of ridding his princedom of outlawry, he forgot the chase where he had
always been so clever in tracking his game, forgot the tournament where
he had won victory after victory, forgot all his former glory and his
name, forgot his lands and their cares, forgot everything he ever did,
and did nothing at all but lie about at home and talk with Enid. At last
all his people began to gossip about their fine prince who once had been
illustrious everywhere and now had become an idle stay-at-home who spent
his time in making love to his wife.
[Illustration: ENID HEARD OF GERAINT FROM HER HAIR-DRESSER.]
Enid heard of the tattling about Geraint from her hair-dresser, and one
morning as he lay abed, she went over it all to herself, talking aloud.
She wished, that he would not abandon all his knightly pursuits but
would hunt and fight again and add to his lustre. She felt very bashful
about mentioning the matter to him as she was very shy by nature and
lived in a time when wives were altogether over-ruled by their husbands,
yet to say nothing she thought would not be showing herself a true wife
to Geraint. All this and more Enid went over to herself.
The drowsy prince, half awake, just half heard her and quite
misunderstood her meaning. When she said that in keeping quiet about the
gossip she was not a true wife to him he supposed she meant that she no
longer cared for him, that he was not a handsome and strong enough man
to suit her. This grieved him deeply and made him very angry with her,
for Geraint had really given up all the glory of the king's court just
to be alone with Enid, although no one knew it. And the thought that now
she looked down upon him infuriated all his heart. A word would have
made everything right but he didn't say it.
Springing up quickly from his bed he roused his squire and said, "Get
ready our horses, my charger and the princess' palfrey. And you,"
turning a frowning face to the princess, "put on the worst looking,
meanest, poorest dress you have and come away with me. We are going on a
quest of honor and then you will see what sort of soldier I am."
Enid wondered why her lord was so vexed with her and replied, "If I have
displeased you surely you will tell me why."
But Geraint would not say; he could not bear to speak of it. So Enid
hurried after her poor old faded silk gown with the summer flowers among
its folds, which she had worn to ride from her old home to Caerleon, and
hastily dressed.
"Do not ride at my side," Geraint said as they both mounted their horses
to start away. "Ride ahead of me, a good way ahead of me, and no matter
what may happen, do not speak a word to me, no not a word."
Enid listened, wondering what had come over her lord.
"There!" he cried as they were off, "we will make our way along with our
iron weapons, not with gold money." So saying, he loosed the great purse
which dangled from his belt and tossed it back to his squire who stood
on the marble threshold of the doorway where the golden coins flashed
and clattered as they scattered every which-way over the floor. "Now
then, Enid, to the wild woods!"
At that they made for the swampy, desolated forest lands that were
famous for their perilous paths and their bandits, Enid with a white
face going before, Geraint coming gloomily nearly a quarter of a mile
after.
The morning was only half begun when the white princess became aware
that behind a rock hiding in the shadow stood three tall knights on
horseback, armed from tip to toe, bandit outlaws lying in wait to fall
upon whoever should pass. She heard one saying to his comrades as he
pointed toward Geraint:
"Look here comes some lazy-bones who seems just about as bold as a dog
who has had the worst of it in a fight. Come, we will kill him, and then
we will take his horse and armor and his lady."
Enid thought, "I'll go back a little way to Geraint and tell him about
these ruffians, for even if it will madden him I should rather have him
kill me than to have him fall into their hands."
She guided her palfrey backward and bravely met the frowning face which
greeted her, saying timidly:
"My lord, there are three bandit knights behind a rock a little way
beyond us who are boasting that they will slay you and steal your horse
and armor and make me their captive."
"Did I tell you," cried Geraint angrily, "that you should warn me of any
danger. There was only one thing which I told you to do and that was to
keep quiet; and this is the way you have heeded me! a pretty way! But
win or lose, you shall see by these fellows that my vigor is not lost."
Then Enid stood back as the three outlaws flashed out of their ambush
and bore down upon the prince.
Geraint aimed first for the middle one, driving his long spear into the
bandit's breast and out on the other side. The two others in the
meanwhile had dashed upon him with their lances, but they had broken on
his magnificent armor like so many icicles. He now turned upon them with
his broadsword, swinging it first to the right and then to the left,
first stunning them with his blows, then slaying them outright. And when
all three had fallen he dismounted, and like a hunter skinning the wild
beasts he has shot, he stripped the three robber knights of their gay
suits of armor, and leaving the bodies lie, bound each man's sword,
spear and coat of arms to his horse, tied the three bridle reins of the
three empty horses together and cried to Enid.
"Drive these on before you."
Enid drove them on across the wastelands, Geraint following after. As
she passed into the first shallow shade of the forest she described
three more horsemen partly hidden in the gloom of three sturdy
oak-trees. All were armed and one was a veritable giant, so tall and
bulky, towering above his companions.
[Illustration: THE THREE OUTLAWS BORE DOWN UPON THE PRINCE.]
"See there, a prize!" bellowed the giant and set Enid's pulses in a
quiver. "Three horses and three suits of armor, and all in charge
of--whom? A girl! Isn't that simple? Lay on, my men!"
"No," cried the second, "behind is coming a knight. A coward and a fool,
for see how he hangs his head."
The giant thundered back gaily.
"Yes? Only one? Wait here and as he goes by make for him."
"I will go no farther until Geraint comes," Enid said to herself
stopping her horse. "And then I will tell him about these villains. He
must be so weary with his other fight and they will fall upon him
unawares. I shall have to disobey him again for his own sake. How could
I dare to obey him and let him be harmed? I must speak; if he kills me
for it I shall only have lost my own life to save a life that is dearer
to me than my own."
So she waited until the prince approached when she said with a timid
firmness, "Have I your leave to speak?"
"You take it without asking when you speak," he replied, and she
continued:
"There are three men lurking in the woods behind some oaks and one of
them is larger than you, a perfect giant. He told them to attack you as
you passed by them."
"If there were a hundred men in the wood and each of them a giant and if
they all made for me together I vow it would not anger me so as to have
you disobey me. Stand aside while we do battle and when we are done
stand by the victor."
At this, while Enid fell back breathing short fits of prayer but not
daring to watch, Geraint proceeded to meet his assailants. The giant was
the first to dash out for him aiming his lance at Geraint's helmet, but
the lance missed and went to one side. Geraint's spear had been a
little strained with his first encounter, but it struck through the
bulky giant's corselet and pierced his breast, then broke, one-half of
it still fast in the flesh as the giant knight fell to the earth. The
other two bandits now felt that their support and hero was gone, and
when Geraint darted rapidly on them, uttering his terrible warcry as if
there were a thousand men behind him to come to his aid, they flew into
the woods. But they were soon overtaken and pitilessly put to death.
Then Geraint, selecting the best lance, the brightest and strongest
among their spears to replace the one he had broken on the giant, he
plucked off the gaudy armor from each brigand's body, laid it on the
backs of the three horses, tied the bridle reins together and handed
them to Enid with the words, "Drive them on before you."
So Enid now followed the wild paths of the gloomy forest with two sets
of three horses, each horse laden with his master's jingling weapons and
coat of mail. Geraint came after. As they passed out of the wood into
the open sky they came to a little town with towers upon a rocky hill,
and beneath it a wide meadowland with mowers in it, mowing the hay. Down
a stony pathway from the town skipped a fair-haired lad carrying a
basket of lunch for the laborers in the field.
"Friend!" cried Geraint, as the lad trotted past him, for he saw that
Enid looked very white, "let my lady have something to eat. She is so
faint."
"Willingly," the youth answered, "and you too, my lord, even although
this feed is very coarse and only fit for the mowers."
He set down his basket and Enid and Geraint alighted and put all the
horses to graze, while they sat down on the green sward to have some
bread and barley. Enid felt too faint at heart, thinking of the
prince's strange conduct, to care a great deal for food, but Geraint was
hungry enough and had all the mowers' basket emptied almost before he
knew it.
"Boy," he cried half-ashamed, "everything is gone, which is a disgrace.
But take one of my horses and his arms by way of payment, choose the
very best."
The poor lad, who might as well have had a kingdom given him, reddened
with his extreme surprise and delight.
"My lord, you are over-paying me fifty times," he cried.
"You will be all the wealthier then," returned the prince, gaily.
"I'll take it as free gift, then," the lad answered. "The food is not
worth much. While your lady is resting here I can easily go back and
fetch more, some more for the earl's mowers. For all these mowers belong
to our great earl, and all these fields are his, and I am his, too. I'll
tell him what a fine man you are, and he will have you to his palace and
serve you with costly dinners."
"I wish no better fare than I have had," Geraint said, "I never ate
better in my life than just now when I left your poor mowers dinnerless.
And I will go into no earl's palace. If he desires to see me, let him
come to me. Now you go hire us some pleasant room in the town, stall our
horses and when you return with the food for these men tell us about
it."
"Yes, my kind lord," the glad youth cried, and he held his head high and
thought he was a gorgeous knight off to the wars as he disappeared up
the rocky path leading his handsome horse.
The prince turned himself sleepily to watch the lusty mowers laboring
under the sun as it blazed on their scythes, while Enid plucked the long
grass by the meadows' edge to weave it round and round her wedding
ring, until the boy returned and showed them the room he had got in the
town.
"If you wish anything, call the woman of the house," Prince Geraint said
to Enid as the door closed behind them. "Do not speak to me."
"Yes, my lord," returned Enid, still marvelling at his cold ways.
Silently they sat down, she at one end, he at the other, as quiet as
pictures. But suddenly a mass of voices sounded up the street, and heel
after heel echoing upon the pavement. In a twinkling the door to their
room was pushed back to the wall while a mob of boisterous young
gentlemen tumbled in led by the Earl of Limours, the wild lord of the
town, and Enid's old suitor whom her father had rejected long ago, a man
as beautiful as a woman and very graceful. He seized the prince's hand
warmly, welcomed him to the town and stealthily, out of the corner of
his eye, caught a glimpse of unhappy Enid nestled all alone at the
farther end of the room.
The prince immediately sent for every sort of delicious things to eat
and drink from the town, told the earl, to bid all his friends for a
feast and soon was gaily making merry with the men, drinking, laughing,
joking.
"May I have your leave, my lord," cried Earl Limours, "to cross the room
and speak a word with your lady who seems so lonely?"
"My free leave," cried the merry Prince Geraint, who did not know the
earl, "Get her to speak with you; she has nothing to say to me."
As Limours stepped to Enid's side he lifted his eyes adoringly, bowed at
her side and said in a whisper:
"Enid, you pilot star of my life, I see that Geraint is very unkind to
you and loves you no longer. What a laughing stock he is making of you
with that wretched old dress you have on! But I, I love you still as
always. Just say the word and I will have him put into the keep and you
will come with me. I will be kind to you forever."
The tears fluttered into the earl's eyes as he spoke.
"Earl," replied Enid, "if you love me as you used to do in the years
long ago, and are not joking now, come in the morning and take me by
force from the prince. But leave me tonight. I am wearied to death."
So the earl made a low bow, brandishing his plumes until they brushed
his very insteps, while the stout prince bade him a loud good night, and
he moved away talking to his men.
[Illustration: THE EARL MADE A LOW BOW.]
But as soon as he was gone Enid began to plan how she could escape with
Geraint before Earl Limours should come after her in the morning. She
was too afraid of Geraint to speak with him about it, but when he had
fallen asleep she stepped lightly about the room and gathered the pieces
of his armor together in one place ready for an early departure on the
morrow. Then she dropped off into slumber. But suddenly she heard a loud
sound, the earl with his wild following blowing his trumpet to call her
to come out, she thought. But it was only the great red cock in the
yard below crowing at the daylight which had begun to glimmer now across
the heap of Geraint's armor. She rose immediately in her fright to see
that all was well, went over to examine the weapons and unwittingly let
the casque fall jangling to the floor. This woke Geraint, who started up
and stared at her.
"My lord," began Enid, and then she told him all that Earl Limours had
said to her and how she had put him off by telling him to come this
morning.
"Call the woman of the house and tell her to bring the charger and the
palfrey," Geraint cried angrily. "Your sweet face makes fools of good
fellows." Geraint loved Enid still and he was in as great perplexity as
she, for after misunderstanding what she had said he no more knew
whether she cared for him truly than she knew what was troubling him and
making him act in this unaccountable manner.
Enid slipped through the sleeping household like a ghost to deliver the
prince's message to the landlord, hurried back to help Geraint with his
armor and came down with him to spring upon her palfrey.
"What do I owe you, friends?" the prince asked his host, but before the
man could reply he added "take those five horses and their burdens of
arms."
"My lord, I have scarcely spent the price of one of them on you!" cried
the landlord astonished.
"You'll have all the more riches then," the prince laughed, then turning
to Enid, "today I charge you more particularly than ever before that
whatever you may see, hear, fancy or imagine, do not speak to me, but
obey."
"Yes, my lord," answered Enid, "I know your wish and should like to
obey, but when I go riding ahead, I hear all the violent threats you do
not hear and see the danger you cannot see, and then not to give you
warning seems hard, almost beyond me. Yet, I wish to obey you."
"Do so, then," said he. "Do not be too wise, seeing that you are
married, not to a clown but a strong man with arms to guard his own head
and yours, too."
The broad beaten path which they now took passed through toward the
wasted lands bordering on the castle of Earl Doorm, the Bull, as his
people called him, because of his ferocity.
It was still early morning when Enid caught the sound of quantities of
hoofs galloping up the road. Turning round she saw cloudsful of dust and
the points of lances sparkling in it. Then, not to disobey the prince,
yet to give him warning, she held up her finger and pointed toward the
dust. Geraint was pleased at her cunning, and immediately stopped his
horse. The moment after, the Earl of Limours dashed in upon him on a
charger as black and as stormy as a thunder-cloud.
Geraint closed with the earl, bore down on him with his spear, and in a
minute brought him stunned or dead to the ground. Then he turned to the
next-comer after Limours, overthrew him and blindly rushed back upon all
the men behind. But they were so startled at the flash and movement of
the prince that they scrambled away in a panic, leaving their leader
lying on the public highway. The horses also of the fallen warriors
whisked off from their wounded masters and wildly flew away to mix with
the vanishing mob.
"Horse and man, all of one mind," remarked Geraint, smiling, "not a hoof
of them left. What do you say, Enid, shall we strip the earl and pay for
a dinner or shall we fast? Fast? Then go on and let us pray heaven to
send us some Earl of Doorm's men so that we can earn ourselves something
to eat."
Enid sadly eyed her bridle-reins and led the way, Geraint coming after,
scarcely knowing that he had been pricked by Limours in his side, and
that he was bleeding secretly beneath his armor. But at last his head
and helmet began to wag unsteadily, and at a sudden swerving of the road
he was tossed from his horse upon a bank of grass. Enid heard the
clashing of the fall, and too terrified to cry out, came back all pale.
Then she dismounted, loosed the fastenings of his armor and bound up his
wounds with her veil. Then she sat down desolately and began to cry,
wondering what ever she should do.
[Illustration: ENID SAT DOWN DESOLATELY AND BEGAN TO CRY.]
Many men passed by but no one took any notice of her. For in that
lawless, turbulent earldom no one minded a woman weeping for a murdered
lover than they now mind a summer shower. One man scurrying as fast as
ever he could travel toward the bandit earl's castle, drove the sand
sweeping into her poor eyes, and another coming in the opposite
direction from out the earl's castle park in seeming hot haste, turned
all the long dusty road into a column of smoke behind him, and
frightened her little palfrey so that it scoured off into the coppices
and was lost. But the prince's charger stood beside them and grieved
over the mishap like a man.
At noon a huge warrior with a big face and russet beard and eyes rolling
about in search of prey, came riding hard by with a hundred spearmen at
his back all bound for some foray. It was the frightful Earl Doorm.
"What, is he dead?" cried the earl loudly to Enid, as he spied her on
the wayside.
"No, no, not dead," she quickly answered. "Would some of your kind
people take him up and bear him off somewhere out of this cruel sun? I
am very sure, quite sure that he is not dead."
"Well, if he isn't dead, why should you cry for him so? Dead or not
dead, you just spoil your pretty face with idiotic tears. They will not
help him. But since it is a pretty face, come fellows, some of you, and
take him to our hall. If he lives he will be one of our band, and if
not, why there is earth enough to bury him in. See that you take his
charger, too, a noble one."
And so saying, the rude earl passed on, while two brawny horsemen came
forward growling to think they might lose their chance of booty from the
morning's raid all for this dead man. They raised the prince upon a
litter, laying him in the hollow of his shield, and brought him into
the barren hall of Doorm, while Enid and the gentle charger followed
after. They tossed him and his litter down on an oaken settle in the
hall, and then shot away for the woods.
Enid sat through long hours all alone with Geraint besides the oaken
settle, propping his head and chafing his hands, but in the late
afternoon she saw the huge Earl Doorm returning with his lusty spearmen
and their plunder. Each hurled down a heap of spoils on the floor, threw
aside his lance and doffed his helmet, while a tribe of brightly gowned
gentle-women fluttered into the hall and began to talk with them. Earl
Doorm struck his knife against the table and bellowed for meat, and
wine. In a moment the place fairly steamed and smoked with whole roast
hogs and oxen, and everybody sat down in a hodge-podge and ate like
cattle feeding in their stalls, while Enid shrank far back startled,
into her nook.
But suddenly, when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, and all he could
for the moment, he revolved his eyes about the bare hall and caught a
glimpse of the fair little lady drooping in her niche. Then he
recollected how she had crouched weeping by the roadside for her fallen
lord that morning. A wild pity filled his gruff heart.
"Eat, eat!" he shouted. "I never before saw any thing so pale. Be
yourself. Isn't your lord lucky, for were I dead who is there in all the
world who would mourn for me? Sweet lady, never have I ever seen a lily
like you. If there were a bit of color living in your cheeks there is
not one among my gentle-women here who would be fit to wear your
slippers for gloves. But listen to me and you will share my earldom with
me, girl, and we will live like two birds in a nest and I will bring you
all sorts of finery from every part of the world to make you happy."
As the earl spoke his two cheeks bulged with the two tremendous morsels
of meat which he had tucked into his mouth.
Enid was more alarmed than ever.
"How can I be happy over anything," replied she, "until my lord is well
again?"
The earl laughed, then plucked her up out of the corner, carried her
over to the table, thrust a dish of food before her and held a horn of
wine to her lips.
"By all heaven," cried Enid, "I will not drink until my lord gets up and
drinks and eats with me. And if he will not rise again I will not drink
any wine until I die."
At this the earl turned perfectly red and paced up and down the hall,
gnawing first his upper and then his lower lip.
"Girl," shouted he, "why wail over a man who shames your beauty so, by
dressing it in that rag? Put off those beggar-woman's weeds and robe
yourself in this which my gentle-woman has brought you."
It was a gorgeous, wonderful dress, colored in the tints of a shallow
sea with the blue playing into the green, and gemmed with precious
stones all down the front of it as thick as dewdrops on the grass. But
Enid was harder to move than any cold tyrant on his throne, and said:
"Earl, in this poor gown my dear lord found me first and loved me while
I was living with my father; in this poor gown I rode with him to court
and was presented to the queen; in this poor gown he bade me ride as we
came out on this fatal quest of honor, and in this poor gown I am going
to stay until he gets up again, a live, strong man, and tells me to put
it away. I have griefs enough, pray be gentle with me, let me be. O God!
I beg of your gentleness, since he is as he is, to let me be."
Then the brutal earl strode up and down the hall and cried out:
"It is of no more use to be gentle with you than to be rough. So take my
salute," and with that he slapped her lightly on her white cheek.
Enid shrieked. Instantly the fallen Geraint was up on his feet with the
sword that had laid beside him in the hollow of the shield, making a
single bound for the earl, and with one sweep of it sheared through the
swarthy neck. The rolling eyes turned glassy, the russet-bearded head
tumbled over the floor like a ball, and all the bandit knights and the
gentle-women in the hall flitted, scampering pell-mell away, yelling as
if they had seen a ghoul. Enid and Geraint were left alone.
[Illustration: THE RUSSET-BEARDED HEAD TUMBLED OVER THE FLOOR LIKE A
BALL.]
Now Geraint had come out of his swoon before the earl had returned, and
he had lain perfectly silent and immovable because he wished to test
Enid and see what she would do when she thought he was sleeping or
fainted away, or perhaps dead. So he had listened to all that had taken
place and had heard everything that Earl Doorm had said to her and all
that Enid had replied, so now he knew that she loved him as ever and
that she stood steadfast by him. All his heart filled with pity and
remorse that he had brought her away on this hard, hard quest, and had
made her suffer so much and had been so rough and cold.
"Enid," said the prince tenderly, very tenderly. "I have used you worse
than that big dead brute of a man used you. I have done you more wrong
than he. I misunderstood you. Now, now you are three times mine."
Geraint's kindness burst upon Enid so abruptly and was so unforeseen
that she could not speak a word only this:
"Fly, Geraint, they will kill you, they will come back. Fly. Your horse
is outside, my poor little thing is lost."
"You shall ride behind me, then, Enid."
So they slipped quickly outside, found the stately charger and mounted
him, first Geraint, then Enid, climbing up the prince's feet, and
throwing her arms about him to hold herself firm as they bounded off.