Once upon a time there lived in England a king called Athelwold, who

ruled the land so well that everyone was rich and happy: or, if they

were not, it was their own fault. His people all loved him dearly, and

would do anything for him, and when he went to war there was no

sovereign that could count on a larger following of stout brave men. He

was quite a youth when he came to the throne, and at first all sorts of

traitors and robbers from other countries took refuge in his kingdom,

but Athelwold sought them out so carefully and punished them so severely

that they soon betook themselves and their crimes elsewhere.

Now one thing grieved the king sorely. He had no son to sit on his

throne after he was dead, to protect the poor and put down the lawless.

And how was his little daughter, who was not yet fourteen, to keep

order, or to uphold the laws?

'If she were a woman grown, it might be different,' he thought to

himself, 'for Goldborough sees clearly and acts promptly. But as yet she

has little knowledge, and her ways are those of a child. And full well I

know that my death is nigh at hand, and there is none to watch over

her.'

Long the king pondered in his mind what he could best do for his

daughter's safety and the welfare of his people, and in the end he sent

messengers with letters to all his earls and barons from Roxborough to

Dover, bidding them come to his castle of Winchester as swiftly as they

might, for he could no more mount his horse, neither could he swallow

meat or pasties.

Sadly his vassals received the summons, for each loved him as his own

father, and not one lurked behind. The king gave them a glad welcome,

but they could not forbear shedding tears when they saw his weakness and

heard his feeble voice. Athelwold let them have their way a little

while, and then he said:

'I am dying, as you see, and I have sent for you hither, to ask you all

to tell me which of you will best guard my daughter when I am dead, till

she has come to years when she can guard herself.'

And they answered as one man:

'Earl Godrich of Cornwall.'

Then the king bade the priest bring the holy vessels, and earl Godrich

swore on them that he would be faithful and true in peace and in war to

Goldborough; and, further, that he would seek out a man who was better

and fairer and stronger than all others to be her husband, so that the

land might have peace, as in the days of Athelwold.

After the earl had sworn to fulfil what the king required of him,

Athelwold made his will, and gave England into the keeping of Godrich.

This done, he lay back in his bed, and that same morning he died in the

arms of his daughter.

But bad indeed was the choice which king Athelwold's vassals had made

when they proclaimed earl Godrich as the fittest guardian for the young

princess. In the beginning, indeed, while Goldborough was still a child,

everything went smoothly. The earl appointed justices and sheriffs to

carry out the laws, and, though he took more heed to gather riches for

himself than to protect his people, yet on the whole he governed well.

Thus six years passed away, and Goldborough was twenty years old. She

had lived far away from the castle of Winchester, and had never seen her

guardian since the day that her father had been buried, and, for his

part, he had hardly remembered her, he was so busy making laws and

amassing treasures. Still, other people recollected Goldborough, if he

did not, and one Eastertide, when the princess's twentieth birthday was

at hand, an old pilgrim chanced to stop at Winchester on his way to

Canterbury. He had but lately passed through the town where Goldborough

was living, and had many tales to tell of her fair and gracious ways.

Godrich let him talk, but his face was gloomy and he answered nought.

But, though his tongue was silent, his heart was base and his thoughts

were evil.

'Have I toiled all these years for nothing?' he said to himself, 'and

shall England be ruled by a fool, a maiden? I have a son, a full fair

knave; he shall have England and be king.'

So Goldborough was brought from her woods and gardens, and shut up in

the castle of Dover, where none might visit her. And no company had she

but her foster-sister, and an old woman who had been her nurse.

* * * * *

At the time when Athelwold ruled England there reigned in Denmark a king

called Birkabeyn, who had three children, two girls named Swanborough

and Helfled and a boy called Havelok. Birkabeyn was strong and healthy,

and thought to live many years, when a wound in battle proved his

death-blow. Like Goldborough, the children were all young, and he was

forced to choose someone to protect them till they were of full age. The

man on whom Birkabeyn's choice fell was his own close friend, who had

served him all his life, and who, he thought, loved his children well.

And so perhaps the earl would have done had not such power been given

into his hands, but this he was not proof against. No sooner had the

king died than he caused the three children to be cast into prison,

where he murdered the two girls himself.

[Illustration: ROUND THE BAG WHICH HELD THE BOY A BRILLIANT LIGHT WAS

SHINING]

At the dreadful fate of his sisters, Havelok, who was the youngest, fell

on his knees and implored the wicked earl to spare him.

'If it is Denmark you want, it shall be yours,' cried the boy, 'and

never will I seek to take it from you. Nay, give me a ship, and to-day I

will leave the country for ever.'

Even the earl's heart was for a moment softened by the child's tears and

prayers, and at first he thought that he would let him go, as it would

be many years before he would be old enough to be an enemy. But then he

remembered that, if Havelok died unwedded, he and his sons would be

heirs to the crown, for he was the king's cousin. However, he pretended

to grant the child's prayer, and bade him follow him down to the shore,

where dwelt an old fisherman. Havelok wandered down to the water, and

wondered which of the ships drawn up on the beach he should set sail in,

and where he would go. He was still terrified at the death of sisters,

and shook with fear as long as their murderer was in sight.

Meanwhile the earl was speaking to the fisherman, who stood at the door

of his cottage, which was built just out of reach of the waves.

'Grim,' he said, 'to-day you are my thrall, but to-morrow you shall be a

free man if you will do my bidding. Take the boy that stands there, and

throw him into the sea, that he drown. Fear nothing: the penalty will be

mine, not yours.'

'Your bidding shall be done,' answered the fisherman, 'though the deed

is but little to my liking.'

'So be it,' said the earl, and went home to hold counsel with his family

how best to take possession of the crown.

Grim took down a cord from a hook in the roof, and went out to the

child, who screamed with terror as he drew near, but there was no one to

help him, and Grim thrust a cloth in his mouth to stifle his cries,

while he bound his hands behind his back with a cord. When this was

done, he put the boy in a black bag, and carried him to his wife, who

flung him on the floor, where he lay for many hours, thinking every

moment that he would be thrown down a well or stabbed by a dagger.

* * * * *

At midnight, when all was still, and the men in the ships were sleeping

soundly, Grim arose, and told his wife to kindle a fire and to light a

candle.

'Why, there is a light in the room already,' said she, 'and it seems to

come from the farthest corner, and to shine as brightly as if it were

the sun itself'; and with that she sprang out of bed and ran over the

floor, calling to Grim to follow her.

And in truth it was as she had said, for round the bag which held the

boy a brilliant light was shining.

'If we touch him we shall rue it all our lives,' she whispered to her

husband; then, stooping, she cut the knots which held the bag, and drew

out Havelok, who was well-nigh dead with fright and suffocation. Next

she stripped him of his clothes, and on his shoulder she found the mark

of a tiny cross, from which the light came.

'He is born to be king,' said Grim softly, 'and surely it is he and no

other who is the son of Birkabeyn, and who some day shall come to his

own. It is easy to see that he will grow into a man, tall and strong,

who shall come back from over the sea where I shall send him, and avenge

himself on the traitor.' Then Grim fell on his knees before Havelok and

prayed his forgiveness.

'You shall stay here awhile,' he said, 'till I can fit out a ship, and

in it we will all set sail, you, and I, and my wife and my three sons,

but it must be done in secret, lest the earl should come to know of it.'

So they gave Havelok bread to eat and milk to drink, and laid him in a

bed in a dark corner, where no man could see him, and the next day Grim

set out for the traitor's castle to ask for the reward that had been

promised him.

'Your bidding is done, and I have come to claim my freedom,' said Grim

when he stood in the presence of the traitor. But the earl made answer:

'Who is there to know what lies betwixt us? Go home, and be my thrall,

as you have ever been.'

Full of rage though he was, Grim dared say no more, lest his head should

pay forfeit; but the earl's words had filled him with fear, and he

hastened to get ready a ship and to fill it during the night with food

enough to last them for three weeks. By that time, he thought, they

would reach the shores of England.

When all was finished, Grim and his wife, his three sons and two

daughters and little Havelok, stole away very early one morning before

the sun was up, and set sail southwards. A north wind soon sprang up and

drove him, in ten days, to the mouth of a great river called the Humber.

Here he steered his ship on to the beach, and then they all got out and

set up a tent, till they could look about for a little and see what best

to do.

It was a wild place where they landed, and for many miles there was not

even a hut to be seen, but Grim liked it well, and he built houses for

himself and his family, and by-and-by more people came thither also, and

a town was built and was called Grimsby, after Grim. But that happened

afterwards.

Fish were plentiful at the mouth of the river--lampreys and sturgeon and

turbot and great cod--and Grim and his sons were good fishers, both with

net and line, and Havelok soon learned to fish too, and was as happy as

any boy could be. Sometimes he stayed at home with the women while the

others carried fish round the country in baskets.

Twelve years passed in this manner, during which Grim had prospered

greatly, but he began to get old, and the long journeys with heavy

panniers on his back tried him sorely. This Havelok perceived, and one

day he spoke:

'I am a man grown, and shall I sit at home idle mending nets while my

father travels over the whole country-side carrying weights too heavy

for him to bear? Not so! To-morrow I go forth, and my father shall take

his seat by the fire, and shall mend the nets.'

Whatever Havelok said he did, and early the next morning he took the

panniers on his shoulders, and started for the houses where Grim was

wont to sell his fish. But soon, none could tell why, a bad time came,

and there was no corn in the land, and no fish in the sea. And Grim felt

pity in his heart for Havelok, who was young and strong, and needed more

meat than other men. So one day Grim spoke:

'Havelok, dear son, you have come upon evil days, and must stay with us

no longer. Go to the city of Lincoln. It is a rich town, and there you

may find work for all you need. But, woe is me! no clothes can I give

you, save this old sail, which the women shall fashion into doublet and

hose for you.'

The sail was soon cut and fashioned by Grim's wife and daughters, but

there was nothing to make into shoes, and Havelok walked into Lincoln

barefoot, and he fasted from meat for two or three days; at length the

earl's cook took him into his service as porter, and his chief duty was

to carry the earl's fish into the castle. But the cook had many porters

besides Havelok, and when the cry of 'barmen' was heard they all tried

one to outdo the other in obtaining the pot in which lay the hot fish.

However, Havelok was taller and stronger than the rest, and generally

was able to thrust the others on one side.

Besides bearing the cauldron of fish, Havelok had many things to do. He

had to fill a huge tub in the kitchen with water, and to cut wood for

the fire, and to do anything the cook told him. And, whatever happened,

he was full of mirth, and would jest and play with the children who ran

about the back of the castle.

At last his clothes, which had been fashioned out of the old sail, fell

into holes, and the cook, out of pity and liking, bought him some new

ones, and when he put them on there was no man, be he who he might, that

was fairer to see. Then folk began to notice that he was taller than any

man in the castle, and that he was very strong. Very soon a chance came

to him to prove his strength.

Godrich the earl--or the king, as he called himself--now held his court

at Lincoln, and summoned a parliament to be held there to settle the

affairs of the nation. They came in great companies, and everyone had a

following, and so many were they that they were forced to dwell in tents

outside the city walls. It was not long before they fell to wrestling

and such sports.

* * * * *

For a while Havelok looked on, and bided his time. He took no part in

the wrestling, though there was not a champion on the ground that he

could not easily have overcome.

When they were tired of throwing each other, someone proposed that they

should put the stone, and a large smooth piece of rock was chosen. Man

after man came forward, but hardly one could raise it from the ground,

far less cast it any distance from him. At this moment the cook strolled

up and saw his scullion standing there.

'It is your turn,' he said to Havelok; 'show them what you can do, for

the honour of Lincoln,' and Havelok obeyed him. He lifted the mighty

stone to the height of his shoulder, and sent it spinning through the

air.

'Measure the cast,' said the cook proudly; and when it was measured it

was found to be twelve feet beyond the cast of any other man.

Little was talked of that day but the wonderful throw of the young

scullion, and soon it reached the ears of the knights at court, and in

time, Godrich himself. As he listened to the tale, there flashed across

his memory the words of the dying Athelwold: 'Find out the man who is

better and fairer and stronger than any man in the world, and give him

to be husband to my daughter.' Was there any man living stronger than

this Havelok? and could he himself be ill-spoken of if he should carry

out Athelwold's dying wish? So thought Godrich; but far back in his

heart he knew that once Goldborough was wedded to a scullion there would

be small chance of her becoming queen.

Next morning a knight mounted on a big bay horse, and attended by two

men-at-arms, might have been seen riding southwards through the fair

county of Lincoln, and in twenty days' time he returned, bringing with

him the princess. Godrich greeted her with tokens of great joy, and told

her that, as her father had bidden him, he had found at last the fairest

and strongest man in the world, and he should be her husband.

Goldborough listened quietly to his words, and when he had ended she

looked at him.

'Let him be as strong and fair as he may,' she said, 'but if he is not a

king or a king's son he is no husband for me.'

At this Godrich waxed wrath, and his whole body trembled with anger.

'Your father bade me swear to him when he was dying that you should

marry the strongest man in the world, and none other,' cried he, 'and,

by the Rood, it is he you seek to disobey, and not me. The man who is to

be your husband is the servant of my cook, and to-morrow we will have

the wedding.'

The heart of Goldborough was filled with horror when she heard the fate

that was in store for her, and she fell weeping on her knees before the

earl to implore him the rather to let her enter a convent; but Godrich

answered her nothing, and strode out of the hall.

The bells were ringing next day when Havelok woke, and before he was

dressed a message came ordering him to go at once to the earl's

presence. He wondered for what cause he was wanted, for never yet had he

had speech of the earl, and still more surprised was he to find Godrich

clad in his most splendid robes, as if for a festival. But if Havelok

was astonished at all this, he was nearly struck dumb by the words which

he heard.

'Master, will you take a wife?' and the young man gazed at him in

silence; for why should the ruler of all England take heed whether his

scullion was wedded or not?

'Will you take a wife?' asked Godrich again, in tones of impatience;

then Havelok found his voice.

'No, by heaven I will not,' he cried; 'what should I do with a wife? I

could neither feed, nor clothe, nor shoe her! For myself, I should have

no clothes either, had it not been for the bounty of your cook.'

In his rage Godrich seized a thick staff and laid it across his

scullion's shoulder.

'Promise me that you will wed her within an hour, or I will hang you on

the nearest tree,' he cried; and Havelok, who had no liking for death,

consented.

His purpose thus gained with Havelok, the earl now summoned Goldborough,

whom he threatened to burn if she withstood him. All night the princess

had wept and pondered how to escape so dreadful a doom, but at last she

took comfort in the thought that in accepting this husband, however

lowly born he might be, she would be fulfilling her father's wishes. So

as soon as Godrich gave her a chance to speak she said she would resist

him no longer.

Then Godrich for the first time in six years felt that he was indeed

King of England.

'You are a wise maiden,' cried he, his face glowing with joy; 'and, to

show you how well I love you, I will give you much gold, and you shall

have an archbishop to bless your marriage.' And so it was done.

Both Havelok and his wife felt that they could stay in Lincoln no

longer, and the next day they bought two horses and set forth for

Grimsby. To Havelok's great grief he found that the fisherman had died

just before, after a few days' illness, but his sons and daughters gave

them a glad greeting, and bade them stay in their house, promising that

they themselves would be their servants.

Weary with travel, Havelok soon went to bed, but Goldborough knelt

praying before the window, when suddenly a bright light filled the room.

She turned to see what it might be, and beheld it issuing from a cross

on Havelok's shoulder. While she gazed wondering, she heard a voice

saying, 'Goldborough, let sorrow depart from you, for your husband is no

scullion, but the son of a king, and he shall rule over England and

Denmark.' At that her heart grew light again, and she kissed Havelok and

woke him, and told him what the voice had said.

'Let us sail at once,' added she, 'for who knows when Godrich the

traitor may change his mind? And bid the sons of Grim sail with us.'

Goldborough's counsel seemed good to Havelok, and he rose in haste and

sought Grim's sons, whom he found setting forth to fish. He begged them

to wait, and to listen to his story, which Grim had always hidden from

them, and when they heard it, they said that they would go with him, and

help him to slay the murderer of his sisters and the robber of his

crown.

'You shall be rich men the day he dies,' vowed Havelok; and the boat was

made ready for sea.

A fair wind blew them to Denmark, and Havelok left his wife with his

three foster-brothers, and betook himself to the house of Ubbe the earl,

whom his father had loved dearly. He said no word as to his birth, but

asked him leave to trade on his lands, offering a ring as

earnest-money.

[Illustration: HAVELOK PRESENTS GOLDBOROUGH TO THE ENGLISH PEOPLE.]

Ubbe looked at the ring, and then at the young man who gave it.

'You look fitter to do a knight's work than to buy and sell,' he said,

and Havelok answered:

'That will come, fair sir, but I must first go softly. Meanwhile I have

left my wife Goldborough under the care of her foster-brothers, and can

tarry here no longer.'

'Bring her hither,' said Ubbe, 'and dwell with her in this castle, and

if no man has dubbed you knight I will take that upon me.'

And so it was done, and the heart of Goldborough rejoiced, for by this

time she loved her husband dearly.

That same midnight Ubbe was wakened by a great light, which seemed to

fill the castle. He rose from his bed, and went from room to room, and

all were bright as day, though he could not tell why. Then he came to

the room where Havelok and Goldborough lay asleep, and out of Havelok's

mouth came a flame like that of a hundred and ninety-seven candles. And

on his shoulder was the cross of kingship, and that was shining too.

When Ubbe saw that, he knew that Havelok was indeed the son of

Birkabeyn, his friend, and the rightful king of Denmark; and, waking the

sleeping man, he bade him sit up and receive his homage. After that he

sent for his lords, and commanded that they should swear fealty to their

king. And when the lords had sworn, Ubbe summoned the people, and told

them, what many had known before, that the earl had betrayed his trust,

and that now he should pay forfeit of his wickedness.

Blithe were Havelok and Goldborough that day as they moved amidst the

groups of men who shared in the sports which the people of Denmark ever

loved, and once more Havelok cast the stone further than any one there

could throw it. His first act, after he had been proclaimed king, was to

make Grim's three faithful sons barons with fair lands. Then he bid them

go and seek the earl, and bring him back with them.

This was not done without a hard fight, for the earl and his men

defended themselves stoutly; but at length he was bound and placed upon

an old horse and carried before Havelok, who was waiting in the castle

with his lords about him.

'What judgment will ye pass on him, fair lords?' asked the king.

'That he may be hanged as beseems a murderer and a traitor, and that his

head be planted over the chief gate of the town as a warning to all,'

they said with one voice, and this was done also.

* * * * *

For a while Havelok stayed in Denmark to see to the affairs of the

kingdom, and then, leaving Ubbe to rule, he set sail for England with

Goldborough his wife, and a large army, in many ships with high carved

prows. Once again he landed at the mouth of the Humber, and his first

act was to found a church in memory of Grim. Next, he placed his army in

order of battle, and awaited the attack of his enemy. Godrich the earl

had heard that he had come, and had hastily collected a great host, with

which he marched upon Lincoln. The attack was begun by the English, and

fierce was the fight. Many were killed, both of English and Danes. At

last, just as the English were being beaten slowly back, Havelok and

Godrich came face to face with each other. Bitterly the earl then rued

the day when he had married Goldborough to the strongest man in the

world, scullion though he were! Many times Havelok might have slain him,

but such was not his purpose, and, taking a cord from his waist, he

bound the traitor's arms, and bade one of his knights ride and fetch

Goldborough, whom he had left under a guard at a little distance.

When she drew near, Havelok commanded that a flag of truce should be

waved, so that the fighting might cease. Then, taking his wife by the

hand, he led her forward, and told her story to them all, and how

Godrich the earl had wronged her. And the English fell on their faces

and did obeisance, and vowed to serve her faithfully all the days of

their lives.

'And what is the law of England respecting a traitor?' asked Havelok,

when Goldborough had been proclaimed queen with trumpets and shouting.

'That he be laid on an ass and burned at the stake,' cried they. And

this was done also.

After this, Havelok gave his two foster-sisters in marriage to great

lords, and made the cook to whom he had owed his good fortune earl of

Cornwall in place of the wicked Godrich. He left Ubbe to rule in

Denmark, while he and Goldborough remained in England, but every two

years he sailed across the sea to be sure that all went well in the

country of his birth.

And for sixty years Havelok and Goldborough lived happily together and

had many children, and wherever Havelok went, Goldborough went too.

[_The Lay of Havelok the Dane._ Early English Text Society.]

_CUPID AND PSYCHE_

Once upon a time there lived a king who had three daughters. The two

elder girls were very fair, and many were their suitors, but the

youngest was so beautiful that it was whispered in the city that the

goddess Aphrodite was not her equal in loveliness, and as she walked

through the streets men touched their foreheads, and bowed low to the

ground, as if Aphrodite herself had passed by.

Now it was not long since the shepherd Paris had given the goddess the

golden apple, in token that neither on the earth nor even on Olympus was

a woman to be found as fair as she. And when she heard of the honours

paid to Psyche, she rose up in her wrath and sent a winged messenger for

Cupid, her son.

'Come with me,' she said, when Cupid appeared before her, 'I have

somewhat to show you'; and without further speech the two flew through

the air together, till they reached the palace where Psyche was

sleeping.

'That is the maiden to whom men pay the homage due to me alone,' she

whispered, while her grey eyes darted gleams like fire. 'I have brought

you hither that you may avenge me by pricking her with an arrow that

will fill her heart with love for one of the basest of mortals. And now

I must depart in haste, for Oceanos awaits me.'

Aphrodite vanished, but Cupid remained where he was, gazing on the

sleeping maiden and confessing in his heart that those who paid her the

honours due to his mother were not much to blame.

'Never will I do you such wrong,' he murmured, 'as to mate you with some

base wretch, who has no thought beyond the wine-cup. From me and my

darts you are safe. But am I safe from yours?' Then, fearing to stay any

longer, lest his mother should wax wroth with him, he also took his way

to the palace of Oceanos.

[Illustration: APHRODITE BRINGS CUPID TO PSYCHE]

If Aphrodite had not been a goddess, and had known a little more about

the hearts of men, she might not have envied Psyche so bitterly; for,

though all men bowed down before her and worshipped her beauty, each

felt that she was too far above him to woo for his bride. So that, while

her sisters had homes and children of their own, Psyche remained unasked

and unsought in her father's palace.

At length the king grew frightened as months and years slipped by, and

Psyche was past the age when Greek maidens left the hearth where they

had grown into girlhood. He summoned some wise men to give him counsel,

but they shook their heads, and bade him consult the oracle of his

fathers. It was a three days' journey to his shrine, and then no man

knew when the oracle would speak, so the king took with him sheep and

oxen, and skins of wine for himself and his followers.

Ten days later he returned to the city with bowed head and white face.

The queen, with anxious heart, had been watching his arrival from the

roof of the palace, and awaited him at the door of the women's

apartments.

'What has happened?' she said, as she greeted him; but he drew her on

one side, where none might hear them.

'The oracle has spoken,' answered he, 'and decrees that Psyche shall be

left upon a barren rock till a hideous monster shall come and devour

her. And it is for this that men have paid her honours which were the

portion only of the gods! Far better had she been born with the hair of

Medusa and the hump of Hephæstos.'

At these dreadful tidings the queen and her maidens broke into weeping,

and when the news spread through the city no sounds but those of wailing

were heard. Only the voice of Psyche was silent among them. She moved

about as one that was sleeping, and indeed she felt as if the boat, with

its grim ferryman, had already borne her across the Styx. So the days

passed on, and one evening a white-clad priest arrived from the shrine

to bid the king tarry no longer.

That night a sad procession left the gates of the city, and in the midst

was Psyche, clad in garments of black, and led by her father, while her

mother followed weeping behind. Singers wailed out a dirge, which was

scarcely heard above the sobs of the mourners, and the torches burned

dimly and soon went out.

The sun was rising when they reached the bare rock on top of a high

mountain where the oracle had directed that Psyche should be left to

perish. She made no sign when her father and mother took her in their

arms for the last time, and, though they cried bitterly, she never shed

a tear. What was the use? It was the will of the gods, and so it had to

be!

Not daring to look back, the king and queen took their way home to their

desolate palace, and Psyche leaned against the rock trembling with fear

lest every moment the monster should appear in sight. She was very

tired, for the road to the mountain had been long and stony, and she was

likewise exhausted by her grief, so that slowly a deep sleep crept over

her, and for a while her sorrows were forgotten.

While she thus slumbered, Cupid, unknown to herself, had been watching

over her, and at his bidding Zephyr approached and played round her

garments and among her hair. Then, lifting her gently up, he carried her

down the mountain side, and laid her upon a bed of lilies in the valley.

While she slept, pleasant dreams floated through her mind, and her

terrors and grief were forgotten. She awoke feeling happy, though she

could not have told why, for she was in a strange place and alone. In

the distance, through some trees, the spray of a fountain glimmered

white, and she rose and walked slowly towards it. By the fountain was a

palace, finer by far than the one in which Psyche had lived, for that

was built of stone, while this was all of ivory and gold. Vast it was,

and full of precious things, as Psyche saw for herself when, filled with

wonder mixed with a little fear, she stepped across the threshold.

[Illustration: ZEPHYR CARRIES PSYCHE DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN]

'This palace is as large as a city,' the maiden said aloud, as she

passed from room to room without coming to an end of the marvels; 'but

how strange to find that there is no one here to enjoy these treasures,

or to guard them!' She started, as out of the silence a voice answered

her:

'The palace with all it contains is yours, lady. Therefore, bathe

yourself, if you will, or rest your limbs upon silken cushions, till the

feast is prepared, and we your handmaids clothe you in fine raiment. You

have only to command, and we obey you.'

By this time all fear had departed from Psyche, and with gladness she

bathed herself and slept. When she opened her eyes she beheld in front

of her a table covered with dishes of every kind, and with wines of

purple and amber hues. As before, she could see no one, though she heard

the sound of voices, and when she had finished, and lay back on her

cushions, unseen fingers struck a lyre, and sang the songs that she

loved.

So the hours flew by, and the sun was sinking, when suddenly a veil of

golden tissue was placed on her head, and at the same time a voice that

she had not heard spoke thus:

'Dip your hands in this sacred water'; and Psyche obeyed, and, as her

fingers sank into the basin she felt a light touch, as if other fingers

were there also.

'Break this cake and eat half,' said the voice again; and Psyche did so,

and she saw that the rest of the cake vanished bit by bit, as if someone

else were eating it also.

'Now you are my wife, Psyche,' whispered the voice softly; 'but take

heed to what I say, if you would not bring ruin on yourself, and cause

me to leave you for ever. Your sisters, I well know, will soon seek you

out, for they think they love you, though their love is of the kind that

quickly turns to hate. Even now they are with your parents weeping over

your fate, but a few days hence they will go to the rock, hoping to

gather tidings of your last moments. It may chance that at last they may

wander to this enchanted place, but as you value your happiness and your

life do not answer their questions, or lift your eyes towards them.'

Psyche promised she would do her unseen husband's bidding, and the weeks

slipped swiftly by, but one morning she felt suddenly lonely and broke

into wailing that she might never look on her sisters' faces again, or

even tell them that she was alive. All the long bright hours she sat in

her palace weeping, and when darkness fell, and she heard her husband's

voice, she put out her arms and drew him to her.

'What is it?' he asked gently, and she felt soft fingers stroking her

hair.

Then Psyche poured out all her woe. How could she be happy, even in this

lovely place, when her sisters were grieving for her loss? If she might

only see them once, if she might only tell them that she was safe, then

she would ask for nothing more. If not--why, it was a pity the monster

had not devoured her.

There was a silence after Psyche had poured forth her entreaties, and

then the bridegroom spoke, but his voice seemed somehow changed from

what it had been before.

'You shall do as you wish,' he said, 'though I fear that ill will come

of it. Send for your sisters if you please, and give them anything that

the palace contains. But once again let me beseech you to answer nothing

to their questions, or we shall be parted for ever.'

'Never, never, shall that be,' cried Psyche, embracing her husband with

delight. And, whoever and whatever you may be, I would not give you up,

even for the god Cupid. I will tell them nothing, but bid, I pray you,

Zephyr, your servant, to carry them hither to-morrow, as he carried

me.'

Next morning Zephyr found the two sisters seated on the rock, tearing

their hair and beating their breasts with sorrow. 'Psyche! Psyche,' they

cried, and the mountains echoed 'Psyche! Psyche,' but no other sound

answered them. Suddenly they felt themselves gently lifted from the

earth, and wafted through the air to the door of the palace, where stood

Psyche herself.

'Psyche! Psyche!' they cried again, but this time with joy and wonder,

and for a while they forgot everything else in the world. Then Psyche

bade them tell her of her father and mother, and how the days had passed

since she had left them, and she pictured to herself their gladness when

they heard how different had been her fate from that which the oracle

had foretold.

After her sisters had made known to her everything they had to tell,

Psyche invited them to see the palace, and, calling to the voices,

ordered them to prepare baths with sweet-smelling spices, and to set

forth a banquet for her guests. At these tokens of riches and splendour,

envy began to arise in their hearts, and curiosity also. They looked at

each other, and the glances of their eyes promised no good to Psyche.

'But where is your husband?' asked the eldest. 'Are we not to see him

also?'

'Yes,' said the other, 'you have not even told us what he is like, and

our mother will assuredly wish to know that.'

Their questions recalled to Psyche's mind the danger against which she

had been warned, and she answered hastily:

'Oh, he is young and very handsome--the handsomest man in all the world,

I think. But he spends much of his time in hunting, and has now gone far

into the mountains to chase the boar. It was thus that, feeling myself

lonely, I sent a messenger for you. And now, come and choose what you

will out of the treasure-chamber, for the hour of your departure draws

nigh!'

The sight of gold and precious stones heaped up in the treasure-chamber

only made the sisters more jealous than before; but their jealousy did

not prevent their carrying off the most splendid necklaces they could

find before Psyche summoned Zephyr to bear them unseen back to their own

homes.

'Why has Fortune treated her so differently from us?' cried the eldest,

before they were out of sight of the palace. 'Why should _she_ have

boundless riches, and be married to a man who is young and handsome, and

own slaves who fly through the air as if they were birds? Far indeed are

the days when she sat in our father's house, and no suitor came to woo!

But, though she was lonely and forlorn enough in the city, here she is

treated as if she were a goddess, while I am linked to a husband whose

head is bald, and whose back is a hump!'

'My plight is worse than yours,' groaned the other sister, 'for I have

to spend my time nursing a man who is always ill and rarely suffers me

to leave his side. But do not let us flatter her pride by telling our

father and mother of the honours Fate has heaped on her. Rather let us

consider how best to humble her and bring her low.'

Meanwhile night had fallen, and Psyche's husband came to her side.

'Did you take heed to my warnings,' asked he, 'and refuse to answer the

questions of your sisters?'

'Oh yes,' cried Psyche; 'I told them nothing that they wished to know. I

said that you were young and handsome, and gave me the most beautiful

things in the world, but that they could not see you to-day, for you

were hunting in the mountains.'

'So far it is well, then,' sighed he; 'but remember that even at this

moment they are plotting how they may destroy you, by filling your heart

with their own evil curiosity, so that one day you may ask to see my

face. But recollect, the moment you do this I vanish for ever.'

'Ah, you do not trust me,' sobbed Psyche; 'yet I have shown you that I

can be silent! Let me prove it again by suffering Zephyr to bring my

sisters once more, and then never, never will I crave another boon from

you.'

For long her husband refused to grant her what she asked, but at last,

wearied by her tears and prayers, he told her that this once she might

bid Zephyr bring her sisters to her. Eagerly they ran through the garden

into the palace, and greeted Psyche with warm embraces and gentle words,

while she on her part did everything she could think of to give them

pleasure. As before, she bade them choose whatever they most desired,

and when they had returned from the treasure-chamber and were eating

fruit under the trees by the fountain the elder sister spoke:

'How it grieves me to see you the victim of such deceit, and how I long

to be able to ward off the danger!'

'What do you mean by such words?' asked Psyche, turning pale. 'No one is

deceiving me, and no goddess could be happier than I.'

'Ah! you do not know--I dare not tell you,' gasped the other in broken

accents. 'Sister, you try; I cannot shape the words.'

'It is hard, but my duty demands it of me,' said the second sister. It

is--oh, how shall I tell it?--your husband is not such as you think, but

a huge serpent whose neck swells with venom, and whose tongue darts

poison. The men who work in the fields have watched him swimming across

the river as darkness falls, at the moment that he goes to seek you!'

Their groans and sobs, no less than their words, convinced Psyche, who

fell straightway into the pit they had digged for her.

'It is true,' she said with a trembling voice, 'that never yet have I

beheld my husband's face, and that many times he has warned me that the

moment my eyes light upon him he will abandon me for ever. His words

were always sweet and gentle, and his touch hardly resembles the skin of

a serpent. It is not easy to believe; but yet, if you know, I pray you,

of your love for me, to come to my aid in this deadly peril.'

'Ah, hapless one, it is for that we are here,' answered the elder; 'and

this is what you must do. This very night, fill a lamp full of oil, and

cover it with a dark cloth, so that not a ray of light can be seen; then

take a sharp knife and hide it in your bosom. After the serpent is sound

asleep, steal softly across the room, and snatch the cloth from the

lamp, so that you may see where to strike home, for if he should wake

before you have cut off his head your life will be forfeit.'

Having said this, they both hurriedly embraced their sister, and were

wafted home on the wings of Zephyr.

Left alone, Psyche flung herself on the ground, and for many hours lay

trying to subdue her misery. At one moment she thought that she could

not do it--that her sisters might be wrong after all. But her faith in

them was strong, and as night approached she rose up to do their

bidding.

So well did she feign happiness that her husband heard no change in her

voice as she bade him welcome, and, having travelled far that day, he

soon laid himself down on the couch and fell sound asleep. Then Psyche

seized the lamp and snatched off the covering, but by its light she saw

stretched on the cushions, not a huge and hideous serpent, but the most

beautiful of all the gods, Cupid himself.

At this sight her knees knocked together with surprise, and she gave a

step backwards, and the lamp, trembling in her hand, let fall a drop of

burning oil on Cupid's shoulder. He sprang to his feet, and with one

reproachful look he turned, and would have flown away had not Psyche

grasped his leg, and was borne up with him into the air, till at length

her strength gave way and she fell to the ground, where for some time

she remained unconscious.

When her senses came back, she was so miserable that she sought eternal

forgetfulness in a neighbouring stream, but the river, in pity, carried

her gently along and placed her on a bank of flowers. Finding that even

the river would have none of her, she rose up, and resolved to wander

night and day through the world till she should find her husband.

* * * * *

The first spot at which she halted was a temple on the top of a high

mountain, where, to her surprise, she saw blades of wheat, ears of

barley, sheaves of oats, scythes and ploughs, all scattered about in

wild confusion. Never before had she seen such disorder about a temple,

and, stooping down, she began to separate one thing from another and to

place them in heaps.

While she was busy with this, a voice cried to her from afar:

'Unhappy girl, my heart bleeds for you! Yet even while you are pursued

by the wrath of Aphrodite, you can labour in my service. May you find

some day the rest that you deserve! But now, quit this temple, lest you

draw down on me the anger of the goddess.'

With despair in her soul, Psyche wandered from one place to another, not

knowing and not caring whither her feet might lead her. At length she

was tracked and seized by one of Aphrodite's attendants, who dragged her

by the hair into the presence of the goddess herself. Here she was

beaten and scourged, both by whips and by cruel words, and, when every

kind of suffering had been heaped on her, Aphrodite took a number of

bags containing wheat, barley, millet, and many other seeds, and,

tumbling them all into one heap, bade her separate and place them each

in its own bag by the evening.

Psyche stood staring where Aphrodite had left her, not even trying to

begin a task that she knew to be hopeless.

She would certainly be killed, thought she, but, after all, death would

be welcome; and she laid her weary body on the floor and sought sleep.

At that moment a tiny ant, which had been passing through the storehouse

on his way to the fields, and saw her terrible straits, went and fetched

all his brothers, and bade them take pity on the damsel, and do the work

that had been given to her.

By sunset every grain was sorted and placed in its own bag, but Psyche

waited with trembling the return of Aphrodite, as she felt that nothing

she could do would content her.

And so it happened, when Aphrodite entered, and thirsting for vengeance,

cried with glee, 'Well, where are my seeds?' Psyche pointed silently to

the row of bags against the wall, each with its mouth open, so that at

the first glance it could be seen what kind of seed it contained. The

goddess grew white with rage, and screamed loudly, 'Wretched creature,

it is not your hands that have done this! you will not escape my anger

so easily'; and, tossing her a piece of bread, went away, locking the

door behind her.

Next morning the goddess bade one of her slaves bring Psyche before her.

'In yonder grove,' she said, on the banks of a river, feed sheep whose

wool is soft as silk and as bright as gold. Before night I shall expect

you to return with as much of this wool as will make me a robe. And I do

not think that you will find any one to perform your task this time!'

So Psyche went towards the river, which looked so clear and cool that

she stepped down to the brink, meaning to lay herself to rest in its

waters. But a reed sang to her, and its song said:

[Illustration: APHRODITE FINDS PSYCHE'S TASK ACCOMPLISHED]

'O Psyche, do my bidding and fear nothing! Hide yourself till evening,

for the sheep are driven mad by the heat of the sun, and rush wildly

through the bushes and thickets. But when the air grows fresh they sink

exhausted to sleep, and you can gather all the wool you want from the

branches.'

[Illustration: JOYFULLY THE EAGLE BORE BACK THE URN]

Then Psyche thanked the reed for its counsel and brought the wool safely

back to the goddess; but she was received as before with scornful looks

and words, and ordered to go to the top of a lofty mountain and fill a

crystal urn from a fountain of black water which spouted from between

walls of smooth rock. And Psyche went willingly, thinking that this time

surely she must die.

But an eagle which was hovering over this dark and awful place came to

her aid, and taking the urn from her he bore it in his beak to the

fountain, which was guarded by two horrible dragons. It needed all his

strength and skill to pass by them, and indeed it was only when he told

them that Aphrodite needed it to give fresh lustre to her beauty that

they ceased to snap at him with their long fangs.

Joyfully the eagle bore back the urn to Psyche, who carried it back

carefully in her breast. But Aphrodite was still unsatisfied. Again and

again she found new errands for Psyche, and hoped that each one might

lead her to her death, though every time birds or beasts had pity on

her.

If Cupid had only known his mother's wicked schemes, he would have

contrived to stop them and to deliver Psyche. But the wound on his

shoulder where the burning oil had fallen took long to heal, and for

some time he was in ignorance of all that Psyche was suffering. At last,

however, the pain ceased, and his first thought was to visit Psyche,

who, nearly fainting with joy at the sound of his voice, poured forth

all that had happened since that dreadful night which had destroyed her

happiness.

'Your punishment has been sore,' said he, 'and I have no power to save

you from the task my mother has set you. But while you fulfil this I

will fly to Olympus, and beseech the gods to grant you forgiveness, and,

more, a place among the immortals.'

And so the envy and malice of Aphrodite and the wicked sisters were

brought to nought, and Psyche left the earth, to sit enthroned on

Olympus.

[_Apuleius._]

_SIR BEVIS THE STRONG_

Many hundreds of years ago there lived in the South of England an earl

of Southampton, whose name was Guy. He spent most of his life in

defending his country from all sorts of invaders who sailed from beyond

the seas, and it was not until he was getting old that he had time to

think of a wife. Then he made a very foolish choice, for he asked in

marriage the daughter of the king of Scotland, who had already plighted

her troth to the young and handsome Sir Murdour.

But though Sir Murdour was brother to the emperor, the Scottish king

preferred to wed the princess to the stout earl of Southampton, whom he

had known of old, and his word was law to all his court. So the bride

journeyed with a great following to the south of England, where the

marriage took place, and the next year a baby was born that was called

Bevis.

Now, though her husband was good and kind, and gave her the most

beautiful dresses and horse-trappings in the whole kingdom, the princess

hated him with a deadly hatred, just because he was not Sir Murdour. And

when her son Bevis was seven years old she determined to seek the help

of her old lover, and entice the earl to his death.

* * * * *

To this end she made use of her charms and beauty to gain over to her

side some of her husband's most trusted lords, and when this was done

she chose out a faithful messenger to ride north to Sir Murdour.

'Bid him,' she said, 'to come without fail on the first of May to the

great forest that lies by the sea. Thither will I take care that my lord

shall fare, with but a small company, and--the rest Sir Murdour can

grasp. Only, I should like to see a bleeding head, in proof that all has

gone as I wish.'

Sir Murdour did not delay when he heard this message, but called

together a troop of armed knights, and set sail with them for the forest

on the water over against Southampton. They landed late one night, and

Sir Murdour bade his foster-brother go secretly to the palace, and let

the countess know that he was close at hand. After that he posted his

men in deep dells and behind trees, and awaited his enemy.

The sun was scarcely up before the countess roused her husband, who was

sleeping heavily after a day's hunting.

'Awake,' she cried, shaking his shoulder, 'I am feeling like unto death,

and I have dreamed that this day I shall surely die if I eat not of the

flesh of a wild boar of the forest.'

At these woeful tidings the earl sprang from his bed, and in a short

while he was riding with a pack of hounds and a few attendants towards

the part of the forest where the wild boars were most plentiful. The

dogs were soon racing down a track, having scented a boar, and the earl

was preparing to follow when Sir Murdour and his men leapt out from

their hiding-places and suddenly surrounded him.

'I am here at your lady's bidding,' said the knight; 'she has begged me

to send her your head, and I mean to do it.'

[Illustration: LITTLE BEVIS AVENGES HIS FATHER]

The earl's face grew pale at these dreadful words. He did not fear any

man alive, but the thought of his wife's baseness took the strength from

his arm and the courage from his heart. Still, for the honour of his

name and knighthood, it behoved him to fight his best, though his only

weapon was a boar spear. The battle lasted long, but at length the

earl's horse was killed under him, and he fell to the ground. In another

moment Sir Murdour struck his head from his shoulders, and, placing it

on a spear, he ordered his squire to bear it to the castle.

Bevis, who was standing on the battlements, saw this terrible sight, and

seeking out his mother he vowed vengeance against the murderer. Though

he was only seven years old, his strength was so great that the countess

felt that her life would not be safe if once he discovered the truth, so

she ordered his uncle Saber to take the boy to some distant place and

there to slay him. Saber did not dare to disobey. He took Bevis with him

to a small hut near the forest, and, killing a pig, sprinkled the

child's garments with the blood and sent them to his mother. Afterwards

he dressed Bevis in the clothes of a peasant, and, putting a stout staff

in his hands, set him to watch a flock of sheep.

The boy did what he was told without a word, but the sheep wandered far

that day, and by-and-by he found himself in sight of his father's

castle. Then a sudden fury filled his soul, and, leaving the sheep to go

whither they would, he ran swiftly down the hill, and never stopped till

he reached the castle gate. Here the porter, to whom the countess had

given much gold, tried to stop him, but Bevis only knocked him down with

his cudgel, and on into the hall he went, and there he beheld his mother

and Sir Murdour feasting at the high table.

'Traitors and murderers!' cried he, and lifting his staff, he dealt

three fierce blows at the head of Sir Murdour, which felled him to the

ground, where he lay unconscious. Then the boy turned and walked out of

the hall, none daring to stop him.

He told his uncle what had happened, but Saber was never ready of

counsel, and before he had time to think what was best the countess

entered the hut attended by two knights, whom she ordered to seize

Bevis, and sell him as a slave to any captain in the port of

Southampton who might be sailing that night for the lands of the

Infidel.

The captain of the ship was a kind man and took a liking to the boy

whose fate was so hard, and when a fair wind blew them into the harbour

of Heathenesse he bade the child bear him company to the palace. The

king, whose name was Ermyn, thought he had never seen any boy of his age

so tall and beautiful, and asked him many things as to his past life.

These Bevis answered with so much truth and spirit that Ermyn was

persuaded that he would grow into a man much above the common, and

declared that he would make him heir to his throne and wed him in due

course to his daughter Josyan, if he would only give up Christianity and

become a convert to the faith of Heathenesse. But this Bevis swore he

would never do.

The good captain feared greatly that the king might be angered by

Bevis's refusal, but instead Ermyn seemed to think that the boy, who

would not break his vows lightly, was fain to turn out a true and loyal

man. So he smiled, and told Bevis that he would make him his

chamberlain, and when he was of age to be a knight, he should be his

banneret.

Eight years passed by, spent by Bevis in learning all the feats with the

sword and spear for which the knights of Heathenesse had long been

famous. His life was smooth and pleasant, and it was only when he had

counted fifteen summers that he had his first adventure.

It was Christmas Day, and Bevis was riding with a large company of

Paynim knights through the great plain that surrounded the city. The

talk ran upon the many lion chases they had held in that very place,

when suddenly one of the knights who had journeyed both to Rome and

Jerusalem turned to Bevis, who happened to be next him, and asked if he

knew what day it was.

'No,' answered Bevis; 'why should I? Is it different from any other

day?' and the knight laughed and told him he was but a poor Christian.

This angered Bevis, who said that, as he had lived among heathens since

he was seven years old, it was not likely he should have learnt anything

about his faith, but that in defence of it he was ready to tilt with the

knights one after the other and hoped that in so good a cause he might

prevail.

'Listen to the crowing of this young cock' cried one of the party,

highly wroth at the answer of Bevis; and indeed so furious were they

that they set upon him at once and dealt him many wounds before the boy

was able to defend himself. Then he snatched a sword from the man

nearest him, and laid about him so hardly that in a short time they were

all stretched dead upon the ground, while their horses galloped back to

their stalls. Bevis himself, suffering great pain, went quietly back to

his room in the palace and waited to see what would come next.

When king Ermyn heard the news, and how so many of his best knights had

been put to death by his page, he was beside himself with fury, and gave

orders that Bevis should be instantly beheaded. But Josyan, his

daughter, pleaded so hard for the young page that the king agreed to

hear his story, and when he had heard it he not only forgave the youth,

but told Josyan, who was skilled in leechcraft, to heal his wounds. And

in a little while Bevis was raised to higher favour than ever by slaying

a boar which had carried away and eaten several children on the

outskirts of the city.

By this time the fame of the princess's beauty had spread far and wide,

and the king of Damascus sent an embassy to the court of king Ermyn,

praying that she should be given him to wife.

'But,' added he, 'in case you do not well consider my suit, I would have

you know that I will gather together a great army, and lay waste your

land with fire and sword. So think well before you refuse me.'

King Ermyn was little used to language of this sort, and for all answer

collected twenty thousand men, whom he commanded to be in readiness.

Next, at the request of his daughter, he dubbed Bevis a knight, and the

princess herself clad him in a richly inlaid helmet, and buckled on him

the good sword Morglay. As a parting gift she bestowed on him a swift

white horse called Arundel, and very proud was Bevis as he rode away at

the head of the army beside the commander.

* * * * *

It were too long to tell of all the deeds wrought by Sir Bevis during

the fight with the king of Damascus, whose standard-bearer, the giant

Radyson, he slew at the very outset of the battle. In the end, and owing

in a great measure to the valour of the young knight, the Damascenes

owned themselves beaten, and their king remained a captive in the hands

of Sir Bevis.

'I will spare your life on one condition only,' said the victor, 'and

that is that you shall swear fealty on my sword to king Ermyn, and

acknowledge yourself to be his vassal.'

The king's heart was sore when he heard what was demanded of him, for

never before had he been vanquished in war. Still, he saw that there was

no help for it, and he took the oath that Bevis required of him, after

which he was suffered to depart into his own country.

King Ermyn could not do enough honour to Sir Bevis when he came back to

the palace, and, as was the custom, he bade his daughter rid him of his

heavy armour, to put on him gorgeous robes, and to wait on him when he

sat down to table. Sir Bevis was half glad and half ashamed to receive

these services at the hands of the princess, but Josyan heard her

father's orders right willingly, and led him away to fulfil them at

once.

The first thing she did was to order her slaves to prepare a bath for

him, and to make it soft with all manner of sweet-smelling spices. Then

she summoned him to her chamber, where she had prepared food and wine,

and, like a wise woman, spoke nothing till he had eaten and drunk as

much as he would. When he had satisfied his hunger, he flung himself to

rest on a pile of cushions, and Josyan seated herself near him. Taking

one of his hands in hers, she said softly:

'Oh, Bevis, little do you know what I have suffered these many months

from the love I bear you! Indeed, so grievous have been my pains that I

marvel that I am alive this day. But if you return not my love, of a

surety I am a dead woman.'

Now Bevis had long loved the princess in secret; but his heart was

proud, and, besides, he feared to seem that he had betrayed the king's

trust. So he answered:

'Fair Josyan, I thank you for your gentle words, but it would ill become

me to take advantage of them. There is no prince in all the world, be he

who he may, who would not crown you queen, and hold himself honoured.

For me, I am but a poor knight, and one from a strange land, to whom

your father has shown more favour than I deserve. It is not thus I

should repay his kindness.'

These words struck a chill through Josyan. All her life she had never

known what it was to be denied anything she asked for, and she fell to

weeping.

'I would sooner have you, poor as you are, than the greatest king

alive,' sobbed she; but when Bevis sat still and kept silence her grief

turned to wrath.

'Am I, who might reign over any of the kingdoms of the earth, to be

flouted by you, a mere churl? Out of my chamber this instant, and betake

yourself to working in the fields, for they are fitter setting for one

of your birth than a lady's bower!'

'Damsel,' said Bevis, 'you wrong me. No churl am I, but the son of an

earl, and a knight withal. And now farewell, for I shall depart into my

own country.'

For a short time Josyan's anger held sway in her heart, and even the

death of Bevis would hardly have moved her, but when she heard that

Bevis was actually preparing to leave the city her pride broke down,

and she sent a messenger to implore his forgiveness. But she had to

learn that Bevis was no less proud than she, and he dismissed the

messenger with a ring that the king had given him, merely saying that he

had already bid good-bye to the princess Josyan.

Then Josyan saw that if she would keep Bevis at her side she must humble

herself to the dust, so she went herself to the chamber of Bevis, and

implored him to forget her hasty words, and not to forsake her. Nay, she

would even promise to give up her own faith and to become a Christian.

At this proof of her devotion, Sir Bevis's resolve gave way, and he told

her that he had loved her always, but feared that her father would never

accept him as a son-in-law. Josyan made light of this obstacle, and

declared that her father would never refuse her anything she had set her

heart upon; but Bevis was not so hopeful, and soon events proved that he

was right.

Two knights whom Bevis had rescued from captivity and had brought to the

palace overheard the vows exchanged between him and Josyan, and her

offer of being baptized. Hating and envying the good fortune of Bevis,

they sought out the king, and told him that his daughter was about to

give up the faith of Mahomet, and to fly from the country with a

Christian knight.

These tidings were grievous to king Ermyn. He could not forgive his

daughter, and yet, after all the deeds he had done, the people of the

city would not suffer Bevis to be punished. What was he to do? The more

he thought of it the more bewildered he felt; and all the while the two

traitors stood patiently by, knowing well what was passing through the

king's mind.

At length he turned, as they were sure he would, and asked their

counsel, which was quite ready.

'Let your Majesty write a letter to King Bradmond, as from liege lord to

vassal, and let Sir Bevis be the bearer of it, and bid the king put the

knight to instant death.' So said the traitors, and, though the device

was neither new nor honourable, it would serve. Bevis was summoned to

the king's presence, and listened carefully to all he was told. Joyful

was he at being chosen for this mission, which he thought betokened

special favour, though his spirits were somewhat damped by the assurance

that he must leave his sword Morglay and Arundel, his swift horse,

behind him.

'It were an insult to the king to approach him on a war-horse, and

brandishing the sword that has slain so many of his men,' said Ermyn.

'You shall ride the ambling palfrey on which I make my progress through

the city; and, as for weapons, you will have no need of them.' So

Arundel remained quietly in his stable, while Bevis unwillingly jogged

along at the slow pace of the palfrey. But in one thing he disobeyed

king Ermyn, for under his tunic was hidden a short sword.

On the way he fell in with a pilgrim, whose offer to share his dinner

Bevis accepted gladly. They soon began to tell each other their

adventures, and, to his surprise, Bevis found that the pilgrim was his

own cousin, the son of his uncle Saber, and that he had come so far with

no other purpose than to seek out the young knight and to inform him of

all that had happened during the years that had passed since his

father's death.

The vassals of the old earl, said the pilgrim, had been so ground down

by the wicked Sir Murdour and his wife, that they had risen up as one

man, and, headed by Saber, had defended the Isle of Wight against the

usurper. But it was greatly to be desired that the young earl should

return home as fast as possible, and attack Murdour in his castle of

Southampton, and for this reason had he set forth to seek him.

Bevis's heart and his blood waxed hot with the listening, but he did not

wish that the pilgrim should learn just then who he was, so he answered

that the young earl was his friend and brother, and that on his part he

would promise speedy help to the faithful vassals fighting in his cause.

With this they parted, and Bevis pursued his way to Damascus.

On entering the gates of the city he found himself in the midst of a

large crowd, who were making ready a sacrifice to a wooden idol, which

was carried in a golden car. This roused the wrath of the young man,

and, forcing his way through the multitude, he seized the idol and flung

it into the mud, calling loudly on the people to go and help their god,

since he could not help them. In an instant a thousand arms were raised

against the stranger who had dared to insult the majesty of their idol,

and, though Bevis drew his short sword and defended himself bravely, he

could not have held out against such numbers had not the palace gates

been close behind. Still fighting, Bevis entered the gates, and drawing

the letter from his tunic ordered the guards to take him at once into

the presence of the king.

Bradmond read the letter with joy, as he felt that his enemy was

delivered into his hands, and the tidings of the attack on the idol

hardened his heart still more. Without further delay he bade the guards

take Bevis and carry him off to a deep dungeon under the palace where

lived two huge dragons, who would be fain to eat him forthwith.

'And I do this,' said Bradmond, 'not to avenge my own wrongs, but to

perform my oath of duty unto my sovereign lord king Ermyn. For this is

the service he requires of me, in the letter that you yourself have

brought.'

[Illustration: STRONG SIR BEVIS KEEPS THE TWO DRAGONS AT BAY]

Ropes were tied under Bevis's arms, and he was lowered down, down, down,

till he could see nothing but four fiery eyes which glared furiously up

at him. Soon after his hands knocked against something hard and rough,

which moved under his touch. At the same moment his feet touched the

bottom, and he found himself standing in a large cave with a feeble ray

of light coming from the far end. By this he dimly perceived two

horrible dragons, but for a moment they were still, and did not move to

attack him.

Bevis made use of the short time allowed him to feel about if perchance

he could find some weapon with which to defend himself instead of the

short sword which had been taken from him, and he came upon a stout

staff, thrown into one corner, and by the aid of this he held those two

monsters at bay for a whole night and day. By this time the dragons, who

had been weakened by a slothful life and the flesh of many prisoners,

were too weak to resist any longer, and fell an easy prey to the strong

arm of Bevis.

Of course it was not long before the men who had charge of the dungeon

discovered that the dragons were dead, but they were so filled with

admiration of Bevis's courage that they kept his counsel, and let down

into his prison daily a good portion of wheat cake, so that he managed

to keep himself alive. Bradmond the king very soon forgot all about him,

so that the soldiers did as they pleased.

Thus some years passed away.

At the end of that time one of the gaolers died, and the other was sent

to a distant city. The two men who took their places knew nothing of

Bevis, save that he was a captive in the dungeon, and that as long as he

was alive it was part of their duty to feed him every day. 'Let us

murder him,' said one man to another; 'it is small use to feed a man in

a dungeon who is forgotten by himself and all the world'; so one of them

fastened a ladder of ropes to the side and climbed down it, in the hope

of finding an easy victim lying on the ground. Instead there was a man

as strong as ten other men, who leapt swiftly aside to avoid the blow of

his sword, and struck him dead to the ground with a blow of his fist.

The other gaoler, hearing no noise from below, crept down the ladder to

see what had taken place; but as soon as he was on the floor of the

dungeon Bevis gave a mighty spring which snapped the chain that had

bound him to the rock, and thrust him through with the sword he had

taken from his fellow. Then, when, as far as he could reckon, the night

was nearly gone, he climbed up the ladder, and stood once more a free

man.

At the first gleam of dawn, Sir Bevis stole out to the stables, where

the king's horses were being groomed. Peeping through a hole, he

discovered a room hung round with suits of armour, and, getting in

through the roof, he took down a coat of mail, a helmet, and a shield,

while he chose out a good sword from a pile standing in a corner. Then

entering the stable, he cut off the heads of several of the men, while

the rest fled out of reach of the strange being with the long hair and

strong arm. When they were all gone Bevis brought out the best horse in

the stable, and rode out across the drawbridge into the world again.

Of course, directly he was missed, king Ermyn sent his best knights in

pursuit of him, but in one way or another Sir Bevis got the better of

them all, and made his way to Jerusalem, where, for the first time since

he was seven years old, he entered a Christian church. But so anxious

was he to hear some tidings of Josyan, that he remained only a short

time in the city, and soon rode on again along the road to her father's

court.

On the way he met with a young knight who had once been his squire, and

who told him a sad tale. Josyan, he said, had been asked in marriage by

the most powerful and fierce of all the kings of Heathenesse, but she

steadily refused to wed any man who was not a Christian like herself.

This so enraged her father that he gave leave to her suitor to do with

her as he would; so king Inor, for so was he named, carried her off to

his own kingdom, and shut her up in a tower till she should come to a

better mind, and be ready to return to her old faith.

'In her tower she is still,' continued the knight; 'but if you would

have speech with her it is first needful to persuade the king to go on

some distant mission. And first you must put on a disguise, for at any

moment those may come by who knew you well at the royal palace.'

This advice Bevis followed; he hid himself with his friend behind a

clump of bushes till a pilgrim passed on the way to Jerusalem. The young

knight then left his hiding-place, and prayed the pilgrim for the sake

of charity and a dole of money to be given in alms that he would

exchange clothes with Sir Bevis. To this the pilgrim readily agreed, and

soon Bevis was arrayed in a long mantle, carrying a staff in his hand.

'Now go and stand about the door of the palace, and when the king comes

from hunting he will see you, and will ask you where you come from, and

what news is stirring in the world. And you must say to him that you

have lately journeyed from Syria, from the kingdom of his brother, and

that the land has been overrun by strange armies, and that the country

is in a great strait. When he hears that he will of a surety hasten to

his aid, and then you will be able to escape with Josyan without danger

of losing your head.'

Now Inor the king had placed Josyan under the charge of Boniface, the

chamberlain, who had been long in the service of her father, and in

order the better to help her had pretended to approve of the evil way in

which she was treated. Directly he heard of the plot he began to play

his part towards its fulfilment, and in the evening of the day on which

the king had departed he managed to give the steward, who had been left

to rule the city, such a powerful sleeping draught that he did not wake

for twenty-four hours. Meanwhile Sir Bevis chose out the best suit of

armour in the king's armoury and the fastest horse in his stable; and

when night fell Josyan stole softly down from her tower, and, mounting

Arundel, whom she had brought with her from her old home, rode out of

the gates by the side of Bevis. Boniface followed close after them. He

did not dare to stay behind, as he knew that his head was forfeit.

But as things happened he might as well have remained where he was, for

the very next day, when Bevis was hunting, two lions came up to the cave

where Josyan and her chamberlain lay concealed. Without an instant's

pause they devoured Boniface and his horse, which was tethered outside,

though Josyan's beauty so overawed them that they bent their heads

humbly in her presence.

The next adventure that befell Sir Bevis was a battle with a giant

thirty feet high, who had been sent by the steward to catch the two

runaways. During the fight he was sore wounded, and in the end owned

Bevis to be his master, and begged to be allowed to take service with

him. Sir Bevis agreed, though somewhat doubtfully, but soon found reason

to rejoice in his new page, for by his help he was able to turn some

Saracens out of a ship which bore them all with a fair wind to the city

of Cologne.

Here he found his uncle, the bishop; who was brother to his father and

to Sir Saber, and, leaving Josyan in safety under his care, he set sail

with a hundred knights for Southampton. Before landing he sent one of

his most trusty squires for tidings as to how fared Sir Murdour, and

received for answer that the quarrel still raged betwixt him and Sir

Saber. Then Bevis went on shore with all his knights, and bade one of

them tell Sir Murdour that they had sailed from France in quest of

service, and that if he so willed they would fight under his banner,

but, if not, they would offer themselves to his foe.

Sir Murdour was overjoyed at the sight of the strangers, and asked the

name of their leader.

'Sir Jarrard,' said Bevis, who did not wish to make himself known, and

inquired further what were the causes of the war with Sir Saber, and how

long it had lasted. To this Sir Murdour made reply that Sir Saber had

been seeking for many years past to wrest from him the heritage which

was his by purchase from the spendthrift heir Bevis, who had afterwards

quitted the country, but that with the help of the strangers an end

would speedily be put to the quarrel.

While Bevis stood listening to Sir Murdour, his fingers unconsciously

crept to the handle of his sword, but he forced back his wrath and

answered that, had they brought their horses with them, the dispute

might have been settled that very night. Still, much might be done if

Sir Murdour would give them a ship in which to sail to the Isle of

Wight, and would provide them with horses.

Sir Murdour did not need to be asked twice; he gave to Sir Bevis his

finest horses and his best armour, and before many hours Bevis was

standing on the Isle of Wight by the side of his uncle Saber.

'Take yonder fishing-boat,' said he to one of his knights, 'and return

to Southampton and enter the castle. Then tell Sir Murdour that the man

to whom he has given his arms and his horses is no knight of France, but

Sir Bevis earl of Southampton, who has come to take vengeance for the

death of his father.'

* * * * *

The battle which decided the strife was fought upon the island, and

never for a moment did Bevis lose sight of his enemy. In vain did

Murdour ride from one part of the field to the other; Bevis was always

there, though it was long before he was close enough to thrust at him.

At last he managed to hurl him to the ground, but Murdour's followers

pressed hard on him, and Bevis could not, by his own self, take him

captive.

'To me! To me!' he cried at last, and Ascapard strode up, cleaving the

heads of all that stood in his way.

'What shall be done with him?' asked he, picking up the fallen knight

and holding him tightly.

'Put him in the cauldron that is boiling outside the camp,' said Bevis.

'For that is the death for traitors.'

So Sir Bevis got his own again, and he sent to Cologne for Josyan, and

was wedded to her by his uncle the bishop in his good town of

Southampton.

[From the _Early English Metrical Romances_.]

_OGIER THE DANE_

Long, long ago, a baby lay asleep in a cot in a palace. It was a royal

baby, therefore it was never left alone for a moment, but always had two

or three ladies watching it, by day and by night, so that no serpent

should crawl into its cradle and bite it, nor any evil beast run off

with it, as sometimes happened in other countries.

But one evening, after a very hot day, all the ladies in waiting felt

strangely drowsy, and, though they tried their best to keep awake, one

by one they gradually dropped off to sleep in the high carved chairs on

which they sat. Then a gentle rustle might have been heard outside on

the staircase, and when the door opened a brilliant light streamed in,

though the ladies slept too soundly to be awakened by it. Wrapped round

by the light were six fairies, more beautiful than any fairies that ever

were seen, who glided noiselessly to the cradle of the baby.

'How fair he is!' whispered one; 'the true son of a king.'

'And how strong he is!' answered another; 'look at his arms and legs,'

and the whole six bent forward and looked at him.

'The world shall ring with his fame,' said the first, whose name was

Gloriande, 'and I will give him the best gift I have. He shall never

fear death, and no word of shame shall ever touch him.'

Then the second fairy leaned forward and lifted the baby out of his

cradle. She was tall, and on her head was a ruby crown, while a plate of

gold covered her breast.

'Through all your life,' she murmured, 'wherever war and strife may be,

you shall be found in the midst of it, even as your forefathers.'

'Yes,' said a third; 'but my gift is better than hers, for you shall

never be worsted in any fight, and every one shall add to your honour.'

'And though you are the first of knights,' exclaimed the fourth, 'you

shall win fame for your courtesy and gentlehood, no less than for your

valour.'

'The hearts of all women shall turn to you, and they shall love you,'

said the fifth, who was clad in a robe of transparent green; 'but beware

how you give them back their love, for this love of mortals needs

proving'; and with that she slipped away from the cradle.

The sixth fairy looked silently at the child for a few moments, though

her thoughts seemed to be with something far away.

At length she spoke, and these were her words:

'When you are weary of travel and of strife and have won all the glory

and honour that may fall to men, then you shall come to me in my palace

of Avallon, and rest in the joys of fairyland with Morgane le Fay.'

After that the light began to fade, and the six fairies vanished none

could tell how or whither.

By-and-by the baby's attendants woke up, and never knew that during

their sleep the child's fate had been fixed as surely as if he had been

bitten by a serpent or carried off by a wolf. Everything _seemed_ the

same as it had done before, and so they took it for granted that it

_was_.

Time passed on, and Ogier, for that was the name they gave him, was ten

years old. He was tall and strong and could send his arrows farther than

most boys many years older. He could handle a spear too, and his thrusts

went straight at the mark; while he could sing a song, or touch the lute

as delicately as a maiden. His father was proud of him, and it went sore

with him when Charlemagne the emperor, who had had a bitter quarrel

with the king of Denmark, demanded that Ogier should be sent as a

hostage to his court of Paris.

[Illustration: HOW THE FAIRIES CAME TO SEE OGIER THE DANE]

For four years the boy lived happily in Paris, daily making new friends,

and learning to be a skilled swordsman; but at the end of that time the

Danish king sank some of Charlemagne's ships, and the emperor vowed that

Ogier should pay for his father's deed. His life was spared, but the

youth was banished to St. Omer, a little town on the coast. Here he

spent some years, which would have been dull and very wearisome but for

the kindness of the governor, who not only allowed him to fish and hunt

on receiving his word that he would not try to escape, but gave him his

daughter, the fair Belissande, as his companion, and even consented to a

marriage between them. For, kind though he was, he did not forget that

the captive youth was after all heir to the Danish throne.

Ogier would have been quite content to stay where he was, when suddenly

the emperor summoned him to come to Paris and take part in a war which

had broken out between him and the Saracens, who had landed in Italy.

Unwilling though he was, of course Ogier was forced to obey, and he

speedily won such fame that in a little while Charlemagne declared that

from henceforth he should have in battle the place of honour on the

right hand of the emperor himself. This favour so excited the jealousy

of Charlot, the emperor's son, that he laid many snares for Ogier's

life, but, owing to the gift of the fairy Gloriande, the young man

contrived to escape them all.

On his return to France with the army, after the war was over and the

Saracens had been beaten, he found two pieces of news awaiting him. One

was that his father was dead, and that he was king of Denmark, and the

other was that during his absence a son had been born to him.

Taking leave of the emperor, he chose the swiftest horse he could find

in the stables and rode straight to St. Omer. The boy was by this time

three years old, and promised to be tall and strong like his father.

Already he could mount a pony and use a tiny bow and arrows that had

been made for him, and even could tell the names of some of the battles

his father had won.

But Ogier could not tarry long in the castle of St. Omer. Taking his

wife and son with him, he set out at once for Denmark, and spent several

years in the kingdom making laws and teaching his people many things

that he had learnt in his travels.

After ten years, however, he became weary of this peaceful life, and,

after Belissande died, he felt he could bear it no longer. So, leaving

the crown to his uncle, he returned to France with his son and fought

once more by the side of Charlemagne. This was the life he loved, and it

seemed as if it might have gone on for ever had it not been for the

prince Charlot, who, unhappily, only grew more quarrelsome and foolish

the older he got.

Charlot was one day playing chess with the son of Ogier, and, as he was

hasty and impatient, the game went against him. Like many others, he had

never learned how to take a beating like a man, and, raising his hand,

he struck the youth a blow on the temple which killed him. Charlemagne,

grieved though he really was, refused to punish Charlot, and after

saying bitter words Ogier left Paris, and took service with the king of

Lombardy, but was soon captured, while asleep, by Archbishop Turpin.

By this time Charlemagne had felt the loss of Ogier so greatly, and had

besides suffered so much from further ill-doings on the part of his son,

that he lent a ready ear to Ogier's offer of reconciliation, provided he

were allowed to avenge himself on the murderer. But just as Ogier was

about to strike off Charlot's head, and rid the world of a man who never

did any good in it, he was stopped by a mysterious voice which bade him

to spare the son of Charlemagne. So Charlot was left to work more

mischief throughout the land.

A second time a crown fell to Ogier in right of his wife, the princess

Claria of England, who had been delivered by Ogier out of the hands of

the Saracens. But the princess died not many months after, and the

fetters of the throne were no more to Ogier's taste in England than in

Denmark. So he assembled all his barons, and bade them choose themselves

a king from among them. This done, he set sail across the sea for the

life of adventure that he loved.

For some time Ogier fought in Palestine, where he gained great fame, for

no army and no city could stand before him. But his heart always turned

to France, and directly peace was made he said farewell to his

companions and took ship for Marseilles. At first the breeze was fair,

but when they had made half the voyage a tempest arose and the vessel

was driven on a rock, while all the crew except Ogier himself were

drowned. This happened early in the morning, but as soon as darkness

fell and Ogier was fearing that he might die of hunger, as no living

thing could be seen on the island, he suddenly beheld facing him a

castle of adamant. He rubbed his eyes and gazed at it in amazement,

thinking it was a vision, for he knew not that this castle was

enchanted, and, though unseen by day, shone by night from light of its

own. However, he did not hesitate at the strangeness of his adventure,

but taking his sword in his teeth he swam ashore, and mounted the flight

of steps that led to the open door.

Rich and beautiful things lay scattered everywhere, but not a sign was

there of any one to enjoy them. Room after room was empty, and Ogier was

fast losing hope and wondering whether he was to die of starvation in

the midst of all this splendour. He had searched every chamber of the

castle except one which lay before him at the end of a long gallery. He

would go into that too, but if it should prove as barren as the rest

then his case was indeed perilous.

With a beating heart he drew back the bolts and lifted the latch of the

great carved door. Before him a long table was spread with fruits and

food of the rarest sort, while in a large chair at the further end a

horse was seated enjoying a huge pasty. At the sight of Ogier he rose

politely and bowed, after which he presented him with a golden bowl full

of water and returned to his chair.

During his travels Ogier had beheld many strange things, but never

before had a horse been his host, and he was so startled that, hungry

though he was, he hardly touched the food which the horse heaped on his

plate, expecting every moment that a magician might appear or the whole

castle crumble away.

Quiet though Ogier was, the horse, who had been taught manners in the

court of the sultan of Babylon himself, took no notice of his guest's

behaviour but finished his own supper, which was a very hearty one. When

it was done he rose again, bowed a second time to Ogier, who had risen

also, and, signing with his fore hoof towards a curtain on one side of

the hall, passed through, followed by his guest. In the centre of a

magnificent chamber stood a soft bed, at which Ogier gazed longingly.

The horse saw the direction of his eyes, and with another bow he

withdrew.

In the morning Ogier awoke early and passed through the door into a

meadow bright with flowers. He looked round him, and saw a group of

ladies sitting under a tree plucking fruit from its branches, and

filling golden cups from a clear stream that ran at their feet. Not

having eaten since his scanty supper of the night before, he approached

the ladies, one of whom arose and spoke to him, saying:

'Welcome, Ogier of Denmark! I have waited for you long. A hundred years

have passed since I stood by your cradle--a hundred years of war and of

fighting. But you have tired of them at last and have come back to me!

And now you shall rest in the palace of Avallon. I am Morgane le Fay.'

[Illustration: OGIER THE DANE MEETS MORGANE LE FAY AT LAST]