CHAPTER VII

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HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW

TALES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE OF THE WORLD'S HEROES IN ALL AGES

----EDITED BY----

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE

ILLUSTRATED AND DECORATED BY BLANCHE OSTERTAG

INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO "HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW"

The endeavour has been made in this volume to bring together the

heroic men of different races, periods and types; and in the

selection of material the most attractive, intelligent and

authoritative literature has been drawn upon. In cases in which the

material selected belongs distinctively to the best literature, no

changes have been made, although narratives have been abbreviated;

in cases in which the material has a historical rather than a

distinctively literary quality, the text has been treated for

"substance of doctrine," and omissions have been freely made, and

connecting words, phrases and even sentences have been introduced to

give the narrative clear connection and completeness. In the

preparation of the material for the volume the intelligence and

skill of Miss Kate Stephens have been so freely used that she is

entitled to the fullest recognition as associate editor.

H. W. M.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO "HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW"

The editor and publishers wish to extend their thanks and

acknowledgment to the firms who have kindly permitted the use of

material in this volume:

To The Macmillan Co. for selections from "Heroes of Chivalry and

Romance," "Stories of Charlemagne and the Peers of France," "Old

English History," "The Crusaders," "Father Damien: A Journey from

Cashmere to His Home in Hawaii"; to Thomas Nelson & Son for material

from "Martyrs and Saints of the First Twelve Centuries"; to J. M.

Dent & Co. for selections from "Stories from Le Morte d'Arthur and

The Mabinogion" in the Temple Classics for Young People; to E. P.

Dutton & Co. for material from "Chronicle of the Cid"; to Longmans,

Green & Co. for material from "The Book of Romance"; to John C.

Winston Co. for material from "Stories from History"; to Lothrop,

Lee & Shepard for material from "The True Story of Abraham Lincoln."

CONTENTS TO "HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW"

CHAPTER

INTRODUCTION

I. PERSEUS. Adapted from "The Heroes," by Charles Kingsley

II. HERCULES. By Kate Stephens

III. DANIEL. From Book of Daniel, Chapter vi., Verses 1 to 24

IV. DAVID. From I. Book of Samuel, Chapter xvii

V. ST. GEORGE. Adapted from "Martyrs and Saints of the First

Twelve Centuries," by Mrs. E. Rundle Charles

VI. KING ARTHUR. Adapted from "Stories from Le Morte d'Arthur and

the Mabinogion," by Beatrice Clay

VII. SIR GALAHAD. Adapted from "Stories from Le Morte d'Arthur and

the Mabinogion," by Beatrice Clay; followed by

"Sir Galahad," by Alfred Tennyson

VIII. SIEGFRIED. Adapted from "Heroes of Chivalry and Romance," by

A. J. Church

IX. ROLAND. Adapted from "Stories of Charlemagne and the Peers of

France," by A. J. Church

X. KING ALFRED. Adapted from "Old English History," by E. A.

Freeman

XI. THE CID. Adapted from "Chronicle of the Cid," from the Spanish,

by Robert Southey

XII. ROBIN HOOD. Adapted from "Book of Romance," edited by Andrew

Lang; including a version of the popular ballad,

"Robin Hood and the Butcher"

XIII. RICHARD THE LION-HEARTED. Adapted from "The Crusaders," by A.

J. Church

XIV. SAINT Louis. Adapted from "The Crusaders," by A. J. Church

XV. WILLIAM TELL. Adapted from "Stories from History," by Agnes

Strickland

XVI. ROBERT BRUCE. Adapted from "Tales of a Grandfather from

Scottish History," by Sir Walter Scott

XVII. GEORGE WASHINGTON. Adapted from "Recollections and Private

Memoirs of Washington," by G. W. Parke Custis

XVIII. ROBERT E. LEE. From "Letters and Recollections of General

Lee," by Captain Robert E. Lee

XIX. ABRAHAM: LINCOLN. Adapted from "The True Story of Abraham

Lincoln," by Elbridge S. Brooks

XX. FATHER DAMIEN. Adapted from "Father Damien: A Journey from

Cashmere to His Home in Hawaii," by Edward

Clifford

INTRODUCTION TO "HEROES EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW"

If there had been no real heroes there would have been created

imaginary ones, for men cannot live without them. The hero is just

as necessary as the farmer, the sailor, the carpenter and the

doctor; society could not get on without him. There have been a

great many different kinds of heroes, for in every age and among

every people the hero has stood for the qualities that were most

admired and sought after by the bravest and best; and all ages and

peoples have imagined or produced heroes as inevitably as they have

made ploughs for turning the soil or ships for getting through the

water or weapons with which to fight their enemies. To be some kind

of a hero has been the ambition of spirited boys from the beginning

of history; and if you want to know what the men and women of a

country care for most, you must study their heroes. To the boy the

hero stands for the highest success: to the grown man and woman he

stands for the deepest and richest life.

Men have always worked with their hands, but they have never been

content with that kind of work; they have looked up from the fields

and watched the sun and stars; they have cut wood for their fires in

the forest, but they have noticed the life which goes on among the

trees and they have heard the mysterious sounds which often fill the

air in the remotest places. From the beginning men have not only

used their hands but their intellect and their imagination; they

have had to work or starve, but they have seen the world, thought

about it and dreamed about it.

They had worked and thought and dreamed only a little time before

they began to explain the marvelous earth on which they found

themselves and the strange things that happened in it; the vastness

and beauty of the fields, woods, sky and sea, the force of the wind,

the coming and going of the day and night, the warmth of summer when

everything grew, and the cold of winter when everything died, the

rush of the storm and the terrible brightness of the lightning. They

had no idea of what we call law or force; they could not think of

anything being moved or any noise being made unless there was some

one like themselves to move things and make sounds; and so they made

stories of gods and giants and heroes and nymphs and fawns; and the

myths, which are poetic explanations of the world and of the life of

men in it, came into being.

But they did not stop with these great matters; they began to tell

stories about themselves and the things they wanted to do and the

kind of life they wanted to lead. They wanted ease, power, wealth,

happiness, freedom; so they created genii, built palaces, made magic

carpets which carried them to the ends of the earth and horses with

wings which bore them through the air, peopled the woods and fields

with friendly, frolicsome or mischievous little people, who made

fires for them if they were friendly, or milked cows, overturned

bowls, broke dishes and played all kinds of antics and made all

sorts of trouble if they were mischievous or unfriendly. Beside the

great myths, like wild flowers in the shade of great trees, there

sprang up among the people of almost all countries a host of poetic,

satirical, humorous or homely stories of fairies, genii, trolls,

giants, dwarfs, imps, and queer creatures of all kinds; so that to

the children of two hundred years ago the woods, the fields, the

solitary and quiet places everywhere, were full of folk who kept out

of sight, but who had a great deal to do with the fortunes and fates

of men and women.

From very early times great honor was paid to courage and strength;

qualities which won success and impressed the imagination in

primitive not less than in highly developed societies. The first

heroes were gods or demi-gods, or men of immense strength who did

difficult things. When men first began to live in the world they

were in constant peril and faced hardships of every kind; and from

the start they had very hard work to do. There were fields to be

cultivated, houses to be built, woods to be explored, beasts to be

killed and other beasts to be tamed and set to work. There were many

things to be done and no tools to work with; there were great storms

to be faced and no houses for protection; there was terrible cold

and no fire or clothing; there were diseases and no medicine; there

were perils on land, in the water and in the air, and no knowledge

of the ways of meeting them.

At the very start courage and strength were necessary if life was to

be preserved and men were to live together in safety and with

comfort. When a strong man appeared he helped his fellows to make

themselves more at ease in the world. Sometimes he did this by

simply making himself more comfortable and thus showing others how

to do it; sometimes he did it by working for his fellows. No matter

how selfish a man may be, if he does any real work in the world he

works not only for himself but for others. In this way a selfish man

like Napoleon does the work of a hero without meaning to do it: for

the world is so made that no capable man or woman can be entirely

selfish, no matter how hard they try to get and keep everything for

themselves.

It was not long before men saw that strong men could not work for

themselves without working for others, and there came in very early

the idea of service as part of the idea of heroism, and the demi-

gods, who were among the earliest heroes, were servants as well as

masters. Hercules, the most powerful of the heroes to Greek and

Roman boys was set to do the most difficult things not for himself

but for others. He destroyed lions, hydras, wild boars, birds with

brazen beaks and wings, mad bulls, many-headed monsters, horses

which fed on human flesh, dragons, he mastered the three-headed dog

Cerberus, he tore asunder the rocks at the Strait of Gibraltar which

bear his name to open a channel between the Mediterranean and the

Atlantic. He fought the Centaur and brought back Alcestis, the wife

of Admetus, from the pale regions of death where she had gone to

save her husband's life. In all these labors, which were so great

that works of extraordinary magnitude have since been called

Herculean, the brave, patient, suffering hero, was helping other

people rather than helping himself.

And this was true of Thor, the strong god of the Norsemen whose

hammer was the most terrible weapon in the world, the roll and crash

of thunder being the sound of it and the blinding lightning the

flash of it. The gods were the friends of men, giving the light and

warmth and fertility of the summer that the fields might bear food

for them and the long, bright days might bring them peace and

happiness. And the giants were the enemies of men, tirelessly trying

to make the fields desolate and stop the singing of birds and shroud

the sky in darkness by driving away summer with the icy breath of

winter. In this perpetual conflict Thor was the hero of strength and

courage, beating back the giants, defeating their schemes and

fighting the battle for gods and men with tireless zeal; counting no

peril or hardship too great if there was heroic work to be done.

Courage and achievement are the two signs of the hero; he may

possess or lack many other qualities, but he must be daring and he

must do things and not dream or talk about them.

From the days of Hercules to those of Washington and Livingston, men

of heroic spirit have not stopped to count the cost when a deed must

be done but have done it, usually with very little talk or noise;

for heroes, as a rule, are much more interested in getting their

work done than in making themselves conspicuous or winning a

reputation. Heroes have often been harsh and even brutal, especially

in the earliest times when humane feeling and a compassionate spirit

had not been developed; Siegfried, Jason, Gustavas Adolphus and Von

Tromp were often arbitrary and oppressive in their attitude toward

men; and, in later times, Alfred the Great, William the Silent and

Nelson were not without serious defects of temper and sometimes of

character. Men are not great or heroic because they are faultless;

they are great and heroic because they dare, suffer, achieve and

serve.

And men love their heroes not because they have been perfect

characters under all conditions, but because they have been brave,

true, able, and unselfish, A man may have few faults and count for

very little in the world, because he lacks force, daring, the

greatness of soul which moves before a generation like a flaming

torch; a man may lead a stainless life, not because he is really

virtuous but because he has very few temptations within or without.

Some of the most heroic men have put forth more strength in

resisting a single temptation than men of theories and more

commonplace natures put forth in a life time. The serious faults of

heroes are not overlooked or forgotten; the great man is as much the

servant of the moral law as the little man, and pays the same price

for disobedience; but generosity of spirit, devotion to high aims

and capacity for self-sacrifice often outweigh serious offences.

Nelson is less a hero because he yielded to a great temptation; but

he remains a hero in spite of the stain on his fame. It is much

better not to be profane under any circumstances, but when

Washington swore fiercely at Charles Lee on the battle field of

Monmouth his profanity was the expression of the righteous wrath of

a good man. In judging the hero one must take into account the age

in which he lived, the differences in moral standards between the

past and the present, and the force of the temptations which come

with strength of body, passion, imagination, great position,

colossal enterprises; these do not conceal or excuse the faults of

heroes but they explain those faults.

The men whose bravery and great deeds are described in these pages

have been selected not because they are faultless in character and

life, but because they were brave, generous, self-forgetful, self-

sacrificing and capable of splendid deeds. Men love and honour them

not only because they owe them a great deal of gratitude, but

because they see in their heroes the kind of men they would like to

be; for the possibilities of the heroic are in almost all men.

Stories of the heroes have often made other men strong and brave and

true in the face of great perils and tasks, and this book is put

forth in the faith that it will not only pass on the fame of the

heroes of the past but help make heroes in the present.

H. W. M.

CHAPTER I

PERSEUS

Once upon a time there were two princes who were twins. Their names

were Acrisius and Proetus, and they lived in the pleasant vale of

Argos, far away in Hellas. They had fruitful meadows and vineyards,

sheep and oxen, great herds of horses feeding down in Lerna Fen, and

all that men could need to make them blest: and yet they were

wretched, because they were jealous of each other. From the moment

they were born they began to quarrel; and when they grew up each

tried to take away the other's share of the kingdom, and keep all

for himself.

But there came a prophet to Acrisius and prophesied against him, and

said, "Because you have risen up against your own blood, your own

blood shall rise up against you; because you have sinned against

your kindred, by your kindred you shall be punished. Your daughter

Danae shall have a son, and by that son's hands you shall die. So

the gods have ordained, and it will surely come to pass."

And at that Acrisius was very much afraid; but he did not mend his

ways. He had been cruel to his own family, and, instead of repenting

and being kind to them, he went on to be more cruel than ever: for

he shut up his fair daughter Danae in a cavern underground, lined

with brass, that no one might come near her. So he fancied himself

more cunning than the gods: but you will see presently whether he

was able to escape them.

Now it came to pass that in time a son came to Danae: so beautiful a

babe that any but King Acrisius would have had pity on it. But he

had no pity; for he took Danae and her babe down to the seashore,

and put them into a great chest and thrust them out to sea, for the

winds and the waves to carry them whithersoever they would.

The northwest wind blew freshly out of the blue mountains, and down

the pleasant vale of Argos, and away and out to sea. And away and

out to sea before it floated the mother and her babe, while all who

watched them wept, save that cruel father, King Acrisius.

So they floated on and on, and the chest danced up and down upon the

billows, and the baby slept upon its mother's breast: but the poor

mother could not sleep, but watched and wept, and she sang to her

baby as they floated; and the song which she sang you shall learn

yourselves some day.

And now they are past the last blue headland, and in the open sea;

and there is nothing round them but the waves, and the sky, and the

wind. But the waves are gentle, and the sky is clear, and the breeze

is tender and low.

So a night passed, and a day, and a long day it was for Danae; and

another night and day beside, till Danae was faint with hunger and

weeping, and yet no land appeared. And all the while the babe slept

quietly; and at last poor Danae drooped her head and fell asleep

likewise with her cheek against the babe's.

After a while she was awakened suddenly; for the chest was jarring

and grinding, and the air was full of sound. She looked up, and over

her head were mighty cliffs, all red in the setting sun, and around

her rocks and breakers, and flying flakes of foam. She clasped her

hands together, and shrieked aloud for help. And when she cried,

help met her: for now there came over the rocks a tall and stately

man, and looked down wonderingly upon poor Danae tossing about in

the chest among the waves.

He wore a rough cloak of frieze, and on his head a broad hat to

shade his face; in his hand he carried a trident for spearing fish,

and over his shoulder was a casting-net; but Danae could see that he

was no common man by his stature, and his walk, and his flowing

golden hair and beard; and by the two servants who came behind him,

carrying baskets for his fish. But she had hardly time to look at

him before he had laid aside his trident and leapt down the rocks,

and thrown his casting-net so surely over Danae and the chest, that

he drew it, and her, and the baby, safe upon a ledge of rock.

Then the fisherman took Danae by the hand, and lifted her out of the

chest, and said:

"O beautiful damsel, what strange chance has brought you to this

island in so frail a ship? Who are you, and whence? Surely you are

some King's daughter and this boy has somewhat more than mortal."

And as he spoke he pointed to the babe; for its face shone like the

morning star.

But Danae only held down her head, and sobbed out:

"Tell me to what land I have come, unhappy that I am; and among what

men I have fallen!"

And he said, "This isle is called Seriphos, and I am a Hellen, and

dwell in it. I am the brother of Polydectes the King; and men call

me Dictys the netter, because I catch the fish of the shore."

Then Danae fell down at his feet, and embraced his knees and cried:

"Oh, sir, have pity upon a stranger, whom a cruel doom has driven to

your land; and let me live in your house as a servant; but treat me

honourably, for I was once a king's daughter, and this my boy (as

you have truly said) is of no common race. I will not be a charge to

you, or eat the bread of idleness; for I am more skilful in weaving

and embroidery than all the maidens of my land."

And she was going on; but Dictys stopped her, and raised her up, and

said:

"My daughter, I am old, and my hairs are growing grey; while I have

no children to make my home cheerful. Come with me then, and you

shall be a daughter to me and to my wife, and this babe shall be our

grandchild. For I fear the gods, and show hospitality to all

strangers; knowing that good deeds, like evil ones, always return to

those who do them."

So Danae was comforted, and went home with Dictys the good

fisherman, and was a daughter to him and to his wife.

Fifteen years were passed and gone and the babe was now grown to a

tall lad and a sailor, and went many voyages after merchandise to

the islands round. His mother called him Perseus; but all the people

in Seriphos said that he was not the son of mortal man, and called

him Zeus, the son of the king of the Immortals. For though he was

but fifteen, he was taller by a head than any man in the island; and

he was the most skilful of all in running and wrestling and boxing,

and in throwing the quoit and the javelin, and in rowing with the

oar, and in playing on the harp, and in all which befits a man. And

he was brave and truthful, gentle and courteous, for good old Dictys

had trained him well; and well it was for Perseus that he had done

so.

Now one day at Samos, while the ship was lading, Perseus wandered

into a pleasant wood to get out of the sun, and sat down on the turf

and fell asleep. And as he slept a strange dream came to him--the

strangest dream which he had ever had in his life.

There came a lady to him through the wood, taller than he, or any

mortal man; but beautiful exceedingly, with grey eyes, clear and

piercing, but strangely soft and mild. On her head was a helmet, and

in her hand a spear. And over her shoulder, above her long blue

robes, hung a goat-skin, which bore up a mighty shield of brass,

polished like a mirror. She stood and looked at him with her clear

grey eyes; and Perseus saw that her eyelids never moved, nor her

eyeballs, but looked straight through and through him, and into his

very heart, as if she could see all the secrets of his soul, and

knew all that he had ever thought or longed for since the day that

he was born. And Perseus dropped his eyes, trembling and blushing,

as the wonderful lady spoke.

"Perseus, you must do an errand for me."

"Who are you, lady? And how do you know my name?"

"I am Pallas Athene; and I know the thoughts of all men's hearts,

and discern their manhood or their baseness. And from the souls of

clay I turn away, and they are blest, but not by me. They fatten at

ease, like sheep in the pasture, and eat what they did not sow, like

oxen in the stall. They grow and spread, like the gourd along the

ground; but, like the gourd, they give no shade to the traveller,

and when they are ripe death gathers them, and they go down unloved

into hell, and their name vanishes out of the land.

"But to the souls of fire I give more fire, and to those who are

manful I give a might more than man's. These are the heroes, the

sons of the Immortals who are blest, but not like the souls of clay.

For I drive them forth by strange paths, Perseus, that they may

fight the Titans and the monsters, the enemies of gods and men.

Through doubt and need, danger and battle, I drive them; and some of

them are slain in the flower of youth, no man knows when or where;

and some of them win noble names, and a fair and green old age; but

what will be their latter end I know not, and none, save Zeus, the

father of gods and men. Tell me now, Perseus, which of these two

sorts of men seem to you more blest?"

Then Perseus answered boldly: "Better to die in the flower of youth,

on the chance of winning a noble name, than to live at ease like the

sheep, and die unloved and unrenowned."

Then that strange lady laughed, and held up her brazen shield, and

cried: "See here, Perseus; dare you face such a monster as this, and

slay it, that I may place its head upon this shield?"

And in the mirror of the shield there appeared a face and as Perseus

looked on it his blood ran cold. It was the face of a beautiful

woman; but her cheeks were pale as death, and her brows were knit

with everlasting pain, and her lips were thin and bitter like a

snake's; and, instead of hair, vipers wreathed about her temples,

and shot out their forked tongues; while round her head were folded

wings like an eagle's, and upon her bosom claws of brass.

And Perseus looked awhile, and then said: "If there is anything so

fierce and foul on earth, it were a noble deed to kill it. Where can

I find the monster?"

Then the strange lady smiled again, and said: "Not yet; you are too

young, and too unskilled; for this is Medusa the Gorgon, the mother

of a monstrous brood."

And Perseus said, "Try me; for since you spoke to me a new soul has

come into my breast, and I should be ashamed not to dare anything

which I can do. Show me, then, how I can do this!"

"Perseus," said Athene, "think well before you attempt; for this

deed requires a seven years' journey, in which you cannot repent or

turn back nor escape; but if your heart fails you, you must die in

the Unshapen Land, where no man will ever find your bones."

"Better so than live despised," said Perseus. "Tell me, then, oh

tell me, fair and wise Goddess, how I can do but this one thing, and

then, if need be, die!"

Then Athene smiled and said:

"Be patient, and listen; for if you forget my words, you will indeed

die. You must go northward to the country of the Hyperboreans, who

live beyond the pole, at the sources of the cold north wind, till

you find the three Grey Sisters, who have but one eye and one tooth

between them. You must ask them the way to the Nymphs, the daughters

of the Evening Star, who dance about the golden tree, in the

Atlantic island of the west. They will tell you the way to the

Gorgon, that you may slay her, my enemy, the mother of monstrous

beasts. Once she was a maiden as beautiful as morn, till in her

pride she sinned a sin at which the sun hid his face; and from that

day her hair was turned to vipers, and her hands to eagle's claws;

and her heart was filled with shame and rage, and her lips with

bitter venom; and her eyes became so terrible that whosover looks on

them is turned to stone; and her children are the winged horse and

the giant of the golden sword; and her grandchildren are Echidna the

witch-adder, and Geryon the three-headed tyrant, who feeds his herds

beside the herds of hell. So she became the sister of the Gorgons,

the daughters of the Queen of the Sea. Touch them not, for they are

immortal; but bring me only Medusa's head."

"And I will bring it!" said Perseus; "but how am I to escape her

eyes? Will she not freeze me too into stone?"

"You shall take this polished shield," said Athene, "and when you

come near her look not at her yourself, but at her image in the

brass; so you may strike her safely. And when you have struck off

her head, wrap it, with your face turned away, in the folds of the

goatskin on which the shield hangs. So you will bring it safely back

to me, and win to yourself renown, and a place among the heroes who

feast with the Immortals upon the peak where no winds blow."

Then Perseus said, "I will go, though I die in going. But how shall

I cross the seas without a ship? And who will show me my way? And

when I find her, how shall I slay her, if her scales be iron and

brass?"

Now beside Athene appeared a young man more light-limbed than the

stag, whose eyes were like sparks of fire. By his side was a

scimitar of diamond, all of one clear precious stone, and on his

feet were golden sandals, from the heels of which grew living wings.

Then the young man spoke: "These sandals of mine will bear you

across the seas, and over hill and dale like a bird, as they bear me

all day long; for I am Hermes, the far-famed Argus-slayer, the

messenger of the Immortals who dwell on Olympus."

Then Perseus fell down and worshipped, while the young man spoke

again:

"The sandals themselves will guide you on the road, for they are

divine and cannot stray; and this sword itself the Argus-slayer,

will kill her, for it is divine, and needs no second stroke. Arise,

and gird them on, and go forth."

So Perseus arose, and girded on the sandals and the sword.

And Athene cried, "Now leap from the cliff and be gone."

But Perseus lingered.

"May I not bid farewell to my mother and to Dictys? And may I not

offer burnt offerings to you, and to Hermes the far-famed Argus-

slayer, and to Father Zeus above?"

"You shall not bid farewell to your mother, lest your heart relent

at her weeping. I will comfort her and Dictys until you return in

peace. Nor shall you offer burnt offerings to the Olympians; for

your offering shall be Medusa's head. Leap, and trust in the armour

of the Immortals."

Then Perseus looked down the cliff and shuddered; but he was ashamed

to show his dread. Then he thought of Medusa and the renown before

him, and he leapt into the empty air.

And behold, instead of falling he floated, and stood, and ran along

the sky. He looked back, but Athene had vanished, and Hermes; and

the sandals led him on northward ever, like a crane who follows the

spring toward the Ister fens.

So Perseus started on his journey, going dry-shod over land and sea;

and his heart was high and joyful, for the winged sandals bore him

each day a seven days' journey. And he turned neither to the right

hand nor the left, till he came to the Unshapen Land, and the place

which has no name.

And seven days he walked through it on a path which few can tell,

till he came to the edge of the everlasting night, where the air was

full of feathers, and the soil was hard with ice; and there at last

he found the three Grey Sisters, by the shore of the freezing sea,

nodding upon a white log of driftwood, beneath the cold white winter

moon; and they chanted a low song together, "Why the old times were

better than the new."

There was no living thing around them, not a fly, not a moss upon

the rocks. Neither seal nor sea gull dare come near, lest the ice

should clutch them in its claws. The surge broke up in foam, but it

fell again in flakes of snow; and it frosted the hair of the three

Grey Sisters, and the bones in the ice cliff above their heads. They

passed the eye from one to the other, but for all that they could

not see; and they passed the tooth from one to the other, but for

all that they could not eat; and they sat in the full glare of the

moon, but they were none the warmer for her beams. And Perseus

pitied the three Grey Sisters; but they did not pity themselves.

So he said, "Oh, venerable mothers, wisdom is the daughter of old

age. You therefore should know many things. Tell me, if you can, the

path to the Gorgon."

Then one cried, "Who is this who reproaches us with old age?" And

another, "This is the voice of one of the children of men."

Then one cried, "Give me the eye, that I may see him"; and another,

"Give me the tooth, that I may bite him." But Perseus, when he saw

that they were foolish and proud, and did not love the children of

men, left off pitying them. Then he stepped close to them, and

watched till they passed the eye from hand to hand. And as they

groped about between themselves, he held out his own hand gently,

till one of them put the eye into it, fancying that it was the hand

of her sister. Then he sprang back, and laughed, and cried:

"Cruel and proud old women, I have your eye; and I will throw it

into the sea, unless you tell me the path to the Gorgon, and swear

to me that you tell me right."

Then they wept, and chattered, and scolded; but in vain. They were

forced to tell the truth, though, when they told it, Perseus could

hardly make out the road.

"You must go," they said, "foolish boy, to the southward, into the

ugly glare of the sun, till you come to Atlas the Giant, who holds

the heaven and the earth apart. And you must ask his daughters, the

Hesperides, who are young and foolish like yourself. And now give us

back our eye, for we have forgotten all the rest."

So Perseus gave them back their eye. And he leaped away to the

southward, leaving the snow and the ice behind. And the terns and

the sea gulls swept laughing round his head, and called to him to

stop and play, and the dolphins gambolled up as he passed, and

offered to carry him on their back. And all night long the sea

nymphs sang sweetly. Day by day the sun rose higher and leaped more

swiftly into the sea at night, and more swiftly out of the sea at

dawn; while Perseus skimmed over the billows like a sea gull, and

his feet were never wetted; and leapt on from wave to wave, and his

limbs were never weary, till he saw far away a mighty mountain, all

rose-red in the setting sun. Perseus knew that it was Atlas, who

holds the heavens and the earth apart.

He leapt on shore, and wandered upward, among pleasant valleys and

waterfalls. At last he heard sweet voices singing; and he guessed

that he was come to the garden of the Nymphs, the daughters of the

Evening Star. They sang like nightingales among the thickets, and

Perseus stopped to hear their song; but the words which they spoke

he could not understand. So he stepped forward and saw them dancing,

hand in hand around the charmed tree, which bent under its golden

fruit; and round the tree foot was coiled the dragon, old Ladon the

sleepless snake, who lies there for ever, listening to the song of

the maidens, blinking and watching with dry bright eyes.

Then Perseus stopped, not because he feared the dragon, but because

he was bashful before those fair maids; but when they saw him, they

too stopped, and called to him with trembling voices:

"Who are you, fair boy? Come dance with us around the tree in the

garden which knows no winter, the home of the south wind and the

sun. Come hither and play with us awhile; we have danced alone here

for a thousand years, and our hearts are weary with longing for a

playfellow."

"I cannot dance with you, fair maidens; for I must do the errand of

the Immortals. So tell me the way to the Gorgon, lest I wander and

perish in the waves."

Then they sighed and wept; and answered:

"The Gorgon! she will freeze you into stone."

"It is better to die like a hero than to live like an ox in a stall.

The Immortals have lent me weapons, and they will give me wit to use

them."

Then they sighed again and answered: "Fair boy, if you are bent on

your own ruin, be it so. We know not the way to the Gorgon; but we

will ask the giant Atlas above upon the mountain peak." So they went

up the mountain to Atlas their uncle, and Perseus went up with them.

And they found the giant kneeling, as he held the heavens and the

earth apart.

They asked him, and he answered mildly, pointing to the sea board

with his mighty hand, "I can see the Gorgons lying on an island far

away, but this youth can never come near them, unless he has the hat

of darkness, which whosoever wears cannot be seen."

Then cried Perseus, "Where is that hat, that I may find it?"

But the giant smiled. "No living mortal can find that hat, for it

lies in the depths of Hades, in the regions of the dead. But my

nieces are immortal, and they shall fetch it for you, if you will

promise me one thing and keep your faith."

Then Perseus promised; and the giant said, "When you come back with

the head of Medusa, you shall show me the beautiful horror, that I

may lose my feeling and my breathing, and become a stone for ever;

for it is weary labour for me to hold the heavens and the earth

apart."

Then Perseus promised, and the eldest of the Nymphs went down, and

into a dark cavern among the cliffs, out of which came smoke and

thunder, for it was one of the mouths of hell.

And Perseus and the Nymphs sat down seven days and waited trembling,

till the Nymph came up again; and her face was pale, and her eyes

dazzled with the light for she had been long in the dreary darkness;

but in her hand was the magic hat.

Then all the Nymphs kissed Perseus, and wept over him a long while;

but he was only impatient to be gone. And at last they put the hat

upon his head, and he vanished out of their sight.

But Perseus went on boldly, past many an ugly sight, far away into

the heart of the Unshapen Land, till he heard the rustle of the

Gorgons' wings and saw the glitter of their brazen talons; and then

he knew that it was time to halt, lest Medusa should freeze him into

stone.

He thought awhile with himself, and remembered Athene's words. He

arose aloft into the air, and held the mirror of the shield above

his head, and looked up into it that he might see all that was below

him.

And he saw the three Gorgons sleeping. He knew that they could not

see him, because the hat of darkness hid him; and yet he trembled as

he sank down near them, so terrible were those brazen claws.

Two of the Gorgons were foul as swine, and lay sleeping heavily,

with their mighty wings outspread; but Medusa tossed to and fro

restlessly, and as she tossed Perseus pitied her. But as he looked,

from among her tresses the vipers' heads awoke, and peeped up with

their bright dry eyes, and showed their fangs, and hissed; and

Medusa, as she tossed, threw back her wings and showed her brazen

claws.

Then Perseus came down and stepped to her boldly, and looked

steadfastly on his mirror, and struck with Herpe stoutly once; and

he did not need to strike again.

Then he wrapped the head in the goat-skin, turning away his eyes,

and sprang into the air aloft, faster than he ever sprang before.

For Medusa's wings and talons rattled as she sank dead upon the

rocks; and her two foul sisters woke, and saw her lying dead.

Into the air they sprang yelling, and looked for him who had done

the deed. They rushed, sweeping and flapping, like eagles after a

hare; and Perseus's blood ran cold as he saw them come howling on

his track; and he cried, "Bear me well now, brave sandals, for the

hounds of Death are at my heels!"

And well the brave sandals bore him, aloft through cloud and

sunshine, across the shoreless sea; and fast followed the hounds of

Death. But the sandals were too swift, even for Gorgons, and by

nightfall they were far behind, two black specks in the southern

sky, till the sun sank and he saw them no more.

Then he came again to Atlas, and the garden of the Nymphs; and when

the giant heard him coming he groaned, and said, "Fulfil thy promise

to me." Then Perseus held up to him the Gorgon's head, and he had

rest from all his toil; for he became a crag of stone, which sleeps

forever far above the clouds.

Perseus thanked the Nymphs, and asked them, "By what road shall I go

homeward again, for I have wandered far in coming hither?"

And they wept and cried, "Go home no more, but stay and play with

us, the lonely maidens, who dwell for ever far away from gods and

men."

But he refused, and they told him his road. And he leapt down the

mountain, and went on, lessening and lessening like a sea gull, away

and out to sea.

So Perseus flitted onward to the northeast, over many a league of

sea, till he came to the rolling sand hills and the dreary Lybian

shore.

And he flitted on across the desert: over rock ledges, and banks of

shingle, and level wastes of sand, and shell drifts bleaching in the

sunshine, and the skeletons of great sea monsters, and dead bones of

ancient giants, strewn up and down upon the old sea floor. And as he

went the blood drops fell to the earth from the Gorgon's head, and

became poisonous asps and adders, which breed in the desert to this

day.

Over the sands he went, till he saw the Dwarfs who fought with

cranes. Their spears were of reeds and rushes, and their houses of

the eggshells of the cranes; and Perseus laughed, and went his way

to the northeast, hoping all day long to see the blue Mediterranean

sparkling, that he might fly across it to his home.

But now came down a mighty wind, and swept him back southward toward

the desert. All day long he strove against it; but even the winged

sandals could not prevail. So he was forced to float down the wind

all night; and when the morning dawned there was nothing but the

blinding sun in the blinding blue; and round him there was nothing

but the blinding sand.

And Perseus said, "Surely I am not here without the will of the

Immortals, for Athene will not lie. Were not these sandals to lead

me in the right road? Then the road in which I have tried to go must

be a wrong road."

Then suddenly his ears were opened, and he heard the sound of

running water. And at that his heart was lifted up, though he

scarcely dare believe his ears; and within a bowshot of him was a

glen in the sand, and marble rocks, and date trees, and a lawn of

gay green grass. And through the lawn a streamlet sparkled and

wandered out beyond the trees, and vanished in the sand. And Perseus

laughed for joy, and leapt down the cliff and drank of the cool

water, and ate of the dates, and slept upon the turf, and leapt up

and went forward.

Then he towered in the air like an eagle, for his limbs were strong

again; and he flew all night across the mountain till the day began

to dawn, and rosy-fingered Eos came blushing up the sky. And then,

behold, beneath him was the long green garden of Egypt and the

shining stream of Nile.

And he saw cities walled up to heaven, and temples, and obelisks,

and pyramids, and giant gods of stone. And he came down amid fields

of barley and flax, and millet, and clambering gourds; and saw the

people coming out of the gates of a great city, and setting to work,

each in his place, among the water courses, parting the streams

among the plants cunningly with their feet, according to the wisdom

of the Egyptians. But when they saw him they all stopped their work,

and gathered round him, and cried:

"Who art thou, fair youth? and what Dearest thou beneath they goat--

skin there? Surely thou art one of the Immortals; for thy skin is

white like ivory, and ours is red like clay. Thy hair is like

threads of gold, and ours is black and curled. Surely thou art one

of the Immortals"; and they would have worshipped him then and

there; but Perseus said:

"I am not one of the Immortals; but I am a hero of the Hellens. And

I have slain the Gorgon in the wilderness, and bear her head with

me. Give me food, therefore, that I may go forward and finish my

work."

Then they gave him food, and fruit, but they would not let him go.

And when the news came into the city that the Gorgon was slain, the

priests came out to meet him, and the maidens, with songs and

dances, and timbrels and harps; and they would have brought him to

their temple and to their King; but Perseus put on the hat of

darkness, and vanished away out of their sight.

And Perseus flew along the shore above the sea; and he went on all

the day; and he went on all the night.

And at the dawn of day he looked toward the cliffs; and at the

water's edge, under a black rock, he saw a white image stand.

"This," thought he, "must surely be the statue of some sea god; I

will go near and see what kind of gods these barbarians worship."

But when he came near, it was no statue, but a maiden of flesh and

blood; for he could see her tresses streaming in the breeze; and as

he came closer still, he could see how she shrank and shivered when

the waves sprinkled her with cold salt spray. Her arms were spread

above her head, and fastened to the rock with chains of brass; and

her head drooped on her bosom, either with sleep, or weariness, or

grief. But now and then she looked up and wailed, and called her

mother; yet she did not see Perseus, for the cap of darkness was on

his head.

Full of pity and indignation, Perseus drew near and looked upon the

maid. And, lifting the hat from his head, he flashed into her sight.

She shrieked with terror, and tried to hide her face with her hair,

for she could not with her hands; but Perseus cried:

"Do not fear me, fair one; I am a Hellen, and no barbarian. What

cruel men have bound you? But first I will set you free."

And he tore at the fetters, but they were too strong for him; while

the maiden cried:

"Touch me not; I am accursed, devoted as a victim to the sea gods.

They will slay you, if you dare to set me free."

"Let them try," said Perseus; and drawing Herpe from his thigh, he

cut through the brass as if it had been flax.

"Now," he said, "you belong to me, and not to these sea gods,

whosoever they may be!" But she only called the more on her mother.

"Why call on your mother? She can be no mother to have left you

here."

And she answered, weeping:

"I am the daughter of Cepheus, King of Iopa, and my mother is

Cassiopoeia of the beautiful tresses, and they called me Andromeda,

as long as life was mine. And I stand bound here, hapless that I am,

for the sea monster's food, to atone for my mother's sin. For she

boasted of me once that I was fairer than the Queen of the Fishes;

so she in her wrath sent the sea floods, and her brother the Fire

King sent the earthquakes, and wasted all the land, and after the

floods a monster bred of the slime what devours all living things.

And now he must devour me, guiltless though I am--me who never

harmed a living thing, nor saw a fish upon the shore but I gave it

life, and threw it back into the sea; for in our land we eat no

fish, for fear of their queen. Yet the priests say that nothing but

my blood can atone for a sin which I never committed."

But Perseus laughed, and said, "A sea monster? I have fought with

worse than him: I would have faced Immortals for your sake: how much

more a beast of the sea?"

Then Andromeda looked up at him, and new hope was kindled in her

breast, so proud and fair did he stand with one hand round her, and

in the other the glittering sword. But she only sighed, and wept the

more, and cried:

"Why will you die, young as you are? Is there not death and sorrow

enough in the world already? It is noble for me to die, that I may

save the lives of a whole people; but you, better than them all, why

should I slay you too? Go you your way; I must go mine." And then,

suddenly looking up, she pointed to the sea, and shrieked:

"There he comes, with the sunrise, as they promised. I must die now.

How shall I endure it? Oh, go! Is it not dreadful enough to be torn

piecemeal, without having you to look on?" And she tried to thrust

him away.

But he said: "I go; yet promise me one thing ere I go: that if I

slay this beast you will be my wife, and come back with me to my

kingdom in fruitful Argos. Promise me, and seal it with a kiss."

Then she lifted up her face, and kissed him; and Perseus laughed for

joy, and flew upward, while Andromeda crouched trembling on the

rock.

On came the great sea monster, coasting along like a huge black

galley. His great sides were fringed with clustering shells and

seaweeds, and the water gurgled in and out of his wide jaws.

At last he saw Andromeda, and shot forward to take his prey, while

the waves foamed white behind him, and before him the fish fled

leaping.

Then down from the height of the air fell Perseus like a shooting

star; down to the crests of the waves, while Andromeda hid her face

as he shouted; and then there was silence for a while.

At last she looked up trembling, and saw Perseus springing toward

her; and instead of the monster a long black rock, with the sea

rippling quietly round it.

Who then so proud as Perseus, as he leapt back to the rock, and

lifted his fair Andromeda in his arms, and flew with her to the

cliff top, as a falcon carries a dove?

Who so proud as Perseus, and who so joyful as all the AEthiop

people? For they had stood watching the monster from the cliffs,

wailing for the maiden's fate. And already a messenger had gone to

Cepheus and Cassiopoeia, where they sat in sackcloth and ashes on

the ground, in the innermost palace chambers, awaiting their

daughter's end. And they came, and all the city with them, to see

the wonder, with songs and with dances, with cymbals and harps, and

received their daughter back again, as one alive from the dead.

Then Cepheus said, "Hero of the Hellens, stay here with me and be my

son-in-law, and I will give you the half of my kingdom."

"I will be your son-in-law," said Perseus, "but of your kingdom I

will have none, for I long after the pleasant land of Greece, and my

mother who waits for me at home."

Then Cepheus said, "You must not take my daughter away at once, for

she is to us like one alive from the dead. Stay with us here a year,

and after that you shall return with honour." And Perseus consented.

So they went up to the palace; and when they came in, there stood in

the hall Phineus, the brother of Cepheus, chafing like a bear robbed

of her whelps, and with him his sons, and his servants, and many an

armed man, and he cried to Cepheus:

"You shall not marry your daughter to this stranger of whom no one

knows even the name. Was not Andromeda betrothed to my son? And now

she is safe again, has he not a right to claim her?"

But Perseus laughed, and answered: "If your son is in want of a

bride, let him save a maiden for himself."

Then he unveiled the Gorgon's head, and said, "This has delivered my

bride from one wild beast; it shall deliver her from many." And as

he spoke Phineus and all his men-at-arms stopped short, and

stiffened each man as he stood; and before Perseus had drawn the

goat-skin over the face again, they were all turned into stone. Then

Perseus bade the people bring levers and roll them out.

So they made a great wedding feast, which lasted seven whole days,

and who so happy as Perseus and Andromeda?

And when a year was ended Perseus hired Phoenicians from Tyre, and

cut down cedars, and built himself a a noble galley; and painted its

cheeks with vermilion and pitched its sides with pitch; and in it he

put Andromeda, and all her dowry of jewels, and rich shawls, and

spices from the East; and great was the weeping when they rowed

away. But the remembrance of his brave deed was left behind; and

Andromeda's rock was shown at Iopa in Palestine till more than a

thousand years were past.

So Perseus and the Phoenicians rowed to the westward, across the

sea, till they came to the pleasant Isles of Hellas, and Seriphos,

his ancient home.

Then he left his galley on the beach, and went up as of old; and he

embraced his mother, and Dictys his good foster-father, and they

wept over each other a long while, for it was seven years and more

since they had met.

Then he went home to Argos, and reigned there well with fair

Andromeda. But the will of the gods was accomplished towards

Acrisius, his grandfather, for he died from the falling of a quoit

which Perseus had thrown in a game.

Perseus and Andromeda had four sons and three daughters, and died in

a good old age. And when they died, the ancients say, Athene took

them up into the sky, with Cepheus and Cassiopoeia. And there on

starlight nights you may see them shining still; Cepheus with his

kingly crown, and Cassiopoeia in her ivory chair, plaiting her star-

spangled tresses, and Perseus with the Gorgon's head, and fair

Andromeda beside him, spreading her long white arms across the

heavens, as she stood when chained to the stone for the monster. All

night long they shine, for a beacon to wandering sailors; but all

day they feast with the gods, on the still blue peaks of Olympus.

CHAPTER II

HERCULES

Many, many years ago in the far-off land of Hellas, which we call

Greece, lived a happy young couple whose names were Alcmene and

Amphitryon. Now Amphitryon, the husband, owned many herds of cattle.

So also the father of Alcmene, who was King of Mycenae, owned many.

All these cattle grazing together and watering at the same springs

became united in one herd. And this was the cause of much trouble,

for Amphitryon fell to quarreling with the father of his wife about

his portion of the herd. At last he slew his father-in-law, and from

that day he fled his old home at Mycenae.

Alcmene went with her husband and the young couple settled at

Thebes, where were born to them two boys--twins--which were later

named Hercules and Iphicles.

From the child's very birth Zeus, the King of all heaven that is the

air and clouds, and the father of gods and men--from the boy's very

birth Zeus loved Hercules. But when Hera, wife of Zeus, who shared

his honours, saw this love she was angry. Especially she was angry

because Zeus foretold that Hercules should become the greatest of

men.

Therefore one night, when the two babies were but eight months old,

Hera sent two huge serpents to destroy them. The children were

asleep in the great shield of brass which Amphitryon carried in

battle for his defence. It was a good bed, for it was round and

curved toward the centre, and filled with soft blankets which

Alcmene and the maids of the house had woven at their looms. Forward

toward this shield the huge snakes were creeping, and just as they

lifted their open mouths above the rim, and were making ready to

seize them, the twins opened their eyes. Iphicles screamed with

fright. His cries wakened their mother, Alcmene, who called in a

loud voice for help. But before Amphitryon and the men of the

household could draw their swords and rush to the rescue, the baby

Hercules, sitting up in the shield unterrified and seizing a serpent

in each hand, had choked and strangled them till they died.

From his early years Hercules was instructed in the learning of his

time. Castor, the most experienced charioteer of his day, taught

him, Eurytus also, how to shoot with a bow and arrows; Linus how to

play upon the lyre; and Eumolpus, grandson of the North Wind,

drilled him in singing. Thus time passed to his eighteenth year

when, so great already had become his strength and knowledge, he

killed a fierce lion which had preyed upon the flocks of Amphitryon

while they were grazing on Mount Cithaeron, and which had in fact

laid waste many a fat farm of the surrounding country.

But the anger of Hera still followed Hercules, and the goddess sent

upon him a madness. In this craze the hero did many unhappy deeds.

For punishment and in expiation he condemned himself to exile, and

at last he went to the great shrine of the god Apollo at Delphi to

ask whither he should go and where settle. The Pythia, or priestess

in the temple, desired him to settle at Tiryns, to serve as bondman

to Eurystheus, who ruled at Mycenae as King, and to perform the

great labours which Eurystheus should impose upon him. When these

tasks were all accomplished, the inspired priestess added, Hercules

should be numbered among the immortal gods.

THE FIRST LABOUR--WRESTLING WITH THE NEMEAN LION

The first task which Eurystheus required of Hercules was to bring

him the skin of a lion which no arrow nor other weapon could wound,

and which had long been a terror to the good people who lived in

Nemea. Hercules set forth armed with bow and quiver, but paused in

the outer wood of Nemea long enough to cut himself his famous club.

There too he fell in with an honest countryman who pledged him to

make a sacrifice to Zeus, the saviour, if he, Hercules, should

return victorious; but if he were slain by the monstrous lion, then

the countryman should make the sacrifice a funeral offering to

himself as a hero.

So Hercules proceeded, far into a dense wood, deserted because all

people feared the fierce beast it protected. On he went till after

many days he sighted the lion at rest near the cave which was its

den. Standing behind a tree of great girth, Hercules fitted and let

fly an arrow. It struck and glanced, leaving the animal unharmed.

Then he tried another shot, aiming at the heart. Again the arrow

failed. But the lion was by this time roused, and his eyes shot

fiery glances, and the heavy roar from his throat made the woods

most horribly resound. Then the devoted Hercules seized his heavy

wooden club, and rushing forward drove the lion by the suddenness

and fierceness of his assault into his den. But the den had two

entrances. Against one Hercules rolled huge stones, and entering the

cave by the other he grasped the lion's throat with both hands, and

thus held him struggling and gasping for breath till he lay at his

feet dead.

Hercules swung the mighty bulk upon his shoulders and proceeded to

seek the countryman with whom his pledge stood. So great had been

his journey, and so hard his search, that he did not find the good

man till the last of the thirty days. There he stood just on the

point of offering a sheep to Hercules, supposing him dead. Together

they sacrificed the sheep to Zeus instead, and Hercules, vigorous

and victorious, bore the mighty lion's body to Eurystheus at

Mycenae.

Entering the place and throwing the carcass down before the king,

Hercules so terrified Eurystheus by this token of his wonderful

strength that the King forbade him ever again to enter the city.

Indeed some say that the terror of Eurystheus was so great that he

had a jar or vessel of brass secretly constructed underground which

he might use as a safe retreat in case of danger. This "jar" was

probably a chamber and its walls covered within with plates of

brass. For now in our own day is seen there at Mycenae a room under

the earth, and the nails which fastened the brass plates to the wall

still remain. Ever after the conquest of this lion Hercules clothed

himself with the skin.

THE SECOND LABOUR--DESTROYING THE LERNEAN HYDRA

The second task of Hercules was to destroy a hydra or water snake

which dwelt in the marsh of Lerna, a small lake near Mycenae. The

body of this snake was large and from its body sprang nine heads.

Eight of these heads were mortal, but the ninth head was undying.

Hercules stepped into his chariot and his dear nephew Iolaus, who

was permitted by the Delphic priestess to drive for him, took up the

reins. The way to Lerna was pleasant. In spring-time crocuses and

hyacinths sprang by the roadside, and in early summer the

nightingales sang in the olive groves, vineyard and forest. That so

great and horrible a monster could be near!

When Hercules and Iolaus came to Lerna they drew close to ground

rising near a spring, and Hercules dismounting and searching found

the very hole into which the hydra had retired. Into this he shot

fiery arrows. The arrows discomforting the snake it crawled forth

and, darting at him furiously, endeavoured to twine itself about his

legs. The hero began then to wield his mighty club. He crushed head

after head upon the snake's body, but for every one crushed two

sprang in its place.

At length the hydra had coiled so firmly round one leg, that

Hercules could not move an inch from the spot. And now an enormous

crab came from the water out of friendship for the hydra, and that

too crept up to Hercules and, seizing his foot, painfully wounded

him.

Swinging his club with heroic vigor Hercules beat the crab to death.

Then he called to Iolaus to fire a little grove of trees near by.

Iolaus at once set the fire, and when the saplings were well aflame

he seized them and, standing by the hero, as fast as Hercules cut

off a head of the hydra he seared the neck with a flaming brand. The

searing prevented the heads from growing again. When all the eight

mortal heads had thus been dispatched Hercules struck off the one

said to be immortal and buried it in the roadway, setting a heavy

stone above. The body of the hydra he cut up and dipped his arrows

in the gall, which was so full of poison that the least scratch from

such an arrow would bring certain death.

Eurystheus received the news of the destruction of the water snake

with bad grace. He claimed that Hercules had not destroyed the

monster alone, but only with the assistance of Iolaus. All the

people, however, rejoiced greatly, and they hastened to drain the

marsh where the hydra had dwelt so that never again could such an

enemy abide upon their lands.

THE THIRD LABOUR--CAPTURING THE ARCADIAN HIND

In the days in which Hercules lived, Arcadia was a beautiful country

of cool, sweet-scented woods, clear mountain streams, and sloping

meadow-sides from which rose every now and then the roof of a

hunter's cottage or a shepherd's hutch. It was a country also

peculiarly pleasing to Artemis, the goddess of the chase, and

peculiarly also it was the haunt of all animals especially dear to

the goddess.

A hind was there of such loveliness and grace that Artemis had

marked her for her own, and given her a pair of golden horns so that

she might be known from all other deer and her life thus preserved.

For no good Hellen, or Greek, would slay for food any animal sacred

to a god. This beautiful golden-horned hind Eurystheus ordered

Hercules to bring to him alive, for the irreverence of the King did

not go so far as to demand her dead.

So Hercules went forth for the hunting and, not wishing to wound the

hind, pursued her for one entire year. Up hill he went, down many a

mountain dale, across many a gleaming river, through deep forest and

open field, and always dancing before him were the golden tips of

horns of the hind--near enough to be seen, too far to be seized. At

last tired with the pursuit the lovely beast one day took refuge

upon a mountain side, and there as she sought the water of a river,

Hercules struck her with an arrow. The wound was slight, but it

helped the hero to catch the creature, and to lift her to his

shoulders. Thereupon, he started for the court of Eurystheus.

But the way was long, and it lay through a part of Arcadia where the

bush was heavy, and forests were deep, and mountains were high, and

while Hercules was pursuing his way and bearing his meek-eyed

burden, he one day met the fair goddess to whom the hind was sacred.

Her brother, the beautiful god Apollo, was with her.

Artemis seeing her captured deer cried to the hero, "Mortal, oho!

thus wilt thou violate a creature set aside by the gods?" "Mighty

Artemis and huntress," answered Hercules, "this hind I know is

thine. A twelve-month have I chased and at last caught her. But the

god Necessity forced me! Oh, immortal one, I am not impious.

Eurystheus commanded me to catch the hind and the priestess of

Apollo enjoined me to observe the King's command."

When Artemis understood how Hercules was bond-man she dismissed her

anger, and sent him forward with kind words, and thus he brought the

golden-horned hind to Mycenae and sent it in to the King.

THE FOURTH LABOUR--CAPTURING THE BOAR OF ERYMANTHUS

In the northwestern part of the famed Arcadia where the golden-

horned hind roamed was a range of mountains called Erymanthus. Over

the high tops of this range wandered also a wild beast, but unlike

the lovely hind he was fierce and terrible of aspect and deadly in

encounter. He was known as the boar of Erymanthus. This tusked and

terrible being the King of Mycenae, Eurystheus, commanded the mighty

Hercules, his bondman, to bring alive to him.

Again Hercules set out, and again he fared over hill and across

bright waters, and as he went the birds sang spring songs to him

from vine and tree shade, and yellow crocuses carpeted the earth. In

his journey he came one day to the home of Pholus, a centaur, who

dwelt with other centaurs upon the side of a mountain. Now the

centaurs were, of all the dwellers of that distant land, most unlike

us modern folks. For report has it that they were half that noble

creature man, and half that noble creature horse: that is to say,

they were men as far as the waist, and then came the body of the

horse with its swift four feet. There are those, indeed, who claim

that the centaurs were men and rode their mountain ponies so deftly

that man and horse seemed one whole creature. Be that as it may,

upon this mountain side the centaur Pholus dwelt with others of his

kind, and there to visit with him came Hercules.

The centaur with his hospitable heart and own hands prepared a

dinner of roast meat for the hungry traveller, and as they sat at

the board in genial converse they had much enjoyment. But Hercules

was also thirsty, and the sparkling water from the mountain spring

seemed not to satisfy him. He asked the centaur for wine. "Ah, wine,

my guest-friend Hercules," answered Pholus, "I have none of my own.

Yonder is a jar of old vintage, but it belongs to all the centaurs

of our mountain and I cannot open it." "But friend Pholus," said

Hercules pressingly, "I would I had a little for my stomach's sake."

Now the centaur had a kind heart as we have said, and he rejoiced

that Hercules had come, and to give the hero his desires he opened

the jar. The wine was made from grapes that grew under the fair

skies of Arcadia and its fragrance was like a scent of lilies or of

roses, and when the soft winds entered the door, near which Hercules

sat drinking, it seized the perfume and bore it over the mountain

side. Now hear of all the mischief a little wine may make.

The fragrance in the air told the centaurs, wherever each happened

to be, that their wine jar had been opened, and they rushed to its

resting place perhaps to defend it from any wayfaring thief, perhaps

to help drink it, we do not know. But each came angrily to the mouth

of the cave of Pholus and all were armed with stones and staves

which they had seized as they hastened onward. When they first

entered with raging cries and threatening gesture Hercules grasped

the brands burning on the hospitable hearth and drove them back. As

others pressed behind them the hero drew forth his arrows poisoned

with the gall of the Lernean hydra, and sent among them many a

shaft. Thus they fought retreating and, they fleeing and Hercules

pursuing, came finally to the dwelling of Chiron, most famed of all

the centaurs and a teacher of Hercules in his youth, teacher of his

great art of surgery.

The wine raging in the veins of Hercules made him for the moment

forgetful of all the good Chiron had bestowed upon him, and still

letting fly his poisonous arrows he, aiming at another, hit the

noblest of the centaurs. Grief seized Hercules when he saw what he

had done and he ran and drew out the arrow and applied a soft

ointment which Chiron himself had taught him to make. But it was in

vain, for the centaur, inspiring teacher and famed for his love of

justice as he was, soon gave up the ghost.

Saddened at his own madness Hercules now returned to the cave of his

guest-friend Pholus. There among others his host lay, and stark

dead. He had drawn an arrow from the body of one who had died from

its wound, and, while examining it and wondering how so slight a

shaft could be so fatal, had accidentally dropped it out of his

hand. It struck his foot and he expired that very moment.

Hercules paid all funeral honour to his friends and afterward

departing from the unhappy neighbourhood took up his search of the

boar.

Heavy snows were lying on the crests of Erymanthus when Hercules

came upon the tracks of the wild creature, and following patiently

finally reached his lair. There the boar stood, his tusks pointed

outward ready for attack, his eyes snapping vindictively. He was

indeed a terrible thing to see.

Hercules, instead of shooting at the animal, began to call, and

shouting with loud cries he so confused the boar that he ran into

the vast snowdrift standing near by. Thereupon the hero seized and

bound him with a wild grapevine he had brought for the purpose. And

so swinging him over his shoulder he took his way toward Mycenae.

The King Eurystheus was terribly frightened at the very prospect of

having the boar to keep, and when he heard Hercules was coming to

town with the animal on his shoulders he took to the brazen

underground chamber, which he had built, when Hercules came in with

the body of the Nemean lion. There he stayed for several days,

according to a good old historian, Diodorus, who in writing of the

King told that he was so great a coward.

THE FIFTH LABOUR--CLEANSING THE STABLES OF AUGEAS

Although Eurystheus was seized with tremor at the coming of Hercules

with the Erymanthian boar, still he continued relentless, and

demanded the performance of the next task, which was nothing less

than the cleaning out in one day of stables where numerous cattle

had been confined for many years. These noisome stalls belonged to

Augeas, a King of Elis and a man rich in herds--so rich indeed that

as the years passed and his cattle increased he could not find men

enough to care for his kine and their house. Thus the animals had

continued, and had so littered their abiding place that it had

become well nigh intolerable and a source of disease and even of

pestilence to the people.

When Hercules came to King Augeas he said nothing to him of the

command Eurystheus had laid upon him, but looking through the

stables which covered a space of many meadows he spoke of the cattle

and the evil condition of their housing. "The moon-eyed kine will do

better in clean stables," said the wise Hercules, "and if thou wilt

pledge me a tenth of thy herds I will clean out thy stalls in a

day." To this Augeas delightedly agreed and, speaking as they were

in the presence of the young son of the King, Hercules called upon

the prince to witness the pact.

Now Hercules in going about the great stables had noticed that at

the upper end of their building flowed a swift river, and at the

lower end was a second swift stream. When therefore Augeas had

pledged himself to the work, Hercules, beginning early next day,

took down the walls at the upper end of the stalls and the walls at

the lower end. Then with his own mighty hands he dug channels and

canals and led the waters of the upper swift-flowing river into the

heavily littered floor of the stalls. And the waters rose and pushed

the litter before them and made one channel into the lower river,

and then another and another and so, working through the hours of

the day, the upper river scoured the stables clean and carried the

refuse to the lower river. And the lower river took the burden and

carried it out to the salt sea, which is ever and always cleaning

and purifying whatever comes to its waters. And when night fell

there stood the hero Hercules looking at his work--the filthy

stables of Augeas cleaned.

When next day Hercules asked for the tenth of the herds which the

King had pledged, Augeas refused to stand by his agreement. He had

learned that this labour of cleaning his stables had been imposed

upon Hercules, and he claimed he should pay nothing for it; in fact,

he denied he had promised anything, and offered to lay the matter

before judges. The cause therefore was tried, and at the trial the

young son of the King, who had witnessed the pact, testified to the

truth of Hercules' claim. This so enraged his father that in most

high-handed manner he banished both his son and the hero from Elis

without waiting for the judgment of the court. Hercules returned to

Mycenae. But again the cowardly and contemptible Eurystheus refused

to count this labour, saying Hercules had done it for hire.

THE SIXTH LABOUR--SHOOTING THE STYMPHALIAN BIRDS

Far in the famed land of Arcadia is a beautiful lake known so many

years ago, as in the time of Hercules, and even by us in our day, as

Lake Stymphalus. It is a lake of pure sweet water and it lies, as

such waters lie in our own country, high up in mountains and amid

hillsides covered with firs and poplars and clinging vines and wild

blossoms.

In our day the lake is a resort for gentle singing birds, but in the

time of Hercules other birds were there also. The other birds were

water fowls, and they had gathered at Lake Stymphalus because they

had been driven out of their old home by wolves, who alone were

hungrier and more destructive than they. These fowls had claws of

iron, and every feather of theirs was sharper than a barbed arrow,

and so strong and fierce and ravenous they were that they would dart

from the air and attack hunters, yea, and pecking them down would

tear and strip their flesh till but a bony skeleton remained of that

which a few minutes before had been a strong, active, buoyant man

seeking in the chase food for his hearthside.

To make way with this horrid tribe of the air was the sixth command

Eurystheus laid upon Hercules. Toward Lake Stymphalus therefore

turned our hero. Again he walked Arcadian waysides, and again as he

fared the spring sun shone above, and the birds sang welcome, and

the narcissus lifted its golden cup, and as he went his heart

rejoiced in his life, whatever the difficulty of his labour, and in

the beauty of the world before his eyes. And as he walked also he

thought of how he should accomplish the great undertaking upon which

he was bent.

While thus deliberating the grey-eyed goddess of wisdom, Athene,

came to him--just as this goddess even in our day comes to those who

think--and she suggested to his mind that he should scare the fowl

from their retreat by brazen rattles. The goddess did even more than

put the notion of using a rattle in the mind of Hercules. It is said

she actually brought him one, a huge, bronze clapper made for him by

the forger of the gods, limping Hephaestus.

Hercules took this rattle and mounting a neighbouring height shook

it in his great hands till every hill echoed and the very trees

quivered with the horrid sound. And the man-eating birds? Not one

remained hidden. Each and every one rose terrified in the air,

croaking and working its steely talons and sharp-pointed feathers in

dire fear.

Now from his quiver the hero fast picked his barbed arrows, and fast

he shot and every shot brought to his feet one of the terrible man-

eaters, till at last he had slain every one. Or, if indeed, any of

the tribe had escaped, they had flown far away, for never after, in

all the long history of Lake Stymphalus, have such creatures

appeared again above its fair waters.

So ended the sixth labour of Hercules.

THE SEVENTH LABOUR--CAPTURING THE CRETAN BULL

Just as Zeus who, as we said in the beginning, was King of all

heaven that is the air and clouds, so Posidon was King of the sea.

With his queen, Amphitrite, he lived far down underneath the waves,

and dwelt in a palace splendid with all the beautiful things of the

deep.

In the midst of the blue waters of the Mediterranean where Posidon

had his home, lies an island called Crete, and long ago in the days

when Hercules laboured, a King, whose name was Minos, ruled over

this land. The island is long and narrow and has much sea coast, and

because of this fact King Minos stood in intimate relations with the

god of the sea.

Now one day in an especial burst of friendliness, Minos vowed to

sacrifice to Posidon whatever should come out of the salt waters.

The god in pleasure at the vow, and to test mayhap the devotion of

Minos, sent at once a beautiful bull leaping and swimming through

the waves. When the creature had come to the rocky coast and made

land, its side shone with such beauty, and its ivory-white horns

garlanded with lilies set so like a crown above its graceful head

that Minos and all the people who saw it marvelled that anywhere

could have grown such a bull. And a sort of greed and deceit seized

Minos as he gazed, and for his sacrifice to Posidon he resolved to

use another bull. And so he ordered his herdsman to take this fair

creature that had come from the sea and to put it among his herd,

and also to bring forth another for the offering.

Because of this avarice of Minos the god below the waves was angry

and he made the bull wild and furious, so that no herdsman dared

approach to feed or care for it. For his seventh task Eurystheus

commanded Hercules to fetch him this mad bull of Crete.

Hercules accordingly boarded one of the ships that plied in that

far-off day, as well as in this time of ours, between the rocky

coast of Crete and the fair land of Hellas, and in due time the hero

came to Minos' court. "I have come, sire," said Hercules, "for the

mad bull that terrifies thy herdsmen and is rumoured beyond

capture." "Ay, young man," cried the king, "thou hast come for my

bull and my bull shalt thou have. When thou hast taken it, it is

thine," and the King laughed grimly, for the strength and fury of

the creature he deemed beyond any man's control.

Hercules sought the grove where Posidon's gift had strayed from its

fellows, and there deftly seizing it by the horns, he bound its feet

with stout straps of bull's hide and its horns he padded with moss

of the sea from which it came, and so having made it powerless he

lifted it to his shoulders and carried it to the shore. A swift

black ship was just spreading sail from Crete, and entering upon it

the hero soon ended his journey and laid his capture before

Eurystheus. A day or two later Hercules loosed the bull, which,

after wandering through the woodlands of Arcadia, crossed the

isthmus and came to the plains of Marathon, whence, after doing much

damage, it swam off to sea and was never heard of after.

So far we have told how Hercules accomplished seven of the tasks

laid upon him. Space does not permit us to recount in detail the

other five. The eighth task was to bring to Eurystheus the man-

eating mares of the King of Windy Thrace. The ninth task was to

fetch a girdle which Ares, god of war, had given the Queen of the

Amazons--an exceedingly difficult labour, for the Amazons were a

nation of women-warriors renowned for valour. For the tenth task

Eurystheus demanded the purple oxen of a famous giant who dwelt on

an island far out in the ocean. The eleventh task was to bring

apples from the garden of the Hesperides--golden apples guarded by a

dragon with a hundred heads, no one of which ever closed its eyes in

sleep. And the twelfth and last task, which was to free the mighty

Hercules from his bondage to cowardly Eurystheus, was to fetch

Cerberus, the three-headed dog, who guarded the entrance to Hades,

the unseen abode of departed spirits.

Each and every one of these labours the strong hero accomplished.

Having won his freedom and gained the honours promised by the

priestess at Delphi many years before, Hercules worked many a noble

deed and finally in reward for his much enduring and his aid to

mortals, he was carried upon a thunder cloud to the upper air, and

entered into the very gates of heaven.

CHAPTER III

DANIEL

It pleased Darius to set over the kingdom an hundred and twenty

princes, which should be over the whole kingdom.

And over these three presidents; of whom Daniel was first: that the

princes might give accounts unto them, and the King should have no

damage.

Then this Daniel was preferred above the presidents and princes,

because an excellent spirit was in him; and the King thought to set

him over the whole realm.

Then the presidents and princes sought to find occasion against

Daniel concerning the kingdom; but they could find none occasion nor

fault; forasmuch as he was faithful, neither was there any error or

fault found in him.

Then said these men, We shall not find any occasion against this

Daniel, except we find it against him concerning the law of his God.

Then these presidents and princes assembled together to the King,

and said thus unto him, King Darius, live for ever.

All the presidents of the kingdom, the governors, and the princes,

the counsellors, and the captains, have consulted together to

establish a royal statute, and to make a firm decree, that whosoever

shall ask a petition of any god or man for thirty days, save of

thee, O King, he shall be cast into the den of lions.

Now, O King, establish the decree, and sign the writing, that it be

not changed, according to the law of the Medes and Persians, which

altereth not.

Wherefore King Darius signed the writing and the decree.

Now when Daniel knew that the writing was signed, he went into his

house; and his windows being open in his chamber toward Jerusalem,

he kneeled upon his knees three times a day, and prayed, and gave

thanks before his God, as he did aforetime.

Then these men assembled, and found Daniel praying and making

supplication before his God.

Then they came near, and spake before the King concerning the King's

decree; Hast thou not signed a decree, that every man that shall ask

a petition of any god or man within thirty days, save of thee, O

King, shall be cast into the den of lions? The King answered and

said, The thing is true, according to the law of the Medes and

Persians, which altereth not.

Then answered they and said before the King, That Daniel, which is

of the children of the captivity of Judah, regardeth not thee, O

King, nor the decree that thou hast signed, but maketh his petition

three times a day.

Then the King, when he heard these words, was sore displeased with

himself, and set his heart on Daniel to deliver him: and he laboured

till the going down of the sun to deliver him.

Then these men assembled unto the King, and said unto the King,

Know, O King, that the law of the Medes and Persians is, That no

decree nor statute which the King establisheth may be changed.

Then the King commanded, and they brought Daniel, and cast him into

the den of lions. Now the King spake and said unto Daniel, Thy God

whom thou servest continually, he will deliver thee.

And a stone was brought, and laid upon the mouth of the den; and the

King sealed it with his own signet, and with the signet of his

lords; that the purpose might not be changed concerning Daniel.

Then the King went to his palace, and passed the night fasting:

neither were instruments of music brought before him: and his sleep

went from him.

Then the King arose very early in the morning, and went in haste

unto the den of lions.

And when he came to the den, he cried with a lamentable voice unto

Daniel: and the King spake and said to Daniel, O Daniel, servant of

the living God, is thy God, whom thou servest continually, able to

deliver thee from the lions?

Then said Daniel unto the King, O King, live for ever.

My God hath sent his angel, and hath shut the lions' mouths, that

they have not hurt me: forasmuch as before him innocency was found

in me: and also before thee, O King, have I done no hurt.

Then was the King exceeding glad for him, and commanded that they

should take Daniel up out of the den. So Daniel was taken up out of

the den, and no manner of hurt was found upon him, because he

believed in his God.

CHAPTER IV

DAVID

The Philistines gathered together their armies to battle, and were

gathered together at Shochoh, which belongeth to Judah, and pitched

between Shochoh and Azekah, in Ephes-dammim.

And Saul and the men of Israel were gathered together, and pitched

by the valley of Elah, and set the battle in array against the

Philistines.

And the Philistines stood on a mountain on the one side, and Israel

stood on a mountain on the other side; and there was a valley

between them.

And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines,

named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span.

And he had an helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a

coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels

of brass.

And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass

between his shoulders.

And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam; and his spear's

head weighed six hundred shekels of iron; and one bearing a shield

went before him.

And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto

them, Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? am not I a

Philistine, and ye servants to Saul? choose you a man for you, and

let him come down to me.

If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your

servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye

be our servants, and serve us.

And the Philistine said, I defy the armies of Israel this day; give

me a man, that we may fight together.

When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they

were dismayed, and greatly afraid.

Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose

name was Jesse; and he had eight sons: and the man went among men

for an old man in the days of Saul.

And the three eldest sons of Jesse went and followed Saul to the

battle: and the names of his three sons that went to the battle were

Eliab the firstborn, and next unto him Abinadab, and the third

Shammah.

And David was the youngest: and the three eldest followed Saul.

But David went and returned from Saul to feed his father's sheep at

Bethlehem.

And the Philistine drew near morning and evening, and presented

himself forty days.

And Jesse said unto David his son, Take now for thy brethren an

ephah of this parched corn, and these ten loaves, and run to the

camp to thy brethren;

And carry these ten cheeses unto the captain of their thousand, and

look how thy brethren fare, and take their pledge.

Now Saul, and they, and all the men of Israel, were in the valley of

Elah, fighting with the Philistines.

And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a

keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came

to the trench, as the host was going forth to the fight, and shouted

for the battle.

For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array army

against army.

And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the

carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his brethren.

And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the

Philistine of Gam, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the

Philistines, and spake according to the same words; and David heard

them.

And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him, and

were sore afraid.

And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man that is come up?

surely to defy Israel is he come up; and it shall be, that the man

who killeth him, the King will enrich him with great riches, and

will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free in

Israel.

And David spake to the men that stood by him, saying, What shall be

done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the

reproach from Israel? for who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that

he should defy the armies of the living God?

And the people answered him after this manner, saying, So shall it

be done to the man that killeth him.

And Eliab his eldest brother heard when he spake unto the men; and

Eliab's anger was kindled against David, and he said, Why camest

thou down hither? and with whom hast thou left those few sheep in

the wilderness? I know thy pride, and the naughtiness of thine

heart; for thou art come down that thou mightest see the battle.

And David said, What have I now done? Is there not a cause?

And he turned from him toward another, and spake after the same

manner: and the people answered him again after the former manner.

And when the words were heard which David spake, they rehearsed them

before Saul: and he sent for him.

And David said to Saul, Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy

servant will go and fight with this Philistine.

And Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this

Philistine to fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man

of war from his youth.

And David said unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father's sheep, and

there came a lion, and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock:

And I went out after him, and smote him, and delivered it out of his

mouth: and when he arose against me, I caught him by his beard, and

smote him, and slew him.

Thy servant slew both the lion and the bear: and this uncircumcised

Philistine shall be as one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies

of the living God.

David said moreover, The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of

the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of

the hand of this Philistine. And Saul said unto David, Go, and the

Lord be with thee.

And Saul armed David with his armour, and he put an helmet of brass

upon his head; also he armed him with a coat of mail.

And David girded his sword upon his armour, and he essayed to go;

for he had not proved it. And David said unto Saul, I cannot go with

these; for I have not proved them. And David put them off him.

And he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones

out of the brook, and put them in a shepherd's bag which he had,

even in a scrip; and his sling was in his hand: and he drew near to

the Philistine.

And the Philistine came on and drew near unto David; and the man

that bore the shield went before him.

And when the Philistine looked about, and saw David, he disdained

him: for he was but a youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance.

And the Philistine said unto David, Am I a dog, that thou comest to

me with staves? And the Philistine cursed David by his gods.

And the Philistine said to David, Come to me, and I will give thy

flesh unto the fowls of the air, and to the beasts of the field.

Then said David to the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword,

and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name

of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou

hast defied.

This day will the Lord deliver thee into mine hand; and I will smite

thee, and take thine head from thee; and I will give the carcasses

of the host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air,

and to the wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know

that there is a God in Israel.

And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with sword

and spear: for the battle is the Lord's and He will give you into

our hands.

And it came to pass, when the Philistine arose, and came and drew

nigh to meet David, that David hasted, and ran toward the army to

meet the Philistine.

And David put his hand to his bag, and took thence a stone, and

slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead, that the stone

sunk into his forehead; and he fell upon his face to the earth.

So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a

stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no

sword in the hand of David.

Therefore David ran, and stood upon the Philistine, and took his

sword, and drew it out of the sheath thereof, and slew him, and cut

off his head therewith. And when the Philistines saw their champion

was dead, they fled.

And the men of Israel and of Judah arose, and shouted, and pursued

the Philistines, until thou comest to the valley, and to the gates

of Ekron. And the wounded of the Philistines fell down by the way to

Shaaraim, even unto Gath, and unto Ekron.

And the children of Irsael returned from chasing after the

Philistines, and they spoiled their tents.

And David took the head of the Philistine, and brought it to

Jerusalem; but he put his armour in his tent.

And when Saul saw David go forth against the Philistine, he said

unto Abner, the captain of the host, Abner, whose son is this youth?

And Abner said, As thy soul liveth, O King, I cannot tell.

And the King said, Enquire thou whose son the stripling is.

And as David returned from the slaughter of the Philistine, Abner

took him, and brought him before Saul with the head of the

Philistine in his hand.

And Saul said to him, Whose son art thou, thou young man? And David

answered, I am the son of thy servant Jesse the Bethlehemite.

CHAPTER V

ST. GEORGE

In the year 280, in a town in Cappadocia, was born that great

soldier and champion of the oppressed whom we call St. George. His

parents were Christians, and by them, and especially by his mother,

he was most carefully instructed and trained.

When the youth came to the age of seventeen years he took up the

profession of arms, and since he was gifted with beauty of person,

intelligence, and an exquisite courtesy, he rose rapidly to a

considerable military rank. Especially he pleased his imperial

master, Diocletian.

One day while the Emperor, who was devoted to the worship of Apollo,

was consulting at a shrine of that god upon an affair of much

importance, from the dark depths of the cavern came forth a voice

saying, "The just who are on the earth keep me from telling the

truth. By them the inspiration of the Sacred Tripod is made a lie."

At once the Emperor was stricken with consternation and asked who

these just people were. "Master," answered one of the priests of

Apollo, "they are the Christians." This answer so enraged Diocletian

that he rekindled his persecutions.

Now from the first the young soldier George had burned with

indignation because of the unspeakable cruelties put upon

Christians, and he had spoken out boldly in defence of his brethren.

His friends had counselled silence and prudence. But George would

have none. He knew, however, that he might be called upon to suffer

at any time, and he hoped to do better work for the world and to die

after braver effort. He therefore distributed his money and his fine

apparel among the poor and needy, set free all the slaves he

possessed, and went forth upon knightly travel.

While pricking one day through the plains of Libya he came to a

certain city called Silene, the people of which were bewailing a

dire misfortune that had come upon them. An enormous dragon had

issued from a marsh neighbouring the town and had devoured all their

flocks and herds. Already the monster had taken dwelling near the

city walls, and at such distance the people had been able to keep

him only by granting him two sheep every day for his food and drink.

If they had failed in this he would have come within their walls and

poisoned every man, woman, and child with his plague-like breath.

But now already all the flocks and herds had been eaten. Nothing

remained to fill the insatiable maw of the dragon but the little

people of the homes and hearths of all the town. Every day two

children were now given him. Each child taken was under the age of

fifteen, and was chosen by lot. Thus it happened that every house

and every street and all the public squares echoed with the wailing

of unhappy parents and the cries of the innocents who were soon to

be offered.

Now it chanced that the King of the city had one daughter, an

exceeding fair girl both in mind and body, and after many days of

the choosing of lots for the sacrifice, and after many a blooming

girl and boy had met an unhappy death, the lot fell to this maiden,

Cleodolinda. When her father, the King, heard his misfortune, in his

despair he offered all the gold in the state treasury and even half

his kingdom, to redeem the maiden. But at this many fathers and

mothers who had lost their children murmured greatly and said, "O

King, art thou just? By thy edict thou hast made us desolate. And

now behold thou wouldst withhold thine own child!"

Thus the people spake, and speaking they waxed wroth greatly, and so

joining together they marched threatening to burn the King in his

palace unless he delivered the maiden to fulfil her lot. To such

demands the King perforce submitted, and at last he asked only a

delay of eight days which he might spend with the lovely girl and

bewail her fate. This the people granted.

At the end of the time agreed to the fair victim was led forth. She

fell at her father's feet asking his blessing and protesting she was

ready to die for her people. Then amid tears and lamentations she

was led to the walls and put without. The gates were shut and barred

against her.

She walked towards the dwelling of the dragon, slowly and painfully,

for the road was strewn with the bones of her playmates, and she

wept as she went on her way.

It was this very morning that George, courageously seeking to help

the weak, and strong to serve the truth, was passing by in his

knightly journeying. He saw stretched before him the noisome path,

and, moved to see so beautiful a maiden in tears, he checked his

charger and asked her why she wept. The whole pitiful story she

recounted, to which the valiant one answered, "Fear not; I will

deliver you."

"Oh noble youth," cried the fair victim, "tarry not here lest you

perish with me. Fly, I beseech you."

"God forbid that I should fly," said George in answer; "I will lift

my hand against this loathly thing, and I will deliver you through

the power that lives in all true followers of Christ."

At that moment the dragon was seen coming forth from his lair half

flying and half crawling towards them. "Fly, I beseech you, brave

knight," cried the fair girl trembling, "Leave me here to die."

But George answered not. Rather he put spurs to his horse and,

calling upon his Lord, rushed towards the monster, and, after a

terrible and prolonged combat, pinned the mighty hulk to the earth

with his lance. Then he called to the maiden to bring him her

girdle. With this he bound the dragon fast, and gave the end of the

girdle into her hand, and the subdued monster crawled after them

like a dog.

Walking in this way they approached the city. All the onlooking

people were stricken with terror, but George called out to them

saying, "Fear nothing. Only believe in Christ, through whose help I

have conquered this adversary, and live in accord with His

teachings, and I will destroy him before your eyes."

So the King and the people believed and such a life they endeavoured

to live.

Then St. George slew the dragon and cut off his head, and the King

gave great treasure to the knight. But all the rewards George

distributed among the sick and necessitous and kept nothing for

himself, and then he went further on his way of helpfulness.

About this time the Emperor Diocletian issued an edict which was

published the length and breadth of his empire. This edict was

nailed to the doors of temples, upon the walls of public markets, in

all places people frequented, and those who read it read it with

terror and hid their faces in despair. For it condemned all

Christians. But St. George when he saw the writing was filled with

indignation. That spirit and courage which comes to all of us from

communion with the eternal powers heartened and strengthened him,

and he tore down the unhappy utterance and trampled it under foot.

Thus prepared for death George approached the Emperor. "What wouldst

thou?" cried Diocletian angrily, having heard from his proconsul

Dacian that this young man deserved torture. "Liberty, sir, for the

innocent Christians," answered the martyr. "At the least liberty,

since their liberty can hurt no one."

"Young man," returned Diocletian with threatening looks, "think of

thine own liberty and thy future."

Before George could make answer the ill-will of the tyrant waxed to

ardent hatred and he summoned guards to take the martyr to prison.

Once within the dungeon the keepers threw him to the ground, put his

feet in stocks and placed a stone of great weight upon his chest.

But even so, in the midst of torture, the blessed one ceased not to

give thanks to God for this opportunity to bear witness to Christ's

teachings.

The next day they stretched the martyr on a wheel full of sharp

spokes. But a voice from heaven came to comfort him and said,

"George, fear not; so it is with those who witness to the truth."

And there appeared to him an angel brighter than the sun, clothed in

a white robe, who stretched out a hand to embrace and encourage him

in his pain. Two of the officers of the prison who saw this

beautiful vision became Christians and from that day endeavoured to

live after the teachings of Christ.

There is still another tale that after George had been comforted by

the angel who descended from heaven, his tormentors flung him into a

cauldron of boiling lead, and when they believed they had subdued

him by the force of his agonies, they brought him to a temple to

assist in their worship, and the people ran in crowds to behold his

humiliation, and the priests mocked him.

The Emperor, seeing the constancy of George, once more sought to

move him by entreaties. But the great soldier refused to be judged

by words, only by deeds. He even demanded to go to see the gods

Diocletian himself worshipped.

The Emperor, believing that at length George was coming to his right

mind, and was about to yield, ordered the Roman Senate and people to

assemble in order that all might be witnesses of George's

acknowledgement of his own, Diocletian's, gods.

When they were thus gathered together in the Emperor's temple, and

the eyes of all the people were fixed upon the weak and tortured

saint to see what he would do, he drew near a statue of the sun-god

Apollo, and stretching out his hand toward the image he said slowly,

"Wouldst thou that I should offer thee sacrifices as to a god?" The

demon who was in the statue made answer, "I am not God. There is but

one God and Christ is his greatest prophet." At that very hour were

heard horrible wailing sounds coming from the mouths of idols the

world over, and the statues of the old gods either all fell over or

crumbled to dust. One account says that St. George knelt down and

prayed, and thunder and lightning from heaven fell upon the idols

and destroyed them.

Angry at the breaking of their power, the priests of the gods cried

to the Emperor that he must rid himself of so potent a magician and

cut off his head. The priests also incited the people to lay hands

on the martyr.

So it was commanded that George, the Christian knight, should be

beheaded. He was dragged to the place of execution, and there,

bending his neck to the sword of the executioner and absorbed in

prayer, he received bravely and thankfully the stroke of death in

April, 303.

So stands St. George ever before the youth of the world, one of the

champions of Christendom, a model of courage, a brave interceder for

the oppressed, an example of pure, firm and enduring doing for

others, a true soldier of Christ.

CHAPTER VI

KING ARTHUR

Long years ago, there ruled over Britain a King called Uther

Pendragon. A mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet, when

he sought the love of the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have

naught to do with him, so that, from grief and disappointment, Uther

fell sick, and at last seemed like to die.

Now in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so

powerful that he could change his form at will, or even make himself

invisible; nor was there any place so remote but that he could reach

it at once, merely by wishing himself there. One day, suddenly he

stood at Uther's bedside, and said: "Sir King, I know thy grief, and

am ready to help thee. Only promise to give me, at his birth, the

son that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have thy heart's

desire." To this the King agreed joyfully, and Merlin kept his word:

for he gave Uther the form of one whom Igraine had loved dearly, and

so she took him willingly for her husband.

When the time had come that a child should be born to the King and

Queen, Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise;

and Uther swore it should be as he had said. Three days later, a

prince was born and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the

name of Arthur; but immediately thereafter, the King commanded that

the child should be carried to the postern-gate, there to be given

to the old man who would be found waiting without.

Not long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come;

so, by Merlin's advice; he called together his knights and barons,

and said to them: "My death draws near. I charge you, therefore,

that ye obey my son even as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon him

if he claim not the crown when he is a man grown." Then the King

turned his face to the wall and died.

Scarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of

the nobles had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them

would have been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought

himself fitted to be King, and, strengthening his own castle, made

war on his neighbours until confusion alone was supreme and the poor

groaned because there was none to help them.

Now when Merlin carried away Arthur--for Merlin was the old man who

had stood at the postern-gate--he had known all that would happen,

and had taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons

until he should be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all

the wonders prophesied of him. He gave the child to the care of the

good knight Sir Ector to bring up with his son Kay, but revealed not

to him that it was the son of Uther Pendragon that was given into

his charge.

At last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth

well skilled in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop of

Canterbury and advised him that he should call together at

Christmas-time all the chief men of the realm to the great cathedral

in London; "For," said Merlin, "there shall be seen a great marvel

by which it shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful King of

this land." The Archbishop did as Merlin counselled. Under pain of a

fearful curse, he bade barons and knights come to London to keep the

feast, and to pray heaven to send peace to the realm.

The people hastened to obey the Archbishop's commands, and, from all

sides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of

our Lord. And when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the

cathedral, they saw a strange sight. There, in the open space before

the church, stood, on a great stone, an anvil thrust through with a

sword; and on the stone were written these words: "Whoso can draw

forth this sword, is rightful King of Britain born."

At once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamouring to be the

first to try his fortune, none doubting his own success. Then the

Archbishop decreed that each should make the venture in turn, from

the greatest baron to the least knight, and each in turn, having put

forth his utmost strength, failed to move the sword one inch, and

drew back ashamed. So the Archbishop dismissed the company, and

having appointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers

through all the land to give word of great jousts to be held in

London at Easter, when each knight could give proof of his skill and

courage, and try whether the adventure of the sword was for him.

Among those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector, and

with him his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young

Arthur. When the morning came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay

and Arthur mounted their horses and set out for the lists; but

before they reached the field, Kay looked and saw that he had left

his sword behind. Immediately Arthur turned back to fetch it for

him, only to find the house fast shut, for all were gone to view the

tournament. Sore vexed was Arthur, fearing lest his brother Kay

should lose his chance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he

bethought him of the sword in the great anvil before the cathedral.

Thither he rode with all speed, and the guards having deserted their

post to view the tournament, there was none to forbid him the

adventure. He leapt from his horse, seized the hilt, and instantly

drew forth the sword as easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting

his horse and thinking no marvel of what he had done, he rode after

his brother and handed him the weapon.

When Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword

from the stone. In great joy he sought his father, and showing it to

him, said: "Then must I be King of Britain." But Sir Ector bade him

say how he came by the sword, and when Sir Kay told how Arthur had

brought it to him, Sir Ector bent his knee to the boy, and said:

"Sir, I perceive that ye are my King, and here I tender you my

homage"; and Kay did as his father. Then the three sought the

Archbishop, to whom they related all that had happened; and he, much

marvelling, called the people together to the great stone, and bade

Arthur thrust back the sword and draw it forth again in the presence

of all, which he did with ease. But an angry murmur arose from the

barons, who cried that what a boy could do, a man could do; so, at

the Archbishop's word, the sword was put back, and each man, whether

baron or knight, tried in his turn to draw it forth, and failed.

Then, for the third time, Arthur drew forth the sword. Immediately

there arose from the people a great shout: "Arthur is King! Arthur

is King! We will have no King but Arthur"; and, though the great

barons scowled and threatened, they fell on their knees before him

while the Archbishop placed the crown upon his head, and swore to

obey him faithfully as their lord and sovereign.

Thus Arthur was made King; and to all he did justice, righting

wrongs and giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those

that had been his friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he

made Seneschal and chief of his household, and to Sir Ector, his

foster father, he gave broad lands.

Thus Arthur was made King, but he had to fight for his own; for

eleven great kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as

their lord, and chief amongst the rebels was King Lot of Orknev who

had married Arthur's sister, Bellicent.

By Merlin's advice, Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors,

the two great Kings who ruled in Gaul. With their aid, he overthrew

his foes in a great battle near the river Trent; and then he passed

with them into their own lands and helped them drive out their

enemies. So there was ever great friendship between Arthur and the

Kings Ban and Bors, and all their kindred; and afterward some of the

most famous Knights of the Round Table were of that kin.

Then King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his

kingdom. To all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he

showed kindness; but those who persisted in oppression and wrong he

removed, putting in their places others who would deal justly with

the people. And because the land had become overrun with forest

during the days of misrule, he cut roads through the thickets, that

no longer wild beasts and men, fiercer than the beasts, should lurk

in their gloom, to the harm of the weak and defenceless. Thus it

came to pass that soon the peasant ploughed his fields in safety,

and where had been wastes, men dwelt again in peace and prosperity.

Amongst the lesser Kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns

and restore order, was King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Now

Leodegrance had one fair child, his daughter Guenevere; and from the

time that first he saw her, Arthur gave her all his love. So he

sought counsel of Merlin, his chief adviser. Merlin heard the King

sorrowfully, and he said: "Sir King, when a man's heart is set, he

may not change. Yet had it been well if ye had loved another."

So the King sent his knights to Leodegrance, to ask of him his

daughter; and Leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good

and knightly a King. With great pomp, the princess was conducted to

Canterbury, and there the King met her, and they two were wed by the

Archbishop in the great Cathedral, amid the rejoicings of the

people.

On that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the

fame of which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure

through all time. Now the Round Table had been made for King Uther

Pendragon by Merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to

all men the roundness of the earth. After Uther died, King

Leodegrance had possessed it; but when Arthur was wed, he sent it to

him as a gift, and great was the King's joy at receiving it. One

hundred and fifty knights might take their places about it, and for

them Merlin made sieges, or seats. One hundred and twenty-eight did

Arthur knight at that great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were

empty, at the high festival of Pentecost new knights were ordained

to fill them, and by magic was the name of each knight found

inscribed, in letters of gold, in his proper siege. One seat only

long remained unoccupied, and that was the Siege Perilous. No knight

might occupy it until the coming of Sir Galahad; for, without danger

to his life, none might sit there who was not free from all stain of

sin.

With pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of

true knighthood: to obey the King; to show mercy to all who asked

it; to defend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a

wrongful cause: and all the knights rejoiced together, doing honour

to Arthur and to his Queen. Then they rode forth to right the wrong

and help the oppressed, and by their aid the King held his realm in

peace, doing justice to all.

Now, as time passed, King Arthur gathered into his Order of the

Round Table knights whose peers shall never be found in any age; and

foremost amongst them all was Sir Launcelot du Lac. Such was his

strength that none against whom he laid lance in rest could keep the

saddle, and no shield was proof against his sword dint; but for his

courtesy even more than for his courage and strength, Sir Launcelot

was famed far and near. Gentle he was and ever the first to rejoice

in the renown of another; and in the jousts, he would avoid

encounter with the young and untried knight, letting him pass to

gain glory if he might.

It would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of Sir

Launcelot, and all his adventures. He was of Gaul, for his father,

King Ban, ruled over Benwick; he was named Launcelot du Lac by the

Lady of the Lake who reared him when his mother died. Early he won

renown; then, when there was peace in his own land, he passed into

Britain, to Arthur's Court, where the King received him gladly, and

made him Knight of the Round Table and took him for his trustiest

friend. And so it was that, when Guenevere was to be brought to

Canterbury, to be married to the King, Launcelot was chief of the

knights sent to wait upon her, and of this came the sorrow of later

days. For, from the moment he saw her, Sir Launcelot loved

Guenevere, for her sake remaining wifeless all his days, and in all

things being her faithful knight. But busy-bodies and mischief-

makers spoke evil of Sir Launcelot and the Queen, and from their

talk came the undoing of the King and the downfall of his great

work. But that was after long years, and after many true knights had

lived their lives, honouring the King and Queen, and doing great

deeds.

Before Merlin passed from the world of men, he had uttered many

marvellous prophesies, and one that boded ill to King Arthur; for he

foretold that, in the days to come, a son of Arthur's sister should

stir up bitter war against the King, and at last a great battle

should be fought, when many a brave knight should find his doom.

Now, among the nephews of Arthur, was one most dishonourable; his

name was Mordred. No knightly deed had he ever done, and he hated to

hear the good report of others because he himself was a coward and

envious. But of all the Round Table there was none that Mordred

hated more than Sir Launcelot du Lac, whom all true knights held in

most honour; and not the less did Mordred hate Launcelot that he was

the knight whom Queen Guenevere had in most esteem. So, at last, his

jealous rage passing all bounds, he spoke evil of the Queen and of

Launcelot, saying that they were traitors to the King. Now Sir

Gawain and Sir Gareth, Mordred's brothers, refused to give ear to

these slanders, holding that Sir Launcelot, in his knightly service

of the Queen, did honour to King Arthur also; but by ill-fortune

another brother, Sir Agravaine, had ill-will to the Queen, and

professed to believe Mordred's evil tales. So the two went to King

Arthur with their ill stories.

Now when Arthur had heard them, he was wroth; for never would he

lightly believe evil of any, and Sir Launcelot was the knight whom

he loved above all others. Sternly then he bade them begone and come

no more to him with unproven tales against any, and, least of all,

against Sir Launcelot and their lady, the Queen.

The two departed, but in their hearts was hatred against Launcelot

and the Queen, more bitter than ever for the rebuke they had called

down upon themselves.

Great was the King's grief. Despite all that Mordred could say, he

was slow to doubt Sir Launcelot, whom he loved, but his mind was

filled with forebodings; and well he knew that their kin would seek

vengeance on Sir Launcelot, and the noble fellowship of the Round

Table be utterly destroyed.

All too soon it proved even as the King had feared. Many were found

to hold with Sir Mordred; some from envy of the honour and worship

of the noble Sir Launcelot; and among them even were those who dared

to raise their voice against the Queen herself, calling for judgment

upon her as leagued with a traitor against the King, and as having

caused the death of so many good knights. Now in those days the law

was that if any one were accused of treason by witnesses, or taken

in the act, that one should die the death by burning, be it man or

woman, knight or churl. So then the murmurs grew to a loud clamour

that the law should have its course, and that King Arthur should

pass sentence on the Queen. Then was the King's woe doubled; "For,"

said he, "I sit as King to be a rightful judge and keep all the law;

wherefore I may not do battle for my own Queen, and now there is

none other to help her." So a decree was issued that Queen Guenevere

should be burnt at the stake outside the walls of Carlisle.

Forthwith, King Arthur sent for his nephew, Sir Gawain, and said to

him: "Fair nephew, I give it in charge to you to see that all is

done as has been decreed." But Sir Gawain answered boldly: "Sir

King, never will I be present to see my lady the Queen die. It is of

ill counsel that ye have consented to her death." Then the King bade

Gawain send his two young brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, to

receive his commands, and these he desired to attend the Queen to

the place of execution. So Gareth made answer for both: "My Lord the

King, we owe you obedience in all things, but know that it is sore

against our wills that we obey you in this; nor will we appear in

arms in the place where that noble lady shall die"; then sorrowfully

they mounted their horses and rode to Carlisle.

When the day appointed had come, the Queen was led forth to a place

without the walls of Carlisle, and there she was bound to the stake

to be burnt to death. Loud were her ladies' lamentations, and many a

lord was found to weep at that grievous sight of a Queen brought so

low; yet was there none who dared come forward as her champion, lest

he should be suspected of treason. As for Gareth and Gaheris, they

could not bear the sight and stood with their faces covered in their

mantles. Then, just as the torch was to be applied to the faggots,

there was a sound as of many horses galloping, and the next instant

a band of knights rushed upon the astonished throng, their leader

cutting down all who crossed his path until he had reached the

Queen, whom he lifted to his saddle and bore from the press. Then

all men knew that it was Sir Launcelot, come knightly to rescue the

Queen, and in their hearts they rejoiced. So with little hindrance

they rode away, Sir Launcelot and all his kin with the Queen in

their midst, till they came to the castle of the Joyous Garde where

they held the Queen in safety and all reverence.

At last Sir Launcelot desired of King Arthur assurance of liberty

for the Queen, as also safe conduct for himself and his knights,

that he might bring Dame Guenevere, with due honour, to the King at

Carlisle; and thereto the King pledged his word.

So Launcelot set forth with the Queen, and behind them rode a

hundred knights arrayed in green velvet, the housings of the horses

of the same all studded with precious stones; thus they passed

through the city of Carlisle, openly, in the sight of all, and there

were many who rejoiced that the Queen was come again and Sir

Launcelot with her, though they of Gawain's party scowled upon him.

When they were come into the great hall where Arthur sat, with Sir

Gawain and other great lords about him, Sir Launcelot led Guenevere

to the throne and both knelt before the King; then, rising, Sir

Launcelot lifted the Queen to her feet, and thus he spoke to King

Arthur, boldly and well before the whole court: "My lord, Sir

Arthur, I bring you here your Queen, than whom no truer nor nobler

lady ever lived; and here stand I, Sir Launcelot du Lac, ready to do

battle with any that dare gainsay it"; and with these words Sir

Launcelot turned and looked upon the lords and knights present in

their places, but none would challenge him in that cause, not even

Sir Gawain, for he had ever affirmed that Dame Guenevere was a true

and honourable lady.

Then Sir Launcelot spoke again; "Now, my Lord Arthur, in my own

defence it behooves me to say that never in aught have I been false

to you."

"Peace," said the King to Sir Launcelot: "We give you fifteen days

in which to leave this kingdom." Then Sir Launcelot sighed heavily

and said: "Full well I see that nothing availeth me." Then he went

to the Queen where she sat, and said: "Madam, the time is come when

I must leave this fair realm that I have loved. Think well of me, I

pray you, and send for me if ever there be aught in which a true

knight may serve lady." Therewith he turned him about and, without

greeting to any, passed through the hall, and with his faithful

knights rode to the Joyous Garde, though ever thereafter, in memory

of that sad day, he called it the Dolorous Garde.

In after times when the King had passed overseas to France, leaving

Sir Mordred to rule Britain in his stead, there came messengers from

Britain bearing letters for King Arthur; and more evil news than

they brought might not well be, for they told how Sir Mordred had

usurped his uncle's realm. First, he had caused it to be noised

abroad that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir Launcelot, and,

since there be many ever ready to believe any idle rumour and eager

for any change, it had been no hard task for Sir Mordred to call the

lords to a Parliament and persuade them to make him King. But the

Queen could not be brought to believe that her lord was dead, so she

took refuge in the Tower of London from Sir Mordred's violence, nor

was she to be induced to leave her strong refuge for aught that

Mordred could promise or threaten.

Forthwith, King Arthur bade his host make ready to move, and when

they had reached the coast, they embarked and made sail to reach

Britain with all possible speed.

Sir Mordred, on his part, had heard of their sailing, and hasted to

get together a great army. It was grievous to see how many a stout

knight held by Mordred, ay, even many whom Arthur himself had raised

to honour and fortune; for it is the nature of men to be fickle.

Thus is was that, when Arthur drew near to Dover, he found Mordred

with a mighty host, waiting to oppose his landing. Then there was a

great sea-fight, those of Mordred's party going out in boats, to

board King Arthur's ships and slay him and his men or ever they

should come to land. Right valiantly did King Arthur bear him, as

was his wont, and boldly his followers fought in his cause, so that

at last they drove off their enemies and landed at Dover in spite of

Mordred and his array.

Now, by this time, many that Mordred had cheated by his lying

reports, had drawn unto King Arthur, to whom at heart they had ever

been loyal, knowing him for a true and noble King and hating

themselves for having been deceived by such a false usurper as Sir

Mordred.

One night, as King Arthur slept, he thought that Sir Gawain stood

before him, looking just as he did in life, and said to him: "My

uncle and my King, God in his great love has suffered me to come

unto you, to warn you that in no wise ye fight on the morrow; for if

ye do, ye shall be slain, and with you the most part of the people

on both sides. Make ye, therefore, a treaty." Immediately, the King

awoke and called to him the best and wisest of his knights. Then all

were agreed that, on any terms whatsoever, a treaty should be made

with Sir Mordred, even as Sir Gawain had said; and, with the dawn,

messengers went to the camp of the enemy, to call Sir Mordred to a

conference. So it was determined that the meeting should take place

in the sight of both armies, in an open space between the two camps,

and that King Arthur and Mordred should each be accompanied by

fourteen knights. Little enough faith had either in the other, so

when they set forth to the meeting, they bade their hosts join

battle if ever they saw a sword drawn.

Now as they talked, it befell that an adder, coming out of a bush

hard by, stung a knight in the foot; and he, seeing the snake, drew

his sword to kill it and thought no harm thereby. But on the instant

that the sword flashed, the trumpets blared on both sides and the

two hosts rushed to battle. Never was there fought a fight of such

enmity; for brother fought with brother, and comrade with comrade,

and fiercely they cut and thrust, with many a bitter word between;

while King Arthur himself, his heart hot within him, rode through

and through the battle, seeking the traitor Mordred. So they fought

all day, till at last the evening fell. Then Arthur, looking round

him, saw of his valiant knights but two left, Sir Lucan and Sir

Bedivere, and these sore wounded; and there, over against him, by a

great heap of the dead, stood Sir Mordred, the cause of all this

ruin. Thereupon the King, his heart nigh broken with grief for the

loss of his true knights, cried with a loud voice, "Traitor! now is

thy doom upon thee!" and with his spear gripped in both hands, he

rushed upon Sir Mordred and smote him that the weapon stood out a

fathom behind. And Sir Mordred knew that he had his death wound.

With all the might that he had, he thrust him up the spear to the

haft and, with his sword, struck King Arthur upon the head, that the

steel pierced the helmet and bit into the head; then Mordred fell

back, stark and dead.

Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere went to the King where he lay, swooning

from the blow, and bore him to a little chapel on the seashore. As

they laid him on the ground, Sir Lucan fell dead beside the King,

and Arthur, coming to himself, found but Sir Bedivere alive beside

him.

So King Arthur lay wounded to the death, grieving, not that his end

was come, but for the desolation of his kingdom and the loss of his

good knights. And looking upon the body of Sir Lucan, he sighed and

said: "Alas! true knight, dead for my sake! If I lived, I should

ever grieve for thy death, but now mine own end draws nigh." Then,

turning to Sir Bedivere, who stood sorrowing beside him, he said:

"Leave weeping now, for the time is short and much to do. Hereafter

shalt thou weep if thou wilt. But take now my sword Excalibur,

hasten to the water side, and fling it into the deep. Then, watch

what happens and bring me word thereof." "My Lord," said Sir

Bedivere, "your command shall be obeyed"; and, taking the sword, he

departed. But as he went on his way, he looked on the sword, how

wondrously it was formed and the hilt all studded with precious

stones; and, as he looked, he called to mind the marvel by which it

had come into the King's keeping. For on a certain day, as Arthur

walked on the shore of a great lake, there had appeared above the

surface of the water a hand brandishing a sword. On the instant, the

King had leaped into a boat, and, rowing into the lake, had got the

sword and brought it back to land. Then he had seen how, on one side

the blade, was written, "Keep me," but on the other, "Throw me

away," and, sore perplexed, he had shown it to Merlin, the great

wizard, who said: "Keep it now. The time for casting away has not

yet come." Thinking on this, it seemed to Bedivere that no good, but

harm, must come of obeying the King's word; so hiding the sword

under a tree, he hastened back to the little chapel. Then said the

King: "What saw'st thou?" "Sir," answered Bedivere, "I saw naught

but the waves, heard naught but the wind." "That is untrue," said

King Arthur; "I charge thee, as thou art true knight, go again and

spare not to throw away the sword."

Sir Bedivere departed a second time, and his mind was to obey his

lord; but when he took the sword in his hand, he thought: "Sin it is

and shameful, to throw away so glorious a sword" Then, hiding it

again, he hastened back to the King. "What saw'st thou?" said Sir

Arthur. "Sir, I saw the water lap on the crags." Then spoke the King

in great wrath: "Traitor and unkind! Twice hast thou betrayed me!

Art dazzled by the splendour of the jewels, thou that, till now,

hast ever been dear and true to me? Go yet again, but if thou fail

me this time, I will arise and, with mine own hands, slay thee."

Then Sir Bedivere left the King and, that time, he took the sword

quickly from the place where he had hidden it and, forbearing even

to look upon it, he twisted the belt about it and flung it with all

his force into the water. A wondrous sight he saw for, as the sword

touched the water, a hand rose from out the deep, caught it,

brandished it thrice, and drew it beneath the surface.

Sir Bedivere hastened back to the King and told him what he had

seen. "It is well," said Arthur; "now, bear me to the water's edge;

and hasten, I pray thee, for I have tarried overlong and my wound

has taken cold." So Sir Bedivere raised the King on. his back and

bore him tenderly to the lonely shore, where the lapping waves

floated many an empty helmet and the fitful moonlight fell on the

upturned faces of the dead. Scarce had they reached the shore when

there hove in sight a barge, and on its deck stood three tall women,

robed all in black and wearing crowns on their heads. "Place me in

the barge," said the King, and softly Sir Bedivere lifted the King

into it. And these three Queens wept sore over Arthur, and one took

his head in her lap and chafed his hands, crying: "Alas! my brother,

thou hast been overlong in coming and, I fear me, thy wound has

taken cold." Then the barge began to move slowly from the land. When

Sir Bedivere saw this, he lifted up his voice and cried with a

bitter cry: "Ah! my Lord Arthur, thou art taken from me! And I,

whither shall I go?" "Comfort thyself," said the King, "for in me is

no comfort more. I pass to the Valley of Avilion, to heal me of my

grievous wound. If thou seest me never again, pray for me."

So the barge floated away out of sight, and Sir Bedivere stood

straining his eyes after it till it had vanished utterly. Then he

turned him about and journeyed through the forest until, at

daybreak, he reached a hermitage. Entering it, he prayed the holy

hermit that he might abide with him, and there he spent the rest of

his life in prayer and holy exercise.

But of King Arthur is no more known. Some men, indeed, say that he

is not dead, but abides in the happy Valley of Avilion until such

time as his country's need is sorest, when he shall come again and

deliver it. Others say that, of a truth, he is dead, and that, in

the far West, his tomb may be seen, and written on it these words:

"Here lies Arthur, once King

and King to be"

CHAPTER VII

SIR GALAHAD

Many times had the Feast of Pentecost come round, and many were the

knights that Arthur had made after he founded the Order of the Round

Table; yet no knight had appeared who dared claim the seat named by

Merlin the Siege Perilous. At last, one vigil of the great feast, a

lady came to Arthur's court at Camelot and asked Sir Launcelot to

ride with her into the forest hard by, for a purpose not then to be

revealed. Launcelot consenting, they rode together until they came

to a nunnery hidden deep in the forest; and there the lady bade

Launcelot dismount, and led him into a great and stately room.

Presently there entered twelve nuns and with them a youth, the

fairest that Launcelot had ever seen. "Sir," said the nuns, "we have

brought up this child in our midst, and now that he is grown to

manhood, we pray you make him knight, for of none worthier could he

receive the honour." "Is this thy own desire?" asked Launcelot of

the young squire; and when he said that so it was, Launcelot

promised to make him knight after the great festival had been

celebrated in the church next day.

So on the morrow, after they had worshipped, Launcelot knighted

Galahad--for that was the youth's name--and asked him if he would

ride at once with him to the King's court; but the young knight

excusing himself, Sir Launcelot rode back alone to Camelot, where

all rejoiced that he was returned in time to keep the feast with the

whole Order of the Round Table.

Now, according to his custom, King Arthur was waiting for some

marvel to befall before he and his knights sat down to the banquet.

Presently a squire entered the hall and said: "Sir King, a great

wonder has appeared. There floats on the river a mighty stone, as it

were a block of red marble, and it is thrust through by a sword, the

hilt of which is set thick with precious stones." On hearing this,

the King and all his knights went forth to view the stone and found

it as the squire had said; moreover, looking closer, they read these

words: "None shall draw me hence, but only he by whose side I must

hang; and he shall be the best knight in all the world."

Immediately, all bade Launcelot draw forth the sword, but he

refused, saying that the sword was not for him. Then, at the King's

command, Sir Gawain made the attempt and failed, as did Sir

Percivale after him. So the knights knew the adventure was not for

them, and returning to the hall, took their places about the Round

Table.

No sooner were they seated than an aged man, clothed all in white,

entered the hall, followed by a young knight in red armour, by whose

side hung an empty scabbard. The old man approached King Arthur and

bowing low before him, said: "Sir, I bring you a young knight of the

house and lineage of Joseph of Arimathea, and through him shall

great glory be won for all the land of Britain." Greatly did King

Arthur rejoice to hear this, and welcomed the two right royally.

Then when the young knight had saluted the King, the old man led him

to the Siege Perilous and drew off its silken cover; and all the

knights were amazed, for they saw that where had been engraved the

words, "The Siege Perilous," was written now in shining gold: "This

is the Siege of the noble prince, Sir Galahad." Straightway the

young man seated himself there where none other had ever sat without

danger to his life; and all who saw it said, one to another: "Surely

this is he that shall achieve the Holy Grail." Now the Holy Grail

was the blessed dish from which our Lord had eaten the Last Supper,

and it had been brought to the land of Britain by Joseph of

Arimathea; but because of men's sinfulness, it had been withdrawn

from human sight, only that, from time to to time, it appeared to

the pure in heart.

When all had partaken of the royal banquet, King Arthur bade Sir

Galahad come with him to the river's brink; and showing him the

floating stone with the sword thrust through it, told him how his

knights had failed to draw forth the sword. "Sir," said Galahad, "it

is no marvel that they failed, for the adventure was meant for me,

as my empty scabbard shows." So saying, lightly he drew the sword

from the heart of the stone, and lightly he slid it into the

scabbard at his side. While all yet wondered at this adventure of

the sword, there came riding to them a lady on a white palfrey who,

saluting King Arthur, said: "Sir King, Nacien the hermit sends thee

word that this day shall great honour be shown to thee and all thine

house; for the Holy Grail shall appear in thy hall, and thou and all

thy fellowship shall be fed therefrom." And so to Launcelot she

said: "Sir Knight, thou hast ever been the best knight of all the

world; but another has come to whom thou must yield precedence."

Then Launcelot answered humbly: "I know well I was never the best."

"Ay, of a truth thou wast and art still, of sinful men," said she,

and rode away before any could question her further.

So, that evening, when all were gathered about the Round Table, each

knight in his own siege, suddenly there was heard a crash of

thunder, so mighty that the hall trembled, and there flashed into

the hall a sunbeam, brighter far than any that had ever before been

seen; and then, draped all in white samite, there glided through the

air what none might see, yet what all knew to be the Holy Grail. And

all the air was filled with sweet odours, and on every one was shed

a light in which he looked fairer and nobler than ever before. So

they sat in an amazed silence, till presently King Arthur rose and

gave thanks to God for the grace given to him and to his court. Then

up sprang Sir Gawain and made his avow to follow for a year and a

day the Quest of the Holy Grail, if perchance he might be granted

the vision of it. Immediately other of the knights followed his

example, binding themselves to the Quest of the Holy Grail until, in

all, one hundred and fifty had vowed themselves to the adventure.

Then was King Arthur grieved, for he foresaw the ruin of his noble

Order. And turning to Sir Gawain, he said: "Nephew, ye have done

ill, for through you I am bereft of the noblest company of knights

that ever brought honour to any realm in Christendom. Well I know

that never again shall all of you gather in this hall, and it

grieves me to lose men I have loved as my life and through whom I

have won peace and righteousness for all my realm." So the King

mourned and his knights with him, but their oaths they could not

recall.

Great woe was there in Camelot next day when, after worship in the

cathedral, the knights who had vowed themselves to the Quest of the

Holy Grail got to horse and rode away. A goodly company it was that

passed through the streets, the townfolk weeping to see them go; Sir

Launcelot du Lac and his kin, Sir Galahad of whom all expected great

deeds, Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, and many another scarcely less

famed than they. So they rode together that day to the Castle of

Vagon, where they were entertained right hospitably, and the next

day they separated, each to ride his own way and see what adventures

should befall him.

So it came to pass that, after four days' ride, Sir Galahad reached

an abbey. Now Sir Galahad was still clothed in red armour as when he

came to the King's court, and by his side hung the wondrous sword;

but he was without a shield. They of the abbey received him right

heartily, as also did the brave King Bagdemagus, Knight of the Round

Table, who was resting there. When they greeted each other, Sir

Galahad asked King Bagdemagus what adventure had brought him there.

"Sir," said Bagdemagus, "I was told that in this abbey was preserved

a wondrous shield which none but the best knight in the world might

bear without grievous harm to himself. And though I know well that

there are better knights than I, to-morrow I purpose to make the

attempt. But, I pray you, bide at this monastery a while until you

hear from me; and if I fail, do ye take the adventure upon you." "So

be it," said Sir Galahad.

The next day, at their request, Sir Galahad and King Bagdemagus were

led into the church by a monk and shown where, behind the altar,

hung the wondrous shield, whiter than snow save for the blood-red

cross in its midst. Then the monk warned them of the danger to any

who, being unworthy, should dare to bear the shield. But King

Bagdemagus made answer: "I know well that I am not the best knight

in the world, yet will I try if I may bear it." So he hung it about

his neck, and, bidding farewell, rode away with his squire.

The two had not journeyed far before they saw a knight approach,

armed all in white mail and mounted upon a white horse. Immediately

he laid his spear in rest and, charging King Bagdemagus, pierced him

through the shoulder and bore him from his horse; and standing over

the wounded knight, he said: "Knight, thou hast shown great folly,

for none shall bear this shield save the peerless knight, Sir

Galahad." Then, taking the shield, he gave it to the squire and

said: "Bear this shield to the good Knight Galahad and greet him

well from me." "What is your name?" asked the squire. "That is not

for thee or any other to know." "One thing, I pray you," said the

squire; "why may this shield be borne by none but Sir Galahad

without danger?" "Because it belongs to him only," answered the

stranger knight, and vanished.

Then the squire took the shield and setting King Bagdemagus on his

horse, bore him back to the abbey where he lay long, sick unto

death. To Galahad the squire gave the shield and told him all that

had befallen. So Galahad hung the shield about his neck and rode the

way that Bagdemagus had gone the day before; and presently he met

the White Knight, whom he greeted courteously, begging that he would

make known to him the marvels of the red-cross shield. "That will I

gladly," answered the White Knight. "Ye must know, Sir Knight, that

this shield was made and given by Joseph of Arimathea to the good

King Evelake of Sarras, that, in the might of the holy symbol, he

should overthrow the heathen who threatened his kingdom. But

afterwards, King Evelake followed Joseph to this land of Britain

where they taught the true faith unto the people who before were

heathen. Then when Joseph lay dying, he bade King Evelake set the

shield in the monastery where ye lay last night, and foretold that

none should wear it without loss until that day when it should be

taken by the knight, ninth and last in descent from him, who should

come to that place the fifteenth day after receiving the degree of

knighthood. Even so has it been with you, Sir Knight." So saying,

the unknown knight disappeared and Sir Galahad rode on his way.

After Sir Launcelot had parted from his fellows at the Castle of

Vagon, he rode many days through the forest without adventure, till

he chanced upon a knight close by a little hermitage in the wood.

Immediately, as was the wont of errant knights, they prepared to

joust, and Launcelot, whom none before had overthrown, was borne

down, man and horse, by the stranger knight. Thereupon a nun, who

dwelt in the hermitage, cried: "God be with thee, best knight in all

this world," for she knew the victor for Sir Galahad. But Galahad,

not wishing to be known, rode swiftly away; and presently Sir

Launcelot got to horse again and rode slowly on his way, shamed and

doubting sorely in his heart whether this quest were meant for him.

Afterward Sir Galahad rescued Sir Percivale from twenty knights who

beset him, and rode on his way till night-fall, when he sought

shelter at a little hermitage. Thither there came in the night a

damsel who desired to speak with Sir Galahad; so he arose and went

to her. "Galahad," said she, "arm you and mount your horse and

follow me, for I am come to guide you in your quest." So they rode

together until they had come to the seashore and there the damsel

showed Galahad a great ship into which he must enter. Then she bade

him farewell, and he, going on to the ship, found there already the

good knights Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, who made much joy of the

meeting. They abode in that ship until they had come to the castle

of King Pelles, who welcomed them right gladly. Then, as they all

sat at supper that night, suddenly the hall was filled with a great

light, and the holy vessel appeared in their midst, covered all in

white samite. While they all rejoiced, there came a voice, saying:

"My Knights whom I have chosen, ye have seen the holy vessel dimly.

Continue your journey to the city of Sarras and there the perfect

vision shall be yours."

Now in the city of Sarras had dwelt a long time Joseph of Arimathea,

teaching its people the true faith, before ever he came into the

land of Britain; but when Sir Galahad and his fellows came there

after long voyage, they found it ruled by a heathen King named

Estorause, who cast them into a deep dungeon. There they were kept a

year, but at the end of that time, the tyrant died. Then the great

men of the land gathered together to consider who should be their

King; and, while they were in council, came a voice bidding them

take as their King the youngest of the three knights whom Estorause

had thrown into prison. So in fear and wonder they hastened to the

prison, and, releasing the three knights, made Galahad King as the

voice had bidden them.

Thus Sir Galahad became King of the famous city of Sarras, in far

Babylon. He had reigned a year when, one morning early, he and the

other two knights, his fellows, went into the chapel, and there they

saw, kneeling in prayer, an aged man, robed as a bishop, and round

him hovered many angels. The knights fell on their knees in awe and

reverence, whereupon he that seemed a bishop turned to them and

said: "I am Joseph of Arimathea, and I am come to show you the

perfect vision of the Holy Grail." On the instant there appeared

before them, without veil or cover, the holy vessel, in a radiance

of light such as almost blinded them. Sir Bors and Sir Percivale,

when at length they were recovered from the brightness of that

glory, looked up to find that the holy Joseph and the wondrous

vessel had passed from their sight. Then they went to Sir Galahad

where he still knelt as in prayer, and behold, he was dead; for it

had been with him even as he had prayed; in the moment when he had

seen the vision, his soul had gone back to God.

So the two knights buried him in that far city, themselves mourning

and all the people with them. And immediately after, Sir Percivale

put off his arms and took the habit of a monk, living a devout and

holy life until, a year and two months later, he also died and was

buried near Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bors armed him, and bidding

farewell to the city, sailed away until, after many weeks, he came

again to the land of Britain. There he took horse, and stayed not

till he had come to Camelot. Great was the rejoicing of Arthur and

all his knights when Sir Bors was once more among them. When he had

told all the adventures which had befallen him and the good knights,

his companions, all who heard were filled with amaze. But the King

he caused the wisest clerks in the land to write in great books of

the Holy Grail, that the fame of it should endure unto all time.

CHAPTER VII

SIR GALAHAD

BY ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

My good blade carves the casques of men,

My tough lance thrusteth sure,

My strength is as the strength of ten,

Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,

The hard brands shiver on the steel,

The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,

The horse and rider reel:

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,

Perfume and flowers fall in showers

That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend

On whom their favours fall!

For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall:

But all my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:

I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine.

More bounteous aspects on me beam,

Me mightier transports move and thrill;

So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer

A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,

A light before me swims,

Between dark stems the forest glows,

I hear a noise of hymns:

Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice, but none are there;

The stalls are void, the doors are wide,

The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean,

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,

And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres

I find a magic bark;

I leap on board: no helmsman steers

I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the Holy Grail:

With folded feet, in stoles of white,

On sleeping wings they sail.

Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!

My spirit beats her mortal bars,

As down dark tides the glory slides,

And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne

Thro' dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,

The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads,

And, ringing, spins from brand and mail;

But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;

No branchy thicket shelter yields;

But blessed forms in whistling storms

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight--to me is given

Such hope, I know not fear,

I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven

That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease,

Pure spaces clothed in living beams,

Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odours haunt my dreams;

And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armour that I wear,

This weight and size, this heart and eyes,

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,

And thro' the mountain-walls

A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up, and shakes and falls.

Then move the trees, the copses nod,

Wings flutter, voices hover clear:

"O just and faithful knight of God!

Ride on! the prize is near."

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;

By bridge and ford, by park and pale,

All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,

Until I find the Holy Grail.