CHAPTER XXIII

MORTE D’ARTHUR

SIR MODRED was left ruler of all England, and he caused letters to be

written, as if from beyond sea, that King Arthur was slain in battle. So

he called a Parliament, and made himself be crowned king; and he took

the queen Guenever, and said plainly that he would wed her, but she

escaped from him and took refuge in the Tower of London. And Sir Modred

went and laid siege about the Tower of London, and made great assaults

thereat, but all might not avail him. Then came word to Sir Modred that

King Arthur had raised the siege of Sir Launcelot, and was coming home.

Then Sir Modred summoned all the barony of the land; and much people

drew unto Sir Modred, and said they would abide with him for better and

for worse; and he drew a great host to Dover, for there he heard say

that King Arthur would arrive.

“I hear the steps of Modred in the west,

And with him many of thy people, and knights

Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown

Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.”

—_The Passing of Arthur._

And as Sir Modred was at Dover with his host, came King Arthur, with a

great number of ships and galleys, and there was Sir Modred awaiting

upon the landing. Then was there launching of great boats and small,

full of noble men of arms, and there was much slaughter of gentle

knights on both parts. But King Arthur was so courageous, there might no

manner of knights prevent him to land, and his knights fiercely followed

him; and so they landed, and put Sir Modred aback so that he fled, and

all his people. And when the battle was done, King Arthur commanded to

bury his people that were dead. And then was noble Sir Gawain found, in

a great boat, lying more than half dead. And King Arthur went to him,

and made sorrow out of measure. “Mine uncle,” said Sir Gawain, “know

thou well my death-day is come, and all is through mine own hastiness

and wilfulness, for I am smitten upon the old wound which Sir Launcelot

gave me, of which I feel I must die. And had Sir Launcelot been with you

as of old, this war had never begun, and of all this I am the cause.”

Then Sir Gawain prayed the king to send for Sir Launcelot, and to

cherish him above all other knights. And so at the hour of noon Sir

Gawain yielded up his spirit, and then the king bade inter him in a

chapel within Dover Castle; and there all men may see the skull of him,

and the same wound is seen that Sir Launcelot gave him in battle.

Then was it told the king that Sir Modred had pitched his camp upon

Barrendown; and the king rode thither, and there was a great battle

betwixt them, and King Arthur’s party stood best, and Sir Modred and his

party fled unto Canterbury.

And there was a day assigned betwixt King Arthur and Sir Modred that

they should meet upon a down beside Salisbury, and not far from the

sea-side, to do battle yet again. And at night, as the king slept, he

dreamed a wonderful dream. It seemed him verily that there came Sir

Gawain unto him, with a number of fair ladies with him. And when King

Arthur saw him, he said, “Welcome, my sister’s son; I weened thou hadst

been dead; and now I see thee alive great is my joy. But, O fair nephew,

what be these ladies that hither be come with you?” “Sir,” said Sir

Gawain, “all these be ladies for whom I have fought when I was a living

man; and because I did battle for them in righteous quarrel they have

given me grace to bring me hither unto you to warn you of your death, if

ye fight to-morrow with Sir Modred. Therefore take ye treaty, and

proffer you largely for a month’s delay; for within a month shall come

Sir Launcelot and all his noble knights, and rescue you worshipfully,

and slay Sir Modred and all that hold with him.” And then Sir Gawain and

all the ladies vanished. And anon the king called to fetch his noble

lords and wise bishops unto him. And when they were come, the king told

them his vision, and what Sir Gawain had told him. Then the king sent

Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere, with two bishops, and charged

them in any wise to take a treaty for a month and a day with Sir Modred.

So they departed, and came to Sir Modred; and so, at the last, Sir

Modred was agreed to have Cornwall and Kent during Arthur’s life, and

all England after his death.

“Sir Modred; he the nearest to the king,

His nephew, ever like a subtle beast

Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,

Ready to spring, waiting a chance.”

—_Guinevere._

Then was it agreed that King Arthur and Sir Modred should meet betwixt

both their hosts, and each of them should bring fourteen persons, and

then and there they should sign the treaty. And when King Arthur and his

knights were prepared to go forth, he warned all his host, “If so be ye

see any sword drawn, look ye come on fiercely, and slay whomsoever

withstandeth, for I in no wise trust that traitor, Sir Modred.” In like

wise Sir Modred warned his host. So they met, and were agreed and

accorded thoroughly. And wine was brought, and they drank. Right then

came an adder out of a little heath-bush, and stung a knight on the

foot. And when the knight felt him sting, he looked down and saw the

adder, and then he drew his sword to slay the adder, and thought of no

other harm. And when the host on both sides saw that sword drawn, they

blew trumpets and horns, and shouted greatly. And King Arthur took his

horse, and rode to his party, saying, “Alas, this unhappy day!” And Sir

Modred did in like wise. And never was there a more doleful battle in

Christian land. And ever King Arthur rode throughout the battle, and did

full nobly, as a worthy king should, and Sir Modred that day did his

devoir, and put himself in great peril. And thus they fought all the

long day, till the most of all the noble knights lay dead upon the

ground. Then the king looked about him, and saw of all his host were

left alive but two knights, Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere, his

brother, and they were full sore wounded.

Then King Arthur saw where Sir Modred leaned upon his sword among a

great heap of dead men. “Now give me my spear,” said Arthur unto Sir

Lucan; “for yonder I espy the traitor that hast wrought all this woe.”

“Sir, let him be,” said Sir Lucan; “for if ye pass this unhappy day, ye

shall be right well revenged upon him. Remember what the sprite of Sir

Gawain told you, and leave off now, for ye have won the field; and if ye

leave off now this evil day of destiny is past.” “Betide me life, betide

me death,” said King Arthur, “he shall not now escape my hands.” Then

the king took his spear in both hands, and ran toward Sir Modred,

crying, “Traitor, now is thy death-day come.” And there King Arthur

smote Sir Modred under the shield, with a thrust of his spear through

the body. And when Sir Modred felt that he had his death-wound, with the

might that he had he smote King Arthur, with his sword holden in both

his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet

and the brain-pan; and then Sir Modred fell stark dead upon the earth.

And the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth. And Sir Lucan, the

butler, and Sir Bedivere raised him up, and gently led him betwixt them

both to a little chapel not far from the sea-side. And when the king was

there he thought him well eased. Then heard they people cry in the

field. And Sir Lucan went to see what that cry betokened; and he saw by

the moonlight that pillers and robbers were come to rob the dead. And he

returned, and said to the king, “By my rede, it is best that we bring

you to some town.” “I would it were so,” said the king. And when the

king tried to go he fainted. Then Sir Lucan took up the king on the one

part, and Sir Bedivere on the other part; and in the lifting, Sir Lucan

fell in a swoon to the earth, for he was grievously wounded. And then

the noble knight’s heart burst. And when the king awoke he beheld Sir

Lucan how he lay foaming at the mouth, and speechless. “Alas!” said the

king, “this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this noble duke so die

for my sake; for he would have holpen me that had more need of help than

I, and he would not complain, his heart was so set to help me.” Then Sir

Bedivere wept for his brother. “Leave this mourning and weeping,” said

the king, “for wilt thou well, if I might live myself, the death of Sir

Lucan would grieve me evermore; but my time hieth fast. Therefore,” said

Arthur unto Sir Bedivere, “take thou Excalibar, my good sword, and go

with it to yonder water-side; and when thou comest there I charge thee

throw my sword in that water, and come again and tell me what thou there

seest.” “My lord,” said Sir Bedivere, “your commandment shall be done.”

So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble sword,

that the pommel and the haft were all of precious stones; and then he

said to himself, “If I throw this rich sword into the water no good

shall come thereof, but only harm and loss.” And then Sir Bedivere hid

Excalibar under a tree. And so, as soon as he might, he came again to

the king. “What sawest thou there?” said the king. “Sir,” he said, “I

saw nothing.” “Alas! thou hast deceived me,” said the king. “Go thou

lightly again, and as thou love me, spare not to throw it in.” Then Sir

Bedivere went again, and took the sword in his hand to throw it; but

again it beseemed him but sin and shame to throw away that noble sword,

and he hid it away again, and returned, and told the king he had done

his commandment. “What sawest thou there?” said the king. “Sir,” he

said, “I saw nothing but waters deep and waves wan.” “Ah, traitor

untrue!” said King Arthur, “now hast thou betrayed me twice. And yet

thou art named a noble knight, and hast been lief and dear to me. But

now go again, and do as I bid thee, for thy long tarrying putteth me in

jeopardy of my life.” Then Sir Bedivere went to the sword, and lightly

took it up, and went to the water-side, and he bound the girdle about

the hilt, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might.

And there came an arm and a hand out of the water, and met it, and

caught it, and shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away

the hand with the sword in the water.

Then Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he saw.

“Help me hence,” said the king, “for I fear I have tarried too long.”

Then Sir Bedivere took the king on his back, and so went with him to

that water-side; and when they came there, even fast by the bank there

rode a little barge with many fair ladies in it, and among them was a

queen; and all had black hoods, and they wept and shrieked when they saw

King Arthur.

“Now put me in the barge,” said the king. And there received him three

queens with great mourning, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid

his head. And the queen said, “Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so

long? Alas! this wound on your head hath caught overmuch cold.” And then

they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere beheld them go from him. Then

he cried: “Ah, my lord Arthur, will ye leave me here alone among mine

enemies?” “Comfort thyself,” said the king, “for in me is no further

help; for I will to the Isle of Avalon, to heal me of my grievous

wound.” And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost sight of the barge, he wept

and wailed; then he took the forest, and went all that night, and in the

morning he was ware of a chapel and a hermitage.

Then went Sir Bedivere thither; and when he came into the chapel, he saw

where lay an hermit on the ground, near a tomb that was newly graven.

“Sir,” said Sir Bedivere, “what man is there buried that ye pray so near

unto?” “Fair son,” said the hermit, “I know not verily. But this night

there came a number of ladies, and brought hither one dead, and prayed

me to bury him.” “Alas!” said Sir Bedivere, “that was my lord, King

Arthur.” Then Sir Bedivere swooned; and when he awoke he prayed the

hermit he might abide with him, to live with fasting and prayers. “Ye

are welcome,” said the hermit. So there bode Sir Bedivere with the

hermit; and he put on poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in

fasting and in prayers.

Thus of Arthur I find never more written in books that be authorized,

nor more of the very certainty of his death; but thus was he led away in

a ship, wherein were three queens; the one was King Arthur’s sister,

Queen Morgane le Fay; the other was Viviane, the Lady of the Lake; and

the third was the queen of North Galis. And this tale Sir Bedivere,

knight of the Table Round, made to be written.

Yet some men say that King Arthur is not dead, but hid away into another

place, and men say that he shall come again and reign over England. But

many say that there is written on his tomb this verse:

“_Hie jacet Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rexque futurus._”

Here Arthur lies, King once and King to be.

And when Queen Guenever understood that King Arthur was slain, and all

the noble knights with him, she stole away, and five ladies with her;

and so she went to Almesbury, and made herself a nun, and ware white

clothes and black, and took great penance as ever did sinful lady, and

lived in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds. And there she was abbess and

ruler of the nuns.

“And when she came to Almesbury she spake

There to the nuns, and said, ‘Mine enemies

Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood,

Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask

Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time

To tell you:’ and her beauty, grace and power

Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared

To ask it.”

—_Guinevere._

Now turn we from her, and speak of Sir Launcelot of the Lake.

When Sir Launcelot heard in his country that Sir Modred was crowned king

of England, and made war against his own uncle, King Arthur, then was

Sir Launcelot wroth out of measure, and said to his kinsmen: “Alas, that

double traitor, Sir Modred! now it repenteth me that ever he escaped out

of my hands.” Then Sir Launcelot and his fellows made ready in all

haste, with ships and galleys, to pass into England; and so he passed

over till he came to Dover, and there he landed with a great army. Then

Sir Launcelot was told that King Arthur was slain. “Alas!” said Sir

Launcelot, “this is the heaviest tidings that ever came to me.” Then he

called the kings, dukes, barons, and knights, and said thus: “My fair

lords, I thank you all for coming into this country with me, but we came

too late, and that shall repent me while I live. But since it is so,”

said Sir Launcelot, “I will myself ride and seek my lady, Queen

Guenever, for I have heard say she hath fled into the west; therefore ye

shall abide me here fifteen days, and if I come not within that time,

then take your ships and your host, and depart into your country.”

So Sir Launcelot departed and rode westerly, and there he sought many

days; and at last he came to a nunnery, and was seen of Queen Guenever

as he walked in the cloister; and when she saw him she swooned away. And

when she might speak she bade him to be called to her. And when Sir

Launcelot was brought to her she said: “Sir Launcelot, I require thee

and beseech thee, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, that thou

never see me more, but return to thy kingdom and take thee a wife, and

live with her with joy and bliss; and pray for me to my Lord, that I may

get my soul’s health.” “Nay, madam,” said Sir Launcelot, “wit you well

that I shall never do; but the same destiny that ye have taken you to

will I take me unto, for to please and serve God.” And so they parted,

with tears and much lamentation; and the ladies bare the queen to her

chamber, and Sir Launcelot took his horse and rode away, weeping.

And at last Sir Launcelot was ware of a hermitage and a chapel, and then

he heard a little bell ring to mass; and thither he rode and alighted,

and tied his horse to the gate, and heard mass. And he that sang the

mass was the hermit with whom Sir Bedivere had taken up his abode; and

Sir Bedivere knew Sir Launcelot, and they spake together after mass. But

when Sir Bedivere had told his tale, Sir Launcelot’s heart almost burst

for sorrow. Then he kneeled down, and prayed the hermit to shrive him,

and besought that he might be his brother. Then the hermit said, “I will

gladly;” and then he put a habit upon Sir Launcelot, and there he served

God day and night, with prayers and fastings.

And the great host abode at Dover till the end of the fifteen days set

by Sir Launcelot, and then Sir Bohort made them to go home again to

their own country; and Sir Bohort, Sir Hector de Marys, Sir Blamor, and

many others, took on them to ride through all England to seek Sir

Launcelot. So Sir Bohort by fortune rode until he came to the same

chapel where Sir Launcelot was; and when he saw Sir Launcelot in that

manner of clothing he prayed the hermit that he might be in that same.

And so there was an habit put upon him, and there he lived in prayers

and fasting. And within half a year came others of the knights, their

fellows, and took such a habit as Sir Launcelot and Sir Bohort had. Thus

they endured in great penance six years.

And upon a night there came a vision to Sir Launcelot, and charged him

to haste toward Almesbury, and “by the time thou come there, thou shalt

find Queen Guenever dead.” Then Sir Launcelot rose up early and told the

hermit thereof. Then said the hermit, “It were well that ye disobey not

this vision.” And Sir Launcelot took his seven companions with him, and

on foot they went from Glastonbury to Almesbury, which is more than

thirty miles. And when they were come to Almesbury, they found that

Queen Guenever died but half an hour before. Then Sir Launcelot saw her

visage, but he wept not greatly, but sighed. And so he did all the

observance of the service himself, both the “dirige” at night, and at

morn he sang mass. And there was prepared an horse-bier, and Sir

Launcelot and his fellows followed the bier on foot from Almesbury until

they came to Glastonbury; and she was wrapped in cered clothes, and laid

in a coffin of marble. And when she was put in the earth Sir Launcelot

swooned, and lay long as one dead.

And Sir Launcelot never after ate but little meat, nor drank; but

continually mourned. And within six weeks Sir Launcelot fell sick; and

he sent for the hermit and all his true fellows, and said, “Sir hermit,

I pray you give me all my rights that a Christian man ought to have.”

“It shall not need,” said the hermit and all his fellows; “it is but

heaviness of your blood, and to-morrow morn you shall be well.” “My fair

lords,” said Sir Launcelot, “my careful body will into the earth; I have

warning more than now I will say; therefore give me my rights.” So when

he was houseled and aneled, and had all that a Christian man ought to

have, he prayed the hermit that his fellows might bear his body to

Joyous Garde. (Some men say it was Alnwick, and some say it was

Bamborough.) “It repenteth me sore,” said Sir Launcelot, “but I made a

vow aforetime that in Joyous Garde I would be buried.” Then there was

weeping and wringing of hands among his fellows. And that night Sir

Launcelot died; and when Sir Bohort and his fellows came to his bedside

the next morning they found him stark dead; and he lay as if he had

smiled, and the sweetest savor all about him that ever they knew.

And they put Sir Launcelot into the same horse-bier that Queen Guenever

was laid in, and the hermit and they altogether went with the body till

they came to Joyous Garde. And there they laid his corpse in the body of

the quire, and sang and read many psalms and prayers over him. And ever

his visage was laid open and naked, that all folks might behold him. And

right thus, as they were at their service, there came Sir Hector de

Maris, that had seven years sought Sir Launcelot, his brother, through

all England, Scotland and Wales. And when Sir Hector heard such sounds

in the chapel of Joyous Garde he alighted and came into the quire. And

all they knew Sir Hector. Then went Sir Bohort, and told him how there

lay Sir Launcelot, his brother, dead. Then Sir Hector threw his shield,

his sword, and helm from him. And when he beheld Sir Launcelot’s visage

it were hard for any tongue to tell the doleful complaints he made for

his brother. “Ah, Sir Launcelot!” he said, “there thou liest. And now I

dare to say thou wert never matched of none earthly knight’s hand. And

thou wert the courteousest knight that ever bare shield; and thou wert

the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou wert

the truest lover, of a sinful man, that ever loved woman; and thou wert

the kindest man that ever struck with sword. And thou wert the goodliest

person that ever came among press of knights. And thou wert the meekest

man, and the gentlest, that ever ate in hall among ladies. And thou wert

the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest.”

Then there was weeping and dolor out of measure. Thus they kept Sir

Launcelot’s corpse fifteen days, and then they buried it with great

devotion.

Then they went back with the hermit to his hermitage. And Sir Bedivere

was there ever still hermit to his life’s end. And Sir Bohort, Sir

Hector, Sir Blamor, and Sir Bleoberis went into the Holy Land. And these

four knights did many battles upon the miscreants, the Turks; and there

they died upon a Good Friday, as it pleased God.

Thus endeth this noble and joyous book, entitled “La Morte d’Arthur;”

notwithstanding it treateth of the birth, life, and acts of the said

King Arthur, and of his noble Knights of the Round Table, their

marvellous enquests and adventures, the achieving of the Sangreal, and,

in the end, le Morte d’Arthur, with the dolorous death and departing out

of this world of them all. Which book was reduced into English by Sir

Thomas Mallory, Knight, and divided into twenty-one books, chaptered and

imprinted and finished in the Abbey Westmestre, the last day of July,

the year of our Lord MCCCCLXXXV.

Caxton me fieri fecit.

[BLANK PAGE]

THE MABINOGEON

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

IT has been well known to the literati and antiquarians of Europe that

there exist in the great public libraries voluminous manuscripts of

romances and tales once popular, but which on the invention of printing

had already become antiquated, and fallen into neglect. They were

therefore never printed, and seldom perused even by the learned, until

about half a century ago, when attention was again directed to them, and

they were found very curious monuments of ancient manners, habits, and

modes of thinking. Several have since been edited, some by individuals,

as Sir Walter Scott and the poet Southey, others by antiquarian

societies. The class of readers which could be counted on for such

publications was so small that no inducement of profit could be found to

tempt editors and publishers to give them to the world. It was therefore

only a few, and those the most accessible, which were put in print.

There was a class of manuscripts of this kind which were known, or

rather suspected, to be both curious and valuable, but which it seemed

almost hopeless to expect ever to see in fair printed English. These

were the Welsh popular tales called _Mabinogeon_, a plural word, the

singular being _Mabinogi_, a tale. Manuscripts of these were contained

in the Bodleian Library at Oxford and elsewhere, but the difficulty was

to find translators and editors. The Welsh is a spoken language among

the peasantry of Wales, but is entirely neglected by the learned, unless

they are natives of the principality. Of the few Welsh scholars none

were found who took sufficient interest in this branch of learning to

give these productions to the English public. Southey and Scott, and

others, who, like them, loved the old romantic legends of their country,

often urged upon the Welsh literati the duty of reproducing the

Mabinogeon. Southey, in the preface of his edition of “Morte d’Arthur,”

says: “The specimens which I have seen are exceedingly curious; nor is

there a greater desideratum in British literature than an edition of

these tales, with a literal version, and such comments as Mr. Davies of

all men is best qualified to give. Certain it is that many of the round

table fictions originated in Wales, or in Bretagne, and probably might

still be traced there.”

Again, in a letter to Sir Charles W. W. Wynn, dated 1819, he says:

“I begin almost to despair of ever seeing more of the Mabinogeon; and

yet if some competent Welshman could be found to edit it carefully, with

as literal a version as possible, I am sure it might be made worth his

while by a subscription, printing a small edition at a high price,

perhaps two hundred at five guineas. I myself would gladly subscribe at

that price per volume for such an edition of the whole of your genuine

remains in prose and verse. Till some such collection is made, the

‘gentlemen of Wales’ ought to be prohibited from wearing a leek; ay, and

interdicted from toasted cheese also. Your bards would have met with

better usage if they had been Scotchmen.”

Sharon Turner and Sir Walter Scott also expressed a similar wish for the

publication of the Welsh manuscripts. The former took part in an attempt

to effect it, through the instrumentality of a Mr. Owen, a Welshman,

but, we judge, by what Southey says of him, imperfectly acquainted with

English. Southey’s language is “William Owen lent me three parts of the

Mabinogeon, delightfully translated into so Welsh an idiom and syntax

that such a translation is as instructive as an original.” In another

letter he adds, “Let Sharon make his language grammatical, but not alter

their idiom in the slightest point.”

It is probable Mr. Owen did not proceed far in an undertaking which, so

executed, could expect but little popular patronage. It was not till an

individual should appear possessed of the requisite knowledge of the two

languages, of enthusiasm sufficient for the task, and of pecuniary

resources sufficient to be independent of the booksellers and of the

reading public, that such a work could be confidently expected. Such an

individual has, since Southey’s day and Scott’s, appeared in the person

of Lady Charlotte Guest, an English lady united to a gentleman of

property in Wales, who, having acquired the language of the

principality, and become enthusiastically fond of its literary

treasures, has given them to the English reader, in a dress which the

printer’s and the engraver’s arts have done their best to adorn. In four

royal octavo volumes containing the Welsh originals, the translation,

and ample illustrations from French, German, and other contemporary and

affiliated literature, the Mabinogeon is spread before us. To the

antiquarian and the student of language and ethnology an invaluable

treasure, it yet can hardly in such a form win its way to popular

acquaintance. We claim no other merit than that of bringing it to the

knowledge of our readers, of abridging its details, of selecting its

most attractive portions, and of faithfully preserving throughout the

style in which Lady Guest has clothed her legends. For this service we

hope that our readers will confess we have laid them under no light

obligation.

————

CHAPTER I

THE BRITONS

THE earliest inhabitants of Britain are supposed to have been a branch

of that great family known in history by the designation of Celts.

Cambria, which is a frequent name for Wales, is thought to be derived

from Cymri, the name which the Welsh traditions apply to an immigrant

people who entered the island from the adjacent continent. This name is

thought to be identical with those of Cimmerians and Cimbri, under which

the Greek and Roman historians describe a barbarous people, who spread

themselves from the north of the Euxine over the whole of Northwestern

Europe.

The origin of the names _Wales_ and _Welsh_ has been much canvassed.

Some writers make them a derivation from Gael or Gaul, which names are

said to signify “woodlanders;” others observe that _Walsh_, in the

northern languages, signifies a _stranger_, and that the aboriginal

Britons were so called by those who at a later era invaded the island

and possessed the greater part of it, the Saxons and Angles.

The Romans held Britain from the invasion of Julius Cæsar till their

voluntary withdrawal from the island, A.D. 420,—that is, about five

hundred years. In that time there must have been a wide diffusion of

their arts and institutions among the natives. The remains of roads,

cities, and fortifications show that they did much to develop and

improve the country, while those of their villas and castles prove that

many of the settlers possessed wealth and taste for the ornamental arts.

Yet the Roman sway was sustained chiefly by force, and never extended

over the entire island. The northern portion, now Scotland, remained

independent, and the western portion, constituting Wales and Cornwall,

was only nominally subjected.

Neither did the later invading hordes succeed in subduing the remoter

sections of the island. For ages after the arrival of the Saxons under

Hengist and Horsa, A.D. 449, the whole western coast of Britain was

possessed by the aboriginal inhabitants, engaged in constant warfare

with the invaders.

It has, therefore, been a favorite boast of the people of Wales and

Cornwall that the original British stock flourishes in its unmixed

purity only among them. We see this notion flashing out in poetry

occasionally, as when Gray, in “The Bard,” prophetically describing

Queen Elizabeth, who was of the Tudor, a Welsh race, says:

“Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line;”

and, contrasting the princes of the Tudor with those of the Norman race,

he exclaims:

“All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia’s issue, hail!”

THE WELSH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE

The Welsh language is one of the oldest in Europe. It possesses poems

the origin of which is referred with probability to the sixth century.

The language of some of these is so antiquated that the best scholars

differ about the interpretation of many passages; but, generally

speaking, the body of poetry which the Welsh possess, from the year 1000

downwards, is intelligible to those who are acquainted with the modern

language.

Till within the last half-century these compositions remained buried in

the libraries of colleges or of individuals, and so difficult of access

that no successful attempt was made to give them to the world. This

reproach was removed after ineffectual appeals to the patriotism of the

gentry of Wales, by Owen Jones, a furrier of London, who at his own

expense collected and published the chief productions of Welsh

literature, under the title of the Myvyrian Archæology of Wales. In this

task he was assisted by Dr. Owen and other Welsh scholars.

After the cessation of Jones’ exertions the old apathy returned, and

continued till within a few years. Dr. Owen exerted himself to obtain

support for the publication of the Mabinogeon or Prose Tales of the

Welsh, but died without accomplishing his purpose, which has since been

carried into execution by Lady Charlotte Guest. The legends which fill

the remainder of this volume are taken from this work, of which we have

already spoken more fully in the introductory chapter to the First Part.

THE WELSH BARDS

The authors to whom the oldest Welsh poems are attributed are Aneurin,

who is supposed to have lived A.D. 500 to 550, and Taliesin, Llywarch

Hen (Llywarch the Aged), and Myrddin or Merlin, who were a few years

later. The authenticity of the poems which bear their names has been

assailed, and it is still an open question how many and which of them

are authentic, though it is hardly to be doubted that some are so. The

poem of Aneurin entitled the “Gododin,” bears very strong marks of

authenticity. Aneurin was one of the Northern Britons of Strath-Clyde,

who have left to that part of the district they inhabited the name of

Cumberland, or Land of the Cymri. In this poem he laments the defeat of

his countrymen by the Saxons at the battle of Cattraeth, in consequence

of having partaken too freely of the mead before joining in combat. The

bard himself and two of his fellow-warriors were all who escaped from

the field. A portion of this poem has been translated by Gray, of which

the following is an extract:

“To Cattraeth’s vale, in glittering row,

Twice two hundred warriors go;

Every warrior’s manly neck

Chains of regal honor deck,

Wreathed in many a golden link;

From the golden cup they drink

Nectar that the bees produce,

Or the grape’s exalted juice.

Flushed with mirth and hope they burn,

But none to Cattraeth’s vale return,

Save Aëron brave, and Conan strong,

Bursting through the bloody throng,

And I, the meanest of them all,

That live to weep, and sing their fall.”

The works of Taliesin are of much more questionable authenticity. There

is a story of the adventures of Taliesin so strongly marked with

mythical traits as to cast suspicion on the writings attributed to him.

This story will be found in the subsequent pages.

THE TRIADS

The Triads are a peculiar species of poetical composition, of which the

Welsh bards have left numerous examples. They are enumerations of a

triad of persons, or events, or observations, strung together in one

short sentence. This form of composition, originally invented, in all

likelihood, to assist the memory, has been raised by the Welsh to a

degree of elegance of which it hardly at first sight appears

susceptible. The Triads are of all ages, some of them probably as old as

anything in the language. Short as they are individually, the collection

in the Myvyrian Archæology occupies more than one hundred and seventy

pages of double columns. We will give some specimens, beginning with

personal triads, and giving the first place to one of King Arthur’s own

composition:

“I have three heroes in battle:

Mael the tall, and Llyr, with his army,

And Caradoc, the pillar of Wales.”

“The three principal bards of the island of Britain:—

Merlin Ambrose

Merlin the son of Morfyn, called also Merlin the Wild,

And Taliesin, the chief of the bards.”

“The three golden-tongued knights of the court of Arthur:—

Gawain, son of Gwyar,

Drydvas, son of Tryphin,

And Eliwlod, son of Madag, ap Uther.”

“The three honorable feasts of the island of Britain:—

The feast of Caswallaun, after repelling Julius Cæsar from this isle;

The feast of Aurelius Ambrosius, after he had conquered the Saxons;

And the feast of King Arthur, at Carleon upon Usk.”

“Guenever, the daughter of Laodegan the giant,

Bad when little, worse when great.”

Next follow some moral triads:

“Hast thou heard what Dremhidydd sung,

An ancient watchman on the castle walls?

A refusal is better than a promise unperformed.”

“Hast thou heard what Llenleawg sung,

The noble chief wearing the golden torques?

The grave is better than a life of want.”

“Hast thou heard what Garselit sung,

The Irishman whom it is safe to follow?

Sin is bad, if long pursued.”

“Hast thou heard what Avaon sung,

The son of Taliesin, of the recording verse?

The cheek will not conceal the anguish of the heart.”

“Didst thou hear what Llywarch sung,

The intrepid and brave old man?

Greet kindly, though there be no acquaintance.”

————

CHAPTER II

THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN

KYNON’S ADVENTURE

KING ARTHUR was at Caerleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his chamber,

and with him were Owain, the son of Urien, and Kynon, the son of Clydno,

and Kay, the son of Kyner, and Guenever and her handmaidens at

needlework by the window. In the centre of the chamber King Arthur sat,

upon a seat of green rushes,[56] over which was spread a covering of

flame-covered satin, and a cushion of red satin was under his elbow.

Then Arthur spoke. “If I thought you would not disparage me,” said he,

“I would sleep while I wait for my repast; and you can entertain one

another with relating tales, and can obtain a flagon of mead and some

meat from Kay.” And the king went to sleep. And Kynon the son of Clydno

asked Kay for that which Arthur had promised them. “I too will have the

good tale which he promised me,” said Kay. “Nay,” answered Kynon;

“fairer will it be for thee to fulfil Arthur’s behest in the first

place, and then we will tell thee the best tale that we know.” So Kay

went to the kitchen and to the mead-cellar, and returned, bearing a

flagon of mead, and a golden goblet, and a handful of skewers, upon

which were broiled collops of meat. Then they ate the collops, and began

to drink the mead. “Now,” said Kay, “it is time for you to give me my

story.” “Kynon,” said Owain, “do thou pay to Kay the tale that is his

due.” “I will do so,” answered Kynon.

“I was the only son of my mother and father, and I was exceedingly

aspiring, and my daring was very great. I thought there was no

enterprise in the world too mighty for me: and after I had achieved all

the adventures that were in my own country, I equipped myself, and set

forth to journey through deserts and distant regions. And at length it

chanced that I came to the fairest valley in the world, wherein were

trees all of equal growth; and a river ran through the valley, and a

path was by the side of the river. And I followed the path until midday,

and continued my journey along the remainder of the valley until the

evening; and at the extremity of the plain I came to a large and

lustrous castle, at the foot of which was a torrent. And I approached

the castle, and there I beheld two youths with yellow curling hair, each

with a frontlet of gold upon his head, and clad in a garment of yellow

satin; and they had gold clasps upon their insteps. In the hand of each

of them was an ivory bow, strung with the sinews of the stag, and their

arrows and their shafts were of the bone of the whale, and were winged

with peacock’s feathers. The shafts also had golden heads. And they had

daggers with blades of gold, and with hilts of the bone of the whale.

And they were shooting at a mark.

“And a little away from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his

beard newly shorn, clad in a robe and mantle of yellow satin, and round

the top of his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were shoes of

variegated leather,[57] fastened by two bosses of gold. When I saw him I

went towards him and saluted him; and such was his courtesy, that he no

sooner received my greeting than he returned it. And he went with me

towards the castle. Now there were no dwellers in the castle, except

those who were in one hall. And there I saw four and twenty damsels,

embroidering satin at a window. And this I tell thee, Kay, that the

least fair of them was fairer than the fairest maid thou didst ever

behold in the island of Britain; and the least lovely of them was more

lovely than Guenever, the wife of Arthur, when she appeared loveliest,

at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming, and six of them took

my horse, and divested me of my armor, and six others took my arms and

washed them in a vessel till they were perfectly bright. And the third

six spread cloths upon the tables and prepared meat. And the fourth six

took off my soiled garments and placed others upon me, namely, an under

vest and a doublet of fine linen, and a robe and a surcoat, and a mantle

of yellow satin, with a broad gold band upon the mantle. And they placed

cushions both beneath and around me, with coverings of red linen, and I

sat down. Now the six maidens who had taken my horse unharnessed him as

well as if they had been the best squires in the island of Britain.

“Then behold they brought bowls of silver, wherein was water to wash and

towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a

little while the man sat down at the table. And I sat next to him, and

below me sat all the maidens, except those who waited on us. And the

table was of silver, and the cloths upon the table were of linen. And no

vessel was served upon the table that was not either of gold or of

silver or of buffalo horn. And our meat was brought to us. And verily,

Kay, I saw there every sort of meat, and every sort of liquor that I

ever saw elsewhere; but the meat and the liquor were better served there

than I ever saw them in any other place.

“Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the

damsels spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it

would be more agreeable for me to converse than to eat any more, he

began to inquire of me who I was. Then I told the man who I was and what

was the cause of my journey, and said that I was seeking whether any one

was superior to me, or whether I could gain mastery over all. The man

looked upon me, and he smiled and said, ‘If I did not fear to do thee a

mischief, I would show thee that which thou seekest.’ Then I desired him

to speak freely. And he said: ‘Sleep here to-night, and in the morning

arise early, and take the road upwards through the valley, until thou

reachest the wood. A little way within the wood thou wilt come to a

large sheltered glade, with a mound in the centre. And thou wilt see a

black man of great stature on the top of the mound. He has but one foot,

and one eye in the middle of his forehead. He is the wood-ward of that

wood. And thou wilt see a thousand wild animals grazing around him.

Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will reply to thee

briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find that which

thou art in quest of.’

“And long seemed that night to me. And the next morning I arose and

equipped myself, and mounted my horse, and proceeded straight through

the valley to the wood, and at length I arrived at the glade. And the

black man was there, sitting upon the top of the mound; and I was three

times more astonished at the number of wild animals that I beheld than

the man had said I should be. Then I inquired of him the way and he

asked me roughly whither I would go. And when I had told him who I was

and what I sought, ‘Take,’ said he, ‘that path that leads toward the

head of the glade, and there thou wilt find an open space like to a

large valley, and in the midst of it a tall tree. Under this tree is a

fountain, and by the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the

marble slab a silver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, that it may

not be carried away. Take the bowl and throw a bowlful of water on the

slab. And if thou dost not find trouble in that adventure, thou needest

not seek it during the rest of thy life.’

“So I journeyed on until I reached the summit of the steep. And there I

found everything as the black man had described it to me. And I went up

to the tree, and beneath it I saw the fountain, and by its side the

marble slab, and the silver bowl fastened by the chain. Then I took the

bowl, and cast a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately I heard

a mighty peal of thunder, so that heaven and earth seemed to tremble

with its fury. And after the thunder came a shower; and of a truth I

tell thee, Kay, that it was such a shower as neither man nor beast could

endure and live. I turned my horse’s flank toward the shower, and placed

the beak of my shield over his head and neck, while I held the upper

part of it over my own neck. And thus I withstood the shower. And

presently the sky became clear, and with that, behold, the birds lighted

upon the tree, and sang. And truly, Kay, I never heard any melody equal

to that, either before or since. And when I was most charmed with

listening to the birds, lo! a chiding voice was heard of one approaching

me and saying: ‘O knight, what has brought thee hither? What evil have I

done to thee that thou shouldst act towards me and my possessions as

thou hast this day? Dost thou not know that the shower to-day has left

in my dominions neither man nor beast alive that was exposed to it?’ And

thereupon, behold, a knight on a black horse appeared, clothed in

jet-black velvet, and with a tabard of black linen about him. And we

charged each other, and, as the onset was furious, it was not long

before I was overthrown. Then the knight passed the shaft of his lance

through the bridle-rein of my horse, and rode off with the two horses,

leaving me where I was. And he did not even bestow so much notice upon

me as to imprison me, nor did he despoil me of my arms. So I returned

along the road by which I had come. And when I reached the glade where

the black man was, I confess to thee, Kay, it is a marvel that I did not

melt down into a liquid pool, through the shame that I felt at the black

man’s derision. And that night I came to the same castle where I had

spent the night preceding. And I was more agreeably entertained that

night than I had been the night before. And I conversed freely with the

inmates of the castle; and none of them alluded to my expedition to the

fountain, neither did I mention it to any. And I remained there that

night. When I arose on the morrow I found ready saddled a dark bay

palfrey, with nostrils as red as scarlet. And after putting on my armor,

and leaving there my blessing, I returned to my own court. And that

horse I still possess, and he is in the stable yonder. And I declare

that I would not part with him for the best palfrey in the island of

Britain.

“Now, of a truth, Kay, no man ever before confessed to an adventure so

much to his own discredit; and verily it seems strange to me that

neither before nor since have I heard of any person who knew of this

adventure, and that the subject of it should exist within King Arthur’s

dominions without any other person lighting upon it.”

————

CHAPTER III

THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN (_Continued_)

OWAIN’S ADVENTURE[58]

“NOW,” quoth Owain, “would it not be well to go and endeavor to discover

that place?”

“By the hand of my friend,” said Kay, “often dost thou utter that with

thy tongue which thou wouldest not make good with thy deeds.”

“In very truth,” said Guenever, “it were better thou wert hanged, Kay,

than to use such uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain.”

“By the hand of my friend, good lady,” said Kay, “thy praise of Owain is

not greater than mine.”

With that Arthur awoke, and asked if he had not been sleeping a little.

“Yes, lord,” answered Owain, “thou hast slept awhile.”

“Is it time for us to go to meat?”

“It is, lord,” said Owain.

Then the horn for washing was sounded, and the king and all his

household sat down to eat. And when the meal was ended Owain withdrew to

his lodging, and made ready his horse and his arms.

On the morrow with the dawn of day he put on his armor, and mounted his

charger, and travelled through distant lands, and over desert mountains.

And at length he arrived at the valley which Kynon had described to him,

and he was certain that it was the same that he sought. And journeying

along the valley, by the side of the river, he followed its course till

he came to the plain, and within sight of the castle. When he approached

the castle he saw the youths shooting with their bows, in the place

where Kynon had seen them, and the yellow man, to whom the castle

belonged, standing hard by. And no sooner had Owain saluted the yellow

man, than he was saluted by him in return.

And he went forward towards the castle, and there he saw the chamber;

and when he had entered the chamber, he beheld the maidens working at

satin embroidery, in chains of gold. And their beauty and their

comeliness seemed to Owain far greater than Kynon had represented to

him. And they arose to wait upon Owain, as they had done to Kynon. And

the meal which they set before him gave even more satisfaction to Owain

than it had done to Kynon.

About the middle of the repast the yellow man asked Owain the object of

his journey. And Owain made it known to him, and said, “I am in quest of

the knight who guards the fountain.” Upon this the yellow man smiled,

and said that he was as loth to point out that adventure to him as he

had been to Kynon. However, he described the whole to Owain, and they

retired to rest.

The next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the

damsels, and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man

was. And the stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain

than it had done to Kynon; and Owain asked of him his road, and he

showed it to him. And Owain followed the road till he came to the green

tree; and he beheld the fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, with

the bowl upon it. And Owain took the bowl and threw a bowlful of water

upon the slab. And, lo! the thunder was heard, and after the thunder

came the shower, more violent than Kynon had described, and after the

shower the sky became bright. And immediately the birds came and settled

upon the tree and sang. And when their song was most pleasing to Owain

he beheld a knight coming towards him through the valley; and he

prepared to receive him, and encountered him violently. Having broken

both their lances, they drew their swords and fought blade to blade.

Then Owain struck the knight a blow through his helmet, head-piece, and

visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the bone, until it

wounded the very brain. Then the black knight felt that he had received

a mortal wound, upon which he turned his horse’s head and fled. And

Owain pursued him and followed close upon him, although he was not near

enough to strike him with his sword. Then Owain descried a vast and

resplendent castle; and they came to the castle gate. And the black

knight was allowed to enter, and the portcullis was let fall upon Owain;

and it struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in two, and

carried away the rowels of the spurs that were upon Owain’s heels. And

the portcullis descended to the floor. And the rowels of the spurs and

part of the horse were without, and Owain with the other part of the

horse remained between the two gates, and the inner gate was closed, so

that Owain could not go thence; and Owain was in a perplexing situation.

And while he was in this state, he could see through an aperture in the

gate a street facing him, with a row of houses on each side. And he

beheld a maiden, with yellow, curling hair, and a frontlet of gold upon

her head; and she was clad in a dress of yellow satin, and on her feet

were shoes of variegated leather. And she approached the gate, and

desired that it should be opened. “Heaven knows, lady,” said Owain, “it

is no more possible for me to open to thee from hence, than it is for

thee to set me free.” And he told her his name, and who he was. “Truly,”

said the damsel, “it is very sad that thou canst not be released; and

every woman ought to succor thee, for I know there is no one more

faithful in the service of ladies than thou. Therefore,” quoth she,

“whatever is in my power to do for thy release, I will do it. Take this

ring and put it on thy finger, with the stone inside thy hand, and close

thy hand upon the stone. And as long as thou concealest it, it will

conceal thee. When they come forth to fetch thee, they will be much

grieved that they cannot find thee. And I will await thee on the

horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be able to see me, though I cannot see

thee. Therefore come and place thy hand upon my shoulder, that I may

know that thou art near me. And by the way that I go hence do thou

accompany me.”

Then the maiden went away from Owain, and he did all that she had told

him. And the people of the castle came to seek Owain to put him to

death; and when they found nothing but the half of his horse, they were

sorely grieved.

And Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed

his hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed

her, until they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and

the maiden opened it, and they went in. And Owain looked around the

chamber, and behold there was not a single nail in it that was not

painted with gorgeous colors, and there was not a single panel that had

not sundry images in gold portrayed upon it.

The maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver bowl, and gave

Owain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver table, inlaid

with gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen, and she brought him

food. And, of a truth, Owain never saw any kind of meat that was not

there in abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever

found it in any other place. And there was not one vessel from which he

was served that was not of gold or of silver. And Owain ate and drank

until late in the afternoon, when lo! they heard a mighty clamor in the

castle, and Owain asked the maiden what it was. “They are administering

extreme unction,” said she, “to the nobleman who owns the castle.” And

she prepared a couch for Owain which was meet for Arthur himself, and

Owain went to sleep.

And a little after daybreak he heard an exceeding loud clamor and

wailing, and he asked the maiden what was the cause of it. “They are

bearing to the church the body of the nobleman who owned the castle.”

And Owain rose up, and clothed himself, and opened a window of the

chamber, and looked towards the castle; and he could see neither the

bounds nor the extent of the hosts that filled the streets. And they

were fully armed; and a vast number of women were with them, both on

horseback and on foot, and all the ecclesiastics in the city singing. In

the midst of the throng he beheld the bier, over which was a veil of

white linen; and wax tapers were burning beside and around it; and none

that supported the bier was lower in rank than a powerful baron.

Never did Owain see an assemblage so gorgeous with silk[59] and satin.

And, following the train, he beheld a lady with yellow hair falling over

her shoulders, and stained with blood; and about her a dress of yellow

satin, which was torn. Upon her feet were shoes of variegated leather.

And it was a marvel that the ends of her fingers were not bruised from

the violence with which she smote her hands together. Truly she would

have been the fairest lady Owain ever saw, had she been in her usual

guise. And her cry was louder than the shout of the men or the clamor of

the trumpets. No sooner had he beheld the lady than he became inflamed

with her love, so that it took entire possession of him.

Then he inquired of the maiden who the lady was. “Heaven knows,” replied

the maiden, “she is the fairest and the most chaste, and the most

liberal, and the most noble of women. She is my mistress, and she is

called the Countess of the Fountain, the wife of him whom thou didst

slay yesterday.” “Verily,” said Owain, “she is the woman that I love

best.” “Verily,” said the maiden, “she shall also love thee, not a

little.”

Then the maiden prepared a repast for Owain, and truly he thought he had

never before so good a meal, nor was he ever so well served. Then she

left him, and went towards the castle. When she came there, she found

nothing but mourning and sorrow; and the Countess in her chamber could

not bear the sight of any one through grief. Luned, for that was the

name of the maiden, saluted her, but the Countess answered her not. And

the maiden bent down towards her, and said, “What aileth thee, that thou

answereth no one to-day?” “Luned,” said the Countess, “what change hath

befallen thee, that thou hast not come to visit me in my grief. It was

wrong in thee, and I so sorely afflicted.” “Truly,” said Luned, “I

thought thy good sense was greater than I find it to be. Is it well for

thee to mourn after that good man, or for anything else that thou canst

not have?” “I declare to Heaven,” said the Countess, “that in the whole

world there is not a man equal to him.” “Not so,” said Luned, “for an

ugly man would be as good as or better than he.” “I declare to Heaven,”

said the Countess, “that were it not repugnant to me to put to death one

whom I have brought up, I would have thee executed for making such a

comparison to me. As it is, I will banish thee.” “I am glad,” said

Luned, “that thou hast no other cause to do so than that I would have

been of service to thee, where thou didst not know what was to thine

advantage. Henceforth, evil betide whichever of us shall make the first

advance towards reconciliation to the other, whether I should seek an

invitation from thee, or thou of thine own accord should send to

invite.”

With that Luned went forth; and the Countess arose and followed her to

the door of the chamber, and began coughing loudly. And when Luned

looked back, the Countess beckoned to her, and she returned to the

Countess. “In truth,” said the Countess, “evil is thy disposition; but

if thou knowest what is to my advantage, declare it to me.” “I will do

so,” said she.

“Thou knowest that, except by warfare and arms, it is impossible for

thee to preserve thy possessions; delay not, therefore, to seek some one

who can defend them.” “And how can I do that?” said the Countess. “I

will tell thee,” said Luned; “unless thou canst defend the fountain,

thou canst not maintain thy dominions; and no one can defend the

fountain except it be a knight of Arthur’s household. I will go to

Arthur’s court, and ill betide me if I return not thence with a warrior

who can guard the fountain as well as, or even better than, he who

defended it formerly.” “That will be hard to perform,” said the

Countess. “Go, however, and make proof of that which thou hast

promised.”

Luned set out under the pretence of going to Arthur’s court; but she

went back to the mansion where she had left Owain, and she tarried there

as long as it might have taken her to travel to the court of King Arthur

and back. And at the end of that time she apparelled herself, and went

to visit the Countess. And the Countess was much rejoiced when she saw

her, and inquired what news she brought from the court. “I bring thee

the best of news,” said Luned, “for I have compassed the object of my

mission. When wilt thou that I should present to thee the chieftain who

has come with me hither?” “Bring him here to visit me to-morrow,” said

the Countess, “and I will cause the town to be assembled by that time.”

And Luned returned home. And the next day at noon, Owain arrayed himself

in a coat and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a

broad band of gold lace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated

leather, which were fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And

they proceeded to the chamber of the Countess.

Right glad was the Countess of their coming. And she gazed steadfastly

upon Owain, and said, “Luned, this knight has not the look of a

traveller.” “What harm is there in that, lady?” said Luned. “I am

certain,” said the Countess, “that no other man than this chased the

soul from the body of my lord.” “So much the better for thee, lady,”

said Luned, “for had he not been stronger than thy lord, he could not

have deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past, be

it as it may.” “Go back to thine abode,” said the Countess, “and I will

take counsel.”

The next day the Countess caused all her subjects to assemble, and

showed them that her earldom was left defenceless, and that it could not

be protected but with horse and arms, and military skill. “Therefore,”

said she, “this is what I offer for your choice: either let one of you

take me, or give your consent for me to take a husband from elsewhere,

to defend my dominions.”

So they came to the determination that it was better that she should

have permission to marry some one from elsewhere; and thereupon she sent

for the bishops and archbishops, to celebrate her nuptials with Owain.

And the men of the earldom did Owain homage.

And Owain defended the fountain with lance and sword. And this is the

manner in which he defended it. Whensoever a knight came there, he

overthrew him, and sold him for his full worth. And what he thus gained

he divided among his barons and his knights, and no man in the whole

world could be more beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was thus

for the space of three years.[60]

————

CHAPTER IV

THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN (_Continued_)

GAWAIN’S ADVENTURE

IT befell that, as Gawain went forth one day with King Arthur, he

perceived him to be very sad and sorrowful. And Gawain was much grieved

to see Arthur in his state, and he questioned him, saying, “O my lord,

what has befallen thee?” “In sooth, Gawain,” said Arthur, “I am grieved

concerning Owain, whom I have lost these three years; and I shall

certainly die if the fourth year pass without my seeing him. Now I am

sure that it is through the tale which Kynon, the son of Clydno,

related, that I have lost Owain.” “There is no need for thee,” said

Gawain, “to summon to arms thy whole dominions on this account, for thou

thyself, and the men of thy household, will be able to avenge Owain if

he be slain or to set him free if he be in prison; and, if alive, to

bring him back with thee.” And it was settled according to what Gawain

had said.

Then Arthur and the men of his household prepared to go and seek Owain.

And Kynon, the son of Clydno, acted as their guide. And Arthur came to

the castle where Kynon had been before. And when he came there, the

youths were shooting in the same place, and the yellow man was standing

hard by. When the yellow man saw Arthur, he greeted him, and invited him

to the castle. And Arthur accepted his invitation, and they entered the

castle together. And great as was the number of his retinue, their

presence was scarcely observed in the castle, so vast was its extent.

And the maidens rose up to wait on them. And the service of the maidens

appeared to them all to excel any attendance they had ever met with; and

even the pages, who had charge of the horses, were no worse served that

night than Arthur himself would have been in his own palace.

The next morning Arthur set out thence, with Kynon for his guide, and

came to the place where the black man was. And the stature of the black

man was more surprising to Arthur than it had been represented to him.

And they came to the top of the wooded steep, and traversed the valley,

till they reached the green tree, where they saw the fountain and the

bowl and the slab. And upon that Kay came to Arthur, and spoke to him.

“My lord,” said he, “I know the meaning of all this, and my request is

that thou wilt permit me to throw the water on the slab, and to receive

the first adventure that may befall.” And Arthur gave him leave.

Then Kay threw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately there

came the thunder, and after the thunder the shower. And such a

thunder-storm they had never known before. After the shower had ceased,

the sky became clear, and on looking at the tree, they beheld it

completely leafless. Then the birds descended upon the tree. And the

song of the birds was far sweeter than any strain they had ever heard

before. Then they beheld a knight, on a coal-black horse, clothed in

black satin, coming rapidly towards them. And Kay met him and

encountered him, and it was not long before Kay was overthrown. And the

knight withdrew. And Arthur and his host encamped for the night.

And when they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat

upon the lance of the knight. Then, one by one, all the household of

Arthur went forth to combat the knight, until there was not one that was

not overthrown by him, except Arthur and Gawain. And Arthur armed

himself to encounter the knight. “O my lord,” said Gawain, “permit me to

fight with him first.” And Arthur permitted him. And he went forth to

meet the knight, having over himself and his horse a satin robe of

honor, which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of Rhangyr,

and in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they charged

each other, and fought all that day until the evening. And neither of

them was able to unhorse the other. And so it was the next day; they

broke their lances in the shock, but neither of them could obtain the

mastery.

And the third day they fought with exceeding strong lances. And they

were incensed with rage, and fought furiously, even until noon. And they

gave each other such a shock that the girths of their horses were

broken, so that they fell over their horses’ cruppers to the ground. And

they rose up speedily and drew their swords, and resumed the combat. And

all they that witnessed their encounter felt assured that they had never

before seen two men so valiant or so powerful. And had it been midnight,

it would have been light, from the fire that flashed from their weapons.

And the knight gave Gawain a blow that turned his helmet from off his

face, so that the knight saw that it was Gawain. Then Owain said, “My

lord Gawain, I did not know thee for my cousin, owing to the robe of

honor that enveloped thee; take my sword and my arms.” Said Gawain,

“Thou, Owain, art the victor; take thou my sword.” And with that Arthur

saw that they were conversing, and advanced toward them. “My lord

Arthur,” said Gawain, “here is Owain who has vanquished me, and will not

take my arms.” “My lord,” said Owain, “it is he that has vanquished me,

and he will not take my sword.” “Give me your swords,” said Arthur, “and

then neither of you has vanquished the other.” Then Owain put his arms

around Arthur’s neck, and they embraced. And all the host hurried

forward to see Owain, and to embrace him. And there was nigh being a

loss of life, so great was the press.

And they retired that night, and the next day Arthur prepared to depart.

“My lord,” said Owain, “this is not well of thee. For I have been absent

from thee these three years, and during all that time, up to this very

day, I have been preparing a banquet for thee, knowing that thou wouldst

come to seek me. Tarry with me, therefore, until thou and thy attendants

have recovered the fatigues of the journey, and have been anointed.”

And they all proceeded to the castle of the Countess of the Fountain,

and the banquet which had been three years preparing was consumed in

three months. Never had they a more delicious or agreeable banquet. And

Arthur prepared to depart. Then he sent an embassy to the Countess to

beseech her to permit Owain to go with him, for the space of three

months, that he might show him to the nobles and the fair dames of the

island of Britain. And the Countess gave her consent, although it was

very painful to her. So Owain came with Arthur to the island of Britain.

And when he was once more amongst his kindred and friends, he remained

three years, instead of three months, with them.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION

And as Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerleon upon Usk,

behold a damsel entered the hall, upon a bay horse,[61] with a curling

mane, and covered with foam; and the bridle, and as much as was seen of

the saddle, were of gold. And the damsel was arrayed in a dress of

yellow satin. And she came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his

hand. “Thus,” said she, “shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor, the

faithless, the disgraced, and the beardless.” And she turned her horse’s

head and departed.

Then his adventure came to Owain’s remembrance, and he was sorrowful.

And having finished eating, he went to his own abode, and made

preparations that night. And the next day he arose, but did not go to

the court, nor did he return to the Countess of the Fountain, but

wandered to the distant parts of the earth and to uncultivated

mountains. And he remained there until all his apparel was worn out, and

his body was wasted away, and his hair was grown long. And he went about

with the wild beasts, and fed with them, until they became familiar with

him. But at length he became so weak that he could no longer bear them

company. Then he descended from the mountains to the valley, and came to

a park, that was the fairest in the world, and belonged to a charitable

lady.

One day the lady and her attendants went forth to walk by a lake that

was in the middle of the park. And they saw the form of a man, lying as

if dead. And they were terrified. Nevertheless they went near him, and

touched him, and they saw that there was life in him. And the lady

returned to the castle, and took a flask full of precious ointment and

gave it to one of her maidens. “Go with this,” said she, “and take with

thee yonder horse, and clothing, and place them near the man we saw just

now; and anoint him with this balsam near his heart; and if there is

life in him, he will revive, through the efficiency of this balsam. Then

watch what he will do.”

And the maiden departed from her, and went and poured of the balsam upon

Owain, and left the horse and the garments hard by, and went a little

way off and hid herself to watch him. In a short time, she saw him begin

to move; and he rose up, and looked at his person, and became ashamed of

the unseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the

garments that were near him. And he clothed himself, and with difficulty

mounted the horse. Then the damsel discovered herself to him, and

saluted him. And he and the maiden proceeded to the castle, and the

maiden conducted him to a pleasant chamber, and kindled a fire, and left

him.

And he stayed at the castle three months, till he was restored to his

former guise, and became even more comely than he had ever been before.

And Owain rendered signal service to the lady, in a controversy with a

powerful neighbor, so that he made ample requital to her for her

hospitality; and he took his departure.

And as he journeyed he heard a loud yelling in a wood. And it was

repeated a second and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and

beheld a huge craggy mound, in the middle of the wood, on the side of

which was a gray rock. And there was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent

was within the cleft. And near the rock stood a black lion, and every

time the lion sought to go thence the serpent darted towards him to

attack him. And Owain unsheathed his sword, and drew near to the rock;

and as the serpent sprung out he struck him with his sword and cut him

in two. And he dried his sword, and went on his way as before. But

behold the lion followed him, and played about him, as though it had

been a greyhound that he had reared.

They proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. And when it

was time for Owain to take his rest he dismounted, and turned his horse

loose in a flat and wooded meadow. And he struck fire, and when the fire

was kindled, the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three nights.

And the lion disappeared. And presently the lion returned, bearing a

fine large roebuck. And he threw it down before Owain, who went towards

the fire with it.

And Owain took the roebuck, and skinned it, and placed collops of its

flesh upon skewers round the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the

lion to devour. While he was so employed, he heard a deep groan near

him, and a second, and a third. And the place whence the groans

proceeded was a cave in the rock; and Owain went near, and called out to

know who it was that groaned so piteously. And a voice answered, “I am

Luned, the hand-maiden of the Countess of the Fountain.” “And what dost

thou here?” said he. “I am imprisoned,” said she, “on account of the

knight who came from Arthur’s court, and married the Countess. And he

staid a short time with her, but he afterwards departed for the court of

Arthur, and has not returned since. And two of the Countess’s pages

traduced him, and called him a deceiver. And because I said I would

vouch for it he would come before long and maintain his cause against

both of them, they imprisoned me in this cave, and said that I should be

put to death, unless he came to deliver me, by a certain day; and that

is no further off than to-morrow, and I have no one to send to seek him

for me. His name is Owain, the son of Urien.” “And art thou certain that

if that knight knew all this, he would come to thy rescue?” “I am most

certain of it,” said she.

When the collops were cooked, Owain divided them into two parts, between

himself and the maiden, and then Owain laid himself down to sleep; and

never did sentinel keep stricter watch over his lord than the lion that

night over Owain.

And the next day there came the two pages with a great troop of

attendants to take Luned from her cell, and put her to death. And Owain

asked them what charge they had against her. And they told him of the

compact that was between them; as the maiden had done the night before.

“And,” said they, “Owain has failed her, therefore we are taking her to

be burnt.” “Truly,” said Owain, “he is a good knight; and if he knew

that the maiden was in such peril, I marvel that he came not to her

rescue. But if you will accept me in his stead, I will do battle with

you.” “We will,” said the youth.

And they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that,

the lion came to Owain’s assistance, and they two got the better of the

young men. And they said to him, “Chieftain, it was not agreed that we

should fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us to contend

with yonder animal than with thee.” And Owain put the lion in the place

where Luned had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door with stones.

And he went to fight with the young men as before. But Owain had not his

usual strength, and the two youths pressed hard upon him. And the lion

roared incessantly at seeing Owain in trouble. And he brust through the

wall, until he found a way out, and rushed upon the young men and

instantly slew them. So Luned was saved from being burned.

Then Owain returned with Luned to the castle of the Lady of the

Fountain. And when he went thence, he took the Countess with him to

Arthur’s court, and she was his wife as long as she lived.

————

CHAPTER V

GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN

ARTHUR was accustomed to hold his court at Caerleon upon Usk. And there

he held it seven Easters and five Christmases. And once upon a time he

held his court there at Whitsuntide. For Caerleon was the place most

easy of access in his dominions, both by sea and by land. And there were

assembled nine crowned kings, who were his tributaries, and likewise

earls and barons. For they were his invited guests at all the high

festivals, unless they were prevented by any great hinderance. And when

he was at Caerleon holding his court, thirteen churches were set apart

for mass. And thus they were appointed: one church for Arthur and his

kings, and his guests; and the second for Guenever and her ladies; and

the third for the steward of the household and the suitors; and the

fourth for the Franks and the other officers; and the other nine

churches were for the nine masters of the household, and chiefly for

Gawain, for he, from the eminence of his warlike fame, and from the

nobleness of his birth, was the most exalted of the nine. And there was

no other arrangement respecting the churches than that which we have

here mentioned.

And on Whit-Tuesday, as the king sat at the banquet, lo, there entered a

tall, fair-headed youth, clad in a coat and surcoat of satin, and a

golden-hilted sword about his neck, and low shoes of leather upon his

feet. And he came and stood before Arthur. “Hail to thee, lord,” said

he. “Heaven prosper thee,” he answered, “and be thou welcome. Dost thou

bring any new tidings?” “I do, lord,” he said. “I am one of thy

foresters, lord, in the forest of Dean, and my name is Madoc, son of

Turgadarn. In the forest I saw a stag, the like of which beheld I never

yet.” “What is there about him,” asked Arthur, “that thou never yet

didst see his like?” “He is of pure white, lord, and he does not herd

with any other animal, through stateliness and pride, so royal is his

bearing. And I come to seek thy counsel, lord, and to know thy will

concerning him.” “It seems best to me,” said Arthur, “to go and hunt him

to-morrow at break of day, and to cause general notice thereof to be

given to-night, in all quarters of the court.”

“For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before

Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.

There on a day, he sitting high in hall,

Before him came a forester of Dean,

Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart

Taller than all his fellows, milky-white,

First seen that day: these things he told the king.

Then the good king gave order to let blow

His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.”

—_Enid._

And Arryfuerys was Arthur’s chief huntsman, and Arelivri his chief page.

And all received notice; and thus it was arranged.

Then Guenever said to Arthur, “Wilt thou permit me, lord, to go

to-morrow to see and hear the hunt of the stag of which the young man

spoke?” “I will gladly,” said Arthur. And Gawain said to Arthur, “Lord,

if it seem well to thee, permit that into whose hunt soever the stag

shall come, that one, be he a knight or one on foot, may cut off his

head, and give it to whom he pleases, whether to his own lady-love, or

to the lady of his friend.” “I grant it gladly,” said Arthur, “and let

the steward of the household be chastised, if all things are not ready

to-morrow for the chase.”

And they passed the night with songs, and diversions, and discourse, and

ample entertainment. And when it was time for them all to go to sleep,

they went. And when the next day came, they arose. And Arthur called the

attendants who guarded his couch. And there were four pages whose names

were Cadyrnerth, the son of Gandwy, and Ambreu, the son of Bedwor and

Amhar, the son of Arthur and Goreu, the son of Custennin. And these men

came to Arthur and saluted him, and arrayed him in his garments. And

Arthur wondered that Guenever did not awake, and the attendants wished

to awaken her. “Disturb her not,” said Arthur, “for she had rather sleep

than go to see the hunting.”

Then Arthur went forth, and he heard two horns sounding, one from near

the lodging of the chief huntsman, and the other from near that of the

chief page. And the whole assembly of the multitudes came to Arthur, and

they took the road to the forest.

And after Arthur had gone forth from the palace, Guenever awoke, and

called to her maidens, and apparalled herself. “Maidens,” said she, “I

had leave last night to go and see the hunt. Go one of you to the

stable, and order hither a horse such as a woman may ride.” And one of

them went, and she found but two horses in the stable; and Guenever and

one of her maidens mounted them, and went through the Usk, and followed

the track of the men and the horses. And as they rode thus, they heard a

loud and rushing sound; and they looked behind them, and beheld a knight

upon a hunter foal of mighty size. And the rider was a fair-haired

youth, bare-legged, and of princely mien; and a golden-hilted sword was

at his side, and a robe and a surcoat of satin were upon him, and two

low shoes of leather upon his feet; and around him was a scarf of blue

purple, at each corner of which was a golden apple.

“For Prince Geraint,

Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress

Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,

Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford.”

—_Enid._

And his horse stepped stately, and swift, and proud; and he overtook

Guenever, and saluted her. “Heaven prosper thee, Geraint,” said she;

“and why didst thou not go with thy lord to hunt?” “Because I knew not

when he went,” said he. “I marvel too,” said she, “how he could go,

unknown to me. But thou, O young man, art the most agreeable companion I

could have in the whole kingdom; and it may be I shall be more amused

with the hunting than they; for we shall hear the horns when they sound

and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to cry.”

So they went to the edge of the forest, and there they stood. “From this

place,” said she, “we shall hear when the dogs are let loose.” And

thereupon they heard a loud noise; and they looked towards the spot

whence it came, and they beheld a dwarf riding upon a horse, stately and

foaming and prancing and strong and spirited. And in the hand of the

dwarf was a whip. And near the dwarf they saw a lady upon a beautiful

white horse, of steady and stately pace; and she was clothed in a

garment of gold brocade. And near her was a knight upon a war-horse of

large size, with heavy and bright armor both upon himself and upon his

horse. And truly they never before saw a knight, or a horse, or armor,

of such remarkable size.

“Geraint,” said Guenever, “knowest thou the name of that tall knight

yonder?” “I know him not,” said he, “and the strange armor that he wears

prevents my either seeing his face or his features.” “Go, maiden,” said

Guenever, “and ask the dwarf who that knight is.” Then the maiden went

up to the dwarf; and she inquired of the dwarf who the knight was. “I

will not tell thee,” he answered. “Since thou art so churlish,” said

she, “I will ask him, himself.” “Thou shalt not ask him, by my faith,”

said he. “Wherefore not?” said she. “Because thou art not of honor

sufficient to befit thee to speak to my lord.” Then the maiden turned

her horse’s head towards the knight, upon which the dwarf struck her

with the whip that was in his hand across the face and the eyes, so that

the blood flowed forth. And the maiden returned to Guenever, complaining

of the hurt she had received. “Very rudely has the dwarf treated thee,”

said Geraint, and he put his hand upon the hilt of his sword. But he

took counsel with himself, and considered that it would be no vengeance

for him to slay the dwarf, and to be attacked unarmed by the armed

knight; so he refrained.

“Lady,” said he, “I will follow him, with thy permission, and at last he

will come to some inhabited place, where I may have arms, either as a

loan or for a pledge, so that I may encounter the knight.” “Go,” said

she, “and do not attack him until thou hast good arms; and I shall be

very anxious concerning thee, until I hear tidings of thee.” “If I am

alive,” said he, “thou shalt hear tidings of me by to-morrow afternoon;”

and with that he departed.

And the road they took was below the palace of Caerleon, and across the

ford of the Usk; and they went along a fair and even and lofty ridge of

ground, until they came to a town, and at the extremity of the town they

saw a fortress and a castle. And as the knight passed through the town

all the people arose and saluted him, and bade him welcome. And when

Geraint came into the town, he looked at every house to see if he knew

any of those whom he saw. But he knew none, and none knew him, to do him

the kindness to let him have arms, either as a loan or for a pledge. And

every house he saw was full of men, and arms, and horses. And they were

polishing shields, and burnishing swords, and washing armor, and shoeing

horses. And the knight and the lady and the dwarf rode up to the castle,

that was in the town, and every one was glad in the castle. And from the

battlements and the gates they risked their necks, through their

eagerness to greet them, and to show their joy.

Geraint stood there to see whether the knight would remain in the

castle; and when he was certain that he would do so, he looked around

him. And at a little distance from the town he saw an old palace in

ruins, wherein was a hall that was falling to decay.

“And high above a piece of turret-stair,

Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound

Bare to the sun.”

—_Enid._

And as he knew not any one in the town, he went towards the old palace.

And when he came near to the palace, he saw a hoary-headed man, standing

by it, in tattered garments. And Geraint gazed steadfastly upon him.

Then the hoary-headed man said to him, “Young man, wherefore art thou

thoughtful?” “I am thoughtful,” said he, “because I know not where to

pass the night.” “Wilt thou come forward this way, chieftain,” said he,

“and thou shalt have of the best that can be procured for thee.” So

Geraint went forward. And the hoary-headed man led the way into the

hall. And in the hall he dismounted, and he left there his horse. Then

he went on to the upper chamber with the hoary-headed man. And in the

chamber he beheld an old woman, sitting on a cushion, with old, worn-out

garments upon her; yet it seemed to him that she must have been comely

when in the bloom of youth. And beside her was a maiden, upon whom were

a vest and a veil that were old and beginning to be worn out. And truly

he never saw a maiden more full of comeliness and grace and beauty than

she. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, “There is no attendant

for the horse of this youth but thyself.” “I will render the best

service I am able,” said she, “both to him and to his horse.” And the

maiden disarrayed the youth, and then she furnished his horse with straw

and corn; and then she returned to the chamber. And the hoary-headed man

said to the maiden, “Go to the town and bring hither the best that thou

canst find, both of food and of liquor.” “I will gladly, lord,” said

she. And to the town went the maiden. And they conversed together while

the maiden was at the town. And, behold, the maiden came back, and a

youth with her, bearing on his back a costrel full of good purchased

mead, and a quarter of a young bullock. And in the hands of the maiden

was a quantity of white bread, and she had some manchet bread in her

veil, and she came into the chamber. “I would not obtain better than

this,” said she, “nor with better should I have been trusted.” “It is

good enough,” said Geraint. And they caused the meat to be boiled; and

when their food was ready, they sat down. And it was in this wise.

Geraint sat between the hoary-headed man and his wife, and the maiden

served them. And they ate and drank.

And when they had finished eating, Geraint talked with the hoary-headed

man, and he asked him in the first place to whom belonged the palace

that he was in. “Truly,” said he, “it was I that built it, and to me

also belonged the city and the castle which thou sawest.” “Alas!” said

Geraint, “how is it that thou hast lost them now?” “I lost a great

earldom as well as these,” said he, “and this is how I lost them. I had

a nephew, the son of my brother, and I took care of his possessions; but

he was impatient to enter upon them, so he made war upon me, and wrested

from me not only his own, but also my estates, except this castle.”

“Good sir,” said Geraint, “wilt thou tell me wherefore came the knight

and the lady and the dwarf just now into the town, and what is the

preparation which I saw, and the putting of arms in order?” “I will do

so,” said he. “The preparations are for the game that is to be held

to-morrow by the young earl, which will be on this wise. In the midst of

a meadow which is here, two forks will be set up, and upon the two forks

a silver rod, and upon the silver rod a sparrow-hawk, and for the

sparrow-hawk there will be a tournament. And to the tournament will go

all the array thou didst see in the city, of men and of horses and of

arms. And with each man will go the lady he loves best; and no man can

joust for the sparrow-hawk, except the lady he loves best be with him.

And the knight that thou sawest has gained the sparrow-hawk these two

years; and if he gains it the third year, he will be called the Knight

of the Sparrow-hawk from that time forth.” “Sir,” said Geraint, “what is

thy counsel to me concerning this knight, on account of the insult which

the maiden of Guenever received from the dwarf?” And Geraint told the

hoary-headed man what the insult was that the maiden had received. “It

is not easy to counsel thee, inasmuch as thou hast neither dame nor

maiden belonging to thee, for whom thou canst joust. Yet I have arms

here, which thou couldst have, and there is my horse also, if he seem to

thee better than thine own.” “Ah, sir,” said he, “Heaven reward thee!

But my own horse to which I am accustomed, together with thine arms,

will suffice me. And if, when the appointed time shall come to-morrow

thou wilt permit me, sir, to challenge for yonder maiden that is thy

daughter, I will engage, if I escape from the tournament, to love the

maiden as long as I live.” “Gladly will I permit thee,” said the

hoary-headed man; “and since thou dost thus resolve, it is necessary

that thy horse and arms should be ready to-morrow at break of day. For

then the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk will make proclamation, and ask the

lady he loves best to take the sparrow-hawk; and if any deny it to her,

by force will he defend her claim. And therefore,” said the hoary-headed

man, “it is needful for thee to be there at daybreak, and we three will

be with thee.” And thus was it settled.

And at night they went to sleep. And before the dawn they arose and

arrayed themselves; and by the time that it was day, they were all four

in the meadow. And there was the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk making the

proclamation, and asking his lady-love to take the sparrow-hawk. “Take

it not,” said Geraint, “for here is a maiden who is fairer, and more

noble, and more comely, and who has a better claim to it than thou.”

Then said the knight, “If thou maintainest the sparrow-hawk to be due to

her, come forward and do battle with me.” And Geraint went forward to

the top of the meadow, having upon himself and upon his horse armor

which was heavy and rusty, and of uncouth shape. Then they encountered

each other, and they broke a set of lances; and they broke a second set,

and a third. And when the earl and his company saw the Knight of the

Sparrow-hawk gaining the mastery, there was shouting and joy and mirth

amongst them; and the hoary-headed man and his wife and his daughter

were sorrowful. And the hoary-headed man served Geraint with lances as

often as he broke them, and the dwarf served the Knight of the

Sparrow-hawk. Then the hoary-headed man said to Geraint, “O chieftain,

since no other will hold with thee, behold, here is the lance which was

in my hand on the day when I received the honor of knighthood, and from

that time to this I never broke it, and it has an excellent point.” Then

Geraint took the lance, thanking the hoary-headed man. And thereupon the

dwarf also brought a lance to his lord. “Behold, here is a lance for

thee, not less good than his,” said the dwarf. “And bethink thee that no

knight ever withstood thee so long as this one has done.” “I declare to

Heaven,” said Geraint, “that unless death takes me quickly hence, he

shall fare never the better for thy service.” And Geraint pricked his

horse towards him from afar, and, warning him, he rushed upon him, and

gave him a blow so severe, and furious, and fierce, upon the face of his

shield, that he cleft it in two, and broke his armor, and burst his

girths, so that both he and his saddle were borne to the ground over the

horse’s crupper. And Geraint dismounted quickly. And he was wroth, and

he drew his sword, and rushed fiercely upon him. Then the knight also

arose, and drew his sword against Geraint. And they fought on foot with

their swords until their arms struck sparks of fire like stars from one

another; and thus they continued fighting until the blood and sweat

obscured the light from their eyes. At length Geraint called to him all

his strength, and struck the knight upon the crown of his head, so that

he broke all his head-armor, and cut through all the flesh and the skin,

even to the skull, until he wounded the bone.

Then the knight fell upon his knees, and cast his sword from his hand,

and besought mercy from Geraint. “Of a truth,” said he, “I relinquish my

overdaring and my pride, and crave thy mercy; and unless I have time to

commit myself to Heaven for my sins, and to talk with a priest, thy

mercy will avail me little.” “I will grant thee grace upon this

condition,” said Geraint, “that thou go to Guenever, the wife of Arthur,

to do her satisfaction for the insult which her maiden received from thy

dwarf. Dismount not from the time thou goest hence until thou comest

into the presence of Guenever, to make her what atonement shall be

adjudged at the court of Arthur.” “This will I do gladly; and who art

thou?” “I am Geraint, the son of Erbin; and declare thou also who thou

art.” “I am Edeyrn, the son of Nudd.” Then he threw himself upon his

horse, and went forward to Arthur’s court; and the lady he loved best

went before him, and the dwarf, with much lamentation.

Then came the young earl and his hosts to Geraint, and saluted him, and

bade him to his castle. “I may not go,” said Geraint; “but where I was

last night, there will I be to-night also.” “Since thou wilt none of my

inviting, thou shalt have abundance of all that I can command for thee;

and I will order ointment for thee, to recover thee from thy fatigues,

and from the weariness that is upon thee.” “Heaven reward thee,” said

Geraint, “and I will go to my lodging.” And thus went Geraint and Earl

Ynywl, and his wife and his daughter. And when they reached the old

mansion, the household servants and attendants of the young earl had

arrived, and had arranged all the apartments, dressing them with straw

and with fire; and in a short time the ointment was ready, and Geraint

came there, and they washed his head. Then came the young earl, with

forty honorable knights from among his attendants, and those who were

bidden to the tournament. And Geraint came from the anointing. And the

earl asked him to go to the hall to eat. “Where is the Earl Ynywl,” said

Geraint, “and his wife and his daughter?” “They are in the chamber

yonder,” said the earl’s chamberlain, “arraying themselves in garments

which the earl has caused to be brought for them.” “Let not the damsel

array herself,” said he, “except in her vest and her veil, until she

come to the court of Arthur, to be clad by Guenever in such garments as

she may choose.” So the maiden did not array herself.

Then they all entered the hall, and they washed, and sat down to meat.

And thus were they seated. On one side of Geraint sat the young earl,

and Earl Ynywl beyond him, and on the other side of Geraint was the

maiden and her mother. And after these all sat according to their

precedence in honor. And they ate. And they were served abundantly, and

they received a profusion of divers kinds of gifts. Then they conversed

together. And the young earl invited Geraint to visit him next day. “I

will not, by Heaven,” said Geraint. “To the court of Arthur will I go

with this maiden to-morrow. And it is enough for me, as long as Earl

Ynywl is in poverty and trouble; and I go chiefly to seek to add to his

maintenance.” “Ah, chieftain,” said the young earl, “it is not by my

fault that Earl Ynywl is without his possessions.” “By my faith,” said

Geraint, “he shall not remain without them, unless death quickly takes

me hence.” “O chieftain,” said he, “with regard to the disagreement

between me and Ynywl, I will gladly abide by thy counsel, and agree to

what thou mayest judge right between us.” “I but ask thee,” said

Geraint, “to restore to him what is his, and what he should have

received from the time he lost his possessions even until this day.”

“That will I do, gladly, for thee,” answered he. “Then,” said Geraint,

“whosoever is here who owes homage to Ynywl, let him come forward, and

perform it on the spot.” And all the men did so; and by that treaty they

abided. And his castle and his town, and all his possessions, were

restored to Ynywl. And he received back all that he had lost, even to

the smallest jewel.

Then spoke Earl Ynywl to Geraint. “Chieftain,” said he, “behold the

maiden for whom thou didst challenge at the tournament; I bestow her

upon thee.” “She shall go with me,” said Geraint, “to the court of

Arthur, and Arthur and Guenever, they shall dispose of her as they

will.” And the next day they proceeded to Arthur’s court. So far

concerning Geraint.

————

CHAPTER VI

GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN (_Continued_)

NOW this is how Arthur hunted the stag. The men and the dogs were

divided into hunting-parties, and the dogs were let loose upon the stag.

And the last dog that was let loose was the favorite dog of Arthur;

Cavall was his name. And he left all the other dogs behind him and

turned the stag. And at the second turn the stag came toward the

hunting-party of Arthur. And Arthur set upon him; and before he could be

slain by any other, Arthur cut off his head. Then they sounded the

death-horn for slaying and they all gathered round.

Then came Kadyriath to Arthur and spoke to him. “Lord,” said he,

“behold, yonder is Guenever, and none with her save only one maiden.”

“Command Gildas, the son of Caw, and all the scholars of the court,”

said Arthur, “to attend Guenever to the palace.” And they did so.

Then they all set forth, holding converse together concerning the head

of the stag, to whom it should be given. One wished that it should be

given to the lady best beloved by him, and another to the lady whom he

loved best. And so they came to the palace. And when Arthur and Guenever

heard them disputing about the head of the stag, Guenever said to

Arthur: “My lord, this is my counsel concerning the stag’s head; let it

not be given away until Geraint, the son of Erbin, shall return from the

errand he is upon.” And Guenever told Arthur what that errand was.

“Right gladly shall it be so,” said Arthur. And Guenever caused a watch

to be set upon the ramparts for Geraint’s coming. And after midday they

beheld an unshapely little man upon a horse, and after him a dame or a

damsel, also on horseback, and after her a knight of large stature,

bowed down, and hanging his head low and sorrowfully, and clad in broken

and worthless armor.

And before they came near to the gate one of the watch went to Guenever,

and told her what kind of people they saw, and what aspect they bore. “I

know not who they are,” said he, “But _I_ know,” said Guenever; “this is

the knight whom Geraint pursued, and methinks that he comes not here by

his own free will. But Geraint has overtaken him, and avenged the insult

to the maiden to the uttermost.” And thereupon, behold, a porter came to

the spot where Guenever was. “Lady,” said he, “at the gate there is a

knight, and I saw never a man of so pitiful an aspect to look upon as

he. Miserable and broken is the armor that he wears, and the hue of

blood is more conspicuous upon it than its own color.” “Knowest thou his

name?” said she. “I do,” said he; “he tells me that he is Edeyrn, the

son of Nudd.” Then she replied, “I know him not.”

So Guenever went to the gate to meet him and he entered. And Guenever

was sorry when she saw the condition he was in, even though he was

accompanied by the churlish dwarf. Then Edeyrn saluted Guenever. “Heaven

protect thee,” said she. “Lady,” said he, “Geraint, the son of Erbin,

thy best and most valiant servant, greets thee.” “Did he meet with

thee?” she asked. “Yes,” said he, “and it was not to my advantage; and

that was not his fault, but mine, lady. And Geraint greets thee well;

and in greeting thee he compelled me to come hither to do thy pleasure

for the insult which thy maiden received from the dwarf.” “Now where did

he overtake thee?” “At the place where we were jousting and contending

for the sparrow-hawk, in the town which is now called Cardiff. And it

was for the avouchment of the love of the maiden, the daughter of Earl

Ynywl, that Geraint jousted at the tournament. And thereupon we

encountered each other, and he left me, lady, as thou seest.” “Sir,”

said she, “when thinkest thou that Geraint will be here?” “To-morrow,

lady, I think he will be here with the maiden.”

Then Arthur came to them. And he saluted Arthur, and Arthur gazed a long

time upon him and was amazed to see him thus. And thinking that he knew

him, he inquired of him, “Art thou Edeyrn, the son of Nudd?” “I am,

lord,” said he, “and I have met with much trouble and received wounds

unsupportable.” Then he told Arthur all his adventure. “Well,” said

Arthur, “from what I hear it behooves Guenever to be merciful towards

thee.” “The mercy which thou desirest, lord,” said she, “will I grant to

him, since it is as insulting to thee that an insult should be offered

to me as to thyself.” “Thus will it be best to do,” said Arthur; “let

this man have medical care until it be known whether he may live. And if

he live, he shall do such satisfaction as shall be judged best by the

men of the court. And if he die, too much will be the death of such a

youth as Edeyrn for an insult to a maiden.” “This pleases me,” said

Guenever. And Arthur caused Morgan Tud to be called to him. He was the

chief physician. “Take with thee Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, and cause a

chamber to be prepared for him, and let him have the aid of medicine as

thou wouldst do unto myself, if I were wounded; and let none into his

chamber to molest him, but thyself and thy disciples, to administer to

him remedies.” “I will do so, gladly, lord,” said Morgan Tud. Then said

the steward of the household, “Whither is it right, lord, to order the

maiden?” “To Guenever and her handmaidens,” said he. And the steward of

the household so ordered her.

“And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court,

And there the queen forgave him easily.

And being young, he changed himself, and grew

To hate the sin that seem’d so like his own

Of Modred, Arthur’s nephew, and fell at last

In the great battle fighting for the king.”

—_Enid._

The next day came Geraint towards the court; and there was a watch set

on the ramparts by Guenever, lest he should arrive unawares. And one of

the watch came to Guenever. “Lady,” said he, “methinks that I see

Geraint, and a maiden with him. He is on horseback, but he has his

walking gear upon him, and the maiden appears to be in white, seeming to

be clad in a garment of linen.” “Assemble all the women,” said Guenever,

“and come to meet Geraint, to welcome him, and wish him joy.” And

Guenever went to meet Geraint and the maiden. And when Geraint came to

the place where Guenever was, he saluted her. “Heaven prosper thee,”

said she, “and welcome to thee.” “Lady,” said he, “I earnestly desired

to obtain thee satisfaction, according to thy will; and, behold, here is

the maiden through whom thou hadst thy revenge.” “Verily,” said

Guenever, “the welcome of Heaven be unto her; and it is fitting that we

should receive her joyfully.” Then they went in and dismounted. And

Geraint came to where Arthur was, and saluted him. “Heaven protect

thee,” said Arthur, “and the welcome of Heaven be unto thee. And

inasmuch as thou hast vanquished Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, thou hast had

a prosperous career.” “Not upon me be the blame,” said Geraint; “it was

through the arrogance of Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, himself, that we were

not friends.” “Now,” said Arthur, “where is the maiden for whom I heard

thou didst give challenge?” “She is gone with Guenever to her chamber.”

Then went Arthur to see the maiden. And Arthur, and all his companions,

and his whole court, were glad concerning the maiden. And certain were

they all, that, had her array been suitable to her beauty, they had

never seen a maid fairer than she. And Arthur gave away the maiden to

Geraint. And the usual bond made between two persons was made between

Geraint and the maiden, and the choicest of all Guenever’s apparel was

given to the maiden; and thus arrayed, she appeared comely and graceful

to all who beheld her. And that day and the night were spent in

abundance of minstrelsy, and ample gifts of liquor, and a multitude of

games. And when it was time for them to go to sleep they went. And in

the chamber where the couch of Arthur and Guenever was, the couch of

Geraint and Enid was prepared. And from that time she became his wife.

And the next day Arthur satisfied all the claimants upon Geraint with

bountiful gifts. And the maiden took up her abode in the palace, and she

had many companions, both men and women, and there was no maiden more

esteemed than she in the island of Britain.

Then spake Guenever. “Rightly did I judge,” said she, “concerning the

head of the stag, that it should not be given to any until Geraint’s

return; and behold, here is a fit occasion for bestowing it. Let it be

given to Enid, the daughter of Ynywl, the most illustrious maiden. And

_I_ do not believe that any will begrudge it her, for between her and

every one here there exists nothing but love and friendship.” Much

applauded was this by them all, and by Arthur also. And the head of the

stag was given to Enid. And thereupon her fame increased, and her

friends became more in number than before. And Geraint from that time

forth loved the hunt, and the tournament, and hard encounters; and he

came victorious from them all. And a year, and a second, and a third, he

proceeded thus, until his fame had flown over the face of the kingdom.

And, once upon a time, Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon upon

Usk; and behold, there came to him ambassadors, wise and prudent, full

of knowledge and eloquent of speech, and they saluted Arthur. “Heaven

prosper you!” said Arthur; “and whence do you come?” “We come, lord,”

said they, “from Cornwall; and we are ambassadors from Erbin, the son of

Custennin, thy uncle, and our mission is unto thee. And he greets thee

well, as an uncle should greet his nephew, and as a vassal should greet

his lord. And he represents unto thee that he waxes heavy and feeble,

and is advancing in years. And the neighboring chiefs, knowing this,

grow insolent towards him, and covet his land and possessions. And he

earnestly beseeches thee, lord, to permit Geraint, his son, to return to

him, to protect his possessions, and to become acquainted with his

boundaries. And unto him he represents that it were better for him to

spend the flower of his youth and the prime of his age in preserving his

own boundaries, than in tournaments which are productive of no profit,

although he obtains glory in them.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “go and divest yourselves of your accoutrements,

and take food, and refresh yourselves after your fatigues; and before

you go from hence you shall have an answer.” And they went to eat. And

Arthur considered that it would go hard with him to let Geraint depart

from him, and from his court; neither did he think it fair that his

cousin should be restrained from going to protect his dominions and his

boundaries, seeing that his father was unable to do so. No less was the

grief and regret of Guenever, and all her women, and all her damsels,

through fear that the maiden would leave them. And that day and that

night were spent in abundance of feasting. And Arthur told Geraint the

cause of the mission, and of the coming of the ambassadors to him out of

Cornwall. “Truly,” said Geraint, “be it to my advantage or disadvantage,

lord, I will do according to thy will concerning this embassy.”

“Behold,” said Arthur, “though it grieves me to part with thee, it is my

counsel that thou go to dwell in thine own dominions, and to defend thy

boundaries, and take with thee to accompany thee as many as thou wilt of

those thou lovest best among my faithful ones, and among thy friends,

and among thy companions in arms.” “Heaven reward thee! and this will I

do,” said Geraint. “What discourse,” said Guenever, “do I hear between

you? Is it of those who are to conduct Geraint to his country?” “It is,”

said Arthur. “Then is it needful for me to consider,” said she,

“concerning companions and a provision for the lady that is with me.”

“Thou wilt do well,” said Arthur.

And that night they went to sleep. And the next day the ambassadors were

permitted to depart, and they were told that Geraint should follow them.

And on the third day Geraint set forth, and many went with him—Gawain,

the son of Gwyar, and Riogoned, the son of the king of Ireland, and

Ondyaw, the son of the Duke of Burgundy, Gwilim, the son of the ruler of

the Franks, Howel, the son of the Earl of Brittany, Perceval, the son of

Evrawk, Gwyr, a judge in the court of Arthur, Bedwyr, the son of

Bedrawd, Kai, the son of Kyner, Odyar, the Frank, and Ederyn, the son of

Nudd. Said Geraint, “I think I shall have enough of knighthood with me.”

And they set forth. And never was there seen a fairer host journeying

towards the Severn. And on the other side of the Severn were the nobles

of Erbin, the son of Custennin, and his foster-father at their head, to

welcome Geraint with gladness; and many of the women of the court, with

his mother, came to receive Enid, the daughter of Ynywl, his wife. And

there was great rejoicing and gladness throughout the whole court, and

through all the country, concerning Geraint, because of the greatness of

their love to him, and of the greatness of the fame which he had gained

since he went from amongst them, and because he was come to take

possession of his dominions, and to preserve his boundaries. And they

came to the court. And in the court they had ample entertainment, and a

multitude of gifts, and abundance of liquor, and a sufficiency of

service, and a variety of games. And to do honor to Geraint, all the

chief men of the country were invited that night to visit him. And they

passed that day and that night in the utmost enjoyment. And at dawn next

day Erbin arose and summoned to him Geraint, and the noble persons who

had borne him company. And he said to Geraint: “I am a feeble and an

aged man, and whilst I was able to maintain the dominion for thee and

for myself, I did so. But thou art young, and in the flower of thy vigor

and of thy youth. Henceforth do thou preserve thy possessions.” “Truly,”

said Geraint, “with my consent thou shalt not give the power over thy

dominions at this time into my hands, and thou shalt not take me from

Arthur’s court.” “Into thy hands will I give them,” said Erbin, “and

this day also shalt thou receive the homage of thy subjects.”

Then said Gawain, “It were better for thee to satisfy those who have

boons to ask, to-day, and to-morrow thou canst receive the homage of thy

dominions.” So all that had boons to ask were summoned into one place.

And Kadyriath came to them to know what were their requests. And every

one asked that which he desired. And the followers of Arthur began to

make gifts, and immediately the men of Cornwall came, and gave also. And

they were not long in giving, so eager was every one to bestow gifts,

and of those who came to ask gifts, none departed unsatisfied. And that

day and that night were spent in the utmost enjoyment.

And the next day at dawn, Erbin desired Geraint to send messengers to

the men to ask them whether it was displeasing to them that he should

come to receive their homage, and whether they had anything to object to

him. Then Geraint sent ambassadors to the men of Cornwall to ask them

this. And they all said that it would be the fulness of joy and honor to

them for Geraint to come and receive their homage. So he received the

homage of such as were there. And the day after the followers of Arthur

intended to go away. “It is too soon for you to go away yet,” said he;

“stay with me until I have finished receiving the homage of my chief

men, who have agreed to come to me.” And they remained with him until he

had done so. Then they set forth towards the court of Arthur. And

Geraint went to bear them company, and Enid also, as far as Diganwy;

there they parted. And Ondyaw, the son of the Duke of Burgundy, said to

Geraint, “Go, now, and visit the uttermost parts of thy dominions, and

see well to the boundaries of thy territories; and if thou hast any

trouble respecting them, send unto thy companions.” “Heaven reward

thee!” said Geraint; “and this will I do.” And Geraint journeyed to the

uttermost parts of his dominions. And experienced guides, and the chief

men of his country, went with him. And the furthermost point that they

showed him he kept possession of.

————

CHAPTER VII

GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN (_Continued_)

GERAINT, as he had been used to do when he was at Arthur’s court,

frequented tournaments. And he became acquainted with valiant and mighty

men, until he had gained as much fame there as he had formerly done

elsewhere. And he enriched his court, and his companions, and his

nobles, with the best horses and the best arms, and with the best and

most valuable jewels, and he ceased not until his fame had flown over

the face of the whole kingdom.

“Before Geraint, the scourge of the enemy,

I saw steeds white with foam,

And after the shout of battle a fearful torrent.”

—_Hen._

When he knew that it was thus, he began to love ease and pleasure, for

there was no one who was worth his opposing. And he loved his wife, and

liked to continue in the palace with minstrelsy and diversions. So he

began to shut himself up in the chamber of his wife, and he took no

delight in anything besides, insomuch that he gave up the friendship of

his nobles, together with his hunting and his amusements, and lost the

hearts of all the host in his court. And there was murmuring and

scoffing concerning him among the inhabitants of the palace, on account

of his relinquishing so completely their companionship for the love of

his wife.

“They

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him

As of a prince whose manhood was all gone,

And molten down in mere uxoriousness.”

These tidings came to Erbin. And when Erbin had heard these things, he

spoke unto Enid, and inquired of her whether it was she that had caused

Geraint to act thus, and to forsake his people and his hosts. “Not I, by

my confession unto Heaven,” said she; “there is nothing more hateful

unto me than this.” And she knew not what she should do, for, although

it was hard for her to own this to Geraint, yet was it not more easy for

her to listen to what she heard, without warning Geraint concerning it.

And she was very sorrowful.

One morning in the summer-time they were upon their couch, and Geraint

lay upon the edge of it. And Enid was without sleep in the apartment,

which had windows of glass;[62] and the sun shone upon the couch. And

the clothes had slipped from off his arms and his breast, and he was

asleep. Then she gazed upon the marvellous beauty of his appearance, and

she said, “Alas! and am I the cause that these arms and this breast have

lost their glory, and the warlike fame which they once so richly

enjoyed!” As she said this the tears dropped from her eyes, and they

fell upon his breast. And the tears she shed and the words she had

spoken, awoke him. And another thing contributed to awaken him, and that

was the idea that it was not in thinking of him that she spoke thus, but

that it was because she loved some other man more than him, and that she

wished for other society. Thereupon Geraint was troubled in his mind,

and he called his squire; and when he came to him, “Go quickly,” said

he, “and prepare my horse and my arms, and make them ready. And do thou

rise,” said he to Enid, “and apparel thyself; and cause thy horse to be

accoutred, and clothe thee in the worst riding-dress that thou hast in

thy possession. And evil betide me,” said he, “if thou returnest here

until thou knowest whether I have lost my strength so completely as thou

didst say. And if it be so, it will then be easy for thee to seek the

society thou didst wish for of him of whom thou wast thinking.” So she

arose, and clothed herself in her meanest garments. “I know nothing,

lord,” said she, “of thy meaning.” “Neither wilt thou know at this

time,” said he.

Then Geraint went to see Erbin. “Sir,” said he, “I am going upon a

quest, and I am not certain when I may come back. Take heed, therefore,

unto thy possessions until my return.” “I will do so,” said he; “but it

is strange to me that thou shouldst go so suddenly. And who will proceed

with thee, since thou art not strong enough to traverse the land of

Loegyr alone?” “But one person only will go with me.” “Heaven counsel

thee, my son,” said Erbin, “and may many attach themselves to thee in

Loegyr.” Then went Geraint to the place where his horse was, and it was

equipped with foreign armor, heavy and shining. And he desired Enid to

mount her horse, and to ride forward, and to keep a long way before him.

“And whatever thou mayst see, and whatever thou mayst hear concerning

me,” said he, “do thou not turn back. And unless I speak unto thee, say

not thou one word, either.” So they set forward. And he did not choose

the pleasantest and most frequented road, but that which was the wildest

and most beset by thieves and robbers and venomous animals.

And they came to a high road, which they followed till they saw a vast

forest; and they saw four armed horsemen come forth from the forest.

When the armed men saw them, they said one to another. “Here is a good

occasion for us to capture two horses and armor, and a lady likewise;

for this we shall have no difficulty in doing against yonder single

knight who hangs his head so pensively and heavily.” Enid heard this

discourse, and she knew not what she should do through fear of Geraint,

who had told her to be silent. “The vengeance of Heaven be upon me,”

said she, “if I would not rather receive my death from his hand than

from the hand of any other; and though he should slay me, yet will I

speak to him, lest I should have the misery to witness his death.” So

she waited for Geraint until he came near to her. “Lord,” said she,

“didst thou hear the words of those men concerning thee?” Then he lifted

up his eyes, and looked at her angrily. “Thou hadst only,” said he, “to

hold thy peace as I bade thee. I wish but for silence, and not for

warning. And though thou shouldst desire to see my defeat and my death

by the hands of those men, yet do I feel no dread.” Then the foremost of

them couched his lance, and rushed upon Geraint. And he received him,

and that not feebly. But he let the thrust go by him, while he struck

the horseman upon the centre of his shield, in such a manner that his

shield was split, and his armor broken, so that a cubit’s length of the

shaft of Geraint’s lance passed through his body, and sent him to the

earth, the length of the lance over his horse’s crupper. Then the second

horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his

companion. But with one thrust Geraint overthrew him also, and killed

him as he had done the other. Then the third set upon him, and he killed

him in like manner. And thus also he slew the fourth. Sad and sorrowful

was the maiden as she saw all this. Geraint dismounted his horse, and

took the arms of the men he had slain, and placed them upon their

saddles, and tied together the reins of their horses; and he mounted his

horse again. “Behold what thou must do,” said he; “take the four horses

and drive them before thee, and proceed forward as I bade thee just now.

And say not one word unto me, unless I speak first unto thee. And I

declare unto Heaven,” said he, “if thou doest not thus, it will be to

thy cost.” “I will do as far as I can, lord,” said she, “according to

thy desire.”

So the maiden went forward, keeping in advance of Geraint, as he had

desired her; and it grieved him as much as his wrath would permit, to

see a maiden so illustrious as she having so much trouble with the care

of the horses. Then they reached a wood, and it was both deep and vast,

and in the wood night overtook them. “Ah, maiden,” said he, “it is vain

to attempt proceeding forward.” “Well, lord,” said she, “whatever thou

wishest, we will do.” “It will be best for us,” he answered, “to rest

and wait for the day, in order to pursue our journey.” “That we will,

gladly,” said she. And they did so. Having dismounted himself, he took

her down from her horse. “I cannot by any means refrain from sleep,

through weariness,” said he; “do thou therefore watch the horses, and

sleep not.” “I will, lord,” said she. Then he went to sleep in his

armor, and thus passed the night, which was not long at that season. And

when she saw the dawn of day appear, she looked around her to see if he

were waking, and thereupon he woke. Then he arose, and said unto her,

“Take the horses and ride on, and keep straight on as thou didst

yesterday.” And they left the wood, and they came to an open country,

with meadows on one hand, and mowers mowing the meadows. And there was a

river before them, and the horses bent down and drank of the water. And

they went up out of the river by a lofty steep; and there they met a

slender stripling with a satchel about his neck, and they saw that there

was something in the satchel, but they knew not what it was. And he had

a small blue pitcher in his hand, and a bowl on the mouth of the

pitcher. And the youth saluted Geraint. “Heaven prosper thee!” said

Geraint; “and whence dost thou come?” “I come,” said he, “from the city

that lies before thee. My lord,” he added, “will it be displeasing to

thee if I ask whence thou comest also?” “By no means; through yonder

wood did I come.” “Thou camest not through the wood to-day.” “No,” he

replied, “we were in the wood last night.” “I warrant,” said the youth,

“that thy condition there last night was not the most pleasant, and that

thou hadst neither meat nor drink.” “No, by my faith,” said he. “Wilt

thou follow my counsel,” said the youth, “and take thy meal from me?”

“What sort of meal?” he inquired. “The breakfast which is sent for

yonder mowers, nothing less than bread and meat and wine, and if thou

wilt, sir, they shall have none of it.” “I will,” said he, “and Heaven

reward thee for it.”

So Geraint alighted, and the youth took the maiden from off her horse.

Then they washed, and took their repast. And the youth cut the bread in

slices, and gave them drink, and served them withal. And when they had

finished, the youth arose and said to Geraint, “My lord, with thy

permission, I will now go and fetch some food for the mowers.” “Go first

to the town,” said Geraint, “and take a lodging for me in the best place

that thou knowest, and the most commodious one for the horses; and take

thou whichever horse and arms thou choosest, in payment for thy service

and thy gift.” “Heaven reward thee, lord!” said the youth; “and this

would be ample to repay services much greater than those I have rendered

unto thee.” And to the town went the youth, and he took the best and the

most pleasant lodgings that he knew; and after that he went to the

palace, having the horse and armor with him, and proceeded to the place

where the earl was, and told him all his adventure. “I go now, lord,”

said he, “to meet the knight, and to conduct him to his lodging.” “Go,

gladly,” said the earl; “and right joyfully shall he be received here,

if he so come.” And the youth went to meet Geraint, and told him that he

would be received gladly by the earl in his own palace; but he would go

only to his lodgings. And he had a goodly chamber, in which was plenty

of straw and drapery, and a spacious and commodious place he had for the

horses; and the youth prepared for them plenty of provender. After they

had disarrayed themselves, Geraint spoke thus to Enid: “Go,” said he,

“to the other side of the chamber, and come not to this side of the

house; and thou mayst call to thee the woman of the house, if thou

wilt.” “I will do, lord,” said she, “as thou sayest.” Thereupon the man

of the house came to Geraint and welcomed him. And after they had eaten

and drank, Geraint went to sleep, and so did Enid also.

In the evening, behold, the earl came to visit Geraint, and his twelve

honorable knights with him. And Geraint rose up and welcomed him. Then

they all sat down according to their precedence in honor. And the earl

conversed with Geraint, and inquired of him the object of his journey.

“I have none,” he replied, “but to seek adventures and to follow mine

own inclination.” Then the earl cast his eye upon Enid, and he looked at

her steadfastly. And he thought he had never seen a maiden fairer or

more comely than she. And he set all his thoughts and his affections

upon her. Then he asked of Geraint, “Have I thy permission to go and

converse with yonder maiden, for I see that she is apart from thee?”

“Thou hast it gladly,” said he. So the earl went to the place where the

maiden was, and spake with her. “Ah! maiden,” said he, “it cannot be

pleasant to thee to journey with yonder man.” “It is not unpleasant to

me,” said she. “Thou hast neither youths nor maidens to serve thee,”

said he. “Truly,” she replied, “it is more pleasant for me to follow

yonder man, than to be served by youths and maidens.” “I will give thee

good counsel,” said he: “all my earldom will I place in thy possession,

if thou wilt dwell with me.”

“Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,

Enid, my early and my only love.”

—_Enid._

“That will I not, by Heaven,” she said; “yonder man was the first to

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

“Thou art in the wrong,” said the earl; “if I slay the man yonder, I can

keep thee with me as long as I choose; and when thou no longer pleasest

me, I can turn thee away. But if thou goest with me by thy own

good-will, I protest that our union shall continue as long as I remain

alive.” Then she pondered those words of his, and she considered that it

was advisable to encourage him in his request. “Behold then, chieftain,

this is most expedient for thee to do to save me from all reproach; come

here to-morrow and take me away as though I knew nothing thereof.” “I

will do so,” said he. So he arose and took his leave, and went forth

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

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

anger, and cause him uneasiness and care.

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

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

Geraint’s armor together so that it might be ready to put on. And

although fearful of her errand, she came to the side of Geraint’s bed;

and she spoke to him softly and gently, saying, “My lord, arise, and

clothe thyself, for these were the words of the earl to me and his

intention concerning me.” So she told Geraint all that had passed. And

although he was wroth with her, he took warning, and clothed himself.

And she lighted a candle, that he might have light to do so. “Leave

there the candle,” said he, “and desire the man of the house to come

here.” Then she went, and the man of the house came to him. “Dost thou

know how much I owe thee?” asked Geraint. “I think thou owest but

little.” “Take the three horses and the three suits of armor.” “Heaven

reward thee, lord,” said he, “but I spent not the value of one suit of

armor upon thee.” “For that reason,” said he, “thou wilt be the richer.

And now, wilt thou come to guide me out of the town?” “I will gladly,”

said he; “and in which direction dost thou intend to go?” “I wish to

leave the town by a different way from that by which I entered it.” So

the man of the lodgings accompanied him as far as he desired. Then he

bade the maiden to go on before him, and she did so, and went straight

forward, and his host returned home.