don Quixote, 'for in such battles it is

not necessary to be a knight.'

'But what shall I do with my ass?' inquired the squire anxiously, 'for I

suppose that until this day no man has ever yet ridden into combat on an

ass.'

'Let him loose,' said Don Quixote, 'and think no more of him, for after

we have vanquished our enemies we shall have such choice of horses that

I may light upon one even better than Rozinante! But let us stand on

yonder little hill, for I would fain describe to you the names and arms

of the noble knights that are approaching.'

For a long while he spoke, telling his squire of the countries from

which those leaders of the armies had come. And truly it was wonderful

to listen to him, seeing that they were all children of his own brain.

From time to time Sancho Panza stared hard at the dust, trying to see as

much as his master, and at last he cried:

'If there is a knight or a giant there, they must be enchanted like the

rest; for, look as I may, I cannot see them.'

'How can you speak such words?' answered Don Quixote reproachfully. 'Do

you not hear the horses neighing, the drums beating, the trumpets

sounding?'

'No, I hear nothing of all that,' replied Sancho stoutly; 'all _I_ hear

is the bleating of sheep and of ewes.' And as he spoke the dust was

lifted by the wind, and he saw the two flocks in front of them.

'It is the deadly fear which has overtaken you,' answered Don Quixote,

'which has clouded your eyes and ears, and made everything seem

different from what it is. If you are afraid, stand aside then, for my

arm alone carries victory with it'; and, so saying, he touched Rozinante

with his spurs, and with his lance in rest galloped down the hill,

unheeding the cries of Sancho, who shrieked out that it was only a flock

of sheep that he saw, and that there were neither giants nor knights to

fight with.

He might have spared his voice, for Don Quixote, if he heard him, which

is doubtful, rode on without turning his head, shouting defiance at the

Moslem leader, and spearing the sheep which could not get out of his

way, as if they were indeed the soldiers he took them for.

When the shepherds had recovered from this unexpected onslaught, they

shouted with all their might to Don Quixote to leave off spearing their

sheep, but, as he paid no heed to their warnings, they took out the

slings they carried with them, and whirling them round their heads let

fly large stones. Don Quixote, however, cared no more for the stones

than he had done for the cries, and galloped up and down wildly, calling

as he went:

'Proud Alifanfaron, where can I find you? I, a solitary knight,

challenge you to meet me in single combat, that I may avenge the wrongs

that you have done to the noble Pentapolin!' Doubtless the knight would

have said still more had not a stone hit him on his side at that very

moment, breaking two of his ribs. At first he thought he was dead, but,

recollecting the balsam which he kept in his wallet, he drank a draught

of it, although it was only intended to be laid on the outside of wounds

and bruises.

He was still in the act of swallowing it when another missile struck him

full on the face, and knocked out some of his teeth. He reeled in his

saddle from the blow, and then fell heavily to the ground.

The shepherds, frightened at what they had done, ran up to look at him,

and seeing him lying there senseless, drove quickly off the rest of

their flock, leaving the seven that Don Quixote had speared stretched

beside him.

Directly the shepherds had departed, Sancho Panza came down to look

after his master, and finding him bruised and bleeding, but not stunned,

he fell to reproaching him for his folly. But the knight only answered

that if the enemies around him seemed to bear the likeness of sheep, it

was only because they had been enchanted, and that their fellows now

marching along the road would soon regain their proper shape, and become

straight men and tall again.

Then, with Sancho's help, he mounted Rozinante, and the two rode slowly

along the road, hoping that they might shortly discover an inn, where

they could get food and rest.

_THE ADVENTURE OF THE BOBBING LIGHTS_

Both Rozinante and his master had fared so ill at the hands of the

shepherds that they journeyed but slowly, and darkness fell without

their having reached an inn, or even caught sight of one. This grieved

sorely both knight and squire, for not only did all Don Quixote's bones

ache from the stoning he had undergone, but somehow or other their

wallets had been also lost, and it was many hours since they had broken

their fast.

In this plight they travelled, man and beast hanging their heads with

fatigue, when they saw on the road, coming towards them, a great

multitude of lights, bobbing up and down, as if all the stars of heaven

were shifting their places. Neither Don Quixote nor Sancho felt much at

their ease at this strange spectacle, and both pulled up their beasts,

and waited trembling. Even Don Quixote feared he knew not what, and the

hair stood up on his head, in spite of his valour, as he said to Sancho:

'There lies before me, Sancho, a great and perilous adventure, and one

in which I must bear a stout heart.'

'It seems to be an adventure of phantoms,' whispered Sancho fearfully,

'which never was to my liking.'

'Whatever phantoms they be,' answered the knight, 'they shall not touch

a hair of your head,' replied Don Quixote soothingly. 'If they mocked at

you in the inn, it was for reason that I could not leap the fence. But

here, where the ground is open, I can lay about me as I will.'

'And what if they bewitch you, as they did that other time?' asked the

squire. 'How much will the open ground profit you then'?

'Trust to me,' replied Don Quixote, 'for my experience is greater than

yours'; and Sancho said no more.

They stood a little on one side watching the lights approaching, and

soon they saw a host of men clad in white riding along the road. The

squire's teeth chattered at the sight of them, and his terror increased

when he was able to make out that the moving stars were flaming torches

which men in white shirts carried in their hands, and that behind them

followed a litter draped in black. After the litter came six other men

dressed in black and mounted on mules. And Sancho had no doubt that he

saw before him shadows from the next world.

Though Don Quixote's heart quailed for a moment at the strangeness of

the vision, he soon recalled his valour. In an instant his fancy had

changed the litter into a bier, and the occupant into a knight who had

been done to death by foul means, and whom he was bound in honour to

avenge. So he moved forward to the middle of the road, and cried in a

loud voice:

'Proud knights, whoever you may be, stand and give me account of

yourselves, and tell me who it is that lies in that bier. For either you

have done an ill deed to some man, or else a wrong has been done to

you.'

'Pardon me, fair sir,' answered the foremost of the white-shirted men,

'but we are in haste, and the inn is far. We have no time for

parleying.'

This reply only confirmed Don Quixote's worst suspicions.

'Stop, or you are a dead man,' cried he in tones of thunder. 'Tell me

who you are and whither you are going, or else I will fight you all';

and with that he seized the mule by the bridle. The mule, not being used

to such rough treatment, reared herself up on her hind legs, so that her

rider slipped off her back. At this sight one of the other men ran to

his aid, calling the knight all the ill names he could think of, which

so inflamed the anger of Don Quixote that he laid about him with his

spear on every side. Even Rozinante seemed to have gotten a new spirit

as well as a new body, for he turned him about so nimbly that soon the

plain was covered with flying white men, still holding the bobbing

torches. The mourners who rode behind did not escape so easily, for

their long skirts and cloaks hindered them from moving, and Don Quixote

struck and beat them just as he would, till they took him to be a giant

or enchanter rather than a man.

Sancho, as was his custom, bore no part in the fray, but stood by and

said to himself: 'Had ever any man such a master!'

When Don Quixote's rage was somewhat abated, he paused and gazed about

him. Then, seeing a burning torch lying on the ground, and a figure near

it, he went up, and perceived by the light that it was the man whom he

had first attacked.

'Yield, or I will slay you!' he shouted, and the man answered grimly:

'I seem to have "yielded" as much as can be required of me, as my leg is

broken. If you are indeed a Christian knight, I pray you of your

nobility to spare my life, as I am a member of the Holy Church.'

'Who brought you here, then?' asked Don Quixote.

'Who? My ill fortune,' replied he. 'I and the eleven priests who have

fled with the torches set forth as escort to the body of the gentleman

that lies in the litter, bearing it to its tomb in the city of Segovia,

where he was born.'

'And who killed him?' said Don Quixote, who never imagined that any man

could die naturally.

'He died by reason of a most pestilent fever,' answered the wounded man.

'Then,' replied Don Quixote, 'I am delivered from the duty of avenging

his death, which would otherwise have fallen to me. For in case you are

ignorant, I would have you know that I am the knight Don Quixote de la

Mancha, and it is my place to wander through the world, helping those

that suffer wrongs and punishing those who inflict them.'

'As to helping those who suffer wrongs,' replied the churchman, 'for my

part I can see nothing but that it is you and no other who have

inflicted the wrong upon me. For whereas I was whole before, you have

given me a thrust which has broken my leg, and I shall remain injured

for ever.'

'You and your friends the priests,' answered Don Quixote, in no wise

abashed by this remark, 'have wrought the evil yourselves by coming in

such wise, and by night, that no man could think but that you were ill

creatures from another world.'

'Then, if you repent you of the wrong that you have done me,' said the

man, 'I pray you, worshipful knight, to deliver my leg from the bondage

of this ass, who has my leg fastened between the stirrup and the

saddle.'

The kind heart of Don Quixote was shocked at his thoughtlessness, and he

answered quickly:

'You should have told me of your pain before, or I might have talked on

till to-morrow'; and he called to Sancho Panza, who was busily robbing

the mule that carried the provisions. Hearing his master's voice, Sancho

left off with an ill grace, and, placing the bag of food on his own

donkey, went to see what his master wanted.

Between them both they set the mule on its feet, and the man on its

saddle. Don Quixote then put the torch in his hand and bade him ride

after his companions, and not to forget to ask their pardon in his name

for the wrong he had unconsciously done them.

'And,' added the squire, 'if your friends should ask the name of this

gentleman, who now craves their forgiveness, tell them that it is the

famous Don Quixote, the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance!'

_THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO_

The morning after the last adventure Don Quixote and his squire were

riding along the road, when the knight saw in front of him a man on

horseback, with something on his head which looked as if it were made of

gold.

'If my eyes do not deceive me,' he said, turning to Sancho Panza, 'here

comes one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino.'

'If I had your worship's leave to speak,' answered Sancho, who was by

this time beginning to learn a little wisdom, 'I could give many reasons

to show that you are mistaken.'

'How _can_ I be mistaken?' cried Don Quixote angrily. 'Do not you see

for yourself that a knight is coming towards us, mounted on a grey horse

and with a golden helmet on his head?'

'All that _I_ can see,' replied the squire, 'is that the man is mounted

on a grey donkey like my own, and he has on his head something that

glitters.'

'What you see,' answered Don Quixote solemnly, 'is the helmet of

Mambrino.[194-1] Go, stand aside and let _me_ deal with him, for without

even speaking to him I will get possession of his helmet, for which my

soul has always longed.'

[194-1] Mambrino was one of the Moorish kings, to whom the helmet

belonged. He who wore it could not be wounded in battle.

Truth to tell, the real story of the helmet, for so Don Quixote took it

to be, was very simple. A rich man who lived in a village only a few

miles away had sent for the nearest barber to shave and bleed him. The

man started, taking with him a brass basin, which he was accustomed to

use, and, as a shower of rain soon came on, he put the basin on his head

to save his hat, which was a new one. The ass, as Sancho Panza rightly

said, was very like his own.

The good man was jogging comfortably along, thinking what he would like

for supper, when suddenly he saw Don Quixote galloping towards him, head

bent and lance in rest. As he drew near he cried loudly:

'Defend yourself, or give me up the helmet, to which you have no right.'

The barber was so taken by surprise that for a moment he did nothing;

then he had only just time to escape the lance thrust by sliding off his

ass and running so swiftly over the plain that even the wind could

scarcely overtake him. In his flight the basin fell from his head, to

the great pleasure of Don Quixote, who bade his squire bring it to him.

'The Unbeliever who wore this helmet first must have had indeed a large

head,' cried he, turning it over in his hands, seeking the vizor; 'yet,

even so, half of it is wanting.'

At this Sancho began to laugh, and his master asked him what he found to

divert him so much.

'I cannot but laugh when I think how large was the head of the

Unbeliever,' replied Sancho gravely, knowing that the knight did not

love the mirth of other men. 'But, to my mind, the helmet looks exactly

like a barber's basin.'

'Listen to me,' answered Don Quixote, 'and I will tell you what has

happened. By a strange accident this famous helmet must have fallen to

the lot of someone who did not know the value of his prize. But, seeing

it was pure gold, he melted half of it for his own uses, and the rest he

made into a barber's basin. Be sure that in the first village where I

can meet with a skilled workman I will have it restored to its own

shape again, and meanwhile I will wear it as it is, for half a helmet is

better than none.'

'And what,' inquired Sancho, 'shall we do with the grey horse that looks

so like an ass? The beast is a good beast.'

'Leave the ass or horse, whichever it pleases you to call it,' replied

the Don, 'for no knight ever takes the steed of his foe, unless it is

won in fair fight. And perchance, when we have ridden out of sight, its

master will come back and seek for it.'

Sancho, however, was not overmuch pleased by this speech.

'Truly the laws of chivalry are strict,' he grumbled, 'if they will not

let a man change one donkey for another! And is it forbidden to change

the pack-saddle also?'

'Of that I am in doubt,' replied Don Quixote; 'and until I have certain

information on this point, if your need is great, you may take what you

need.'

Sancho hardly expected such good fortune to befall him, and stripping

the ass of his harness he speedily put it upon his own beast, and then

laid out the dinner he had stolen from the sumpter mule for himself and

his master.

Not long after this event, as Don Quixote and his squire were riding

along the road, discoursing as they went of matters of chivalry, they

saw approaching them from a distance a dozen men or more, with iron

chains round their necks, stringing them together like beads on a

rosary, and bearing iron fetters on their hands. By their side were two

men on horseback carrying firelocks, and two on foot with swords and

spears.

'Look!' cried Sancho Panza, 'here come a gang of slaves, sent to the

galleys by the king.'

'What is that you say--_sent_?' asked Don Quixote. 'Can any king _send_

his subjects where they have no mind to go?'

'They are men who have been guilty of many crimes,' replied the squire,

'and to punish them they are being led by force to the galleys.'

'They go,' inquired Don Quixote, 'by force and not willingly?'

'You speak truly,' answered Sancho Panza.

'Then if that is so,' said the knight, 'it is my duty to set them free.'

'But think a moment, your worship,' cried Sancho, terrified at the

consequences of this new idea; 'they are bad men, and deserve punishment

for the crimes they have committed.'

Don Quixote was silent. In fact, he had heard nothing of what his squire

had said. Instead he rode up to the galley-slaves, who by this time were

quite near, and politely begged one of the soldiers who had charge of

them to tell him of his courtesy where these people were going, and why

they were chained in such a manner.

The guard, who had never read any of the romances of chivalry, and was

quite ignorant of the speech of knights, answered roughly that they were

felons going to the galleys, and that was all that mattered to anybody.

But Don Quixote was not to be put aside like this.

'By your leave,' he said, 'I would speak with them, and ask of every man

the reason of his misfortune.'

Now this civility of the knight made the soldiers feel ashamed of their

own rudeness, so one of them replied more gently than before:

'We have here set down the crimes of every man singly, but if your

worship pleases you may inquire of the prisoners yourself. And be sure

you will hear all about their tricks, and more too, for it is a mighty

pleasure to them to tell their tales.'

The soldier spoke truly; and wonderful were the stories which Don

Quixote listened to and believed, until the knight, smitten by

compassion, turned to the guards and implored them to set free the poor

fellows, whose sins would be punished elsewhere.

'I ask you to do this as a favour,' he ended, 'for I would willingly owe

you this grace. But, if you deny me, my arm and my sword will teach you

to do it by force.'

'That is a merry jest indeed,' cried the soldier. 'So we are to let go

the king's prisoners just because you tell us to do it. You had better

mind your own business, fair sir, and set that pot straight on your

head, and do not waste your time in looking for five feet in a cat.'

Don Quixote was so furious at the man's words that he felled him to the

earth with a blow from his sword, while for a moment the other guards

stood mute from surprise. Then seizing their weapons they rushed at Don

Quixote, who sat firm in his saddle as became a knight, awaiting their

onslaught. But for all his valour it would have gone hard with him had

not the attention of the soldiers been hastily called off by the

galley-slaves, who were taking advantage of the tumult to break their

fetters. The chief among them had snatched the sword and firelock of the

man whom Don Quixote had overthrown, and by merely pointing it at the

other guards he so frightened them that they fled in all directions,

followed by a shower of stones from the rest of the captives.

'Let us depart from here,' whispered Sancho Panza, knowing better than

his master in what a sorry plight they might presently find themselves.

'If we once reach those hills, none can overtake us.'

'It is well,' replied the knight; 'but first I must settle this matter,'

and, calling together the prisoners, he bade them go with all speed and

present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and say that

they had come by the command of the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance,

and further to relate the doughty deeds by which they had been set free.

[Illustration: HOW THE GALLEY SLAVES REPAID DON QUIXOTE]

At this the convicts only laughed, and replied that if they were to

fulfil his desires and travel together in a body they would soon be

taken captive by their enemies, and would be no better off than before,

but that in gratitude for his services they would be willing to pray for

him, which they could do at their leisure.

This discourse enraged Don Quixote nearly as much as the words of the

guard had done, and he answered the fellow in terms so abusive that the

convict's patience, which was never very great, gave way altogether, and

he and his comrades, picking up what stones lay about, flung them with

such hearty goodwill at the knight and Rozinante, that at length they

knocked him right out of the saddle. The man then dragged the basin from

his head, and after dealing him some mighty blows with it dashed it to

the ground, where it broke in pieces. They next took the coat which he

wore over his armour, and stripped the squire of all but his shirt.

Having done this, they went their ways, fearing lest they might be

overtaken.

_HOW DON QUIXOTE WAS ENCHANTED WHILE GUARDING THE CASTLE_

In the course of their adventures Don Quixote and his squire found

themselves at the door of an inn which they had already visited, where

they met with many friends. The hours were passed in pleasant discourse,

and in the telling and reading of strange stories; the company parted at

night well satisfied with their entertainment.

Don Quixote, however, did not share in these joys, for he was sorely

cast down by reason of wounds he had received a few days previously in

seeking to right a wrong. So, leaving the remainder of the guests to

each other's society, he threw himself on the bed that had been made for

him, and soon fell fast asleep.

The guests below had forgotten all about him, so absorbed were they in

the interest of a tale of woeful ending, when the voice of Sancho Panza

burst upon their ears.

'Hasten! hasten! good sirs; hasten and help my master in the hardest

battle I have ever seen him fight. By my faith, he has dealt such a blow

to the giant that his head he has cut clean off.'

'What is that you say?' asked the priest, who was reading out the tale.

'Are you out of your senses, Sancho?' But his question was lost in a

furious noise from above, in which Don Quixote might be heard crying:

'Rogue, thief, villain! I have you fast, and little will your sword

avail you'; then followed loud blows against the wall.

[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE'S BATTLE WITH THE WINE-SKINS]

'Quick, quick! don't stand there listening, but fly to the aid of my

master. Though, indeed, by this time there can be little need, for the

giant must be dead already, and will trouble the world no more. For I

saw his blood spurt and run all over the floor, and his head is cut off

and fallen to one side.'

'As I am alive,' exclaimed the innkeeper, 'I fear that Don Quixote has

been fighting with one of the wine-skins that I put to hang near the

bed, and it is wine not blood that is spilt on the ground.' And he ran

into the room, followed by the rest, to see what had really happened.

They all stopped short at the sight of Don Quixote, who did, in truth,

present a most strange figure. The only garments he had on were a shirt

and a little red cap; his legs were bare, and round his left arm was

rolled the bed covering, while in the right he held a sword, with which

he was cutting and thrusting at everything about him, uttering cries all

the while, as if in truth he were engaged in deadly combat with a giant.

Yet his eyes were tight shut, and it was clear to all that he was fast

asleep; but in his dream he had slashed at so many of the skins that the

whole room was full of wine. When the innkeeper perceived this, the loss

of his wine so enraged him that he in his turn flew at the knight, and

struck him such hard blows with his fists that, had not the priest and

another man pulled him off, the war with the giant would soon have

ended.

Still, curious to say, it was not until a pannikin of cold water had

been poured over him by the barber that Don Quixote awoke, and even then

he did not understand what he had been doing, and why he stood there in

such a dress.

Now the priest had caught hold of Don Quixote's hands, so that he should

not beat those who were pouring the water over him, and the knight,

having only partly come to his senses, took him for the princess, for

whose sake he had made war on the giant.

'Fair and gracious lady,' he said, falling on his knees, 'may your life

henceforth be freed from the terror of this ill-born creature!'

'Well, did I not speak truly?' asked Sancho Panza proudly. 'Has not my

master properly salted the giant? I have got my earldom safe at last.'

For Sancho never ceased to believe in the knight's promises.

Everyone was driven to laugh at the strange foolery of both master and

man, except the innkeeper, whose mind was still sore at the loss of his

wine-skins. The priest and the barber first busied themselves in getting

Don Quixote, now quite worn out with his adventure, safely into bed, and

then went to administer the best consolation they could to the poor man.

Many days passed before Don Quixote was well enough to leave the inn,

but at length he seemed to be cured of the fatigue he had undergone

during his previous adventures, and had bidden his squire get all things

ready for his departure. Maritornes, the servant at the inn, and the

innkeeper's daughter, having overheard the plans of Don Quixote,

resolved that he should not leave them before they had played him some

merry tricks.

That night, when everyone else had gone to bed, and Don Quixote, armed,

and mounted on Rozinante, was keeping guard in front of the inn, the two

girls crept up to a loft. Nowhere in the inn was there such a thing as a

proper window, but in the loft was a hole through which the knight could

be seen, leaning on his lance uttering deep sighs and broken words about

the Lady Dulcinea.

The innkeeper's daughter, falling in with his humour, advanced to the

hole, and invited him to draw a little nearer. Nothing more was needed

than for Don Quixote to imagine that the damsel was sick of love for

him, and he told her straightway that any service he could do her short

of proclaiming her his liege lady she might command. Upon this,

Maritornes informed him that her mistress would be content were she

permitted to kiss his hand, which Don Quixote answered might be done

without wrong to the Lady Dulcinea. So, without more ado, he passed it

through the hole, when it was instantly seized by Maritornes, who

slipped a noose of rope over his wrist, and tied the other end of it

tightly to the door of the loft.

After that they both ran off, overflowing with laughter, leaving the

knight to reproach them for their ill-usage.

There the poor knight remained, mounted on Rozinante, his arm in the

hole and his hand fastened to the door, fearing lest Rozinante should

move and he should be left hanging. But in this he did wrong to his

horse, who was happy enough to stand still.

Then Don Quixote, seeing himself bound, instead of seeking to unloose

himself as many others would have tried to do, sat quietly in his

saddle, and dreamed dreams of the enchantment which had befallen him.

And thus he stayed till the day dawned.

His dreams were rudely broken into when there drew up at the inn door

four men well armed and mounted. As no one answered their knock, they

repeated it more loudly, when Don Quixote cried to them:

'Knights or squires, or whoever you may be, it is not for you to knock

at the gates of this castle; for sure, any man might tell that those

within are asleep, or else it is their custom not to open until the sun

touches the whole floor. You must wait until it is broad day, and then

it will be seen whether you can be admitted within the gates.'

'What sort of castle is this, which receives no guests without such

ceremonies?' mocked one of the men. 'If you are the innkeeper, bid your

servants open to us without delay. We are neither knights nor squires,

but honest travellers, who need corn for our horses, and that without

delay.'

'Have I the air of an innkeeper?' asked Don Quixote loftily.

'I do not know of what you have the air,' answered the man, 'but this I

_do_ know, and that is that you are jesting when you call this inn a

castle.'

'But it _is_ a castle,' replied Don Quixote, 'and one of the finest in

the whole country! And within are those who carry crowns on their heads

and sceptres in their hands.'

'It may well be that inside are players with crowns and sceptres both,'

answered the traveller, 'for in so small an inn no real kings and their

trains would find a place'; and, being weary of talking, he knocked at

the door with more violence than before.

Meanwhile, one of the horses had drawn near to Rozinante, wondering what

the strange creature could be, of a form like unto his own, but to all

outward seeming formed of wood. Rozinante, cheered by the presence of

one of his own kind, moved his body a little, which caused Don Quixote

to slip from his saddle, and to remain hanging by his arm, though his

feet almost touched the ground. The pain of thus being suspended from

his arm was so great that, knight though he was, he shrieked in agony,

till the people in the inn ran to the doors to see what was the matter.

Maritornes alone, fearing punishment, slipped round another way, and

unfastened the cord which bound Don Quixote, who dropped to the ground

as the travellers came up, and in answer to their questions mounted

Rozinante, and, after riding round the field, reined up suddenly in

front of them, crying:

'Whoever shall proclaim that I have suffered enchantment I give him the

lie, and challenge him to meet me in single combat.'

But instead of answering his defiance the guests merely stood and stared

at him, till the innkeeper whispered that he was a noble gentleman, a

little touched in his wits, so they took no further notice of his words.

This so enraged Don Quixote that he was only withheld from fighting them

all by remembering that nowhere in the records of chivalry was it

lawful to undertake a second adventure before the first had drawn to a

good end.

Meanwhile a new strife had begun in the inn, for two of the travellers

who had lodged there during the night were found trying to leave the inn

without paying their reckoning. But it happened that the landlord

detected their purpose and held them fast, upon which the two fellows

set on him with blows, till his daughter ran to Don Quixote and implored

his help.

'Beautiful damsel,' replied the knight slowly, 'just now I cannot listen

to your prayer, for the laws of chivalry forbid my engaging in a fresh

adventure. But tell your father to keep his assailants at bay, while I

ride to the Princess Micomicona, in whose service I already am, and ask

her leave to aid him in his trouble.'

'And long before your return,' cried Maritornes, 'my poor master will be

in another world'; but Don Quixote, not heeding her, turned his back,

and, falling on his knees before a lady present, begged that she would

grant him permission to rescue the lord of the castle.

This being given, the knight braced on his shield and drew his sword,

and hastened to the inn door, where the two men were still beating the

landlord. But the moment he reached the combatants he stopped and drew

back, in spite of the entreaties of Maritornes and of the innkeeper's

wife.

'It has come into my mind,' he said, 'that it is not lawful for me to

give battle to any except belted knights. Now there are no knights here,

and the task belongs to my squire Sancho, who I will bid to undertake it

in my stead.'

So the fight still raged, till at length the men's arms grew tired,

which, Don Quixote seeing, he persuaded them to make peace, and the two

guests to pay the sum which they rightly owed the landlord.

_DON QUIXOTE'S HOME-COMING_

By this time the company of friends who had been passing their days so

pleasantly at the inn, were called away by other business, but, not

liking to leave Don Quixote to himself, they contrived a plan by which

the priest and barber were to carry him home, where they hoped his wits

might come back to him.

So they set about making secretly a large cage of poles, having the

sides latticed, so that Don Quixote should receive both air and light,

and this cage was to be placed on a bullock-cart which happened to be

going in the same direction. The rest of the company put on masks and

disguised themselves in various manners, so that the knight might not

know them again.

These preparations being finished, they stole softly into his room at

the dead of night and tied his hands and feet firmly together. He woke

with a start, and, seeing the array of strange figures about him, took

them to be the phantoms which hovered about the enchanted castle, and

believed without doubt that he himself was enchanted likewise, for he

could neither move nor fight.

This reasoning pleased the priest greatly, as in just such a manner he

had reckoned that the knight would behave. Sancho alone had been left in

the garments that he commonly wore, and he was not deceived by the

ghosts who passed before him. But he looked on and said nothing till he

should see how the matter turned out.

When all was ready, Don Quixote was picked up and carried to the cage,

where they laid him at full length, but taking good care to nail the

door, so that it could not be opened. Then a voice was heard from behind

to utter a prophecy, which Don Quixote understood to mean that he was

setting forth on his wedding journey, and that he was to be bound in

marriage to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, whose name he had always

upheld in battle.

The knight responded joyfully to the words he heard, beseeching the

mighty enchanter in whose power he was not to leave him in his prison

till these glorious promises had been fulfilled, and appealing to Sancho

never to part from him either in good or ill fortune. Sancho bowed in

answer and kissed his master's hand; then the ghosts took up the cage

and placed it on a waggon.

Don Quixote beguiled the way after his usual fashion, recalling the

stories of enchantments he had read, yet never finding a knight who had

been enchanted after his fashion.

'No knight that ever _I_ heard,' said he, 'was drawn by such heavy and

sluggish animals. Strange it is indeed to be carried to adventures in an

ox-cart, instead of flying through the air on a griffin or a cloud! Yet,

mayhap, the new chivalry, of which I am the first knight, may have new

ways'; and with that he contented himself, and discoursed to Sancho

about the ghosts, while Rozinante and the ass were saddled. Then Sancho

mounted his ass and took Rozinante's rein, the priest meanwhile giving

the troopers a few pence a day to ride by the ox-cart as far as Don

Quixote's native village.

After allowing Don Quixote to bid farewell to the good people gathered

at the inn door, the priest, still masked, gave the signal to the

driver, and the cart drawn by the oxen started at a foot's pace. The

troopers rode on each side to guard it, and behind them came Sancho

riding on his ass, leading Rozinante, while the priest and the barber,

mounted on a pair of fine mules, brought up the rear.

They journeyed in silence for some time, till the driver of the ox-cart,

who was a lazy fellow, called a halt as he himself wished to rest, and

the grass was rich and green for the oxen. Soon they were joined by a

company of well-dressed men on horseback, who stopped in surprise on

seeing such a strange sight as that of a man in a cage. The leader of

the party, who made himself known to them as a canon of Toledo, entered

into conversation with the captive knight. Don Quixote informed him that

he was enchanted by reason of envy of his glorious deeds, which was

denied by Sancho Panza, who declared that when he was at liberty his

master ate, drank, and slept like other people, and if no one hindered

him would talk more than thirty lawyers.

The canon and his friends rode on with the priest for some distance, as

he desired greatly to hear the tale of Don Quixote's adventures, for

never before had he met with such a strange man. In the heat of the day

they again rested in a shady spot, and here, at the petition of the

squire, Don Quixote was unloosed from his bonds and set at liberty.

For a while he was content to pass the hours of his journey in hearing

and telling of matters of chivalry, rejoicing to find himself once more

on the back of Rozinante. But unfortunately the sight of a procession of

men in white approaching him stirred up all his anger, for, as was his

custom, he instantly divined that they were assembled for some unlawful

purpose, though in sooth they were a body of penitents praying that rain

might fall upon their thirsty land. He dashed up to battle, followed by

Sancho on foot, who arrived just at the moment that his master fell to

the ground stunned by a tremendous blow. The penitents who formed the

procession, seeing so many men running up, received them with fists and

candlesticks, but when one of them cast his eyes on the priest who was

journeying with Don Quixote he found that he had known him formerly,

and begged him to tell what all this might mean.

By the time the story was told Don Quixote's wits began to return to

him, and he called to Sancho to put him back into the cage, as he had

been nigh dead, and could not hold himself on Rozinante.

'With all my heart,' answered Sancho, thankful that the adventure had

ended no worse; 'and if these gentlemen will do us the honour to go with

us, we will return home and there make plans for adventures that will

bring us more profit and glory.'

* * * * *

The villagers were all gathered together in the great square, when at

the end of six days a cage containing a man passed through their midst.

The people pressed close to see who the captive might be, and when they

saw it was Don Quixote, they sent a boy to tell his housekeeper and his

niece that the knight had come back looking pale and lean from his

wanderings.

Loud were the cries raised by the good women when they saw him in so

sorry a plight, and they undressed him and put him to bed with what

speed they were able.

'Keep him there as long as you may,' said the priest who had brought

him; but it is whispered that this period of rest and repose did not

last, and that soon Don Quixote might have been seen again mounted on

Rozinante and seeking adventures.

[_Don Quixote._]

_THE MEETING OF HUON AND OBERON, KING OF THE FAIRIES_

In the days of the emperor Charles the Great there lived two young men

named Huon and Gerard, sons of the duke of Bordeaux and heirs of his

lands. Now by all the rules of chivalry they were bound to hasten to

Paris as soon as their father died and do homage to the emperor as their

liege lord; but, like many other youths, they were careless of their

duties, and put off the long and tedious journey from day to day.

This conduct was particularly foolish, because there was present at the

emperor's court the famous earl Amaury, who, rich though he was, coveted

the estates of the duke of Bordeaux, and whispered in the ear of his

master that the young men were rebels and traitors. By this time Charles

was old, and his mind, as well as his body, had waxed feeble; the crown

was too heavy for him, and he was thinking of resigning it to his son

Charlot. So Amaury cunningly represented to him that he must summon the

young men to his court without delay, and then himself plotted with

Charlot to waylay and kill them. But, though they made their plans with

great care, fortune was on the side of Huon and Gerard, for they

defended themselves so bravely that, though they were taken by surprise,

Gerard only received a slight wound, while Charlot was slain by Huon.

When Amaury returned to Paris with these dreadful tidings, the emperor

was beside himself with anger, and ordered Amaury to fight a duel with

Huon, who was the elder of the two, and bid him take heed not to spare

him. As Huon was young and slight, and Amaury one of the strongest men

at the court, neither the emperor nor the earl ever had a moment's doubt

with whom the victory would lie; but if Amaury was more powerful, Huon

was quicker on his feet, and before long he had stretched his enemy dead

upon the ground.

The emperor was watching the fight from a window of his palace, and his

anger at the triumph of Huon was so great that it very near killed him.

Still, as the duel had been fairly fought, he dared not punish Huon, and

he was forced to content himself with sending him on a mission to the

king of Babylon, knowing well the perils which would beset him on the

way.

The small vessel in which Huon sailed for Jerusalem met with so many

dangers that oftentimes the young duke thought that he would be dead

long before he had touched the shores of Palestine. Thrice they were

attacked by pirates, who were hardly beaten off; twice such terrible

storms arose that they were almost driven on the rocks, and once they

had much ado to avoid being drawn into a whirlpool. But somehow or other

they escaped everything, and Huon was safely landed on the holy soil

with his uncle Garyn and a few followers.

* * * * *

He was at first so thankful to be on dry land again that he felt as if

his journey was already over, but he soon found that the worst part was

yet to come. Leaving Jerusalem behind them, the little band entered a

desert, dreary and boundless as far as they could see. Hunger and thirst

they suffered, and death felt very near them, when at last they reached

a tiny hut, before which an old man was sitting. At the sight of Huon,

thin and wasted as he had grown, the old man broke into sobs, crying

that his face was like unto the face of the duke of Bordeaux, whom he

had known when he was young.

'Thirty years have I dwelt in these deserts,' said he, 'and never have

my eyes lighted on the face of a Christian man.'

Then Huon answered that he was indeed the son of the duke of Bordeaux

whom he had known in his youth, and while they rested each man told his

tale.

'It is indeed good fortune that guided you here,' said Gerames when Huon

had ended his story, 'for without me and my counsel never would you have

reached the kingdom of Babylon. There are two roads which lead to that

great city; one will take you forty days, and the other fifteen days,

but if you will be ruled by me you will travel by the longer.'

'And wherefore?' asked Huon, whose body was still sore from the

hardships he had suffered, and whose ears had been tickled with the

tidings of the soft couches and lovely gardens of Babylon the Great.

'The short way leads through a wood which is the home of fairies and

other strange creatures,' answered Gerames, 'and in it dwells Oberon,

the king of them all, in stature no higher than a child of three years

old, but with a face more beautiful than any worn by mortal man. His

voice is softer and his words more sweet than we are wont to use; but

beware of listening to them, for should you speak to him one word, you

will fall into his power for ever. But if you hold your peace think not

to escape that way, for he will be so wroth with you that he will cause

all manner of tempests to spring up, and a great and black river to rise

before you. Fear not to pass this river, black and swift though it be,

for it is but a fantasy, and will not even wet the feet of your horse.

And now that I have told you the ills that lie in that wood, I pray you

hearken to my counsel, and ride by the way that is longer.'

Huon paused before he answered. In sooth, Gerames' words had not

awakened dread in his soul. Instead, he desired greatly to meet that

dwarf, and to try whose will should prove strongest. So he answered that

it would ill become a knight, and the son of his father, to shun a

meeting with anyone, be he man or fairy, and it might be well for him to

take the short road, for many adventures might befall him by the longer.

'Sir,' said Gerames, 'be it as you will; whichever way you take I will

go with you.'

Then Huon and Gerames rode at the rear of their company, and entered the

wood where Oberon, king of the Fairies, abode. For two days they had

neither food nor drink, and Huon repented him of his journey and wished

that he had hearkened to Gerames, as perchance the other road might have

been easier.

'Let us all alight and seek for food,' said he; but at that moment,

Oberon, richly dressed, and covered with precious stones, appeared

before them. A magic bow was in his hand, whose arrows never failed to

hit the beast he aimed at, while round his neck was slung a horn. Now

this horn was unlike any other in the whole world, for one blast of it

could cure a man's sickness, even if he was nigh to death, or make him

feel satisfied if he lacked meat, or joyful though he was poor, or

summon whomsoever he wanted, if he was distant a hundred days' journey.

Seeing the doleful plight of the little company, Oberon blew the third

blast, and, behold! Huon and his companions began to sing and dance, as

if good fortune had come to them.

'Ah, what strange thing has come to pass!' cried the young knight. 'But

now I was like to fall from my horse from hunger, but in an instant I am

filled and wish for nothing.'

'Sir,' said Gerames, 'it is Oberon who has wrought this; but do not

suffer yourself to be drawn into speech with him, or you will rue it.'

'Have no fears for me,' answered Huon, 'I will be steadfast.'

[Illustration: The Meeting of Huon and Oberon]

He held his head very high when Oberon the dwarf came up, and begged

the knight to speak to him; but Huon only leaped on his horse and signed

to his men to do likewise. At that the dwarf waxed angry, and bade a

tempest arise, and with it came such a rain and hail that they were sore

affrighted. Many times Gerames prayed them to take courage, for these

were devices of the fairy king, and would not really hurt them, and as

long as they spoke no words they would be safe.

'Have no doubt of me,' answered Huon.

For a while they lost sight of the dwarf, and Huon vainly hoped that

they had beaten him off, and that they were rid of him. But in a little

time they reached a bridge which spanned a great river, and on the

bridge was Oberon himself. Fain would they have slipped past him, but

the bridge was narrow, and Oberon stood in the middle. Once more he

spoke soft words to Huon, and offered to do him service, but Huon held

his peace. Again Oberon was angered sorely, and blew a blast which

hindered the company from riding onwards, while four hundred knights of

his own came galloping up.

'Slay these men at once,' he cried, shaking with wrath, but their leader

implored him to spare them for a space.

'It will be time enough to kill them if they still keep silence,' said

he; and Oberon agreed that he would give them yet another chance, and

Huon and his companions rode hastily onwards.

* * * * *

'We have left him full five miles behind us,' said Huon, drawing rein;

'and now that he is not here to trouble us I will say that never in my

life did I see so fair a creature. Nor do I think he can do us any ill.

If he should come again, I fain would speak to him, and I pray you,

Gerames, not to be displeased with me thereat.'

Gerames' heart was heavy at these words, but he knew well the wilfulness

of young men, and he answered nothing. For fifteen days they rode on,

and Gerames began to hope that Oberon had given up their pursuit, when

suddenly he again appeared.

'Noble sir,' he said to Huon, 'have you resolved in good sooth not to

speak to me? I know all your past life, and the task set you by the

emperor, and without my help never will you come to the end of that

business. Therefore, be warned by me, and go no further.'

'You are welcome, sir,' answered Huon at last, and Oberon laughed for

very joy.

'Never did you give a greeting so profitable as this one,' he said, and

they rode on together.

_HOW OBERON SAVED HUON_

Oberon was so rejoiced that Huon had at last made friends with him, that

he did everything that he could think of to give pleasure to the knight

and his friends.

'There is nothing in the world that I cannot have by wishing for it,'

said he, 'and all I possess is yours. And to prove that my words are not

vain I will set before you the richest feast that ever you ate. After

you have finished, you shall go whithersoever you will.'

So they ate and drank to their hearts' content, but, before they

departed, Oberon bade one of his fairy knights to bring him his golden

cup, which he showed to Huon.

'Behold,' he said, 'this cup is empty, and will so remain, if any man

who has done a deadly sin should seek to drink of it. But he who has led

a goodly life, the moment that he takes it in his hands it will become

full of wine. Make proof of it yourself, and if you are found worthy the

cup shall be yours.'

'Alas, sir,' answered Huon, 'I fear very greatly that I have sinned too

deeply for that cup to have any virtue for me, but yet I have repented,

and desire from henceforth to wrong no one.' Then he lifted the cup, and

the wine brimmed over.

Oberon was right glad when he saw this sight, and gave the cup into his

keeping.

'As long as you are true and faithful, you shall never lack drink in

it,' said he, 'but if you do falsely to any man, it will lose all its

virtue and my help will go from you also. I have likewise another gift

for you: take this horn of ivory, and when you are in great straits,

and will blow it, however far I may be, I will come to you, and will

bring with me a great company to lend you aid. But beware, as you set

store by my friendship and by your life, that you do not blow the horn

lightly.'

'I give you great thanks for your kindness, and will hearken to your

words,' said Huon; 'and now, I pray, let me depart hence to do the

emperor's bidding.'

So the knight and the fairy king took leave of each other, and they

fared on their way, and in the evening they sat and rested in a green

meadow, and ate and drank of the food that Oberon had given them. Now

Huon was uplifted by the gifts the king had given him, and thought that

he himself must be in some way better than other men, to be singled out

for such honour, and, as young men will, he began to boast and talk

idly, making pretence that he doubted the magic qualities of the horn

and the cup, so that he might prove them at once before his company.

'It was a fair adventure for me when I spoke to Oberon,' said he, 'and

that I did not listen to the counsel of Gerames. When I fulfil my

mission and return unto the court of the emperor, I will present him

with the cup, the like of which he has not got in all his treasury. But

as for the horn, how do I know if Oberon spoke the truth concerning it?'

'Oh, sir, be not rash, I entreat you!' cried Gerames, 'for he charged

you straitly not to blow the horn save in your direst need.'

'Ay, surely,' answered Huon, 'but for all that I will try what power it

has,' and, raising it to his mouth, he blew a loud blast.

At that all the company rose up, and sang and danced joyfully, and

Garyn, Huon's uncle, begged him to blow the horn once more.

Oberon heard it, though he was full many miles away.

'What man is so bold as to seek to do him ill whom I love best in all

the world?' said Oberon. 'I wish myself and a hundred good men in his

company'; and in an instant Huon and his friends beheld the horses'

skins flashing in the bushes. Then Huon's soul smote him, and he bowed

his head before Oberon, saying:

'Sir, I have done ill; tell me quickly if death must be my punishment?'

'Where are those that would work you evil?' asked Oberon sternly; but in

spite of his wrath Huon took heart of grace, and, confessing his folly,

prayed for pardon, which Oberon granted him for very pity, knowing, he

said, that Huon would have much to suffer, some things through the

wicked ways of others, but more from his own pride and self-will. Then,

bidding the young man farewell afresh, the fairy king rode back to the

wood.

All befell just as the fairy king had foretold. Giants and mortals alike

barred his way; small would have been his chance of ever reaching

Babylon had not Oberon himself watched over him, and sent him help when

he knew it not. Only one thing he asked of Huon in return--to keep

himself from ill-doing and lies, so that he might be worthy to drink

from the golden cup.

And thus it came to pass that after many perils Huon knocked at the

first of the four gates of the city.

No sound was heard in answer to his knock, so he seized the great bell

that hung there, and rang it loudly. At this a porter opened a little

lattice, and asked what great lord it might be who demanded admittance

in so rude a fashion, to which Huon answered hotly that he was an envoy

from the emperor Charles, and that if the porter refused him entrance he

would have to answer for it to his own master.

At that the porter said that if the stranger was an infidel like

themselves, the gates should be thrown open at once, but that, should he

allow any Christian to enter, he would pay for it with his head.

'But I am as much a Saracen as yourself,' said Huon, who only thought of

getting into Babylon and paid no heed to the lie he was telling, or to

the dishonour of his words. Then the gates were opened wide, and he

entered.

It was not till he was crossing the bridge which stood before the second

gate that the wickedness of what he had done came upon him, and then he

felt ashamed, and sorry, and frightened altogether. And how should he

pass through the other three gates without again denying his faith and

steeping himself in dishonour? He was about to turn back in despair,

when he remembered the two good gifts of a giant whom he had overcome--a

suit of armour which no sword could pierce, and a ring which would throw

open all doors. So he showed the ring to the porters that guarded all

the other three doors, and soon found himself in the garden of the

palace.

Even the groves of palms, and the trees of delicious fruits, could not

make him forget the lie he had uttered. Indeed, if he had wished to do

so, he could not, for presently he came to a fountain beside which was

written that no traitor should drink thereof on pain of being destroyed

by the serpent that dwelt therein. At this Huon suddenly felt himself

forsaken of all, and he sat down and wept bitterly.

'O noble King Oberon, listen to me once more,' he cried, and tremblingly

blew his horn.

'I help no liars,' said the fairy king when the blast echoed through the

forest, and, though Huon could not hear his answer, the silence soon

told him what it was.

'If he slays me, at least it will be soon over,' he thought to himself,

and, putting forth all his strength, he blew a fresh blast.

This time it was so loud that it reached the ears of the lord of

Babylon, who was sitting at a feast in the Hall of Moonbeams. And he

rose up, together with his nobles and their squires and their wives and

daughters, and every one in the palace from the least to the greatest,

and began to dance and sing. They sang and danced as long as the horn

kept on blowing, and when it had ceased the ruler of Babylon called to

his lords and bade them follow him into the garden, as of a surety some

great enchanter must have strayed therein.

'Seek him and bring him to me, wherever I be,' commanded the emir; but

the gardens were so large, and it took so long to find Huon, that the

emir went back into the palace and laid himself down on a pile of soft

cushions at the end of the hall.

By his side on a great carved chair was the king of a neighbouring

country, who arrived hither only a few days before to beg for the hand

of the emir's fair daughter, the princess Esclaramonde, who was said to

be the loveliest maiden in the whole world. To be sure, it was whispered

among the courtiers that the princess did not look on him with a

favourable eye, when she had watched his arrival from behind her

lattice, and that more than once she had protested that she was too ill

to leave her room when sent for by her father; but of course, if

marriage was resolved upon, it would have to be.

Huon had heard talk of these things between his guards when they were

marching through the gardens that were almost as big as a town, and up

the long flight of marble steps that led to the palace. He said nothing;

perhaps by this time he had learnt a little wisdom, but he knew who the

man was whose dress was so rich and his air so proud, and before anyone

even saw him lift his arm the king's head was rolling in the dust.

For a moment all remained still, too astonished to speak. Then the emir

recovered his wits, and ordered Huon to be carried off to a dungeon, and

not to be let go or the guards lives would be forfeit. But quick as

thought Huon held out his hand with the ring on it.

'Do you know this?' he said, and the king started back at the sight of

it, and cried to the soldiers to let the prisoner go, for in that place

he might do whatsoever he would. At this permission Huon turned to where

the princess Esclaramonde was sitting by her father, and kissed her

thrice.

The emir was not altogether pleased at this fashion of Huon's, but he

said nothing, and in a moment the knight told him how the emperor had

sent him to pray the emir to become a Christian, otherwise he should

proceed against him with a mighty host.

The emir laughed in scorn as he listened to Huon's vain boast.

'Fifteen envoys has he despatched on a like errand,' answered he, 'and

all fifteen have I hanged. Right willingly should you make the sixteenth

but for the ring which you wear. Tell me, I pray you, whence you got

it?'

But when Huon confessed that it had been given him by the giant, the

emir waxed more wroth than before, and ordered his guards to seize him

and cast him into prison, which in the end they did, though he resisted

them well by reason of the harness that was on him.

For a long space Huon lingered in that dark prison, and sad indeed would

have been his lot had it not been for the secret visits of the princess

Esclaramonde, who, the better to preserve his life, assured her father

of his death.

At length, when the emir was sore beset by the army of the giant

Agrapart, she deemed it a favourable time to betray to her father that

Huon was still alive in his prison, and was ready to do battle with the

giant if, as was usual in that country, the princess's hand should be

given to the victor. Both the emir and the giant agreed that their

quarrel should stand or fall by single combat, and so the fight began.

[Illustration: HUON DEFEATS THE GIANT AGRAPART]

Huon felt in his heart that there was more at stake than even the hand

of the princess. He stood forth as the champion of Christendom amidst a

host of pagans, and it behoved him to strike with all his strength. In

the end the victory was his, and the giant Agrapart was overcome, but

his life was spared on condition that he would serve the emir faithfully

all his days, which solemn oath he took gladly. After that, Huon drew

out the cup the fairy king had given him, and, having made the sign of

the cross over it, it was filled with wine, and he drank of it. For he

had long since repented of the lie he had told, and was clean again.

Then the emir tried to drink also, but no wine would come.

'You must forsake your false gods, and be a Christian such as I am,'

said Huon, 'and if you like not fair words you shall see how an armed

host pleases you;' but, as was natural, the ruler of Babylon was not the

man to be moved by such persuasions. He angrily bade Huon cease, and to

speak to him no more on the matter or all the hosts of Charlemagne

himself should not avail to save his head.

'You will repent you too late,' said Huon, and blew his horn.

At first the emir and his courtiers began to dance and sing wildly, they

knew not wherefore, while in the wood far away Oberon heard the sound.

'Huon, my friend, has great need of me,' he thought to himself, 'and his

ill-doings have been punished enough, so I will pardon him, for there is

not in all the world so noble a man. Therefore I wish myself at his

side, with a thousand men behind me.' And in another moment, no man

could tell how, Oberon and his men were within the walls of Babylon. The

guards of the palace fell before them on every hand, till at last they

reached the emir himself.

'He is yours to spare or to slay,' said Oberon, and once more the knight

gave the Paynim his choice.

'Be a Christian or you die,' said Huon, and the emir made answer:

'I will never forsake my own.' They were the last words he spoke, for

his head rolled upon the floor. After that Huon cut off the emir's beard

and pulled out four of his teeth, and hid them in the beard of his old

friend Gerames, who had lately returned to Babylon.

'Now I must leave you,' said Oberon, when these things were over. 'See

that in all ways you behave yourself as a good and true knight should

do, and have no share in ill-doings. I bid you take ship and carry the

princess Esclaramonde, your bride, into France, and guard her from all

ills on the way. And if you do not that which I bid you, great evil

shall happen unto you.'

But, alas! no sooner was the ship out of sight of land than the good

counsels of Oberon faded out of Huon's mind, and he fell into many sins.

The cup would not fill with wine, and Oberon was deaf to the blast of

the horn. Then an awful tempest arose; the ship struck on a rock and was

rent in pieces, and all were drowned save Huon and the princess, who

were washed on an island. But even here they were not safe, for Huon was

bound and tortured, and left under a tree, while Esclaramonde was

carried away by the pirates who were dwellers on the isle.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, the knowledge of Huon's plight had reached Oberon, and, angry

though he was, he began to think how best to send help to him, when a

monster of the sea, called Mallebron, who had before given him aid on

his journey to Babylon, begged to be allowed to deliver him once more.

'It pleases me well,' answered Oberon, 'that this caitiff Huon should

suffer pain for the evil that he has wrought, but if you love him so

much that for his sake you shall endure to wear the shape of a fish for

twenty years longer I will grant you your wish on two conditions. Carry

him away from the island and place him on the mainland, only never more

let mine eyes light on him. Be careful also to bring back to me my

golden cup, my horn, and my fairy armour, for it is long since he has

shown himself unworthy of them.'

So Mallebron swam straightway to the island, and, finding Huon fast

bound, as Oberon had said, he loosed him, and he stood on his feet. But

when Huon heard the message of Oberon he was sore angered, and,

forgetting his own misdeeds, complained bitterly of Oberon's hardness

of heart in commanding that the gifts he had given him should be yielded

up again. But, wail as he might, he could not move Mallebron, who bade

him farewell, and departed with Oberon's treasures.

It were long to tell of Huon's adventures after he had left the island.

At one time he took service with a minstrel and was his varlet. At

another time he was forced to play chess for the hand of a king's

daughter, but refused to marry her when he had won the game.

Unknowingly, he once fought with Gerames, and only found out who he was

in the course of the battle. He afterwards entered the city with him,

and visited Esclaramonde, who was a captive in the palace, and right

glad were they to meet. After that he and some French knights who had

joined him were besieged in the castle by the Paynims, and were rescued

by a French ship, which carried Huon and Esclaramonde and all the

company on their way to Wana, together with much treasure which they had

found in the castle.

But, happy though Huon felt on the road home again, he heard with wrath

that Gerard, his brother, had persuaded the emperor that by now Huon

must be dead, and that _he_ was rightful heir to the duchy. It was so

long since any tidings had been received of Huon--for none had fared

that way--that some thought Gerard spoke reasonably, and upheld his

suit, which in the end was granted by Charles. And no sooner was the new

duke invested with the lands than he began to oppress all his subjects,

till the duchess his mother died of grief at the misery of her people.

'He shall pay me for that,' muttered Huon grimly.

There was one thing, however, that could not be delayed a moment more

than was needed, and this was the marriage between Huon and

Esclaramonde, for the princess had promised to become a Christian and to

receive baptism at the hands of the pope. So they bade the captain put

into the port nearest to Rome, and, taking horse, rode thither as fast

as they might.

The pope was seated on his throne with his threefold crown on his head,

holding counsel with his cardinals, when Huon and his company entered

the hall two by two, and saluted humbly. At the sight of Huon leading

Esclaramonde by the hand, the pope, who had once visited the court of

the duke of Bordeaux, and remembered the face of Huon, rose up to greet

him, kissed him on both cheeks, and bade him tell his adventures, and

how he had fared.

'Ill enough, good sir, and these others also,' answered Huon; 'but I

have by grace won through it all, and I have brought the daughter of the

great emir of the Paynims, whom I desire you should make my wife, after

she has been baptized by your hands.'

'Huon,' said the pope, 'all this pleases me right well to do, and it is

my will that you tarry with me here this night.'

So they tarried; and the next day the wedding feast was held, and there

were great rejoicings in the pope's palace. And early the next morning,

Huon and his wife and his friends took ship for Bordeaux.

But not yet were Huon's trials ended. Gerard, his brother, had no mind

to give up his lands and honours lightly, and many were the plots that

he laid against Huon. Indeed, he not only contrived to throw the

new-comers into prison, but prevailed on the emperor to journey himself

to Bordeaux, to the intent that Huon should be put to death, which would

have happened had it not been for the timely help of Oberon.

It was thus it came about.

The fairy king was seated at dinner in his palace in the wood, when the

knowledge came to him that the emperor Charles had taken an oath to hang

Huon ere he slept, and at the thought thereof he broke into weeping.

'I have sore punished the sins he has committed,' said he, 'and great

has been my wrath. But now it is time that I help him, or he will be

gone from me. So I wish my table and all that is on it near to the

emperor's table, only about two feet higher. And I will that on my table

be set my cup and horn and armour. And I wish that with me shall go a

hundred thousand men, such as I am wont to have in battle.'

Great was the marvel of the emperor when this table appeared beside him,

and he took it for an enchantment of duke Names; but Huon and Gerames

and Esclaramonde, who were present at the feast with fetters on their

wrists, knew that Oberon had come to their deliverance.

Soon the clank of swords was heard throughout the streets, and you could

not see the stones for the armed men who stood on them.

'See that none leave the gates,' said Oberon, 'and when you hear the

blast of my ivory horn, come to me in the palace, and slay everyone you

shall meet on the way'; and so saying he entered the hall, and many of

his lords with him. Their dresses were the richest that had ever been

seen, and on their necks they wore collars of precious stones. As the

king passed by Charles, he knocked against him, so that his hat fell

upon the ground.

'Who is this dwarf who so rudely has shouldered me?' asked the emperor,

'and whence comes he? I will see what he will do, for, small as he is,

he is the fairest creature that ever I saw.'

Leaving the emperor behind him, the fairy king came to the spot where

Huon and the captives were standing, and he wished that the fetters

might fall off their feet, and that they might be free men. Then

silently he led them before Charles, and caused them to sit down at his

own table, and bade the lords of the court drink out of the magic cup

after Huon and Esclaramonde and Gerames had drunk out of it. But only

for duke Names would the wine bubble up.

Afterwards Oberon ordered Gerard to confess his sins and his plots that

he had plotted, which out of very shame he was constrained to do, and

then Oberon prayed the emperor to command Gerard and those who had

helped him to work ill to be hanged on the gallows which had been reared

for Huon, and this was done also; and the emperor Charles and Huon, duke

of Bordeaux, made reconciliation together.

* * * * *

'Come to me in my city of Mommur four years from now, Huon,' said

Oberon, 'and I will give you my realm and my dignity, for I know in

truth I shall not long abide in this world. But beware, as you love your

life, that you fail not to be with me at the day I have appointed, else

I shall cause you to die an ill-death.'

When he heard, Huon stooped down and kissed his feet, and said:

'Sir, for this great boon I thank you.'

[From _Huon of Bordeaux_.]

_HAVELOK AND GOLDBOROUGH_