"That will I not, by Heaven," she said; "yonder man was the first

to whom my faith was ever pledged; and shall I prove inconstant to

him?" "Thou art in the wrong," said the earl; "if I slay the man

yonder, I can keep thee with me as long as I choose; and when thou

no longer pleasest me, I can turn thee away. But if thou goest

with me by thy own good-will, I protest that our union shall

continue as long as I remain alive." Then she pondered those words

of his, and she considered that it was advisable to encourage him

in his request. "Behold then, chieftain, this is most expedient

for thee to do to save me from all reproach; come here to-morrow

and take me away as though I knew nothing thereof." "I will do

so," said he. So he arose and took his leave, and went forth with

his attendants. And she told not then to Geraint any of the

conversation which she had had with the earl, lest it should rouse

his anger, and cause him uneasiness and care.

And at the usual hour they went to sleep. And at the beginning of

the night Enid slept a little; and at midnight she arose, and

placed all Geraint's armor together so that it might be ready to

put on. And although fearful of her errand, she came to the side

of Geraint's bed; and she spoke to him softly and gently, saying,

"My lord, arise, and clothe thyself, for these were the words of

the earl to me and his intention concerning me." So she told

Geraint all that had passed. And although he was wroth with her,

he took warning, and clothed himself. And she lighted a candle,

that he might have light to do so. "Leave there the candle," said

he, "and desire the man of the house to come here." Then she went,

and the man of the house came to him. "Dost thou know how much I

owe thee?" asked Geraint. "I think thou owest but little." "Take

the three horses and the three suits of armor." "Heaven reward

thee, lord," said he, "but I spent not the value of one suit of

armor upon thee." "For that reason," said he, "thou wilt be the

richer. And now, wilt thou come to guide me out of the town?" "I

will gladly," said he; "and in which direction dost thou intend to

go?" "I wish to leave the town by a different way from that by

which I entered it." So the man of the lodgings accompanied him as

far as he desired. Then he bade the maiden to go on before him,

and she did so, and went straight forward, and his host returned

home.

And Geraint and the maiden went forward along the high-road. And

as they journeyed thus, they heard an exceeding loud wailing near

to them. "Stay thou here," said he, "and I will go and see what is

the cause of this wailing." "I will," said she. Then he went

forward into an open glade that was near the road. And in the

glade he saw two horses, one having a man's saddle, and the other

a woman's saddle upon it. And behold there was a knight lying dead

in his armor, and a young damsel in a riding-dress standing over

him lamenting. "Ah, lady," said Geraint, "what hath befallen

thee?" "Behold," she answered, "I journeyed here with my beloved

husband, when lo! three giants came upon us, and without any cause

in the world, they slew him." "Which way went they hence?" said

Geraint. "Yonder by the high-road," she replied. So he returned to

Enid. "Go," said he, "to the lady that is below yonder, and await

me there till I come." She was sad when he ordered her to do thus,

but nevertheless she went to the damsel, whom it was ruth to hear,

and she felt certain that Geraint would never return.

Meanwhile Geraint followed the giants, and overtook them. And each

of them was greater in stature than three other men, and a huge

club was on the shoulder of each. Then he rushed upon one of them,

and thrust his lance through his body. And having drawn it forth

again, he pierced another of them through likewise. But the third

turned upon him and struck him with his club so that he split his

shield and crushed his shoulder. But Geraint drew his sword and

gave the giant a blow on the crown of his head, so severe, and

fierce, and violent, that his head and his neck were split down to

his shoulders, and he fell dead. So Geraint left him thus and

returned to Enid. And when he reached the place where she was he

fell down lifeless from his horse. Piercing and loud and thrilling

was the cry that Enid uttered. And she came and stood over him

where he had fallen. And at the sound of her cries came the Earl

of Limours, and they who journeyed with him, whom her lamentations

brought out of their road. And the earl said to Enid, "Alas, lady,

what hath befallen thee?" "Ah, good sir," said she, "the only man

I have loved, or ever shall love, is slain." Then he said to the

other, "And what is the cause of thy grief?" "They have slain my

beloved husband also," said she. "And who was it that slew them?"

"Some giants," she answered, "slew my best-beloved, and the other

knight went in pursuit of them, and came back in the state thou

seest." The earl caused the knight that was dead to be buried, but

he thought that there still remained some life in Geraint; and to

see if he yet would live, he had him carried with him in the

hollow of his shield, and upon a bier. And the two damsels went to

the court; and when they arrived there, Geraint was placed upon a

little couch in front of the table that was in the hall. Then they

all took off their traveling-gear, and the earl besought Enid to

do the same, and to clothe herself in other garments. "I will not,

by Heaven," said she. "Ah, lady," said he, "be not so sorrowful

for this matter." "It were hard to persuade me to be otherwise,"

said she. "I will act towards thee in such wise that thou needest

not be sorrowful, whether yonder knight live or die. Behold, a

good earldom, together with myself, will I bestow upon thee; be

therefore happy and joyful." "I declare to Heaven," said she,

"that henceforth I shall never be joyful while I live." "Come,"

said he, "and eat." "No, by Heaven, I will not." "But, by Heaven,

thou shalt," said he. So he took her with him to the table against

her will, and many times desired her to eat. "I call Heaven to

witness," said she, "that I will not until the man that is upon

yonder bier shall eat likewise." "Thou canst not fulfil that,"

said the earl, "yonder man is dead already." "I will prove that I

can," said she. Then he offered her a goblet of liquor. "Drink

this goblet," he said, "and it will cause thee to change thy

mind." "Evil betide me," she answered, "if I drink aught until he

drink also." "Truly," said the earl, "it is of no more avail for

me to be gentle with thee than ungentle." And he gave her a box in

the ear. Thereupon she raised a loud and piercing shriek, and her

lamentations were much greater than they had been before; for she

considered in her mind, that, had Geraint been alive, he durst not

have struck her thus. But, behold, at the sound of her cry,

Geraint revived from his swoon, and he sat upon the bier; and

finding his sword in the hollow of his shield, he rushed to the

place where the earl was, and struck him a fiercely-wounding,

severely-venomous, and sternly-smiting blow upon the crown of his

head, so that he clove him in twain, until his sword was staid by

the table. Then all left the board and fled away. And this was not

so much through fear of the living, as through the dread they felt

at seeing the dead man rise up to slay them. And Geraint looked

upon Enid, and he was grieved for two causes; one was to see that

Enid had lost her color and her wonted aspect; and the other, to

know that she was in the right. "Lady," said he, "knowest thou

where our horses are?" "I know, lord, where thy horse is," she

replied, "but I know not where is the other. Thy horse is in the

house yonder." So he went to the house, and brought forth his

horse, and mounted him, and took up Enid, and placed her upon the

horse with him. And he rode forward. And their road lay between

two hedges; and the night was gaining on the day. And lo! they saw

behind them the shafts of spears betwixt them and the sky, and

they heard the tramping of horses, and the noise of a host

approaching. "I hear something following us," said he, "and I will

put thee on the other side of the hedge." And thus he did. And

thereupon, behold a knight pricked towards him, and couched his

lance. When Enid saw this, she cried out, saying, "O chieftain,

whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead

man?" "O Heaven!" said he, "is it Geraint?" "Yes, in truth," said

she; "and who art thou?" "I am Gwiffert Petit," said he, "thy

husband's ally, coming to thy assistance, for I heard that thou

wast in trouble. Come with me to the court of a son-in-law of my

sister, which is near here, and thou shalt have the best medical

assistance in the kingdom." "I will do so gladly," said Geraint.

And Enid was placed upon the horse of one of Gwiffert's squires,

and they went forward to the baron's palace. And they were

received there with gladness, and they met with hospitality and

attention. The next morning they went to seek physicians; and it

was not long before they came, and they attended Geraint until he

was perfectly well. And while Geraint was under medical care

Gwiffert caused his armor to be repaired, until it was as good as

it had ever been. And they remained there a month and a fortnight.

Then they separated, and Geraint went towards his own dominions,

and thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and

splendor lasted with renown and honor, both to him and to Enid,

from that time forward.

[Footnote: Throughout the broad and varied region of romance it

would be difficult to find a character of greater simplicity and

truth than that of Enid, the daughter of Earl Ynywl. Conspicuous

for her beauty and noble bearing, we are at a loss whether more to

admire the patience with which she bore all the hardships she was

destined to undergo or the constancy and affection which finally

achieved the truimph she so richly deserved.

The character of Enid is admirably sustained through the whole

tale; and as it is more natural, because less overstrained, so

perhaps it is even more touching than that of Griselda, over

which, however, Chaucer has thrown a charm that leads us to forget

the improbability of her story.]

CHAPTER VIII

PWYLL, PRINCE OF DYVED

Once upon a time Pwyll was at Narberth, his chief palace, where a

feast had been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of

men. And after the first meal Pwyll arose to walk; and he went to

the top of a mound that was above the palace, and was called

Gorsedd Arberth. "Lord," said one of the court, "it is peculiar to

the mound that whosoever sits upon it cannot go thence without

either receiving wounds or blows, or else seeing a wonder." "I

fear not to receive wounds or blows," said Pwyll; "but as to the

wonder, gladly would I see it. I will therefore go and sit upon

the mound."

And upon the mound he sat. And while he sat there, they saw a

lady, on a pure white horse of large size, with a garment of

shining gold around her, coming along the highway that led from

the mound. "My men," said Pwyll, "is there any among you who knows

yonder lady?" "There is not, lord," said they. "Go one of you and

meet her, that we may know who she is." And one of them arose, and

as he came upon the road to meet her, she passed by; and he

followed as fast as he could, being on foot, and the greater was

his speed, the further was she from him. And when he saw that it

profited him nothing to follow her, he returned to Pwyll, and said

unto him, "Lord, it is idle for any one in the world to follow her

on foot." "Verily," said Pwyll, "go unto the palace, and take the

fleetest horse that thou seest, and go after her."

And he took a horse and went forward. And he came to an open,

level plain, and put spurs to his horse; and the more he urged his

horse, the further was she from him. And he returned to the place

where Pwyll was, and said, "Lord, it will avail nothing for any

one to follow yonder lady. I know of no horse in these realms

swifter than this, and it availed me not to pursue her." "Of a

truth," said Pwyll, "there must be some illusion here; let us go

towards the palace." So to the palace they went, and spent the

day.

And the next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to

meat. And when meat was ended, Pwyll said, "Where are the hosts

that went yesterday to the top of the mound?" "Behold, lord, we

are here," said they. "Let us go," said he, "to the mound, and sit

there. And do thou," said he to the page who tended his horse,

"saddle my horse well, and hasten with him to the road, and bring

also my spurs with thee." And the youth did thus. And they went

and sat upon the mound; and ere they had been there but a short

time, they beheld the lady coming by the same road, and in the

same manner, and at the same pace. "Young man," said Pwyll, "I see

the lady coming; give me my horse." And before he had mounted his

horse she passed him. And he turned after her and followed her.

And he let his horse go bounding playfully, and thought that he

should soon come up with her. But he came no nearer to her than at

first. Then he urged his horse to his utmost speed, yet he found

that it availed not. Then said Pwyll, "O maiden, for the sake of

him whom thou best lovest, stay for me." "I will stay gladly,"

said she; "and it were better for thy horse hadst thou asked it

long since." So the maiden stopped; and she threw back that part

of her head-dress which covered her face. Then he thought that the

beauty of all the maidens and all the ladies that he had ever seen

was as nothing compared to her beauty. "Lady," he said, "wilt thou

tell me aught concerning thy purpose?" "I will tell thee," said

she; "my chief quest was to see thee." "Truly," said Pwyll, "this

is to me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst have come;

and wilt thou tell me who thou art?" "I will tell thee, lord,"

said she. "I am Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd, and they sought

to give me a husband against my will. But no husband would I have,

and that because of my love for thee; neither will I yet have one,

unless thou reject me; and hither have I come to hear thy answer."

"By Heaven," said Pwyll, "behold this is my answer. If I might

choose among all the ladies and damsels in the world, thee would I

choose." "Verily," said she, "if thou art thus minded, make a

pledge to meet me ere I am given to another." "The sooner I may do

so, the more pleasing will it be to me," said Pwyll; "and

wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet with thee." "I will that

thou meet me this day twelvemonth at the palace of Heveydd."

"Gladly," said he, "will I keep this tryst." So they parted, and

he went back to his hosts, and to them of his household. And

whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the damsel, he

always turned the discourse upon other matters.

And when a year from that time was gone, he caused a hundred

knights to equip themselves, and to go with him to the palace of

Heveydd. And he came to the palace, and there was great joy

concerning him, with much concourse of people, and great

rejoicing, and vast preparations for his coming. And the whole

court was placed under his orders.

And the hall was garnished, and they went to meat, and thus did

they sit: Heveydd was on one side of Pwyll, and Rhiannon on the

other; and all the rest according to their rank. And they ate and

feasted, and talked one with another. And at the beginning of the

carousal after the meat, there entered a tall, auburn-haired

youth, of royal bearing, clothed in a garment of satin. And when

he came into the hall, he saluted Pwyll and his companions. "The

greeting of Heaven be unto thee," said Pwyll; "come thou and sit

down." "Nay," said he, "a suitor am I, and I will do my errand."

"Do so willingly," said Pwyll. "Lord," said he, "my errand is unto

thee, and it is to crave a boon of thee that I come." "What boon

soever thou mayest ask of me, so far as I am able, thou shalt

have." "Ah!" said Rhiannon, "wherefore didst thou give that

answer?" "Has he not given it before the presence of these

nobles?" asked the youth. "My soul," said Pwyll, "what is the boon

thou askest?" "The lady whom best I love is to be thy bride this

night; I come to ask her of thee, with the feast and the banquet

that are in this place." And Pwyll was silent, because of the

promise which he had given. "Be silent as long as thou wilt," said

Rhiannon, "never did man make worse use of his wits than thou hast

done." "Lady," said he, "I knew not who he was." "Behold, this is

the man to whom they would have given me against my will," said

she; "and he is Gawl, the son of Clud, a man of great power and

wealth, and because of the word thou hast spoken, bestow me upon

him, lest shame befall thee." "Lady," said he, "I understand not

thy answer; never can I do as thou sayest." "Bestow me upon him,"

said she, "and I will cause that I shall never be his." "By what

means will that be?" asked Pwyll. Then she told him the thought

that was in her mind. And they talked long together. Then Gawl

said, "Lord, it is meet that I have an answer to my request." "As

much of that thou hast asked as it is in my power to give, thou

shalt have," replied Pwyll. "My soul," said Rhiannon unto Gawl,

"as for the feast and the banquet that are here, I have bestowed

them upon the men of Dyved, and the household and the warriors

that are with us. These can I not suffer to be given to any. In a

year from to-night, a banquet shall be prepared for thee in this

palace, that I may become thy bride."

So Gawl went forth to his possessions, and Pwyll went also back to

Dyved. And they both spent that year until it was the time for the

feast at the palace of Heveydd. Then Gawl, the son of Clud, set

out to the feast that was prepared for him; and he came to the

palace, and was received there with rejoicing. Pwyll, also, the

chief of Dyved, came to the orchard with a hundred knights, as

Rhiannon had commanded him. And Pwyll was clad in coarse and

ragged garments, and wore large, clumsy old shoes upon his feet.

And when he knew that the carousal after the meat had begun, he

went toward the hall; and when he came into the hall he saluted

Gawl, the son of Clud, and his company, both men and women.

"Heaven prosper thee," said Gawl, "and friendly greeting be unto

thee!" "Lord," said he, "may Heaven reward thee! I have an errand

unto thee." "Welcome be thine errand, and if thou ask of me that

which is right, thou shalt have it gladly." "It is fitting,"

answered he; "I crave but from want, and the boon I ask is to have

this small bag that thou seest filled with meat." "A request

within reason is this," said he, "and gladly shalt thou have it.

Bring him food." A great number of attendants arose and began to

fill the bag; but for all they put into it, it was no fuller than

at first. "My soul," said Gawl, "will thy bag ever be full?" "It

will not, I declare to Heaven," said he, "for all that may be put

into it, unless one possessed of lands, and domains, and treasure,

shall arise and tread down with both his feet the food that is

within the bag, and shall say, 'Enough has been put therein.'"

Then said Rhiannon unto Gawl, the son of Clud, "Rise up quickly."

"I will willingly arise," said he. So he rose up, and put his two

feet into the bag. And Pwyll turned up the sides of the bag, so

that Gawl was over his head in it. And he shut it up quickly, and

slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his horn. And thereupon,

behold, his knights came down upon the palace. And they seized all

the host that had come with Gawl, and cast them into his own

prison. And Pwyll threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his

tattered array. And as they came in, every one of Pwyll's knights

struck a blow upon the bag, and asked, "What is here?" "A badger,"

said they. And in this manner they played, each of them striking

the bag, either with his foot or with a staff. And thus played

they with the bag. And then was the game of Badger in the Bag

first played.

"Lord," said the man in the bag, "if thou wouldst but hear me, I

merit not to be slain in a bag." Said Heveydd, "Lord, he speaks

truth; it were fitting that thou listen to him, for he deserves

not this." "Verily," said Pwyll, "I will do thy counsel concerning

him." "Behold, this is my counsel then," said Rhiannon. "Thou art

now in a position in which it behooves thee to satisfy suitors and

minstrels. Let him give unto them in thy stead, and take a pledge

from him that he will never seek to revenge that which has been

done to him. And this will be punishment enough." "I will do this

gladly," said the man in the bag. "And gladly will I accept it,"

said Pwyll, "since it is the counsel of Heveydd and Rhiannon. Seek

thyself sureties." "We will be for him," said Heveydd, "until his

men be free to answer for him." And upon this he was let out of

the bag, and his liegemen were liberated. "Verily, lord," said

Gawl, "I am greatly hurt, and I have many bruises. With thy leave,

I will go forth. I will leave nobles in my stead to answer for me

in all that thou shalt require." "Willingly," said Pwyll, "mayest

thou do this." So Gawl went to his own possessions.

And the hall was set in order for Pwyll and the men of his host,

and for them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and

sat down. And as they had sat that time twelvemonth, so sat they

that night. And they ate and feasted, and spent the night in mirth

and tranquility. And the time came that they should sleep, and

Pwyll and Rhiannon went to their chamber.

And next morning at break of day, "My lord," said Rhiannon, "arise

and begin to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one to-

day that may claim thy bounty." "Thus shall it be gladly," said

Pwyll, "both to-day and every day while the feast shall last." So

Pwyll arose, and he caused silence to be proclaimed, and desired

all the suitors and minstrels to show and to point out what gifts

they desired. And this being done, the feast went on, and he

denied no one while it lasted. And when the feast was ended, Pwyll

said unto Heveydd, "My lord, with thy permission, I will set out

for Dyved to-morrow." "Certainly," said Heveydd; "may Heaven

prosper thee! Fix also a time when Rhiannon shall follow thee."

"By Heaven," said Pwyll, "we will go hence together." "Willest

thou this, lord?" said Heveydd. "Yes, lord," answered Pwyll.

And the next, day they set forward towards Dyved, and journeyed to

the palace of Narberth, where a feast was made ready for them. And

there came to them great numbers of the chief men and the most

noble ladies of the land, and of these there were none to whom

Rhiannon did not give some rich gift, either a bracelet, or a

ring, or a precious stone. And they ruled the land prosperously

that year and the next.

CHAPTER IX

BRANWEN, THE DAUGHTER OF LLYR

Bendigeid Vran, the son of Llyr, was the crowned king of this

island, and he was exalted from the crown of London. And one

afternoon he was at Harlech, in Ardudwy, at his court; and he sat

upon the rock of Harlech, looking over the sea. And with him were

his brother, Manawyddan, the son of Llyr, and his brothers by the

mother's side, Nissyen and Evnissyen, and many nobles likewise, as

was fitting to see around a king. His two brothers by the mother's

side were the sons of Euroswydd, and one of these youths was a

good youth, and of gentle nature, and would make peace between his

kindred, and cause his family to be friends when their wrath was

at the highest, and this one was Nissyen; but the other would

cause strife between his two brothers when they were most at

peace. And as they sat thus they beheld thirteen ships coming from

the south of Ireland, and making towards them; and they came with

a swift motion, the wind being behind them; and they neared them

rapidly. "I see ships afar," said the king, "coming swiftly

towards the land. Command the men of the court that they equip

themselves, and go and learn their intent." So the men equipped

themselves, and went down towards them. And when they saw the

ships near, certain were they that they had never seen ships

better furnished. Beautiful flags of satin were upon them. And,

behold, one of the ships outstripped the others, and they saw a

shield lifted up above the side of the ship, and the point of the

shield was upwards, in token of peace. And the men drew near, that

they might hold converse. Then they put out boats, and came toward

the land. And they saluted the king. Now the king could hear them

from the place where he was upon the rock above their heads.

"Heaven prosper you." said he, "and be ye welcome! To whom do

these ships belong, and who is the chief amongst you?" "Lord,"

said they, "Matholch, king of Ireland, is here, and these ships

belong to him." "Wherefore comes he?" asked the king, "and will he

come to the land?" "He is a suitor unto thee, lord," said they,

"and he will not land unless he have his boon." "And what may that

be?" inquired the king. "He desires to ally himself, lord, with

thee," said they, "and he comes to ask Branwen, the daughter of

Llyr, that, if it seem well to thee, the Island of the Mighty

[Footnote: The Island of the Mighty is one of the many names

bestowed upon Britain by the Welsh.] may be leagued with Ireland,

and both become more powerful." "Verily," said he, "let him come

to land, and we will take counsel thereupon." And this answer was

brought to Matholch. "I will go willingly," said he. So he landed,

and they received him joyfully; and great was the throng in the

palace that night, between his hosts and those of the court; and

next day they took counsel, and they resolved to bestow Branwen

upon Matholch. Now she was one of the three chief ladies of this

island, and she was the fairest damsel in the world.

And they fixed upon Aberfraw as the place where she should become

his bride. And they went thence, and towards Aberfraw the hosts

proceeded, Matholch and his host in their ships, Bendigeid Vran

and his host by land, until they came to Aberfraw. And at Aberfraw

they began the feast, and sat down. And thus sat they: the king of

the Island of the Mighty and Manawyddan, the son of Llyr, on one

side, and Matholch on the other side, and Branwen, the daughter of

Llyr, beside him. And they were not within a house, but under

tents. No house could ever contain Bendigeid Vran. And they began

the banquet, and caroused and discoursed. And when it was more

pleasing to them to sleep than to carouse, they went to rest, and

Branwen became Matholch's bride.

And next day they arose, and all they of the court, and the

officers began to equip, and to range the horses and the

attendants, and they ranged them in order as far as the sea.

And, behold, one day Evnissyen, the quarrelsome man, of whom it is

spoken above, came by chance into the place where the horses of

Matholch were, and asked whose horses they might be. "They are the

horses of Matholch, king of Ireland, who is married to Branwen,

thy sister; his horses are they." "And is it thus they have done

with a maiden such as she, and moreover my sister, bestowing her

without my consent? They could have offered no greater insult to

me than this," said he. And thereupon he rushed under the horses,

and cut off their lips at the teeth, and their ears close to their

heads, and their tails close to their backs; and he disfigured the

horses, and rendered them useless.

And they came with these tidings unto Matholch, saying that the

horses were disfigured and injured, so that not one of them could

ever be of any use again. "Verily, lord," said one, "it was an

insult unto thee, and as such was it meant." "Of a truth, it is a

marvel to me that, if they desire to insult me, they should have

given me a maiden of such high rank, and so much beloved of her

kindred, as they have done." "Lord," said another, "thou seest

that thus it is, and there is nothing for thee to do but to go to

thy ships." And thereupon towards his ships he set out.

And tidings came to Bendigeid Vran that Matholch was quitting the

court without asking leave, and messengers were sent to inquire of

him wherefore he did so. And the messengers that went were Iddic,

the son of Anarawd, and Heveyd Hir. And these overtook him, and

asked of him what he designed to do, and wherefore he went forth.

"Of a truth," said he, "if I had known, I had not come hither. I

have been altogether insulted; no one had ever worse treatment

than I have had here." "Truly, lord, it was not the will of any

that are of the court," said they, "nor of any that are of the

council, that thou shouldst have received this insult; and as thou

hast been insulted, the dishonor is greater unto Bendigeid Vran

than unto thee." "Verily," said he, "I think so. Nevertheless, he

cannot recall the insult." These men returned with that answer to

the place where Bendigeid Vran was, and they told him what reply

Matholch had given them. "Truly," said he, "there are no means by

which we may prevent his going away at enmity with us that we will

not take." "Well, lord," said they, "send after him another

embassy." "I will do so," said he. "Arise, Manawyddan, son of

Llyr, and Heveyd Hir, and go after him, and tell him that he shall

have a sound horse for every one that has been injured. And beside

that, as an atonement for the insult, he shall have a staff of

silver as large and as tall as himself, and a plate of gold of the

breadth of his face. And show unto him who it was that did this,

and that it was done against my will; but that he who did it is my

brother, and therefore it would be hard for me to put him to

death. And let him come and meet me," said he, "and we will make

peace in any way he may desire."

The embassy went after Matholch, and told him all these sayings in

a friendly manner; and he listened thereunto. "Men," said he, "I

will take counsel." So to the council he went. And in the council

they considered that, if they should refuse this, they were likely

to have more shame rather than to obtain so great an atonement.

They resolved, therefore, to accept it, and they returned to the

court in peace.

Then the pavilions and the tents were set in order, after the

fashion of a hall; and they went to meat, and as they had sat at

the beginning of the feast so sat they there. And Matholch and

Bendigeid Vran began to discourse; and, behold, it seemed to

Bendigeid Vran, while they talked, that Matholch was not so

cheerful as he had been before. And he thought that the chieftain

might be sad because of the smallness of the atonement which he

had for the wrong that had been done him. "O man," said Bendigeid

Vran, "thou dost not discourse to-night so cheerfully as thou wast

wont. And if it be because of the smallness of the atonement, thou

shalt add thereunto whatsoever thou mayest choose, and to-morrow I

will pay thee for the horses." "Lord," said he, "Heaven reward

thee!" "And I will enhance the atonement," said Bendigeid Vran,

"for I will give unto thee a caldron, the property of which is,

that if one of thy men be slain to-day, and be cast therein, to-

morrow he will be as well as ever he was at the best, except that

he will not regain his speech." And thereupon he gave him great

thanks, and very joyful was he for that cause.

That night they continued to discourse as much as they would, and

had minstrelsy and carousing; and when it was more pleasant to

them to sleep than to sit longer, they went to rest. And thus was

the banquet carried on with joyousness; and when it was finished,

Matholch journeyed towards Ireland, and Branwen with him; and they

went from Aber Menei with thirteen ships, and came to Ireland. And

in Ireland was there great joy because of their coming. And not

one great man nor noble lady visited Branwen unto whom she gave

not either a clasp or a ring, or a royal jewel to keep, such as it

was honorable to be seen departing with. And in these things she

spent that year in much renown, and she passed her time

pleasantly, enjoying honor and friendship. And in due time a son

was born unto her, and the name that they gave him was Gwern, the

son of Matholch, and they put the boy out to be nursed in a place

where were the best men of Ireland.

And, behold, in the second year a tumult arose in Ireland, on

account of the insult which Matholch had received in Wales, and

the payment made him for his horses. And his foster-brothers, and

such as were nearest to him, blamed him openly for that matter.

And he might have no peace by reason of the tumult, until they

should revenge upon him this disgrace. And the vengeance which

they took was to drive away Branwen from the same chamber with

him, and to make her cook for the court; and they caused the

butcher, after he had cut up the meat, to come to her and give her

every day a blow on the ear; and such they made her punishment.

"Verily, lord," said his men to Matholch, "forbid now the ships

and the ferry-boats, and the coracles, that they go not into

Wales, and such as come over from Wales hither, imprison them,

that they go not back for this thing to be known there." And he

did so; and it was thus for no less than three years.

And Branwen reared a starling in the cover of the kneading-trough,

and she taught it to speak, and she taught the bird what manner of

man her brother was. And she wrote a letter of her woes, and the

despite with which she was treated, and she bound the letter to

the root of the bird's wing, and sent it toward Wales. And the

bird came to that island; and one day it found Bendigeid Vran at

Caer Seiont in Arvon, conferring there, and it alighted upon his

shoulder, and ruffled its feathers, so that the letter was seen,

and they knew that the bird had been reared in a domestic manner.

Then Bendigeid Vran took the letter and looked upon it. And when

he had read the letter, he grieved exceedingly at the tidings of

Branwen's woes. And immediately he began sending messengers to

summon the island together. And he caused seven-score and four of

his chief men to come unto him, and he complained to them of the

grief that his sister endured. So they took counsel. And in the

counsel they resolved to go to Ireland, and to leave seven men as

princes at home, and Caradoc, [Footnote: Caractacus.] the son of

Bran, as the chief of them.

Bendigeid Vran, with the host of which we spoke, sailed towards

Ireland; and it was not far across the sea, and he came to shoal

water. Now the swine-herds of Matholch were upon the sea-shore,

and they came to Matholch. "Lord," said they, "greeting be unto

thee." "Heaven protect you!" said he; "have you any news?" "Lord,"

said they, "we have marvellous news. A wood have we seen upon the

sea, in a place where we never yet saw a single tree." "This is

indeed a marvel," said he; "saw you aught else?" "We saw, lord,"

said they, "a vast mountain beside the wood, which moved, and

there was a lofty ridge on the top of the mountain, and a lake on

each side of the ridge. And the wood and the mountain, and all

these things, moved." "Verily," said he, "there is none who can

know aught concerning this unless it be Branwen."

Messengers then went unto Branwen. "Lady," said they, "what

thinkest thou that this is?" "The men of the Island of the Mighty,

who have come hither on hearing of my ill-treatment and of my

woes." "What is the forest that is seen upon the sea?" asked they.

"The yards and the masts of ships," she answered. "Alas!" said

they; "what is the mountain that is seen by the side of the

ships?" "Bendigeid Vran, my brother," she replied, "coming to

shoal water, and he is wading to the land." "What is the lofty

ridge, with the lake on each side thereof?" "On looking towards

this island he is wroth, and his two eyes on each side of his nose

are the two lakes on each side of the ridge."

The warriors and chief men of Ireland were brought together in

haste, and they took counsel. "Lord," said the neighbors unto

Matholch, "there is no other counsel than this alone. Thou shalt

give the kingdom to Gwern, the son of Branwen his sister, as a

compensation for the wrong and despite that have been done unto

Branwen. And he will make peace with thee." And in the council it

was resolved that this message should be sent to Bendigeid Vran,

lest the country should be destroyed. And this peace was made. And

Matholch caused a great house to be built for Bendigeid Vran, and

his host. Thereupon came the hosts into the house. The men of the

island of Ireland entered the house on the one side, and the men

of the Island of the Mighty on the other. And as soon as they had

sat down, there was concord between them; and the sovereignty was

conferred upon the boy. When the peace was concluded, Bendigeid

Vran called the boy unto him, and from Bendigeid Vran the boy went

unto Manawyddan; and he was beloved by all that beheld him. And

from Manawyddan the boy was called by Nissyen, the son of

Euroswydd, and the boy went unto him lovingly. "Wherefore," said

Evnissyen, "comes not my nephew, the son of my sister, unto me?

Though he were not king of Ireland, yet willingly would I fondle

the boy." "Cheerfully let him go to thee," said Bendigeid Vran;

and the boy went unto him cheerfully. "By my confession to

Heaven," said Evnissyen in his heart, "unthought of is the

slaughter that I will this instant commit."

Then he arose and took up the boy, and before any one in the house

could seize hold of him he thrust the boy headlong into the

blazing fire. And when Branwen saw her son burning in the fire,

she strove to leap into the fire also, from the place where she

sat between her two brothers. But Bendigeid Vran grasped her with

one hand, and his shield with the other. Then they all hurried

about the house, and never was there made so great a tumult by any

host in one house as was made by them, as each man armed himself.

And while they all sought their arms Bendigeid Vran supported

Branwen between his shield and his shoulder. And they fought.

Then the Irish kindled a fire under the caldron of renovation, and

they cast the dead bodies into the caldron until it was full; and

the next day they came forth fighting men, as good as before,

except that they were not able to speak. Then when Evnissyen saw

the dead bodies of the men of the Island of the Mighty nowhere

resuscitated, he said in his heart, "Alas! woe is me, that I

should have been the cause of bringing the men of the Island of

the Mighty into so great a strait. Evil betide me if I find not a

deliverance therefrom." And he cast himself among the dead bodies

of the Irish; and two unshod Irishmen came to him, and, taking him

to be one of the Irish, flung him into the caldron. And he

stretched himself out in the caldron, so that he rent the caldron

into four pieces, and burst his own heart also.

In consequence of this, the men of the Island of the Mighty

obtained such success as they had; but they were not victorious,

for only seven men of them all escaped, and Bendigeid Vran himself

was wounded in the foot with a poisoned dart. Now the men that

escaped were Pryderi, Manawyddan, Taliesin, and four others.

And Bendigeid Vran commanded them that they should cut off his

head. "And take you my head," said he, "and bear it even unto the

White Mount in London, and bury it there with the face towards

France. And so long as it lies there, no enemy shall ever land on

the island." So they cut off his head, and these seven went

forward therewith. And Branwen was the eighth with them. And they

came to land on Aber Alaw, and they sat down to rest. And Branwen

looked towards Ireland, and towards the Island of the Mighty, to

see if she could descry them. "Alas!" said she, "woe is me that I

was ever born; two islands have been destroyed because of me."

Then she uttered a groan, and there broke her heart. And they made

her a four-sided grave, and buried her upon the banks of the Alaw.

Then the seven men journeyed forward, bearing the head with them;

and as they went, behold there met them a multitude of men and

women. "Have you any tidings?" said Manawyddan. "We have none,"

said they, "save that Caswallawn, [Footnote: Cassivellaunus.] the

son of Beli, has conquered the Island of the Mighty, and is

crowned king in London." "What has become," said they, "of

Caradoc, the son of Bran, and the seven men who were left with him

in this island?" "Caswallawn came upon them, and slew six of the

men, and Caradoc's heart broke for grief thereof." And the seven

men journeyed on towards London, and they buried the head in the

White Mount, as Bendigeid Vran had directed them. [Footnote: There

is a Triad upon the story of the head buried under the White Tower

of London, as a charm against invasion. Arthur, it seems, proudly

disinterred the head, preferring to hold the island by his own

strength alone.]

CHAPTER X

MANAWYDDAN

Pwyll and Rhiannon had a son, whom they named Pryderi. And when he

was grown up, Pwyll, his father, died. And Pryderi married Kicva,

the daughter of Gwynn Gloy.

Now Manawyddan returned from the war in Ireland, and he found that

his cousin had seized all his possessions, and much grief and

heaviness came upon him. "Alas! woe is me!" he exclaimed; "there

is none save myself without a home and a resting-place." "Lord,"

said Pryderi, "be not so sorrowful. Thy cousin is king of the

Island of the Mighty, and though he has done thee wrong, thou hast

never been a claimant of land or possessions." "Yea," answered he,

"but although this man is my cousin, it grieveth me to see any one

in the place of my brother, Bendigeid Vran; neither can I be happy

in the same dwelling with him." "Wilt thou follow the counsel of

another?" said Pryderi. "I stand in need of counsel," he answered,

"and what may that counsel be?" "Seven cantrevs belong unto me,"

said Pryderi, "wherein Rhiannon, my mother, dwells. I will bestow

her upon thee, and the seven cantrevs with her; and though thou

hadst no possessions but those cantrevs only, thou couldst not

have any fairer than they. Do thou and Rhiannon enjoy them, and if

thou desire any possessions thou wilt not despise these." "I do

not, chieftain," said he. "Heaven reward thee for the friendship!

I will go with thee to seek Rhiannon, and to look at thy

possessions." "Thou wilt do well," he answered; "and I believe

that thou didst never hear a lady discourse better than she, and

when she was in her prime, none was ever fairer. Even now her

aspect is not uncomely."

They set forth, and, however long the journey, they came at last

to Dyved; and a feast was prepared for them by Rhiannon and Kicva.

Then began Manawyddan and Rhiannon to sit and to talk together;

and his mind and his thoughts became warmed towards her, and he

thought in his heart he had never beheld any lady more fulfilled

of grace and beauty than she. "Pryderi," said he, "I will that it

be as thou didst say." "What saying was that?" asked Rhiannon.

"Lady," said Pryderi, "I did offer thee as a wife to Manawyddan,

the son of Llyr." "By that will I gladly abide," said Rhiannon.

"Right glad am I also," said Manawyddan, "may Heaven reward him

who hath shown unto me friendship so perfect as this!"

And before the feast was over she became his bride. Said Pryderi,

"Tarry ye here the rest of the feast, and I will go into England

to tender my homage unto Caswallawn, the son of Beli." "Lord,"

said Rhiannon, "Caswallawn is in Kent; thou mayest therefore tarry

at the feast, and wait until he shall be nearer." "We will wait,"

he answered. So they finished the feast. And they began to make

the circuit of Dyved, and to hunt, and to take their pleasure. And

as they went through the country, they had never seen lands more

pleasant to live in, nor better hunting grounds, nor greater

plenty of honey and fish. And such was the friendship between

these four, that they would not be parted from each other by night

nor by day.

And in the midst of all this he went to Caswallawn at Oxford, and

tendered his homage; and honorable was his reception there, and

highly was he praised for offering his homage.

And after his return Pryderi and Manawyddan feasted and took their

ease and pleasure. And they began a feast at Narberth, for it was

the chief palace. And when they had ended the first meal, while

those who served them ate, they arose and went forth, and

proceeded to the Gorsedd, that is, the Mount of Narberth, and

their retinue with them. And as they sat thus, behold a peal of

thunder, and with the violence of the thunder-storm, lo! there

came a fall of mist, so thick that not one of them could see the

other. And after the mist it became light all around. And when

they looked towards the place where they were wont to see the

cattle and herds and dwellings, they saw nothing now, neither

house, nor beast, nor smoke, nor fire, nor man, nor dwelling, but

the buildings of the court empty, and desert, and uninhabited,

without either man or beast within them. And truly all their

companions were lost to them, without their knowing aught of what

had befallen them, save those four only.

"In the name of Heaven," said Manawyddan, "where are they of the

court, and all my host beside? Let us go and see."

So they came to the castle, and saw no man, and into the hall, and

to the sleeping-place, and there was none; and in the mead-cellar

and in the kitchen there was naught but desolation. Then they

began to go through the land, and all the possessions that they

had; and they visited the houses and dwellings, and found nothing

but wild beasts. And when they had consumed their feast and all

their provisions, they fed upon the prey they killed in hunting,

and the honey of the wild swans.

And one morning Pryderi and Manawyddan rose up to hunt, and they

ranged their dogs and went forth. And some of the dogs ran before

them, and came to a bush which was near at hand; but as soon as

they were come to the bush, they hastily drew back, and returned

to the men, their hair bristling up greatly. "Let us go near to

the bush," said Pryderi, "and see what is in it." And as they came

near, behold, a wild boar of a pure white color rose up from the

bush. Then the dogs, being set on by the men, rushed towards him;

but he left the bush, and fell back a little way from the men, and

made a stand against the dogs, without retreating from them, until

the men had come near. And when the men came up, he fell back a

second time, and betook him to flight. Then they pursued the boar

until they beheld a vast and lofty castle, all newly built, in a

place where they had never before seen either stone or building.

And the boar ran swiftly into the castle, and the dogs after him.

Now when the boar and the dogs had gone into the castle, the men

began to wonder at finding a castle in a place where they had

never before seen any building whatsoever. And from the top of the

Gorsedd they looked and listened for the dogs. But so long as they

were there, they heard not one of the dogs, nor aught concerning

them.

"Lord," said Pryderi, "I will go into the castle to get tidings of

the dogs." "Truly," he replied, "thou wouldst be unwise to go into

this castle, which thou hast never seen till now. If thou wouldst

follow my counsel, thou wouldst not enter therein. Whosoever has

cast a spell over this land, has caused this castle to be here."

"Of a truth," answered Pryderi, "I cannot thus give up my dogs."

And for all the counsel that Manawyddan gave him, yet to the

castle he went.

When he came within the castle, neither man nor beast, nor boar,

nor dogs, nor house, nor dwelling, saw he within it. But in the

centre of the castle-floor he beheld a fountain with marble-work

around it, and on the margin of the fountain a golden bowl upon a

marble slab, and chains hanging from the air, to which he saw no

end.

And he was greatly pleased with the beauty of the gold, and with

the rich workmanship of the bowl; and he went up to the bowl, and

laid hold of it. And when he had taken hold of its his hands stuck

to the bowl, and his feet to the slab on which the bowl was

placed; and all his joyousness forsook him, so that he could not

utter a word. And thus he stood.

And Manawyddan waited for him till near the close of the day. And

late in the evening, being certain that he should have no tidings

of Pryderi or the dogs, he went back to the palace. And as he

entered, Rhiannon looked at him. "Where," said she, "are thy

companion and thy dogs?" "Behold," he answered, "the adventure

that has befallen me." And he related it all unto her. "An evil

companion hast thou been," said Rhiannon, "and a good companion

hast thou lost." And with that word she went out, and proceeded

towards the castle, according to the direction which he gave her.

The gate of the castle she found open. She was nothing daunted,

and she went in. And as she went in, she perceived Pryderi laying

hold of the bowl, and she went towards him. "O my lord," said she,

"what dost thou here?" And she took hold of the bowl with him; and

as she did so, her hands also became fast to the bowl, and her

feet to the slab, and she was not able to utter a word. And with

that, as it became night, lo! there came thunder upon them, and a

fall of mist; and thereupon the castle vanished, and they with it.

When Kicva, the daughter of Gwynn Gloy, saw that there was no one

in the palace but herself and Manawyddan, she sorrowed so that she

cared not whether she lived or died. And Manawyddan saw this.

"Thou art in the wrong," said he, "if through fear of me thou

grievest thus. I call Heaven to witness that thou hast never seen

friendship more pure than that which I will bear thee as long as

Heaven will that thou shouldst be thus. I declare to thee, that,

were I in the dawn of youth, I would keep my faith unto Pryderi,

and unto thee also will I keep it. Be there no fear upon thee,

therefore." "Heaven reward thee!" she said; "and that is what I

deemed of thee." And the damsel thereupon took courage, and was

glad.

"Truly, lady," said Manawyddan, "it is not fitting for us to stay

here; we have lost our dogs, and cannot get food. Let us go into

England; it is easiest for us to find support there." "Gladly,

lord," said she, "we will do so." And they set forth together to

England.

"Lord," said she, "what craft wilt thou follow? Take up one that

is seemly." "None other will I take," answered he, "but that of

making shoes." "Lord," said she, "such a craft becomes not a man

so nobly born as thou." "By that however will I abide," said he.

"I know nothing thereof," said Kicva. "But I know," answered

Manawyddan, "and I will teach thee to stitch. We will not attempt

to dress the leather, but we will buy it ready dressed, and will

make the shoes from it."

So they went into England, and went as far as Hereford; and they

betook themselves to making shoes. And he began by buying the best

cordwain that could be had in the town, and none other would buy.

And he associated himself with the best goldsmith in the town, and

caused him to make clasps for the shoes, and to gild the clasps;

and he marked how it was done until he learned the method. And

therefore is he called one of the three makers of gold shoes. And

when they could be had from him, not a shoe nor hose was bought of

any of the cordwainers in the town. But when the cordwainers

perceived that their gains were failing (for as Manawyddan shaped

the work, so Kicva stitched it), they came together and took

counsel, and agreed that they would slay them. And he had warning

thereof, and it was told him how the cordwainers had agreed

together to slay him.

"Lord," said Kicva, "wherefore should this be borne from these

boors?" "Nay," said he, "we will go back unto Dyved." So towards

Dyved they set forth.

Now Manawyddan, when he set out to return to Dyved, took with him

a burden of wheat. And he proceeded towards Narberth, and there he

dwelt. And never was he better pleased than when he saw Narberth

again, and the lands where he had been wont to hunt with Pryderi

and with Rhiannon. And he accustomed himself to fish, and to hunt

the deer in their covert. And then he began to prepare some

ground, and he sowed a croft, and a second, and a third. And no

wheat in the world ever sprung up better. And the three crofts

prospered with perfect growth, and no man ever saw fairer wheat

than it.

And thus passed the seasons of the year until the harvest came.

And he went to look at one of his crofts, and, behold, it was

ripe. "I will reap this to-morrow," said he. And that night he

went back to Narberth, and on the morrow, in the gray dawn, he

went to reap the croft; and when he came there, he found nothing

but the bare straw. Every one of the ears of the wheat was cut off

from the stalk, and all the ears carried entirely away, and

nothing but the straw left. And at this he marvelled greatly.

Then he went to look at another croft, and, behold, that also was

ripe. "Verily," said he, "this will I reap to-morrow." And on the

morrow he came with the intent to reap it; and when he came there,

he found nothing but the bare straw. "O gracious Heaven!" he

exclaimed. "I know that whosoever has begun my ruin is completing

it, and has also destroyed the country with me."

Then he went to look at the third croft; and when he came there,

finer wheat had there never been seen, and this also was ripe.

"Evil betide me," said he, "if I watch not here to-night. Whoever

carried off the other corn will come in like manner to take this,

and I will know who it is." And he told Kicva all that had

befallen. "Verily," said she, "what thinkest thou to do?" "I will

watch the croft to-night," said he. And he went to watch the

croft.

And at midnight he heard something stirring among the wheat; and

he looked, and behold, the mightiest host of mice in the world,

which could neither be numbered nor measured. And he knew not what

it was until the mice had made their way into the croft, and each

of them, climbing up the straw, and bending it down with its

weight, had cut off one of the ears of wheat, and had carried it

away, leaving there the stalk; and he saw not a single straw there

that had not a mouse to it. And they all took their way, carrying

the ears with them.

In wrath and anger did he rush upon the mice; but he could no more

come up with them than if they had been gnats or birds of the air,

except one only, which, though it was but sluggish, went so fast

that a man on foot could scarce overtake it. And after this one he

went, and he caught it, and put it in his glove, and tied up the

opening of the glove with a string, and kept it with him, and

returned to the palace. Then he came to the hall where Kicva was,

and he lighted a fire, and hung the glove by the string upon a

peg. "What hast thou there, lord?" said Kicva. "A thief," said he,

"that I found robbing me." "What kind of a thief may it be, lord,

that thou couldst put into thy glove?" said she. Then he told her

how the mice came to the last of the fields in his sight. "And one

of them was less nimble than the rest, and is now in my glove; to-

morrow I will hang it." "My lord," said she, "this is marvellous;

but yet it would be unseemly for a man of dignity like thee to be

hanging such a reptile as this." "Woe betide me," said he, "if I

would not hang them all, could I catch them, and such as I have I

will hang." "Verily, lord," said she, "there is no reason that I

should succor this reptile, except to prevent discredit unto thee.

Do therefore, lord, as thou wilt."

Then he went to the Mound of Narberth, taking the mouse with him.

And he set up two forks on the highest part of the mound. And

while he was doing this, behold, he saw a scholar coming towards

him, in old and poor and tattered garments. And it was now seven

years since he had seen in that place either man or beast, except

those four persons who had remained together until two of them

were lost.

"My lord," said the scholar, "good-day to thee." "Heaven prosper

thee, and my greeting be unto thee! And whence dost thou come,

scholar?" asked he. "I come, lord, from singing in England; and

wherefore dost thou inquire?" "Because for the last seven years,"

answered he, "I have seen no man here save four secluded persons,

and thyself this moment." "Truly, lord," said he, "I go through

this land unto mine own. And what work art thou upon, lord?" "I am

hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said he. "What manner

of thief is that?" asked the scholar. "I see a creature in thy

hand like unto a mouse, and ill does it become a man of rank equal

to thine to touch a reptile such as this. Let it go forth free."

"I will not let it go free, by Heaven," said he; "I caught it

robbing me, and the doom of a thief will I inflict upon it, and I

will hang it." "Lord," said he, "rather than see a man of rank

equal to thine at such a work as this, I would give thee a pound,

which I have received as alms, to let the reptile go forth free."

"I will not let it go free," said he, "neither will I sell it."

"As thou wilt, lord," he answered; "I care naught." And the

scholar went his way.

And as he was placing the cross-beam upon the two forks, behold, a

priest came towards him, upon a horse covered with trappings.

"Good day to thee, lord," said he. "Heaven prosper thee!" said

Manawyddan; "thy blessing." "The blessing of Heaven be upon thee!

And what, lord, art thou doing?" "I am hanging a thief that I

caught robbing me," said he. "What manner of thief, lord?" asked

he. "A creature," he answered, "in form of a mouse. It has been

robbing me, and I am inflicting upon it the doom of a thief."

"Lord," said he, "rather than see thee touch this reptile, I would

purchase its freedom." "By my confession to Heaven, neither will I

sell it nor set it free." "It is true, lord, that it is worth

nothing to buy; but rather than see thee defile thyself by

touching such a reptile as this, I will give thee three pounds to

let it go." "I will not, by Heaven," said he, "take any price for

it. As it ought, so shall it be hanged." And the priest went his

way.

Then he noosed the string around the mouse's neck, and as he was

about to draw it up, behold, he saw a bishop's retinue, with his

sumpter-horses and his attendants. And the bishop himself came

towards him. And he stayed his work. "Lord Bishop," said he, "thy

blessing." "Heaven's blessing be unto thee!" said he. "What work

art thou upon?" "Hanging a thief that I caught robbing me," said

he. "Is not that a mouse that I see in thy hand?" "Yes," answered

he, "and she has robbed me." "Ay," said he, "since I have come at

the doom of this reptile I will ransom it of thee. I will give

thee seven pounds for it, and that rather than see a man of rank

equal to thine destroying so vile a reptile as this. Let it loose,

and thou shalt have the money." "I declare to Heaven that I will

not let it loose." "If thou wilt not loose it for this, I will

give thee four and twenty pounds of ready money to set it free."

"I will not set it free, by Heaven, for as much again," said he.

"If thou wilt not set it free for this, I will give thee all the

horses that thou seest in this plain, and the seven loads of

baggage, and the seven horses that they are upon." "By Heaven, I

will not," he replied. "Since for this thou wilt not set it free,

do so at what price soever thou wilt." "I will that Rhiannon and

Pryderi be free," said he. "That thou shalt have," he answered.

"Not yet will I loose the mouse, by Heaven." "What then wouldst

thou?" "That the charm and the illusion be removed from the seven

cantrevs of Dyved." "This shalt thou have also; set therefore the

mouse free." "I will not set it free, by Heaven," said he, "till I

know who the mouse may be." "She is my wife." "Wherefore came she

to me?" "To despoil thee," he answered. "I am Lloyd, the son of

Kilwed, and I cast the charm over the seven cantrevs of Dyved. And

it was to avenge Gawl, the son of Clud, from the friendship I had

towards him, that I cast the charm. And upon Pryderi did I avenge

Gawl, the son of Clud, for the game of Badger in the Bag, that

Pwyll, the son of Auwyn, played upon him. And when it was known

that thou wast come to dwell in the land, my household came and

besought me to transform them into mice, that they might destroy

thy corn. And they went the first and the second night, and

destroyed thy two crops. And the third night came unto me my wife

and the ladies of the court, and besought me to transform them.

And I transformed them. Now she is not in her usual health. And

had she been in her usual health, thou wouldst not have been able

to overtake her; but since this has taken place, and she has been

caught, I will restore to thee Pryderi and Rhiannon, and I will

take the charm and illusion from off Dyved. Set her therefore

free." "I will not set her free yet." "What wilt thou more?" he

asked. "I will that there be no more charm upon the seven cantrevs

of Dyved, and that none shall be put upon it henceforth; moreover,

that vengeance be never taken for this, either upon Pryderi or

Rhiannon, or upon me." "All this shalt thou have. And truly thou

hast done wisely in asking this. Upon thy head would have lit all

this trouble." "Yea," said he, "for fear thereof was it that I

required this." "Set now my wife at liberty." "I will not," said

he, "until I see Pryderi and Rhiannon with me free." "Behold, here

they come," he answered.

And thereupon behold Pryderi and Rhiannon. And he rose up to meet

them, and greeted them, and sat down beside them. "Ah, chieftain,

set now my wife at liberty," said the bishop. "Hast thou not

received all thou didst ask?" "I will release her, gladly," said

he. And thereupon he set her free.

Then he struck her with a magic wand, and she was changed back

into a young woman, the fairest ever seen. "Look round upon thy

land," said he, "and thou wilt see it all tilled and peopled as it

was in its best estate." And he rose up and looked forth. And when

he looked he saw all the lands tilled, and full of herds and

dwellings.

And thus ends this portion of the Mabinogi.

The following allusions to the preceding story are found in a

letter of the poet Southey to John Rickman, Esq., dated June 6th,

1802:

"You will read the Mabinogeon, concerning which I ought to have

talked to you. In the last, that most odd and Arabian-like story

of the mouse, mention is made of a begging scholar, that helps to

the date; but where did the Cymri get the imagination that could

produce such a tale? That enchantment of the basin hanging by the

chain from heaven is in the wildest spirit of the Arabian Nights.

I am perfectly astonished that such fictions should exist in

Welsh. They throw no light on the origin of romance, everything

being utterly dissimilar to what we mean by that term, but they do

open a new world of fiction; and if the date of their language be

fixed about the twelfth or thirteenth century, I cannot but think

the mythological substance is of far earlier date; very probably

brought from the East by some of the first settlers or

conquerors."

CHAPTER XI

KILWICH AND OLWEN

Kilydd, a son of Prince Kelyddon, desired a wife as a helpmate,

and the wife that he chose was Goleudid, the daughter of Prince

Anlawd. And after their union the people put up prayers that they

might have an heir. And they had a son through the prayers of the

people; and called his name Kilwich.

After this the boy's mother, Goleudid, the daughter of Prince

Anlawd, fell sick. Then she called her husband to her, and said to

him, "Of this sickness I shall die, and thou wilt take another

wife. Now wives are the gift of the Lord, but it would be wrong

for thee to harm thy son. Therefore I charge thee that thou take

not a wife until thou see a briar with two blossoms upon my

grave." And this he promised her. Then she besought him to dress

her grave every year, that no weeds might grow thereon. So the

queen died. Now the king sent an attendant every morning to see if

anything were growing upon the grave. And at the end of the

seventh year they neglected that which they had promised to the

queen.

One day the king went to hunt; and he rode to the place of burial,

to see the grave, and to know if it were time that he should take

a wife: and the King saw the briar. And when he saw it, the king

took counsel where he should find a wife. Said one of his

counsellors, "I know a wife that will suit thee well; and she is

the wife of King Doged." And they resolved to go to seek her; and

they slew the king, and brought away his wife. And they conquered

the kings' lands. And he married the widow of King Doged, the

sister of Yspadaden Penkawr.

And one day his stepmother said to Kilwich, "It were well for thee

to have a wife." "I am not yet of an age to wed," answered the

youth. Then said she unto him, "I declare to thee that it is thy

destiny not to be suited with a wife until thou obtain Olwen, the

daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." And the youth blushed, and the

love of the maiden diffused itself through all his frame, although

he had never seen her. And his father inquired of him, "What has

come over thee, my son, and what aileth thee?" "My stepmother has

declared to me that I shall never have a wife until I obtain

Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." "That will be easy for

thee," answered his father. "Arthur is thy cousin. Go, therefore,

unto Arthur, to cut thy hair, and ask this of him as a boon."

And the youth pricked forth upon a steed with head dappled gray,

four winters old, firm of limb, with shell-formed hoofs, having a

bridle of linked gold on his head, and upon him a saddle of costly

gold. And in the youth's hand were two spears of silver, sharp,

well-tempered, headed with steel, three ells in length, of an

edge to wound the wind, and cause blood to flow, and swifter than

the fall of the dew-drop from the blade of reed-grass, when the

dew of June is at the heaviest. A gold-hilted sword was upon his

thigh, the blade of which was gilded, bearing a cross of inlaid

gold of the hue of the lightning of heaven. His war-horn was of

ivory. Before him were two brindled, white-breasted greyhounds,

having strong collars of rubies about their necks, reaching from

the shoulder to the ear. And the one that was upon the left side

bounded across to the right side, and the one on the right to the

left, and, like two sea-swallows, sported around him. And his

courser cast up four sods, with his four hoofs, like four swallows

in the air, about his head, now above, now below. About him was a

four-cornered cloth of purple, and an apple of gold was at each

corner, and every one of the apples was of the value of an hundred

kine. And there was precious gold of the value of three hundred

kine upon his shoes, and upon his stirrups, from his knee to the

tip of his toe. And the blade of grass bent not beneath him, so

light was his courser's tread, as he journeyed toward the gate of

Arthur's palace.

Spoke the youth: "Is there a porter?" "There is; and if thou

holdest not thy peace, small will be thy welcome. I am Arthur's

porter every first day of January." "Open the portal." "I will not

open it." "Wherefore not?" "The knife is in the meat, and the

drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in Arthur's hall; and

none may enter therein but the son of a king of a privileged

country, or a craftsman bringing his craft. But there will be

refreshment for thy dogs and for thy horse; and for thee there

will be collops cooked and peppered, and luscious wine, and

mirthful songs; and food for fifty men shall be brought unto thee

in the guest-chamber, where the stranger and the sons of other

countries eat, who come not into the precincts of the palace of

Arthur. Thou wilt fare no worse there than thou wouldst with

Arthur in the court. A lady shall smooth thy couch, and shall lull

thee with songs; and early to-morrow morning, when the gate is

open for the multitude that came hither to-day, for thee shall it

be opened first, and thou mayest sit in the place that thou shalt

choose in Arthur's hall, from the upper end to the lower." Said

the youth: "That will I not do. If thou openest the gate, it is

well. If thou dost not open it, I will bring disgrace upon thy

lord, and evil report upon thee. And I will set up three shouts at

this very gate, than which none were ever heard more deadly."

"What clamor soever thou mayest make," said Glewlwyd, the porter,

"against the laws of Arthur's palace, shalt thou not enter

therein, until I first go and speak with Arthur."

Then Glewlwyd went into the hall. And Arthur said to him, "Hast

thou news from the gate?" "Half of my life is passed," said

Glewlwyd, "and half of thine. I was heretofore in Kaer Se and

Asse, in Sach and Salach, in Lotor and Fotor, and I have been in

India the Great and India the Lesser, and I have also been in

Europe and Africa, and in the islands of Corsica, and I was

present when thou didst conquer Greece in the East. Nine supreme

sovereigns, handsome men, saw we there, but never did I behold a

man of equal dignity with him who is now at the door of the

portal." Then said Arthur: "If walking thou didst enter here,

return thou running. It is unbecoming to keep such a man as thou

sayest he is in the wind and the rain." Said Kay: "By the hand of

my friend, if thou wouldst follow my counsel, thou wouldst not

break through the laws of the court because of him." "Not so,

blessed Kay," said Arthur; "it is an honor to us to be resorted

to, and the greater our courtesy, the greater will be our renown

and our fame and our glory."

And Glewlwyd came to the gate, and opened the gate before Kilwich:

and although all dismounted upon the horse-block at the gate, yet

did he not dismount, but he rode in upon his charger. Then said

he, "Greeting be unto thee, sovereign ruler of this island, and be

this greeting no less unto the lowest than unto the highest, and

be it equally unto thy guests, and thy warriors, and thy

chieftains; let all partake of it as completely as thyself. And

complete be thy favor, and thy fame, and thy glory, throughout all

this island." "Greeting unto thee also," said Arthur; "sit thou

between two of my warriors, and thou shalt have minstrels before

thee, and thou shalt enjoy the privileges of a king born to a

throne, as long as thou remainest here. And when I disperse my

presents to the visitors and strangers in this court, they shall

be in thy hand at my commencing." Said the youth, "I came not here

to consume meat and drink; but if I obtain the boon that I seek, I

will requite it thee, and extol thee; but if I have it not, I will

bear forth thy dispraise to the four quarters of the world, as far

as thy renown has extended." Then said Arthur, "Since thou wilt

not remain here, chieftain, thou shalt receive the boon,

whatsoever thy tongue may name, as far as the wind dries, and the

rain moistens, and the sun revolves, and the sea encircles, and

the earth extends; save only my ship Prydwen, and my mantle, and

Caliburn, my sword, and Rhongomyant, my lance, and Guenever, my

wife. By the truth of Heaven, thou shalt have it cheerfuly, name

what thou wilt." "I would that thou bless my hair," said he. "That

shall be granted thee."

And Arthur took a golden comb, and scissors whereof the loops were

of silver, and he combed his hair. And Arthur inquired of him who

he was; "for my heart warms unto thee, and I know that thou art

come of my blood. Tell me, therefore, who thou art." "I will tell

thee," said the youth. "I am Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son

of Prince Kelyddon, by Goleudyd, my mother, the daughter of Prince

Anlawd." "That is true," said Arthur; "thou art my cousin.

Whatsoever boon thou mayest ask, thou shalt receive, be it what it

may that thy tongue shall name." "Pledge the truth of Heaven and

the faith of thy kingdom thereof." "I pledge it thee gladly." "I

crave of thee, then, that thou obtain for me Olwen, the daughter

of Yspadaden Penkawr, to wife; and this boon I likewise seek at

the hands of thy warriors. I seek it from Kay and from Bedwyr; and

from Gwynn, the son of Nudd, and Gadwy, the son of Geraint, and

Prince Flewddur Flam and Iona, king of France, and Sel, the son of

Selgi, and Taliesin, the chief of the bards, and Geraint, the son

of Erbin, Garanwyn, the son of Kay, and Amren, the son of Bedwyr,

Ol, the son of Olwyd, Bedwin, the bishop, Guenever, the chief

lady, and Guenhywach, her sister, Morved, the daughter of Urien,

and Gwenlian Deg, the majestic maiden, Creiddylad, [Footnote:

Creiddylad is no other than Shakspeare's Cordelia, whose father,

King Lear, is by the Welsh authorities called indiscriminately

Llyr or Lludd. All the old chronicles give the story of her

devotion to her aged parent, but none of them seem to have been

aware that she is destined to remain with him till the day of

doom, whilst Gwyn ap Nudd, the king of the fairies, and Gwythyr op

Greidiol, fight for her every first of May, and whichever of them

may be fortunate enough to be the conqueror at that time will

obtain her as a bride.] the daughter of Lludd, the constant

maiden, and Ewaedah, the daughter of Kynvelyn, [Footnote: The

Welsh have a fable on the subject of the half man, taken to be

illustrative of the force of habit. In this allegory Arthur is

supposed to be met by a sprite, who appears at first in a small

and indistinct form, but who, on approaching nearer, increases in

size, and, assuming the semblance of half a man, endeavors to

provoke the king to wrestle. Despising his weakness, and

considering that he should gain no credit by the encounter, Arthur

refuses to do so, and delays the contest until at length the half

man (Habit) becomes so strong that it requires his utmost efforts

to overcome him.] the half-man." All these did Kilwich, the son of

Kilydd, adjure to obtain his boon.

Then said Arthur, "O chieftain, I have never heard of the maiden

of whom thou speakest, nor of her kindred, but I will gladly send

messengers in search of her. Give me time to seek her." And the

youth said, "I will willingly grant from this night to that at the

end of the year to do so." Then Arthur sent messengers to every

land within his dominions to seek for the maiden, and at the end

of the year Arthur's messengers returned without having gained any

knowledge or intelligence concerning Olwen, more than on the first

day. Then said Kilwich, "Every one has received his boon, and I

yet lack mine. I will depart, and bear away thy honor with me."

Then said Kay, "Rash chieftain! dost thou reproach Arthur? Go with

us, and we will not part until thou dost either confess that the

maiden exists not in the world, or until we obtain her." Thereupon

Kay rose up. And Arthur called Bedwyr, who never shrank from any

enterprise upon which Kay was bound. None were equal to him in

swiftness throughout this island except Arthur alone; and although

he was one handed; three warriors could not shed blood faster than

he on the field of battle.

And Arthur called to Kyndelig, the guide, "Go thou upon this

expedition with the chieftain." For as good a guide was he in a

land which he had never seen as he was in his own.

He called Gurhyr Gwalstat, because he knew all tongues.

He called Gawain, the son of Gwyar, because he never returned home

without achieving the adventure of which he went in quest.

And Arthur called Meneu, the son of Teirgwed, in order that, if

they went into a savage country, he might cast a charm and an

illusion over them, so that none might see them, whilst they could

see every one.

They journeyed until they came to a vast open plain, wherein they

saw a great castle, which was the fairest of the castles of the

world. And when they came before the castle, they beheld a vast

flock of sheep. And upon the top of a mound there was a herdsman

keeping the sheep. And a rug made of skins was upon him, and by

his side was a shaggy mastiff, larger than a steed nine winters

old.

Then said Kay, "Gurhyr Gwalstat, go thou and salute yonder man."

"Kay," said he, "I engaged not to go further than thou thyself."

"Let us go then together." answered Kay. Said Meneu, "Fear not to

go thither, for I will cast a spell upon the dog, so that he shall

injure no one." And they went up to the mound whereon the herdsman

was, and they said to him, "How dost thou fare, herdsman?" "Not

less fair be it to you than to me." "Whose are the sheep that thou

dost keep, and to whom does yonder castle belong?" "Stupid are ye,

truly! not to know that this is the castle of Yspadaden Penkawr.

And ye also, who are ye?" "We are an embassy from Arthur, come to

seek Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." "O men! the mercy

of Heaven be upon you; do not that for all the world. None who

ever came hither on this quest has returned alive." And the

herdsman rose up. And as he rose Kilwich gave unto him a ring of

gold. And he went home and gave the ring to his spouse to keep.

And she took the ring when it was given her, and she said, "Whence

came this ring, for thou art not wont to have good fortune." "O

wife, him to whom this ring belonged thou shalt see here this

evening." "And who is he?" asked the woman. "Kilwich, the son of

Kilydd, by Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd, who is come to

seek Olwen as his wife." And when she heard that, she had joy that

her nephew, the son of her sister, was coming to her, and sorrow,

because she had never known any one depart alive who had come on

that quest.

And the men went forward to the gate of the herdsman's dwelling.

And when she heard their footsteps approaching, she ran out with

joy to meet them. And Kay snatched a billet out of the pile. And

when she met them, she sought to throw her arms about their necks.

And Kay placed the log between her two hands, and she squeezed it

so that it became a twisted coil. "O woman," said Kay, "if thou

hadst squeezed me thus, none could ever again have set their

affections on me. Evil love were this." They entered into the

house and were served; and soon after, they all went forth to

amuse themselves. Then the woman opened a stone chest that was

before the chimney-corner, and out of it arose a youth with

yellow, curling hair. Said Gurhyr, "It is a pity to hide this

youth. I know that it is not his own crime that is thus visited

upon him." "This is but a remnant," said the woman. "Three and

twenty of my sons has Yspadaden Penkawr slain, and I have no more

hope of this one than of the others." Then said Kay, "Let him come

and be a companion with me, and he shall not be slain unless I

also am slain with him." And they ate. And the woman asked them,

"Upon what errand come you here?" "We come to seek Olwen for this

youth." Then said the woman, "In the name of Heaven, since no one

from the castle hath yet seen you, return again whence you came."

"Heaven is our witness, that we will not return until we have seen

the maiden. Does she ever come hither, so that she may be seen?"

"She comes here every Saturday to wash her head, and in the vessel

where she washes she leaves all her rings, and she never either

comes herself or sends any messengers to fetch them." "Will she

come here if she is sent to?" "Heaven knows that I will not

destroy my soul, nor will I betray those that trust me; unless you

will pledge me your faith that you will not harm her, I will not

send to her." "We pledge it," said they. So a message was sent,

and she came.

The maiden was clothed in a robe of flame-colored silk, and about

her neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious

emeralds and rubies. More yellow was her head than the flower of

the broom, [Footnote: The romancers dwell with great complacency

on the fair hair and delicate complexion of their heroines. This

taste continued for a long time, and to render the hair light was

an object of education. Even when wigs came into fashion they were

all flaxen. Such was the color of the hair of the Gauls and of

their German conquerors. It required some centuries to reconcile

their eyes to the swarthy beauties of their Spanish and Italian

neighbors.] and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and

fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the

wood-anemone amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. The eye of

the trained hawk was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more

snowy than the breast of the white swan, her cheek was redder than

the reddest roses. Whoso beheld her was filled with her love. Four

white trefoils sprung up wherever she trod. And therefore was she

called Olwen.

She entered the house and sat beside Kilwich upon the foremost

bench; and as soon as he saw her, he knew her. And Kilwich said

unto her, "Ah! maiden, thou art she whom I have loved; come away

with me, lest they speak evil of thee and of me. Many a day have I

loved thee." "I cannot do this, for I have pledged my faith to my

father not to go without his counsel, for his life will last only

until the time of my espousals. Whatever is to be, must be. But I

will give thee advice, if thou wilt take it. Go, ask me of my

father, and that which he shall require of thee, grant it, and

thou wilt obtain me; but if thou deny him anything, thou wilt not

obtain me, and it will be well for thee if thou escape with thy

life." "I promise all this, if occasion offer," said he.

She returned to her chamber, and they all rose up, and followed

her to the castle. And they slew the nine porters, that were at

the nine gates, in silence. And they slew the nine watch-dogs

without one of them barking. And they went forward to the hall.

"The greeting of Heaven and of man be unto thee, Yspadaden

Penkawr," said they. "And you, wherefore come you?" "We come to

ask thy daughter Olwen for Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son of

Prince Kelyddon." "Where are my pages and my servants? Raise up

the forks beneath my two eyebrows, which have fallen over my eyes,

that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law." And they did so.

"Come hither to-morrow, and you shall have an answer."

They rose to go forth, and Yspadaden Penkawr seized one of the

three poisoned darts that lay beside him, and threw it after them.

And Bedwyr caught it, and flung it, and pierced Yspadaden Penkawr

grievously with it through the knee. Then he said, "A cursed

ungentle son-in-law, truly! I shall ever walk the worse for his

rudeness, and shall ever be without a cure. This poisoned iron

pains me like the bite of a gad-fly. Cursed be the smith who

forged it, and the anvil on which it was wrought! So sharp is it!"

That night also they took up their abode in the house of the

herdsman. The next day, with the dawn, they arrayed themselves and

proceeded to the castle, and entered the hall; and they said,

"Yspadaden Penkawr, give us thy daughter in consideration of her

dower and her maiden fee, which we will pay to thee, and to her

two kinswomen likewise." Then he said, "Her four great-

grandmothers and her four great-grandsires are yet alive; it is

needful that I take counsel of them." "Be it so," they answered,

"we will go to meat." As they rose up he took the second dart that

was beside him, and cast it after them. And Meneu, the son of

Gawedd, caught it, and flung it back at him, and wounded him in

the centre of the breast. "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly!"

said he; "the hard iron pains me like the bite of a horse-leech.

Cursed be the hearth whereon it was heated, and the smith who

formed it! So sharp is it! Henceforth, whenever I go up hill, I

shall have a scant in my breath, and a pain in my chest, and I

shall often loathe my food." And they went to meat.

And the third day they returned to the palace. And Yspadaden

Penkawr said to them, "Shoot not at me again unless you desire

death. Where are my attendants? Lift up the forks of my eyebrows,

which have fallen over my eyeballs, that I may see the fashion of

my son-in-law." Then they arose, and, as they did so, Yspadaden

Penkawr took the third poisoned dart and cast it at them. And

Kilwich caught it, and threw it vigorously, and wounded him

through the eyeball. "A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly! As long

as I remain alive, my eyesight will be the worse. Whenever I go

against the wind, my eyes will water; and peradventure my head

will burn, and I shall have a giddiness every new moon. Like the

bite of a mad dog is the stroke of this poisoned iron. Cursed be

the fire in which it was forged!" And they went to meat.

And the next day they came again to the palace, and they said,

"Shoot not at us any more, unless thou desirest such hurt and harm

and torture as thou now hast, and even more." Said Kilwich, "Give

me thy daughter; and if thou wilt not give her, thou shalt receive

thy death because of her." "Where is he that seeks my daughter?

Come hither where I may see thee." And they placed him a chair

face to face with him.

Said Yspadaden Penkawr, "Is it thou that seekest my daughter?"

"It is I," answered Kilwich.

"I must have thy pledge that thou wilt not do toward me otherwise

than is just; and when I have gotten that which I shall name, my

daughter thou shalt have."

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

wilt."

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

"I see it."

"When first I met the mother of this maiden, nine bushels of flax

were sown therein, and none has yet sprung up, white nor black. I

require to have the flax to sow in the new land yonder, that when

it grows up it may make a white wimple for my daughter's head on

the day of thy wedding."

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest

think it will not be easy."

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get--

the harp of Teirtu, to play to us that night. When a man desires

that it should play, it does so of itself; and when he desires

that it should cease, it ceases. And this he will not give of his

own free will, and thou wilt not be able to compel him."

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest

think it will not be easy."

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get.

I require thee to get me for my huntsman Mabon, the son of Modron.

He was taken from his mother when three nights old, and it is not

known where he now is, nor whether he is living or dead."

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest

think it will not be easy."

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get--

the two cubs of the wolf Gast Rhymhi; no leash in the world will

hold them, but a leash made from the beard of Dillus Varwawc, the

robber. And the leash will be of no avail unless it be plucked

from his beard while he is alive. While he lives he will not

suffer this to be done to him, and the leash will be of no use

should he be dead, because it will be brittle."

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest

think it will not be easy."

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get--

the sword of Gwernach the Giant; of his own free will he will not

give it, and thou wilt never be able to compel him."

"It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest

think it will not be easy."

"Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get.

Difficulties shalt thou meet with, and nights without sleep, in

seeking this, and if thou obtain it not, neither shalt thou obtain

my daughter."

"Horses shall I have, and chivalry; and my lord and kinsman,

Arthur, will obtain for me all these things. And I shall gain thy

daughter, and thou shalt lose thy life."

"Go forward. And thou shalt not be chargeable for food or raiment

for my daughter while thou art seeking these things; and when thou

hast compassed all these marvels, thou shalt have my daughter for

thy wife."

CHAPTER XII

KILWICH AND OLWEN (Continued)

All that day they journeyed until the evening, and then they

beheld a vast castle, which was the largest in the world. And lo!

a black man, larger than three of the men of this world, came out

from the castle. And they spoke unto him, and said, "O man, whose

castle is that?" "Stupid are ye, truly, O men! There is no one in

the world that does not know that this is the castle of Gwernach

the Giant." "What treatment is there for guests and strangers that

alight in that castle?" "O chieftain, Heaven protect thee! No

guests ever returned thence alive, and no one may enter therein

unless he brings with him his craft."

Then they proceeded towards the gate. Said Gurhyr Gwalstat, "Is

there a porter?" "There is; wherefore dost thou call?" "Open the

gate." "I will not open it." "Wherefore wilt thou not?" "The knife

is in the meat, and the drink is in the horn, and there is revelry

in the hall of Gwernach the Giant; and except for a craftsman who

brings his craft, the gate will not be opened to-night." "Verily,

porter," then said Kay, "my craft bring I with me." "What is thy

craft?" "The best burnisher of swords am I in the world." "I will

go and tell this unto Gwernach the Giant, and I will bring thee an

answer."

So the porter went in, and Gwernach said to him, "Hast thou news

from the gate?" "I have. There is a party at the door of the gate

who desire to come in." "Didst thou inquire of them if they

possessed any art?" "I did inquire," said he, "and one told me

that he was well skilled in the burnishing of swords." "We have

need of him then. For some time have I sought for some one to

polish my sword, and could find no one. Let this man enter, since

he brings with him his craft."

The porter thereupon returned and opened the gate. And Kay went in

by himself, and he saluted Gwernach the Giant. And a chair was

placed for him opposite to Gwernach. And Gwernach said to him, "O

man, is it true that is reported of thee, that thou knowest how to

burnish swords?" "I know full well how to do so," answered Kay.

Then was the sword of Gwernach brought to him. And Kay took a blue

whetstone from under his arm, and asked whether he would have it

burnished white or blue. "Do with it as it seems good to thee, or

as thou wouldst if it were thine own." Then Kay polished one half

of the blade, and put it in his hand. "Will this please thee?"

asked he. "I would rather than all that is in my dominions that

the whole of it were like this. It is a marvel to me that such a

man as thou should be without a companion." "O noble sir, I have a

companion, albeit he is not skilled in this art." "Who may he be?"

"Let the porter go forth, and I will tell him whereby he may know

him. The head of his lance will leave its shaft, and draw blood

from the wind, and will descend upon its shaft again." Then the

gate was opened, and Bedwyr entered. And Kay said, "Bedwyr is very

skilful, though he knows not this art."

And there was much discourse among those who were without, because

that Kay and Bedwyr had gone in. And a young man who was with

them, the only son of the herdsman, got in also; and he contrived

to admit all the rest, but they kept themselves concealed.

The sword was now polished, and Kay gave it unto the hand of

Gwernach the Giant, to see if he were pleased with his work. And

the giant said, "The work is good; I am content therewith." Said

Kay, "It is thy scabbard that hath rusted thy sword; give it to

me, that I may take out the wooden sides of it, and put in new

ones." And he took the scabbard from him, and the sword in the

other hand. And he came and stood over against the giant, as if he

would have put the sword into the scabbard; and with it he struck

at the head of the giant, and cut off his head at one blow. Then

they despoiled the castle, and took from it what goods and jewels

they would. And they returned to Arthur's court, bearing with them

the sword of Gwernach the Giant.

And when they told Arthur how they had sped, Arthur said, "It is a

good beginning." Then they took counsel, and said, "Which of these

marvels will it be best for us to seek next?" "It will be best,"

said one, "to seek Mabon, the son of Modron; and he will not be

found unless we first find Eidoel, the son of Aer, his kinsman."

Then Arthur rose up, and the warriors of the island of Britain

with him, to seek for Eidoel; and they proceeded until they came

to the castle of Glivi, where Eidoel was imprisoned. Glivi stood

on the summit of his castle, and he said, "Arthur, what requirest

thou of me, since nothing remains to me in this fortress, and I

have neither joy nor pleasure in it, neither wheat nor oats? Seek

not, therefore, to do me harm." Said Arthur, "Not to injure thee

came I hither, but to seek for the prisoner that is with thee." "I

will give thee my prisoner, though I had not thought to give him

up to any one, and therewith shalt thou have my support and my

aid."

His followers said unto Arthur, "Lord, go thou home, thou canst

not proceed with thy host in quest of such small adventures as

these." Then said Arthur, "It were well for thee, Gurhyr Gwalstat,

to go upon this quest, for thou knowest all languages, and art

familiar with those of the birds and the beasts. Thou, Eidoel,

oughtest likewise to go with thy men in search of thy cousin. And

as for you, Kay and Bedwyr, I have hope of whatever adventure ye

are in quest of, that ye will achieve it. Achieve ye this

adventure for me."

They went forward until they came to the Ousel of Cilgwri. And

Gurhyr adjured her, saying, "Tell me if thou knowest aught of

Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken when three nights old from

between his mother and the wall?" And the Ousel answered, "When I

first came here, there was a smith's anvil in this place, and I

was then a young bird; and from that time no work has been done

upon it, save the pecking of my beak every evening; and now there

is not so much as the size of a nut remaining thereof; yet during

all that time I have never heard of the man for whom you inquire.

Nevertheless, I will do that which it is fitting that I should for

an embassy from Arthur. There is a race of animals who were formed

before me, and I will be your guide to them."

So they proceeded to the place where was the Stag of Redynvre.

"Stag of Redynvre, behold, we are come to thee, an embassy from

Arthur, for we have not heard of any animal older than thou. Say,

knowest thou aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken from

his mother when three nights old?" The Stag said, "When first I

came hither there was a plain all around me, without any trees

save one oak sapling, which grew up to be an oak with an hundred

branches; and that oak has since perished, so that now nothing

remains of it but the withered stump; and from that day to this I

have been here, yet have I never heard of the man for whom you

inquire. Nevertheless, being an embassy from Arthur, I will be

your guide to the place where there is an animal which was formed

before I was, and the oldest animal in the world, and the one that

has travelled most, the Eagle of Gwern Abwy."

Gurhyr said, "Eagle of Gwern Abwy, we have come to thee, an

embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of Mabon,

the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three

nights old?" The Eagle said, "I have been here for a great space

of time, and when I first came hither, there was a rock here from

the top of which I pecked at the stars every evening; and it has

crumbled away, and now it is not so much as a span high. All that

time I have been here, and I have never heard of the man for whom

you inquire, except once when I went in search of food as far as

Llyn Llyw. And when I came there, I struck my talons into a

salmon, thinking he would serve me as food for a long time. But he

drew me into the water, and I was scarcely able to escape from

him. After that I made peace with him. And I drew fifty fish-

spears out of his back, and relieved him. Unless he know something

of him whom you seek, I cannot tell who may. However, I will guide

you to the place where he is."

So they went thither; and the Eagle said, "Salmon of Llyn Llyw, I

have come to thee with an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou

knowest aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken away at

three nights old from his mother." "As much as I know I will tell

thee. With every tide I go along the river upward, until I come

near to the walls of Gloucester, and there have I found such wrong

as I never found elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give

credence thereto, let one of you go thither upon each of my two

shoulders." So Kay and Gurhyr Gwalstat went upon the two shoulders

of the Salmon, and they proceeded until they came unto the wall of

the prison; and they heard a great wailing and lamenting from the

dungeon. Said Gurhyr, "Who is it that laments in this house of

stone?" "Alas! it is Mabon, the son of Modron, who is here

imprisoned; and no imprisonment was ever so grievous as mine."

"Hast thou hope of being released for gold or for silver, or for

any gifts of wealth, or through battle and fighting?" "By fighting

will what ever I may gain be obtained."

Then they went thence, and returned to Arthur, and they told him

where Mabon, the son of Modron, was imprisoned. And Arthur

summoned the warriors of the island, and they journeyed as far as

Gloucester, to the place where Mabon was in prison. Kay and Bedwyr

went upon the shoulders of the fish, whilst the warriors of Arthur

attacked the castle. And Kay broke through the wall into the

dungeon, and brought away the prisoner upon his back, whilst the

fight was going on between the warriors. And Arthur returned home,

and Mabon with him at liberty.

On a certain day as Gurhyr Gwalstat was walking over a mountain,

he heard a wailing and a grievous cry. And when he heard it, he

sprang forward and went towards it. And when he came there, he saw

a fire burning among the turf, and an ant-hill nearly surrounded

with the fire. And he drew his sword, and smote off the ant-hill

close to the earth, so that it escaped being burned in the fire.

And the ants said to him, "Receive from us the blessing of Heaven,

and that which no man can give, we give thee." Then they fetched

the nine bushels of flax-seed which Yspadaden Penkawr had required

of Kilwich, and they brought the full measure, without lacking

any, except one flax-seed, and that the lame pismire brought in

before night.

Then said Arthur, "Which of the marvels will it be best for us to

seek next?" "It will be best to seek for the two cubs of the wolf

Gast Rhymhi."

"Is it known," said Arthur, "where she is?" "She is in Aber

Cleddyf," said one. Then Arthur went to the house of Tringad, in

Aber Cleddyf, and he inquired of him whether he had heard of her

there. "She has often slain my herds, and she is there below in a

cave in Aber Cleddyf."

Ther Arthur went in his ship Prydwen by sea, and the others went

by land to hunt her. And they surrounded her and her two cubs, and

took them and carried them away.

As Kay and Bedwyr sat on a beacon-cairn on the summit of

Plinlimmon, in the highest wind that ever was, they looked around

them and saw a great smoke, afar off. Then said Kay, "By the hand

of my friend, yonder is the fire of a robber." Then they hastened

towards the smoke, and they came so near to it that they could see

Dillus Varwawc scorching a wild boar. "Behold, yonder is the

greatest robber that ever fled from Arthur," said Bedwyr to Kay.

"Dost thou know him?" "I do know him," answered Kay; "he is Dillus

Varwarc, and no leash in the world will be able to hold the cubs

of Gast Rhymi, save a leash made from the beard of him thou seest

yonder. And even that will be useless unless his beard be plucked

out alive, with wooden tweezers; for if dead it will be brittle."

"What thinkest thou that we should do concerning this?" said

Bedwyr. "Let us suffer him." said Kay, "to eat as much as he will

of the meat, and after that he will fall asleep." And during that

time they employed themselves in making the wooden tweezers. And

when Kay knew certainly that he was asleep, he made a pit under

his feet, and he struck him a violent blow, and squeezed him into

the pit. And there they twitched out his beard completely with the

wooden tweezers, and after that they slew him altogether. And from

thence they went, and took the leash made of Dillus Varwawc's

beard, and they gave it into Arthur's hand.

Thus they got all the marvels that Yspadaden Penkawr had required

of Kilwich; and they set forward, and took the marvels to his

court. And Kilwich said to Yspadaden Penkawr, "Is thy daughter

mine now?" "She is thine," said he, "but therefore needest thou

not thank me, but Arthur, who hath accomplished this for thee."

Then Goreu, the son of Custennin, the herdsman, whose brothers

Yspadaden Penkawr had slain, seized him by the hair of his head,

and dragged him after him to the keep, and cut off his head, and

placed it on a stake on the citadel. Then they took possession of

his castle, and of his treasures. And that night Olwen became

Kilwich's bride, and she continued to be his wife as long as she

lived.

CHAPTER XIII

TALIESIN

Gwyddno Garanhir was sovereign of Gwaelod, a territory bordering

on the sea. And he possessed a weir upon the strand between Dyvi

and Aberystwyth, near to his own castle, and the value of an

hundred pounds was taken in that weir every May eve. And Gwyddno

had an only son named Elphin, the most hapless of youths, and the

most needy. And it grieved his father sore, for he thought that he

was born in an evil hour. By the advice of his council, his father

had granted him the drawing of the weir that year, to see if good

luck would ever befall him, and to give him something wherewith to

begin the world. And this was on the twenty-ninth of April.

The next day, when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the

weir but a leathern bag upon a pole of the weir. Then said the

weir-ward unto Elphin, "All thy ill-luck aforetime was nothing to

this; and now thou hast destroyed the virtues of the weir, which

always yielded the value of an hundred pounds every May eve; and

to-night there is nothing but this leathern skin within it." "How

now," said Elphin, "there may be therein the value of a hundred

pounds." Well! they took up the leathern bag, and he who opened it

saw the forehead of an infant, the fairest that ever was seen; and

he said, "Behold a radiant brow?" (In the Welsh language,

taliesin.) "Taliesin be he called," said Elphin. And he lifted the

bag in his arms, and, lamenting his bad luck, placed the boy

sorrowfully behind him. And he made his horse amble gently, that

before had been trotting, and he carried him as softly as if he

had been sitting in the easiest chair in the world. And presently

the boy made a Consolation, and praise to Elphin; and the

Consolation was as you may here see:

"Fair Elphin, cease to lament!

Never in Gwyddno's weir

Was there such good luck as this night.

Being sad will not avail;

Better to trust in God than to forbode ill;

Weak and small as I am,

On the foaming beach of the ocean,

In the day of trouble I shall be

Of more service to thee than three hundred salmon."

This was the first poem that Taliesin ever sung, being to console

Elphin in his grief for that the produce of the weir was lost, and

what was worse, that all the world would consider that it was

through his fault and ill-luck. Then Elphin asked him what he

was, whether man or spirit. And he sung thus:

"I have been formed a comely person;

Although I am but little, I am highly gifted;

Into a dark leathern bag I was thrown,

And on a boundless sea I was sent adrift.

From seas and from mountains

God brings wealth to the fortunate man."

Then came Elphin to the house of Gwyddno, his father, and Taliesin

with him. Gwyddno asked him if he had had a good haul at the weir,

and he told him that he had got that which was better than fish.

"What was that?" said Gwyddno. "A bard," said Elphin. Then said

Gwyddno, "Alas! what will he profit thee?" And Taliesin himself

replied and said, "He will profit him more than the weir ever

profited thee." Asked Gwyddno, "Art thou able to speak, and thou

so little?" And Taliesin answered him, "I am better able to speak

than thou to question me." "Let me hear what thou canst say,"

quoth Gwyddno. Then Taliesin sang:

"Three times have I been born, I know by meditation;

All the sciences of the world are collected in my breast,

For I know what has been, and what hereafter will occur."

Elphin gave his haul to his wife, and she nursed him tenderly and

lovingly. Thenceforward Elphin increased in riches more and more,

day after day, and in love and favor with the king; and there

abode Taliesin until he was thirteen years old, when Elphin, son

of Gwyddno, went by a Christmas invitation to his uncle, Maelgan

Gwynedd, who held open court at Christmas-tide in the castle of

Dyganwy, for all the number of his lords of both degrees, both

spiritual and temporal, with a vast and thronged host of knights

and squires. And one arose and said, "Is there in the whole world

a king so great as Maelgan, or one on whom Heaven has bestowed so

many gifts as upon him;--form, and beauty, and meekness, and

strength, besides all the powers of the soul?" And together with

these they said that Heaven had given one gift that exceeded all

the others, which was the beauty, and grace, and wisdom, and

modesty of his queen, whose virtues surpassed those of all the

ladies and noble maidens throughout the whole kingdom. And with

this they put questions one to another, Who had braver men? Who

had fairer or swifter horses or greyhounds? Who had more skilful

or wiser bards than Maelgan?

When they had all made an end of their praising the king and his

gifts, it befell that Elphin spoke on this wise. "Of a truth, none

but a king may vie with a king; but were he not a king, I would

say that my wife was as virtuous as any lady in the kingdom, and

also that I have a bard who is more skilful than all the king's

bards." In a short space some of his fellows told the king all the

boastings of Elphin; and the king ordered him to be thrown into a

strong prison, until he might show the truth as to the virtues of

his wife, and the wisdom of his bard.

Now when Elphin had been put in a tower of the castle, with a

thick chain about his feet (it is said that it was a silver chain,

because he was of royal blood), the king, as the story relates,

sent his son Rhun to inquire into the demeanor of Elphin's wife.

Now Rhun was the most graceless man in the world, and there was

neither wife nor maiden with whom he held converse but was evil

spoken of. While Rhun went in haste towards Elphin's dwelling,

being fully minded to bring disgrace upon his wife, Taliesin told

his mistress how that the king had placed his master in durance in

prison, and how that Rhun was coming in haste to strive to bring

disgrace upon her. Wherefore he caused his mistress to array one

of the maids of her kitchen in her apparel; which the noble lady

gladly did, and she loaded her hands with the best rings that she

and her husband possessed.

In this guise Taliesin caused his mistress to put the maiden to

sit at the board in her room at supper; and he made her to seem as

her mistress, and the mistress to seem as the maid. And when they

were in due time seated at their supper, in the manner that has

been said, Rhun suddenly arrived at Elphin's dwelling, and was

received with joy, for the servants knew him; and they brought him

to the room of their mistress, in the semblance of whom the maid

rose up from supper and welcomed him gladly. And afterwards she

sat down to supper again, and Rhun with her. Then Rhun began

jesting with the maid, who still kept the semblance of her

mistress. And verily this story shows that the maiden became so

intoxicated that she fell asleep; and the story relates that it

was a powder that Rhun put into the drink, that made her sleep so

soundly that she never felt it when he cut off from her hand her

little finger, whereon was the signet ring of Elphin, which he had

sent to his wife as a token a short time before. And Rhun returned

to the king with the finger and the ring as a proof, to show that

he had cut it off from her hand without her awaking from her sleep

of intemperance.

The king rejoiced greatly at these tidings, and he sent for his

councillors, to whom he told the whole story from the beginning.

And he caused Elphin to be brought out of prison, and he chided

him because of his boast. And he spake on this wise: "Elphin, be

it known to thee beyond a doubt, that it is but folly for a man to

trust in the virtues of his wife further than he can see her; and

that thou mayest be certain of thy wife's vileness, behold her

finger, with thy signet ring upon it, which was cut from her hand

last night, while she slept the sleep of intoxication." Then thus

spake Elphin: "With thy leave, mighty king, I cannot deny my ring,

for it is known of many; but verily I assert that the finger

around which it is was never attached to the hand of my wife; for

in truth and certainty there are three notable things pertaining

to it, none of which ever belonged to any of my wife's fingers.

The first of the three is, that it is certainly known to me that

this ring would never remain upon her thumb, whereas you can

plainly see that it is hard to draw it over the joint of the

little finger of the hand whence this was cut. The second thing

is, that my wife has never let pass one Saturday since I have

known her, without paring her nails before going to bed, and you

can see fully that the nail of this little finger has not been

pared for a month. The third is, truly, that the hand whence this

finger came was kneading rye dough within three days before the

finger was cut therefrom, and I can assure your highness that my

wife has never kneaded rye dough since my wife she has been."

The king was mightily wroth with Elphin for so stoutly

withstanding him, respecting the goodness of his wife; wherefore

he ordered him to his prison a second time, saying that he should

not be loosed thence until he had proved the truth of his boast,

as well concerning the wisdom of his bard as the virtues of his

wife.

In the meantime his wife and Taliesin remained joyful at Elphin's

dwelling. And Taliesin showed his mistress how that Elphin was in

prison because of them; but he bade her be glad, for that he would

go to Maelgan's court to free his master. So he took leave of his

mistress, and came to the court of Maelgan, who was going to sit

in his hall, and dine in his royal state, as it was the custom in

those days for kings and princes to do at every chief feast. As

soon as Taliesin entered the hall he placed himself in a quiet

corner, near the place where the bards and the minstrels were wont

to come, in doing their service and duty to the king, as is the

custom at the high festivals, when the bounty is proclaimed. So,

when the bards and the heralds came to cry largess, and to

proclaim the power of the king, and his strength, at the moment

when they passed by the corner wherein he was crouching, Taliesin

pouted out his lips after them, and played "Blerwm, blerwm!" with

his finger upon his lips. Neither took they much notice of him as

they went by but proceeded forward till they came before the king,

unto whom they made their obeisance with their bodies, as they

were wont, without speaking a single word, but pouting out their

lips, and making mouths at the king, playing, "Blerwm, blerwm!"

upon their lips with their fingers, as they had seen the boy do.

This sight caused the king to wonder, and to deem within himself

that they were drunk with many liquors. Wherefore he commanded one

of his lords, who served at the board, to go to them and desire

them to collect their wits, and to consider where they stood, and

what it was fitting for them to do. And this lord did so gladly.

But they ceased not from their folly any more than before.

Whereupon he sent to them a second time, and a third, desiring

them to go forth from the hall. At the last the king ordered one

of his squires to give a blow to the chief of them, named Heinin

Vardd; and the squire took a broom and struck him on the head, so

that he fell back in his seat. Then he arose, and went on his

knees, and besought leave of the king's grace to show that this

their fault was not through want of knowledge, neither through

drunkenness, but by the influence of some spirit that was in the

hall. And he spoke on this wise: "O honorable king, be it known to

your grace that not from the strength of drink, or of too much

liquor, are we dumb, but through the influence of a spirit that

sits in the corner yonder, in the form of a child." Forthwith the

king commanded the squire to fetch him; and he went to the nook

where Taliesin sat, and brought him before the king, who asked him

what he was, and whence he came. And he answered the king in

verse:

"Primary chief bard am I to Elphin,

And my native country is the region of the summer stars;

I have been in Asia with Noah in the ark,

I have seen the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah,

I was in India when Rome was built,

I have now come here to the remnant of Troia."

When the king and his nobles had heard the song, they wondered

much, for they had never heard the like from a boy so young as he.

And when the king knew that he was the bard of Elphin he bade

Heinin, his first and wisest bard, to answer Taliesin, and to

strive with him. But when he came he could do no other than play

"Blerwm!" on his lips; and when he sent for the others of the four

and twenty bards, they all did likewise, and could do no other.

And Maelgan asked the boy Taliesin what was his errand, and he

answered him in song:

"Elphin, the son of Gwyddno,

Is in the land of Artro,

Secured by thirteen locks,

For praising his instructor.

Therefore I, Taliesin,

Chief of the bards of the west,

Will loosen Elphin

Out of a golden fetter."

Then he sang to them a riddle:

"Discover thou what is

The strong creature from before the flood,

Without flesh, without bone,

Without vein, without blood,

Without head, without feet;

It will neither be older nor younger

Than at the beginning.

Behold how the sea whitens

When first it comes,

When it comes from the south,

When it strikes on coasts

It is in the field, it is in the wood,

But the eye cannot perceive it.

One Being has prepared it,

By a tremendous blast,

To wreak vengeance

On Maelgan Gwynedd."

While he was thus singing his verse, there arose a mighty storm of

wind, so that the king and all his nobles thought that the castle

would fall upon their heads. And the king caused them to fetch

Elphin in haste from his dungeon, and placed him before Taliesin.

And it is said that immediately he sung a verse, so that the

chains opened from about his feet.

After that Taliesin brought Elphin's wife before them, and showed

that she had not one finger wanting. And in this manner did he set

his master free from prison, and protect the innocence of his

mistress, and silence the bards so that not one of them dared to

say a word. Right glad was Elphin, right glad was Taliesin.

HERO MYTHS OF THE BRITISH RACE

BEOWULF

Notable among the names of heroes of the British race is that of

Beowulf, which appeals to all English-speaking people in a very

special way, since he is the one hero in whose story we may see

the ideals of our English forefathers before they left their

Continental home to cross to the islands of Britain.

Although this hero had distinguished himself by numerous feats of

strength during his boyhood and early youth, it was as the

deliverer of Hrothgar, king of Denmark, from the monster Grendel

that he first gained wide renown. Grendel was half monster and

half man, and had his abode in the fen-fastnesses in the vicinity

of Hrothgar's residence. Night after night he would steal into the

king's great palace called Heorot and slay sometimes as many as

thirty at one time of the knights sleeping there.

Beowulf put himself at the head of a selected band of warriors,

went against the monster, and after a terrible fight slew it. The

following night Grendel's mother, a fiend scarcely less terrible

than her son, carried off one of Hrothgar's boldest thanes. Once

more Beowulf went to the help of the Danish king, followed the

she-monster to her lair at the bottom of a muddy lake in the midst

of the swamp, and with his good sword Hrunting and his own

muscular arms broke the sea-woman's neck.

Upon his return to his own country of the Geats, loaded with

honors bestowed upon him by Hrothgar, Beowulf served the king of

Geatland as the latter's most trusted counsellor and champion.

When, after many years, the king fell before an enemy, the Geats

unanimously chose Beowulf for their new king. His fame as a

warrior kept his country free from invasion, and his wisdom as a

statesman increased its prosperity and happiness.

In the fiftieth year of Beowulf's reign, however, a great terror

fell upon the land in the way of a monstrous fire-dragon, which

flew forth by night from its den in the rocks, lighting up the

blackness with its blazing breath, and burning houses and

homesteads, men and cattle, with the flames from its mouth. When

the news came to Beowulf that his people were suffering and dying,

and that no warrior dared to risk his life in an effort to deliver

the country from this deadly devastation, the aged king took up

his shield and sword and went forth to his last fight. At the

entrance of the dragon's cave Beowulf raised his voice and shouted

a furious defiance to the awesome guardian of the den. Roaring

hideously and napping his glowing wings together, the dragon

rushed forth and half flew, half sprang, on Beowulf. Then began a

fearful combat, which ended in Beowulf's piercing the dragon's

scaly armor and inflicting a mortal wound, but alas! in himself

being given a gash in the neck by his opponent's poisoned fangs

which resulted in his death. As he lay stretched on the ground,

his head supported by Wiglaf, an honored warrior who had helped in

the fight with the dragon, Beowulf roused himself to say, as he

grasped Wiglaf's hand:

"Thou must now look to the needs of the nation;

Here dwell I no longer, for Destiny calleth me!

Bid thou my warriors after my funeral pyre

Build me a burial-cairn high on the sea-cliff's head;

So that the seafarers Beowulf's Barrow

Henceforth shall name it, they who drive far and wide

Over the mighty flood their foamy keels.

Thou art the last of all the kindred of Wagmund!

Wyrd has swept all my kin, all the brave chiefs away!

Now must I follow them!"

These last words spoken, the king of the Geats, brave to seek

danger and brave to look on death and Fate undaunted, fell back

dead. According to his last desires, his followers gathered wood

and piled it on the cliff-head. Upon this funeral pyre was laid

Beowulf's body and consumed to ashes. Then, upon the same cliff of

Hronesness, was erected a huge burial cairn, wide-spread and

lofty, to be known thereafter as Beowulf's Barrow.

CUCHULAIN, CHAMPION OF IRELAND

Among all the early literatures of Europe, there are two which, at

exactly opposite corners of the continent, display most strikingly

similar characteristics. These are the Greek and the Irish, and

the legend of the Irish champion Cuchulain, which well illustrates

the similarity of the literatures, bears so close a resemblance to

the story of Achilles as to win for this hero the title of "the

Irish Achilles." Certainly in reckless courage, power of inspiring

dread, sense of personal merit, and frankness of speech the Irish

hero is fully equal to the mighty Greek.

Cuchulain was the nephew of King Conor of Ulster, son of his

sister Dechtire, and it is said that his father was no mortal man,

but the great god Lugh of the Long Hand. Cuchulain was brought up

by King Conor himself, and even while he was still a boy his fame

spread all over Ireland. His warlike deeds were those of a proved

warrior, not of a child of nursery age; and by the time Cuchulain

was seventeen he was without peer among the champions of Ulster.

Upon Cuchulain's marriage to Emer, daughter of Forgall the Wily, a

Druid of great power, the couple took up their residence at

Armagh, the capital of Ulster, under the protection of King Conor.

Here there was one chief, Bricriu of the Bitter Tongue, who, like

Thersites among the Grecian leaders, delighted in making mischief.

Soon he had on foot plans for stirring up strife among the heroes

of Ulster, leaders among whom were the mighty Laegaire, Conall

Cearnach, cousin of Cuchulain, and Cuchulain himself. Inviting the

members of King Conor's court to dinner, Bricriu arranged that a

contest should arise over who should have the "champion's

portion," and so successful was he that, to avoid a bloody fight,

the three heroes mentioned decided to submit their claims to the

championship of Ireland to King Ailill of Connaught.

Ailill put the heroes to an unexpected test. Their dinner was

served them in a separate room, into which three magic beasts, in

the shape of monstrous cats, were sent by the king. When they saw

them Laegire and Conall rose from their meal, climbed among the

rafters, and stayed there all night. Cuchulain waited until one

cat attacked him, and then, drawing his sword, struck the monster.

It showed no further sign of fight, and at daybreak the magic

beasts disappeared.

As Laegire and Conall claimed that this test was an unfair one,

Ailill sent the three rivals to Curoi of Kerry, a just and wise

man, who set out to discover by wizardry and enchantments the best

among the heroes. In turn they stood watch outside Curoi's castle,

where Laegire and Conall were overcome by a huge giant, who hurled

spears of mighty oak trees, and ended by throwing them over the

wall into the courtyard. Cuchulain alone withstood the giant,

whereupon he was attacked by other magic foes. Among these was a

dragon, which flew on horrible wings from a neighboring lake, and

seemed ready to devour everything in its way. Cuchulain sprang up,

giving his wonderful hero-leap, thrust his arm into the dragon's

mouth and down its throat, and tore out its heart. After the

monster fell dead, he cut off its scaly head.

As even yet Cuchulain's opponents would not admit his

championship, they were all three directed to return to Armagh, to

await Curoi's judgment. Here it happened that all the Ulster

heroes were in the great hall one night, except Cuchulain and his

cousin Conall. As they sat in order of rank, a terrible stranger,

gigantic in stature, hideous of aspect, with ravening yellow eyes,

entered. In his hand he bore an enormous axe, with keen and

shining edge. Upon King Conor's inquiring his business there, the

stranger replied:

"Behold my axe! The man who will grasp it to-day may cut my head

off with it, provided that I may, in like manner, cut off his head

to-morrow. If you have no champion who dare face me, I will say

that Ulster has lost her courage and is dishonored."

At once Laegire accepted the challenge. The giant laid his head on

a block, and at a blow the hero severed it from the body.

Thereupon the giant arose, took the head and the axe, and thus,

headless, strode from the hall. But the following night, when he

returned, sound as ever, to claim the fulfilment of Laegire's

promise, the latter's heart failed him and he did not come

forward. The stranger then jeered at the men of Ulster because

their great champion durst not keep his agreement, nor face the

blow he should receive in return for the one he gave.

The men of Ulster were utterly ashamed, but Conall Cearnach, who

was present that night, made a new agreement with the stranger. He

gave a blow which beheaded the giant, but again, when the latter

returned whole and sound on the following evening, the champion

was not to be found.

Now it was the turn of Cuchulain, who, as the others had done, cut

off the giant's head at one stroke. The next day the members of

Conor's court watched Cuchulain to see what he would do. They

would not have been surprised if he had failed like the others,

who now were present. The champion, however, showed no signs of

failing or retreat. He sat sorrowfully in his place, and with a

sigh said to King Conor as they waited: "Do not leave this place

till all is over. Death is coming to me very surely, but I must

fulfil my agreement, for I would rather die than break my word."

Towards the close of day the stranger strode into the hall

exultant.

"Where is Cuchulain?" he cried.

"Here I am," was the reply.

"Ah, poor boy! your speech is sad to-night, and the fear of death

lies heavy on you; but at least you have redeemed your word and

have not failed me."

The youth rose from his seat and went towards him, as he stood

with the great axe ready, and knelt to receive the blow.

The hero of Ulster laid his head on the block; but the giant was

not satisfied. "Stretch out your neck better," said he.

"You are playing with me, to torment me," said Cuchulain. "Slay me

now speedily, for I did not keep you waiting last night."

However, he stretched out his neck as ordered, and the stranger

raised his axe till it crashed upwards through the rafters of the

hall, like the crash of trees falling in a storm. When the axe

came down with a terrific sound all men looked fearfully at

Cuchulain. The descending axe had not even touched him; it had

come down with the blunt side on the ground, and the youth knelt

there unharmed. Smiling at him, and leaning on his axe, stood no

terrible and hideous stranger, but Curoi of Kerry, come to give

his decision at last.

"Rise up, Cuchulain," said Curoi. "There is none among all the

heroes of Ulster to equal you in courage and loyalty and truth.

The Championship of the Heroes of Ireland is yours from this day

forth, and the Champion's Portion at all feasts; and to your wife

I adjudge the first place among all the women of Ulster. Woe to

him who dares to dispute this decision!" Thereupon Curoi vanished,

and the warriors gathered around Cuchulain, and all with one voice

acclaimed him the Champion of the Heroes of all Ireland--a title

which has clung to him until this day.

This is one of many stories told of the Irish champion, whose

deeds of bravery would fill many pages. Cuchulain finally came to

his end on the field of battle, after a fight in which he

displayed all his usual gallantry but in which unfair means were

used to overcome him.

For Wales and for England during centuries Arthur has been the

representative "very gentle perfect knight." In a similar way, in

England's sister isle, Cuchulain stands ever for the highest

ideals of the Irish Gaels.

HEREWARD THE WAKE

In Hereward the Wake (or "Watchful") is found one of those heroes

whose date can be ascertained with a fair amount of exactness and

yet in whose story occur mythological elements which seem to

belong to all ages. The folklore of primitive races is a great

storehouse whence a people can choose tales and heroic deeds to

glorify its own national hero, careless that the same tales and

deeds have done duty for other peoples and other heroes. Hence it

happens that Hereward the Saxon, a patriot hero as real and actual

as Nelson or George Washington, whose deeds were recorded in prose

and verse within forty years of his death, was even then

surrounded by a cloud of romance and mystery, which hid in

vagueness his family, his marriage, and even his death.

Briefly it may be stated that Hereward was a native of

Lincolnshire, and was in his prime about 1070. In that year he

joined a party of Danes who appeared in England, attacked

Peterborough and sacked the abbey there, and afterward took refuge

in the Isle of Ely. Here he was besieged by William the Conqueror,

and was finally forced to yield to the Norman. He thus came to

stand for the defeated Saxon race, and his name has been passed

down as that of the darling hero of the Saxons. For his splendid

defence of Ely they forgave his final surrender to Duke William;

they attributed to him all the virtues supposed to be inherent in

the free-born, and all the glorious valor on which the English

prided themselves; and, lastly, they surrounded his death with a

halo of desperate fighting, and made his last conflict as

wonderful as that of Roland at Roncesvalles. If Roland is the

ideal of Norman feudal chivalry, Hereward is equally the ideal of

Anglo-Saxon sturdy manliness and knighthood.

An account of one of Hereward's adventures as a youth will serve

as illustration of the stories told of his prowess. On an enforced

visit to Cornwall, he found that King Alef, a petty British chief,

had betrothed his fair daughter to a terrible Pictish giant,

breaking off, in order to do it, her troth-plight with Prince

Sigtryg of Waterford, son of a Danish king in Ireland. Hereward,

ever chivalrous, picked a quarrel with the giant and killed him in

fair fight, whereupon the king threw him into prison. In the

following night, however, the released princess arranged that the

gallant Saxon should be freed and sent hot-foot for her lover,

Prince Sigtryg. After many adventures Hereward reached the prince,

who hastened to return to Cornwall with the young hero. But to the

grief of both, they learned upon their arrival that the princess

had just been betrothed to a wild Cornish hero, Haco, and the

wedding feast was to be held that very day. Sigtryg at once sent a

troop of forty Danes to King Alef demanding the fulfilment of the

troth-plight between himself and his daughter, and threatening

vengeance if it were broken. To this threat the king returned no

answer, and no Dane came back to tell of their reception.