BOOK XI.--THE MORTE D'ARTHUR

XXXV. MORDRED THE TRAITOR

XXXVI. THE BATTLE IN THE WEST

XXXVII. THE PASSING OF ARTHUR

XXXVIII. THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT AND OF THE QUEEN

INTRODUCTION

Among the stories of world-wide renown, not the least stirring are

those that have gathered about the names of national heroes. The

_Æneid_, the _Nibelungenlied_, the _Chanson de Roland_, the _Morte

D'Arthur_,--they are not history, but they have been as National

Anthems to the races, and their magic is not yet dead.

In olden times our forefathers used to say that the world had seen

nine great heroes, three heathen, three Jewish, and three

Christian; among the Christian heroes was British Arthur, and of

none is the fame greater. Even to the present day, his name

lingers in many widely distant places. In the peninsula of Gower, a

huge slab of rock, propped up on eleven short pillars, is still

called Arthur's Stone; the lofty ridge which looks down upon

Edinburgh bears the name of Arthur's Seat; and--strangest, perhaps,

of all--in the Franciscan Church of far-away Innsbrück, the finest

of the ten statues of ancestors guarding the tomb of the Emperor

Maximilian I. is that of King Arthur. There is hardly a country in

Europe without its tales of the Warrior-King; and yet of any real

Arthur history tells us little, and that little describes, not the

knightly conqueror, but the king of a broken people, struggling for

very life.

More than fifteen centuries ago, this country, now called England,

was inhabited by a Celtic race known as the Britons, a warlike

people, divided into numerous tribes constantly at war with each

other. But in the first century of the Christian era they were

conquered by the Romans, who added Britain to their vast empire and

held it against attacks from without and rebellions from within by

stationing legions, or troops of soldiers, in strongly fortified

places all over the country. Now, from their conquerors, the

Britons learnt many useful arts, to read and to write, to build

houses and to make roads; but at the same time, they unlearnt some

of their own virtues and, among others, how to think and act for

themselves. For the Romans never allowed a Briton any real part in

the government of his own country, and if he wished to become a

soldier, he was sent away from Britain to serve with a legion

stationed in some far-distant part of the empire. Thus it came

about that when, in the fifth century, the Romans withdrew from

Britain to defend Rome itself from invading hordes of savages, the

unhappy Britons had forgotten how to govern and how to defend

themselves, and fell an easy prey to the many enemies waiting to

pounce on their defenceless country. Picts from Scotland invaded

the north, and Scots from Ireland plundered the west; worst of all,

the heathen Angles and Saxons, pouring across the seas from their

homes in the Elbe country, wasted the land with fire and sword.

Many of the Britons were slain; those who escaped sought refuge in

the mountainous parts of the west from Cornwall to the Firth of

Clyde. There, forgetting, to some extent, their quarrels, they took

the name of the Cymry, which means the "Brethren," though the

English, unable to understand their language, spoke of them

contemptuously as the "Welsh," or the "Strangers."

For a long time the struggle went on between the two races, and

nowhere mere fiercely than in the south-west, where the invaders set

up the Kingdom of Wessex; but at last there arose among the Britons a

great chieftain called Arthur. The old histories speak of him as

"Emperor," and he seems to have been obeyed by all the Britons;

perhaps, therefore, he had succeeded to the position of the Roman

official known as the Comes Britanniæ, whose duty it was to hasten to

the aid of the local governors in defending any part of Britain where

danger threatened. At all events, under his leadership, the oppressed

people defeated the Saxons in a desperate fight at Mons Badonicus,

perhaps the little place in Dorsetshire known as Badbury, or, it may

be, Bath itself, which is still called Badon by the Welsh. After that

victory, history has little to say about Arthur. The stories tell that

he was killed in a great battle in the west; but, nowadays, the wisest

historians think it more probable that he met his death in a conflict

near the River Forth.

And so, in history, Arthur, the hero of such a mass of romantic

story, is little more than a name, and it is hardly possible to

explain how he attained to such renown as the hero of marvellous

and, sometimes, magical feats, unless on the supposition that he

became confused with some legendary hero, half god, half man, whose

fame he added to his own. Perhaps not the least marvel about him is

that he who was the hero of the Britons, should have become the

national hero of the English race that he spent his life in

fighting. Yet that is what did happen, though not till long

afterwards, when the victorious English, in their turn, bent before

their conquering kinsmen, the Normans.

Now in the reign of the third Norman king, Henry I., there lived a

certain Welsh priest known as Geoffrey of Monmouth. Geoffrey seems

to have been much about the Court, and perhaps it was the Norman

love of stories that first made him think of writing his _History

of the British Kings_. A wonderful tale he told of all the British

kings from the time that Brut the Trojan settled in the country and

called it, after himself, Britain! For Geoffrey's book was history

only in name. What he tells us is that he was given an ancient

chronicle found in Brittany, and was asked to translate it from

Welsh into the better known language, Latin. It is hardly likely,

however, that Geoffrey himself expected his statement to be taken

quite seriously. Even in his own day, not every one believed in

him, for a certain Yorkshire monk declared that the historian had

"lied saucily and shamelessly"; and some years later, Gerald the

Welshman tells of a man who had intercourse with devils, from whose

sway, however, he could be freed if a Bible were placed upon his

breast, whereas he was completely under their control if Geoffrey's

_History_ were laid upon him, just because the book was so full of

lies.

It is quite certain that Geoffrey did not write history, but he did

make a capital story, partly by collecting legends about British

heroes, partly by inventing stories of his own; so that though he

is not entitled to fame as an historian, he may claim to rank high

as a romantic story-teller who set a fashion destined to last for

some three centuries.

So popular was his book that, not only in England, but, in an even

greater degree, on the Continent, writers were soon at work,

collecting and making more stories about the greatest of his kings,

Arthur. By some it is thought that the Normans took such delight in

the knightly deeds of Geoffrey's heroes that they spread the story

in France when they visited their homes in Normandy. Moreover, they

were in a good position to learn other tales of their favourite

knights, for Normandy bordered on Brittany, the home of the

Bretons, who, being of the same race as the Welsh, honoured the

same heroes in their legends. So in return for Geoffrey's tales,

Breton stories, perhaps, found their way into England; at all

events, marvellous romances of King Arthur and his Round Table were

soon being told in England, in France, in Germany and in Italy.

Now, to some it may seem strange that story-tellers should care to

weave their stories so constantly about the same personages;

strange, too, that they should invent stories about men and women

who were believed actually to have existed. But it must be

remembered that, in those early days, very few could read and

write, and that, before printing was invented, books were so scarce

that four or five constituted quite a library. Those who knew how

to read, and were so fortunate as to have books, read them again

and again. For the rest, though kings and great nobles might have

poets attached to their courts, the majority depended for their

amusement on the professional story-teller. In the long winter

evening, no one was more welcome than the wandering minstrel. He

might be the knightly troubadour who, accompanied by a jongleur to

play his accompaniments, wandered from place to place out of sheer

love of his art and of adventure; more often, however, the minstrel

made story-telling his trade, and gained his living from the bounty

of his audience--be it in castle, market-place, or inn. Most

commonly, the narratives took the form of long rhyming poems; not

because the people in those days were so poetical--indeed, some of

these poems would be thought, in present times, very dreary

doggerel--but because rhyme is easier to remember than prose.

Story-tellers had generally much the same stock-in-trade--stories

of Arthur, Charlemagne, Sir Guy of Warwick, Sir Bevis of

Southampton, and so on. If a minstrel had skill of his own, he

would invent some new episode, and so, perhaps, turn a compliment

to his patron by introducing the exploit of an ancestor, at the

same time that he made his story last longer. People did not weary

of hearing the same tales over and over again, any more than little

children get tired of nursery rhymes, or their elders turn away

from "Punch and Judy," though the same little play has been

performed for centuries. As for inventing stories about real

people, that may well have seemed permissible in an age when

historians recorded mere hearsay as actual fact. Richard III.,

perhaps, had one shoulder higher than the other, but within a few

years of his death grave historians had represented him as a

hunchbacked deformity.

The romances connected with King Arthur and his knights went on

steadily growing in number until the fifteenth century; of them,

some have survived to the present day, but undoubtedly many have

been lost. Then, in the latter half of the fifteenth century, the

most famous of all the Arthurian stories was given to the world in

Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte D'Arthur_. By good luck, the great

printer who made it one of his first works, has left an account of

the circumstances that led to its production. In the reign of

Edward IV., William Caxton set up his printing-press (the first in

England) in the precincts of Westminster Abbey. There he was

visited, as he himself relates, by "many noble and divers gentlemen"

demanding why he had not printed the "noble history of the Saint Grail

and of the most-renowned Christian King ... Arthur." To please them,

and because he himself loved chivalry, Caxton printed Sir Thomas

Malory's story, in which all that is best in the many Arthurian

romances is woven into one grand narrative.

Since then, in our own days, the story of Arthur and his knights

has been told in beautiful verse by Lord Tennyson; but for the

originals of some of his poems it would be useless to look in

Malory. The story of Geraint and Enid, Tennyson derived from a very

interesting collection of translations of ancient Welsh stories

made by Lady Charlotte Guest, and by her called _Mabinogion_,[1]

although not all Welsh scholars would consider the name quite

accurate.

[Footnote 1: Meaning the apprentices of the bards.]

And now it is time to say something about the stories themselves.

The Arthur of history was engaged in a life-long struggle with an

enemy that threatened to rob his people of home, of country, and of

freedom; in the stories, the king and his knights, like Richard

Coeur-de-Lion, sought adventure for adventure's sake, or, as in the

case of Sir Peredur, took fantastic vows for the love of a lady.

The Knights of the Round Table are sheathed from head to foot in

plate armour, although the real Arthur's warriors probably had only

shirts of mail and shields with which to ward off the blows of the

enemy. They live in moated castles instead of in halls of wood,

and they are more often engaged in tournaments than in struggles

with the heathen. In fact, those who wrote the stories represented

their heroes as living such lives as they themselves led. Just in

the same way, Dutch painters used to represent the shepherds in the

Bible story as Dutch peasants; just so David Garrick, the great

actor of the eighteenth century, used to act the part of a Roman in

his own full-bottomed wig and wide-skirted coat.

It must not be forgotten that, in those far-away days when there

were few who could even read or write, there was little that, in

their ignorance, people were not prepared to believe. Stories of

marvels and magic that would deceive no one now, were then eagerly

accepted as truth. Those were the days when philosophers expected

to discover the Elixir of Life; when doctors consulted the stars in

treating their patients; when a noble of the royal blood, such as

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, could fall into disgrace because his

wife was accused of trying to compass the king's death by melting a

wax image of him before a slow fire.

Of all the stories, perhaps the most mystical is that of the Quest

of the Holy Grail, and it has features peculiar to itself. Nuns

take the place of fair ladies; there are hermitages instead of

castles; and the knights themselves, if they do not die, become

monks or hermits. The reason for this change in scene and character

is, that this is a romance in which the Church was trying to teach

men, by means of a tale such as they loved, the lesson of devotion

and purity of heart.

The story sprang from certain legends which had grown up about the

name of Joseph of Arimathea. It was related that, when our Lord was

crucified, Joseph caught in a dish, or vessel, the blood which

flowed from His wounded side. In later years, the pious Jew left

his home and, taking with him the precious vessel, sailed away on

unknown seas until he came to the land of Britain. In that country

he landed, and at Glastonbury he built himself a hermitage, where

he treasured the sacred dish which came to be known as the Saint

Grail. After Joseph's death, the world grew more wicked, and so the

Holy Grail disappeared from the sight of sinful men, although, from

time to time, the vision of it was granted, as in the story, to the

pure in heart.

In later days, legend said that where Joseph's hermitage had stood,

there grew up the famous monastery of Glastonbury, and it came to

have a special importance of its own in the Arthurian romance. In

the reign of Henry II., by the king's orders, the monks of

Glastonbury made search for the grave of King Arthur, and, in due

time, they announced that they had found it, nine feet below the

soil, the coffin covered with a stone in which was inlaid a leaden

cross bearing this inscription: "Hic iacet sepultus inclitus rex

Arthurius in insula Avalonia." Some, however, suggested that the

monks, less honest than anxious to please the masterful king, had

first placed the stone in position and then found it!

One more feature of the tales remains to be mentioned: their

geography. There is no atlas that will make it plain in all cases; and

this is hardly wonderful, for so little was known of this subject

that, even in the reign of Henry VIII., the learned Lord Berners was

quite satisfied that his hero should journey to Babylon by way of the

Nile! Some of the places mentioned in the stories are, of course,

familiar, and others, less well known, can, with a little care, be

traced; but to identify all is not possible. Caerleon, where King

Arthur so often held his Court, still bears the same name, though its

glory has sorely shrank since the days when it had a bishop of its

own. Camelot, where stood the marvellous palace built for the king by

Merlin, is perhaps the village of Queen's Camel in Somersetshire. If

it is borne in mind that the French call Wales _Pays de Galles_, it is

not difficult to see that North Galis may well be North Wales. Gore is

the peninsula of Gower; Liones probably the land south-west of

Cornwall, now sunk beneath the sea; and Avalonia was the name given to

one of the many small islands of the once marshy, low-lying shore of

Somersetshire, which became afterwards better known as Glastonbury.

Happily, it is neither on their history nor on their geography that

the tales depend for their interest. As long as a story of adventure

thrills; as long as gentleness, courtesy and consideration for the

weak excite respect, so long will be read the tales of the brave times

"When every morning brought a noble chance,

And every chance brought out a noble knight."

STORIES FROM LE MORTE D'ARTHUR AND THE MABINOGION

BOOK I

THE COMING OF ARTHUR

CHAPTER I

OF ARTHUR'S BIRTH; AND HOW HE BECAME KING

Long years ago, there ruled over Britain a king called Uther

Pendragon. A mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet, when

he sought the love of the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have

naught to do with him, so that, from grief and disappointment,

Uther fell sick, and at last seemed like to die.

Now in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so

powerful that he could change his form at will, or even make

himself invisible; nor was there any place so remote but that he

could reach it at once, merely by wishing himself there. One day,

suddenly he stood at Uther's bedside, and said: "Sir King, I know

thy grief, and am ready to help thee. Only promise to give me, at

his birth, the son that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have

thy heart's desire." To this the king agreed joyfully, and Merlin

kept his word: for he gave Uther the form of one whom Igraine had

loved dearly, and so she took him willingly for her husband.

When the time had come that a child should be born to the King and

Queen, Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise;

and Uther swore it should be as he had said. Three days later, a

prince was born, and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the

name of Arthur; but immediately thereafter, the King commanded that

the child should be carried to the postern-gate, there to be given

to the old man who would be found waiting without.

Not long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come;

so, by Merlin's advice, he called together his knights and barons,

and said to them: "My death draws near. I charge you, therefore,

that ye obey my son even as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon

him if he claim not the crown when he is a man grown." Then the

King turned his face to the wall and died.

Scarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of

the nobles had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of

them would have been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each

thought himself fitted to be king, and, strengthening his own

castle, made war on his neighbours until confusion alone was

supreme, and the poor groaned because there was none to help them.

Now when Merlin carried away Arthur--for Merlin was the old man who

had stood at the postern-gate--he had known all that would happen,

and had taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons

until he should be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all

the wonders prophesied of him. He gave the child to the care of the

good knight Sir Ector to bring up with his son Kay, but revealed

not to him that it was the son of Uther Pendragon that was given

into his charge.

At last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth

well skilled in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop

of Canterbury and advised him that he should call together at

Christmas-time all the chief men of the realm to the great

cathedral in London; "For," said Merlin, "there shall be seen a

great marvel by which it shall be made clear to all men who is the

lawful King of this land." The Archbishop did as Merlin counselled.

Under pain of a fearful curse, he bade barons and knights come to

London to keep the feast, and to pray heaven to send peace to the

realm.

The people hastened to obey the Archbishop's commands, and, from

all sides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the

birth-feast of our Lord. And when they had prayed, and were coming

forth from the cathedral, they saw a strange sight. There, in the

open space before the church, stood, on a great stone, an anvil

thrust through with a sword; and on the stone were written these

words: "Whoso can draw forth this sword, is rightful King of

Britain born."

At once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamouring to be the

first to try his fortune, none doubting his own success. Then the

Archbishop decreed that each should make the venture in turn, from

the greatest baron to the least knight; and each in turn, having

put forth his utmost strength, failed to move the sword one inch,

and drew back ashamed. So the Archbishop dismissed the company, and

having appointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers

through all the land to give word of great jousts to be held in

London at Easter, when each knight could give proof of his skill

and courage, and try whether the adventure of the sword was for

him.

Among those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector,

and with him his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young

Arthur. When the morning came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay

and Arthur mounted their horses and set out for the lists; but

before they reached the field, Kay looked and saw that he had left

his sword behind. Immediately Arthur turned back to fetch it for

him, only to find the house fast shut, for all were gone to view

the tournament. Sore vexed was Arthur, fearing lest his brother Kay

should lose his chance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he

bethought him of the sword in the great anvil before the cathedral.

Thither he rode with all speed, and the guards having deserted

their post to view the tournament, there was none to forbid him the

adventure. He leaped from his horse, seized the hilt, and instantly

drew forth the sword as easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting

his horse and thinking no marvel of what he had done, he rode after

his brother and handed him the weapon.

When Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous

sword from the stone. In great joy he sought his father, and

showing it to him, said: "Then must I be King of Britain." But Sir

Ector bade him say how he came by the sword, and when Sir Kay told

how Arthur had brought it to him, Sir Ector bent his knee to the

boy, and said: "Sir, I perceive that ye are my King, and here I

tender you my homage"; and Kay did as his father. Then the three

sought the Archbishop, to whom they related all that had happened;

and he, much marvelling, called the people together to the great

stone, and bade Arthur thrust back the sword and draw it forth

again in the presence of all, which he did with ease. But an angry

murmur arose from the barons, who cried that what a boy could do, a

man could do; so, at the Archbishop's word, the sword was put back,

and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in his turn to draw it

forth, and failed. Then, for the third time, Arthur drew forth the

sword. Immediately there arose from the people a great shout:

"Arthur is King! Arthur is King! We will have no King but Arthur";

and, though the great barons scowled and threatened, they fell on

their knees before him while the Archbishop placed the crown upon

his head, and swore to obey him faithfully as their lord and

sovereign.

Thus Arthur was made King; and to all he did justice, righting

wrongs and giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those

that had been his friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he

made Seneschal and chief of his household, and to Sir Ector, his

foster-father, he gave broad lands.

CHAPTER II

THE ROUND TABLE

Thus Arthur was made King, but he had to fight for his own; for

eleven great kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as

their lord, and chief amongst the rebels was King Lot of Orkney who

had married Arthur's sister, Bellicent.

By Merlin's advice, Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors,

the two great Kings who ruled in Gaul. With their aid, he overthrew

his foes in a great battle near the river Trent; and then he passed

with them into their own lands and helped them drive out their

enemies. So there was ever great friendship between Arthur and the

Kings Ban and Bors, and all their kindred; and afterwards some of

the most famous Knights of the Round Table were of that kin.

Then King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his

kingdom. To all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he

showed kindness; but those who persisted in oppression and wrong he

removed, putting in their places others who would deal justly with

the people. And because the land had become overrun with forest

during the days of misrule, he cut roads through the thickets, that

no longer wild beasts and men, fiercer than the beasts, should lurk

in their gloom, to the harm of the weak and defenceless. Thus it

came to pass that soon the peasant ploughed his fields in safety,

and where had been wastes, men dwelt again in peace and prosperity.

Amongst the lesser kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns

and restore order, was King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Now

Leodegrance had one fair child, his daughter Guenevere; and from

the time that first he saw her, Arthur gave her all his love. So he

sought counsel of Merlin, his chief adviser. Merlin heard the King

sorrowfully, and he said: "Sir King, when a man's heart is set, he

may not change. Yet had it been well if ye had loved another."

So the King sent his knights to Leodegrance, to ask of him his

daughter; and Leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so

good and knightly a King. With great pomp, the princess was

conducted to Canterbury, and there the King met her, and they two

were wed by the Archbishop in the great Cathedral, amid the

rejoicings of the people.

On that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the

fame of which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure

through all time. Now the Round Table had been made for King Uther

Pendragon by Merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to

all men the roundness of the earth. After Uther died, King

Leodegrance had possessed it; but when Arthur was wed, he sent it

to him as a gift, and great was the King's joy at receiving it. One

hundred and fifty knights might take their places about it, and for

them Merlin made sieges or seats. One hundred and twenty-eight did

Arthur knight at that great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were

empty, at the high festival of Pentecost new knights were ordained

to fill them, and by magic was the name of each knight found

inscribed, in letters of gold, in his proper siege. One seat only

long remained unoccupied, and that was the Siege Perilous. No

knight might occupy it until the coming of Sir Galahad; for,

without danger to his life, none might sit there who was not free

from all stain of sin.

With pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of

true knighthood: to obey the King; to show mercy to all who asked

it; to defend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a

wrongful cause: and all the knights rejoiced together, doing honour

to Arthur and to his Queen. Then they rode forth to right the wrong

and help the oppressed, and by their aid, the King held his realm

in peace, doing justice to all.

CHAPTER III

OF THE FINDING OF EXCALIBUR

Now when Arthur was first made King, as young knights will, he

courted peril for its own sake, and often would he ride unattended

by lonely forest ways, seeking the adventure that chance might send

him. All unmindful was he of the ruin to his realm if mischief

befell him; and even his trusty counsellors, though they grieved

that he should thus imperil him, yet could not but love him the

more for his hardihood.

So, on a day, he rode through the Forest Perilous where dwelt the

Lady Annoure, a sorceress of great might, who used her magic powers

but for the furtherance of her own desires. And as she looked from

a turret window, she descried King Arthur come riding down a forest

glade, and the sunbeams falling upon him made one glory of his

armour and of his yellow hair. Then, as Annoure gazed upon the

King, her heart grew hot within her, and she resolved that, come

what might, she would have him for her own, to dwell with her

always and fulfil all her behests. And so she bade lower the

drawbridge and raise the portcullis, and sallying forth accompanied

by her maidens, she gave King Arthur courteous salutation, and

prayed him that he would rest within her castle that day, for that

she had a petition to make to him; and Arthur, doubting nothing of

her good faith, suffered himself to be led within.

Then was a great feast spread, and Annoure caused the King to be

seated in a chair of state at her right hand, while squires and

pages served him on bended knee. So when they had feasted, the King

turned to the Lady Annoure and said courteously: "Lady, somewhat ye

said of a request that ye would make. If there be aught in which I

may pleasure you, I pray you let me know it, and I will serve you

as knightly as I may." "In truth," said the lady, "there is that

which I would fain entreat of you, most noble knight; yet suffer, I

beseech you, that first I may show you somewhat of my castle and my

estate, and then will I crave a boon of your chivalry." Then the

sorceress led King Arthur from room to room of her castle, and ever

each displayed greater store of beauty than the last. In some the

walls were hung with rich tapestries, in others they gleamed with

precious stones; and the King marvelled what might be the petition

of one that was mistress of such wealth. Lastly, Annoure brought

the King out upon the battlements, and as he gazed around him, he

saw that, since he had entered the castle, there had sprung up

about it triple walls of defence that shut out wholly the forest

from view. Then turned he to Annoure, and gravely he said: "Lady,

greatly I marvel in what a simple knight may pleasure one that is

mistress of so wondrous a castle as ye have shown me here; yet if

there be aught in which I may render you knightly service, right

gladly would I hear it now, for I must forth upon my way to render

service to those whose knight I am sworn." "Nay, now, King

Arthur," answered the sorceress mockingly, "ye may not think to

deceive me; for well I know you, and that all Britain bows to your

behest." "The more reason then that I should ride forth to right

wrong and succour them that, of their loyalty, render true

obedience to their lord." "Ye speak as a fool," said the sorceress;

"why should one that may command be at the beck and call of every

hind and slave within his realm? Nay, rest thee here with me, and I

will make thee ruler of a richer land than Britain, and give thee

to satisfy thy every desire." "Lady," said the King sternly, "I

will hear and judge of your petition at this time, and then will I

forth upon my way." "Nay," said Annoure, "there needs not this

harshness. I did but speak for thine advantage. Only vow thee to my

service, and there is naught that thou canst desire that thou shalt

not possess. Thou shalt be lord of this fair castle and of the

mighty powers that obey me. Why waste thy youth in hardship and in

the service of such as shall render thee little enough again?"

Thereupon, without ever a word, the King turned him about and made

for the turret stair by which he had ascended, but nowhere could he

find it. Then said the sorceress, mocking him: "Fair sir, how think

ye to escape without my good-will? See ye not the walls that guard

my stronghold? And think ye that I have not servants enow to do my

bidding?" She clapped her hands and forthwith there appeared a

company of squires who, at her command, seized the King and bore

him away to a strong chamber where they locked him in.

And so the King abode that night, the prisoner of that evil

sorceress, with little hope that day, when it dawned, should bring

him better cheer. Yet lost he not courage, but kept watch and vigil

the night through lest the powers of evil should assail him

unawares. And with the early morning light, Annoure came to visit

him. More stately she seemed than the night before, more tall and

more terrible; and her dress was one blaze of flashing gems, so

that scarce could the eye look upon her. As a queen might address a

vassal, so greeted she the King, and as condescending to one of low

estate, asked how he had fared that night. And the King made

answer: "I have kept vigil as behoves a knight who, knowing him to

be in the midst of danger, would bear himself meetly in any peril

that should offer." And the Lady Annoure, admiring his knightly

courage, desired more earnestly even than before to win him to her

will, and she said: "Sir Arthur, I know well your courage and

knightly fame, and greatly do I desire to keep you with me. Stay

with me and I promise you that ye shall bear sway over a wider

realm than any that ever ye heard of, and I, even I, its mistress,

will be at your command. And what lose ye if ye accept my offer?

Little enough, I ween, for never think that ye shall win the world

from evil and men to loyalty and truth." Then answered the King in

anger: "Full well I see that thou art in league with evil and that

thou but seekest to turn me from my purpose. I defy thee, foul

sorceress. Do thy worst; though thou slay me, thou shalt never sway

me to thy will"; and therewith the King raised his cross-hilted

sword before her. Then the lady quailed at that sight. Her heart

was filled with hate, but she said: "Go your way, proud King of a

petty realm. Rule well your race of miserable mortals, since more

it pleasures you than to bear sway over the powers of the air. I

keep you not against your will." With these words, she passed from

the chamber, and the King heard her give command to her squires to

set him without her gates, give him his horse, and suffer him to go

on his way.

And so it came to pass that the King found himself once more at

large, and marvelled to have won so lightly to liberty. Yet knew he

not the depths of treachery in the heart of Annoure; for when she

found she might not prevail with the King, she bethought her how,

by mortal means, she might bring the King to dishonour and death.

And so, by her magic art, she caused the King to follow a path that

brought him to a fountain, whereby a knight had his tent, and, for

love of adventure, held the way against all comers. Now this knight

was Sir Pellinore, and at that time he had not his equal for

strength and knightly skill, nor had any been found that might

stand against him. So, as the King drew nigh, Pellinore cried:

"Stay, knight, for none passes this way except he joust with me."

"That is no good custom," said the King; "it were well that ye

followed it no more." "It is my custom, and I will follow it

still," answered Pellinore; "if ye like it not, amend it if ye

may." "I will do my endeavour," said Arthur, "but, as ye see, I

have no spear." "Nay, I seek not to have you at advantage,"

replied Pellinore, and bade his squire give Arthur a spear. Then

they dressed their shields, laid their lances in rest, and rushed

upon each other. Now the King was wearied by his night's vigil, and

the strength of Pellinore was as the strength of three men; so, at

the first encounter, Arthur was unhorsed. Then said he: "I have

lost the honour on horseback, but now will I encounter thee with my

sword and on foot." "I, too, will alight," said Pellinore; "small

honour to me were it if I slew thee on foot, I being horsed the

while." So they encountered each other on foot, and so fiercely

they fought that they hewed off great pieces of each other's armour

and the ground was dyed with their blood. But at the last, Arthur's

sword broke off short at the hilt, and so he stood all defenceless

before his foe. "I have thee now," cried Pellinore; "yield thee as

recreant or I will slay thee." "That will I never," said the King,

"slay me if thou canst." Then he sprang on Pellinore, caught him by

the middle, and flung him to the ground, himself falling with him.

And Sir Pellinore marvelled, for never before had he encountered so

bold and resolute a foe; but exerting his great strength, he rolled

himself over, and so brought Arthur beneath him. Then had Arthur

perished, but at that moment Merlin stood beside him, and when Sir

Pellinore would have struck off the King's head, stayed his blow,

crying: "Pellinore, if thou slayest this knight, thou puttest the

whole realm in peril; for this is none other than King Arthur

himself." Then was Pellinore filled with dread, and cried: "Better

make an end of him at once; for if I suffer him to live, what hope

have I of his grace, that have dealt with him so sorely?" But

before Pellinore could strike, Merlin caused a deep sleep to come

upon him; and raising King Arthur from the ground, he staunched his

wounds and recovered him of his swoon.

But when the King came to himself, he saw his foe lie, still as in

death, on the ground beside him; and he was grieved, and said:

"Merlin, what have ye done to this brave knight? Nay, if ye have

slain him, I shall grieve my life long; for a good knight he is,

bold and a fair fighter, though something wanting in knightly

courtesy." "He is in better case than ye are, Sir King, who so

lightly imperil your person, and thereby your kingdom's welfare;

and, as ye say, Pellinore is a stout knight, and hereafter shall he

serve you well. Have no fear. He shall wake again in three hours

and have suffered naught by the encounter. But for you, it were

well that ye came where ye might be tended for your wounds." "Nay,"

replied the King, smiling, "I may not return to my court thus

weaponless; first will I find means to purvey me of a sword." "That

is easily done," answered Merlin; "follow me, and I will bring you

where ye shall get you a sword, the wonder of the world."

So, though his wounds pained him sore, the King followed Merlin by

many a forest path and glade, until they came upon a mere, bosomed

deep in the forest; and as he looked thereon, the King beheld an

arm, clothed in white samite, shoot above the surface of the lake,

and in the hand was a fair sword that gleamed in the level rays of

the setting sun. "This is a great marvel," said the King, "what may

it mean?" And Merlin made answer: "Deep is this mere, so deep

indeed that no man may fathom it; but in its depths, and built upon

the roots of the mountains, is the palace of the Lady of the Lake.

Powerful is she with a power that works ever for good, and she

shall help thee in thine hour of need. For thee has she wrought

yonder sword. Go now, and take it."

Then was Arthur aware of a little skiff, half hidden among the

bulrushes that fringed the lake; and leaping into the boat, without

aid of oar, he was wafted out into the middle of the lake, to the

place where, out of the water, rose the arm and sword. And leaning

from the skiff, he took the sword from the hand, which forthwith

vanished, and immediately thereafter the skiff bore him back to

land.

Arthur drew from its scabbard the mighty sword, wondering the while

at the marvel of its workmanship, for the hilt shone with the light

of many twinkling gems--diamond and topaz and emerald, and many

another whose names none know. And as he looked on the blade,

Arthur was aware of mystic writings on the one side and the other,

and calling to Merlin, he bade him interpret them. "Sir," said

Merlin, "on the one side is written 'Keep me,' and on the other

'Throw me away.'" "Then," said the King, "which does it behove me

to do?" "Keep it," answered Merlin; "the time to cast it away is

not yet come. This is the good brand Excalibur, or Cut Steel, and

well shall it serve you. But what think ye of the scabbard?" "A

fair cover for so good a sword," answered Arthur. "Nay, it is more

than that," said Merlin, "for, so long as ye keep it, though ye be

wounded never so sore, yet ye shall not bleed to death." And when

he heard that, the King marvelled the more.

Then they journeyed back to Caerleon, where the knights made great

joy of the return of their lord. And presently, thither came Sir

Pellinore, craving pardon of the King, who made but jest of his own

misadventure. And afterwards Sir Pellinore became of the Table

Round, a knight vowed, not only to deeds of hardihood, but also to

gentleness and courtesy; and faithfully he served the King,

fighting ever to maintain justice and put down wrong, and to defend

the weak from the oppressor.

CHAPTER IV

OF THE TREACHERY OF QUEEN MORGAN LE FAY

There was a certain Queen whose name was Morgan le Fay, and she was

a powerful sorceress. Little do men know of her save that, in her

youth, she was eager for knowledge and, having learnt all human

lore, turned her to magic, becoming so skilled therein that she was

feared of all. There was a time when great was her enmity towards

King Arthur, so that she plotted his ruin not once only nor twice;

and that is a strange thing, for it is said that she herself was

the kinswoman of the King. And truly, in the end, she repented her

of her malice, for she was, of those that came to bear Arthur to

the Delightful Islands from the field of his last bitter conflict;

but that was long after.

Now when this enchantress learned how the Lady of the Lake had

given the King a sword and scabbard of strange might, she was

filled with ill-will; and all her thought was only how she might

wrest the weapon from him and have it for her own, to bestow as she

would. Even while she pondered thereon, the King himself sent her

the scabbard to keep for him; for Merlin never ceased to warn the

King to have in safe keeping the scabbard that had power to keep

him from mortal hurt; and it seemed to Arthur that none might

better guard it for him, till the hour of need, than Morgan le Fay,

the wise Queen that was of his own kindred. Yet was not the Queen

shamed of her treacherous intent by the trust that Arthur had in

her; but all her mind was set on how she might win to the

possession of the sword itself as well as of the scabbard. At the

last--so had her desire for the sword wrought upon her--she

resolved to compass the destruction of the King that, if she gained

the sword, never might she have need to fear his justice for the

wrong she had done.

And her chance came soon. For, on a day, King Arthur resolved to

chase the hart in the forests near Camelot, wherefore he left

behind him his sword Excalibur, and took but a hunting spear with

him. All day long, he chased a white hart and, when evening fell,

he had far outstripped his attendants, save only two, Sir Accolon

of Gaul and Sir Uriens, King of Gore, the husband of Queen Morgan

le Fay herself. So when the King saw that darkness had come upon

them in the forest, he turned to his companions, saying: "Sirs, we

be far from Camelot and must lodge as we may this night. Let us go

forward until we shall find where we may shelter us a little." So

they rode forward, and presently Arthur espied a little lake

glinting in the beams of the rising moon, and, as they drew nearer,

they descried, full in the moonlight, a little ship, all hung with

silks even to the water's edge. Then said the King to his knights:

"Yonder is promise of shelter or, it may be, of adventure. Let us

tether our horses in the thicket and enter into this little ship."

And when they had so done, presently they found themselves in a

fair cabin all hung with silks and tapestries, and, in its midst, a

table spread with the choicest fare. And being weary and hungered

with the chase, they ate of the feast prepared and, lying down to

rest, were soon sunk in deep slumber.

While they slept, the little ship floated away from the land, and

it came to pass that a great wonder befell; for when they woke in

the morning, King Uriens found himself at home in his own land, and

Sir Accolon was in his own chamber at Camelot; but the King lay a

prisoner, bound and fettered and weaponless, in a noisome dungeon

that echoed to the groans of hapless captives.

When he was come to himself, King Arthur looked about him and saw

that his companions were knights in the same hard case as himself;

and he inquired of them how they came to be in that plight. "Sir,"

said one of them, "we are in duresse in the castle of a certain

recreant knight, Sir Damas by name, a coward false to chivalry.

None love him, and so no champion can he find to maintain his cause

in a certain quarrel that he has in hand. For this reason, he lies

in wait with a great company of soldiers for any knights that may

pass this way, and taking them prisoners, holds them in captivity

unless they will undertake to fight to the death in his cause. And

this I would not, nor any of my companions here; but unless we be

speedily rescued, we are all like to die of hunger in this

loathsome dungeon." "What is his quarrel?" asked the King. "That we

none of us know," answered the knight.

While they yet talked, there entered the prison a damsel. She went

up to the King at once, and said: "Knight, will ye undertake to

fight in the cause of the lord of this castle?" "That I may not

say," replied the King, "unless first I may hear what is his

quarrel." "That ye shall not know," replied the damsel, "but this I

tell you: if ye refuse, ye shall never leave this dungeon alive,

but shall perish here miserably." "This is a hard case," said the

King, "that I must either die or fight for one I know not, and in a

cause that I may not hear. Yet on one condition will I undertake

your lord's quarrel, and that is that he shall give me all the

prisoners bound here in this dungeon." "It shall be as ye say,"

answered the damsel, "and ye shall also be furnished with horse and

armour and sword than which ye never saw better." Therewith the

damsel bade him follow her, and brought him to a great hall where

presently there came to him squires to arm him for the combat; and

when their service was rendered, the damsel said to him: "Sir

Knight, even now there has come one who greets you in the name of

Queen Morgan le Fay, and bids me tell you that the Queen, knowing

your need, has sent you your good sword." Then the King rejoiced

greatly, for it seemed to him that the sword that the damsel gave

him was none other than the good sword Excalibur.

When all was prepared, the damsel led King Arthur into a fair

field, and there he beheld awaiting him a knight, all sheathed in

armour, his vizor down, and bearing a shield on which was no

blazonry. So the two knights saluted each other, and, wheeling

their horses, rode away from each other some little space.

Then turning again, they laid lance in rest, and rushing upon each

other, encountered with the noise of thunder, and so great was the

shock that each knight was borne from the saddle. Swiftly they

gained their feet, and, drawing their swords, dealt each other

great blows; and thus they contended fiercely for some while. But

as he fought, a great wonder came upon Arthur, for it seemed to him

that his sword, that never before had failed him, bit not upon the

armour of the other, while every stroke of his enemy drew blood,

till the ground on which he fought was slippery beneath his feet;

and at the last almost his heart failed within him, knowing that he

was betrayed, and that the brand with which he fought was not

Excalibur. Yet would he not show aught of what he suffered, but

struggled on, faint as he was and spent; so that they that watched

the fight and saw how he was sore wounded, marvelled at his great

courage and endurance. But presently, the stranger knight dealt the

King a blow which fell upon Arthur's sword, and so fierce was the

stroke that the blade broke off at the pommel. "Knight," said the

other, "thou must yield thee recreant to my mercy." "That may I not

do with mine honour," answered the King, "for I am sworn to fight

in this quarrel to the death." "But weaponless thou must needs be

slain." "Slay me an ye will, but think not to win glory by slaying

a weaponless man."

Then was the other wroth to find himself still withstood and, in

his anger, he dealt Arthur a great blow; but this the King shunned,

and rushing upon his foe, smote him so fiercely on the head with

the pommel of his broken sword that the knight swayed and let slip

his own weapon. With a bound, Arthur was upon the sword, and no

sooner had he it within his grasp than he knew it, of a truth, to

be his own sword Excalibur. Then he scanned more closely his enemy,

and saw the scabbard that he wore was none other than the magic

scabbard of Excalibur; and forthwith, leaping upon the knight, he

tore it from him and flung it far afield.

"Knight," cried King Arthur, "ye have made me suffer sore, but now

is the case changed and ye stand within my power, helpless and

unarmed. And much I misdoubt me but that treacherously ye have

dealt with me. Nevertheless, yield you recreant and I will spare

your life." "That I may not do, for it is against my vow; so slay

me if ye will. Of a truth, ye are the best knight that ever I

encountered."

Then it seemed to the King that the knight's voice was not unknown

to him, and he said: "Tell me your name and what country ye are of,

for something bids me think that ye are not all unknown to me." "I

am Accolon of Gaul, knight of King Arthur's Round Table." "Ah!

Accolon, Accolon," cried the King, "is it even thou that hast

fought against me? Almost hast thou undone me. What treason tempted

thee to come against me, and with mine own weapon too?" When Sir

Accolon knew that it was against King Arthur that he had fought, he

gave a loud cry and swooned away utterly. Then Arthur called to two

stout yeomen amongst those that had looked on at the fight, and

bade them bear Sir Accolon to a little hermitage hard by, and

thither he himself followed with pain, being weak from loss of

blood; but into the castle he would not enter, for he trusted not

those that held it.

The hermit dressed their wounds, and presently, when Sir Accolon

had come to himself again, the King spoke gently to him, bidding

him say how he had come to bear arms against him. "Sir and my

lord," answered Sir Accolon, "it comes of naught but the treachery

of your kinswoman, Queen Morgan le Fay. For on the morrow after we

had entered upon the little ship, I awoke in my chamber at Camelot,

and greatly I marvelled how I had come there. And as I yet

wondered, there came to me a messenger from Queen Morgan le Fay,

desiring me to go to her without delay. And when I entered her

presence, she was as one sore troubled, and she said to me: 'Sir

Accolon, of my secret power, I know that now is our King, Arthur,

in great danger; for he lies imprisoned in a great and horrible

dungeon whence he may not be delivered unless one be found to do

battle for him with the lord of the castle. Wherefore have I sent

for you that ye may take the battle upon you for our lord the King.

And for greater surety, I give you here Excalibur, Arthur's own

sword, for, of a truth, we should use all means for the rescuing of

our lord.' And I, believing this evil woman, came hither and

challenged the lord of this castle to mortal combat; and, indeed, I

deemed it was with Sir Damas that I fought even now. Yet all was

treachery, and I misdoubt me that Sir Damas and his people are in

league with Queen Morgan le Fay to compass your destruction. But,

my lord Arthur, pardon me, I beseech you, the injuries that, all

unwitting, I have done you."

King Arthur was filled with wrath against the Queen, more for the

wrong done to Sir Accolon than for the treason to himself. In all

ways that he might, he sought to comfort and relieve Sir Accolon,

but in vain, for daily the knight grew weaker, and, after many

days, he died. Then the King, being recovered of his wounds,

returned to Camelot, and calling together a band of knights, led

them against the castle of Sir Damas. But Damas had no heart to

attempt to hold out, and surrendered himself and all that he had to

the King's mercy. And first King Arthur set free those that Sir

Damas had kept in miserable bondage, and sent them away with rich

gifts. When he had righted the wrongs of others, then he summoned

Sir Damas before him, and said: "I command thee that thou tell me

why thou didst seek my destruction." And cringing low at the King's

footstool, Damas answered: "I beseech you, deal mercifully with me,

for all that I have done, I have done at the bidding of Queen

Morgan le Fay." "A coward's plea," said the King; "how camest thou

first to have traffic with her?" "Sir," replied Damas, "much have I

suffered, first by the greed of my younger brother and now by the

deceit of this evil woman, as ye shall hear. When my father died, I

claimed the inheritance as of right, seeing that I was his elder

son; but my young brother, Sir Ontzlake, withstood me, and demanded

some part of my father's lands. Long since, he sent me a challenge

to decide our quarrel in single combat, but it liked me ill, seeing

that I am of no great strength. Much, therefore, did I desire to

find a champion but, by ill fortune, none could I find until Queen

Morgan le Fay sent word that, of her good will to me, she had sent

me one that would defend my cause; and that same evening, the

little ship brought you, my lord, to my castle. And when I saw you,

I rejoiced, thinking to have found a champion that would silence my

brother for ever; nor knew I you for the King's self. Wherefore, I

entreat you, spare me, and avenge me on my brother." Therewith, Sir

Damas fawned upon the King, but Arthur sternly bade him rise and

send messengers to bring Sir Ontzlake before him.

Presently, there stood before the King a youth, fair and of good

stature, who saluted his lord and then remained silent before him.

"Sir Ontzlake," said the King, "I have sent for you to know of your

dealings with Sir Accolon and of your quarrel with your brother."

"My lord Arthur," answered the youth, "that I was the cause of hurt

to yourself, I pray you to pardon me, for all unwitting was I of

evil. For ye shall know that I had challenged my brother to single

combat; but when word came to me that he was provided of a

champion, I might not so much as brook my armour for a sore wound

that I had got of an arrow shot at me as I rode through the forest

near his castle. And as I grieved for my hard case, there came a

messenger from Queen Morgan le Fay bidding me be of good courage,

for she had sent unto me one, Sir Accolon, who would undertake my

quarrel. This only she commanded me, that I should ask no question

of Sir Accolon. So Sir Accolon abode with me that night and, as I

supposed, fought in my cause the next day. Sure am I that there is

some mystery, yet may I not misdoubt my lady Queen Morgan le Fay

without cause; wherefore, if blame there be, let me bear the

punishment."

Then was the King well pleased with the young man for his courage

and loyalty to others. "Fair youth," said he, "ye shall go with me

to Camelot, and if ye prove you brave and just in all your doings,

ye shall be of my Round Table." But to Sir Damas he said sternly:

"Ye are a mean-spirited varlet, unworthy of the degree of

knighthood. Here I ordain that ye shall yield unto your brother

the moiety of the lands that ye had of your father and, in payment

for it, yearly ye shall receive of Sir Ontzlake a palfrey; for that

will befit you better to ride than the knightly war-horse. And look

ye well to it, on pain of death, that ye lie no more in wait for

errant knights, but amend your life and live peaceably with your

brother."

Thereafter, the fear of the King kept Sir Damas from deeds of

violence; yet, to the end, he remained cowardly and churlish,

unworthy of the golden spurs of knighthood. But Sir Ontzlake proved

him a valiant knight, fearing God and the King and naught else.

CHAPTER V

HOW THE SCABBARD OF EXCALIBUR WAS LOST

Now when Queen Morgan le Fay knew that her plot had miscarried and

that her treachery was discovered, she feared to abide the return

of the King to Camelot; and so she went to Queen Guenevere, and

said: "Madam, of your courtesy, grant me leave, I pray you, to

depart." "Nay," said the Queen, "that were pity, for I have news of

my lord the King, that soon he will return to Camelot. Will ye not

then await his return, that ye may see your kinsman before ye

depart?" "Alas! madam," said Morgan le Fay, "that may not be, for

I have ill news that requires that immediately I get to my own

country." "Then shall ye depart when ye will," said the Queen.

So before the next day had dawned, Morgan le Fay arose and, taking

her horse, departed unattended from Camelot. All that day and most

of the night she rode fast, and ere noon the next day, she was come

to a nunnery where, as she knew, King Arthur lay. Entering into the

house, she made herself known to the nuns, who received her

courteously and gave her of their best to eat and to drink. When

she was refreshed, she asked if any other had sought shelter with

them that day; and they told her that King Arthur lay in an inner

chamber and slept, for he had rested little for three nights. "Ah!

my dear lord!" exclaimed the false sorceress; "gladly would I speak

with him, but I will not that ye awaken him, and long I may not

tarry here; wherefore suffer me at least to look upon him as he

sleeps, and then will I continue my journey." And the nuns,

suspecting no treachery, showed Queen Morgan le Fay the room where

King Arthur slept, and let her enter it alone.

So Morgan le Fay had her will and stood beside the sleeping King;

but again it seemed as if she must fail of her purpose, and her

heart was filled with rage and despair. For she saw that the King

grasped in his hand the hilt of the naked brand, that none might

take it without awakening him. While she mused, suddenly she espied

the scabbard where it hung at the foot of the bed, and her heart

rejoiced to know that something she might gain by her bold

venture. She snatched up the empty sheath, and wrapping it in a

fold of her garment, left the chamber. Brief were her farewells to

the holy nuns, and in haste she got to horse and rode away.

Scarcely had she set forth, when the King awoke, and rising from

his couch, saw at once that the scabbard of his sword was gone.

Then summoned he the whole household to his presence and inquired

who had entered his chamber. "Sir," said the Abbess, "there has

none been here save only your kinswoman, the Queen Morgan le Fay.

She, indeed, desired to look upon you since she might not abide

your awakening." Then the King groaned aloud, saying, "It is my own

kinswoman, the wife of my true knight, Sir Uriens, that would

betray me." He bade Sir Ontzlake make ready to accompany him, and

after courteous salutation to the Abbess and her nuns, together

they rode forth by the path that Morgan le Fay had taken.

Fast they rode in pursuit, and presently they came to a cross where

was a poor cowherd keeping watch over his few beasts, and of him

they asked whether any had passed that way. "Sirs," said the

peasant, "even now there rode past the cross a lady most lovely to

look upon, and with her forty knights." Greatly the King marvelled

how Queen Morgan le Fay had come by such a cavalcade, but nothing

he doubted that it was she the cowherd had seen. So thanking the

poor man, the King, with Sir Ontzlake, rode on by the path that had

been shown them, and presently, emerging from the forest, they were

aware of a glittering company of horsemen winding through a wide

plain that lay stretched before them. On the instant, they put

spurs to their horses and galloped as fast as they might in

pursuit.

But, as it chanced, Queen Morgan le Fay looked back even as Arthur

and Sir Ontzlake came forth from the forest, and seeing them, she

knew at once that her theft had been discovered, and that she was

pursued. Straightway she bade her knights ride on till they should

come to a narrow valley where lay many great stones; but as soon as

they had left her, she herself rode, with all speed, to a mere hard

by. Sullen and still it lay, without even a ripple on its surface.

No animal ever drank of its waters nor bird sang by it, and it was

so deep that none might ever plumb it. And when the Queen had come

to the brink, she dismounted. From the folds of her dress she drew

the scabbard, and waving it above her head, she cried, "Whatsoever

becometh of me, King Arthur shall not have this scabbard." Then,

whirling it with all her might, she flung it far into the mere. The

jewels glinted as the scabbard flashed through the air, then it

clove the oily waters of the lake and sank, never again to be seen.

When it had vanished, Morgan le Fay mounted her horse again, and

rode fast after her knights, for the King and Ontzlake were in hot

pursuit, and sore she feared lest they should come up with her

before she might reach the shelter of the Valley of Stones. But she

had rejoined her company of knights before the King had reached the

narrow mouth of the valley. Quickly she bade her men scatter among

the boulders, and then, by her magic art, she turned them all, men

and horses and herself too, into stones, that none might tell the

one from the other.

When King Arthur and Sir Ontzlake reached the valley, they looked

about for some sign of the presence of the Queen or her knights,

but naught might they see though they rode through the valley and

beyond, and returning, searched with all diligence among the rocks

and boulders. Never again was Queen Morgan le Fay seen at Camelot,

nor did she attempt aught afterwards against the welfare of the

King. When she had restored her knights to their proper form, she

hastened with them back to her own land, and there she abode for

the rest of her days until she came with the other queens to carry

Arthur from the field of the Battle in the West.

Nor would the King seek to take vengeance on a woman, though sorely

she had wronged him. His life long, he guarded well the sword

Excalibur, but the sheath no man ever saw again.

CHAPTER VI

MERLIN

Of Merlin and how he served King Arthur, something has been already

shown. Loyal he was ever to Uther Pendragon and to his son, King

Arthur, and for the latter especially he wrought great marvels. He

brought the King to his rights; he made him his ships; and some

say that Camelot, with its splendid halls, where Arthur would

gather his knights around him at the great festivals of the year,

at Christmas, at Easter, and at Pentecost, was raised by his magic,

without human toil. Bleise, the aged magician who dwelt in

Northumberland and recorded the great deeds of Arthur and his

knights, had been Merlin's master in magic; but it came to pass in

time that Merlin far excelled him in skill, so that his enemies

declared no mortal was his father, and called him devil's son.

Then, on a certain time, Merlin said to Arthur: "The time draws

near when ye shall miss me, for I shall go down alive into the

earth; and it shall be that gladly would ye give your lands to have

me again." Then Arthur was grieved, and said: "Since ye know your

danger, use your craft to avoid it." But Merlin answered: "That may

not be."

Now there had come to Arthur's court, a damsel of the Lady of the

Lake--her whose skill in magic, some say, was greater than Merlin's

own; and the damsel's name was Vivien. She set herself to learn the

secrets of Merlin's art, and was ever with him, tending upon the

old man and, with gentleness and tender service, winning her way to

his heart; but all was a pretence, for she was weary of him and

sought only his ruin, thinking it should be fame for her, by any

means whatsoever, to enslave the greatest wizard of his age. And so

she persuaded him to pass with her overseas into King Ban's land of

Benwick, and there, one day, he showed her a wondrous rock, formed

by magic art. Then she begged him to enter into it, the better to

declare to her its wonders; but when once he was within, by a charm

that she had learnt from Merlin's self, she caused the rock to

shut down that never again might he come forth. Thus was Merlin's

prophecy fulfilled, that he should go down into the earth alive.

Much they marvelled in Arthur's court what had become of the great

magician, till on a time, there rode past the stone a certain

Knight of the Round Table and heard Merlin lamenting his sad fate.

The knight would have striven to raise the mighty stone, but Merlin

bade him not waste his labour, since none might release him save

her who had imprisoned him there. Thus Merlin passed from the world

through the treachery of a damsel, and thus Arthur was without aid

in the days when his doom came upon him.

CHAPTER VII

BALIN AND BALAN

Among the princes that thought scorn of Arthur in the days when

first he became king, none was more insolent than Ryons of North

Wales. So, on a time when King Arthur held high festival at

Camelot, Ryons sent a herald who, in the presence of the whole

court, before brave knights and fair dames, thus addressed the

King: "Sir Arthur, my master bids me say that he has overcome

eleven kings with all their hosts, and, in token of their

submission, they have given him their beards to fringe him a

mantle. There remains yet space for the twelfth; wherefore, with

all speed, send him your beard, else will he lay waste your land

with fire and sword." "Viler message," said King Arthur, "was never

sent from man to man. Get thee gone, lest we forget thine office

protects thee." So spoke the King, for he had seen his knights clap

hand to sword, and would not that a messenger should suffer hurt in

his court.

Now among the knights present the while was one whom men called

Balin le Savage, who had but late been freed from prison for

slaying a knight of Arthur's court. None was more wroth than he at

the villainy of Ryons, and immediately after the departure of the

herald, he left the hall and armed him; for he was minded to try

if, with good fortune, he might win to Arthur's grace by avenging

him on the King of North Wales. While he was without, there entered

the hall a Witch Lady who, on a certain occasion, had done the King

a service, and for this she now desired of him a boon. So Arthur

bade her name her request, and thus she said: "O King, I require of

you the head of the knight Balin le Savage." "That may I not grant

you with my honour," replied the King; "ask what it may become me

to give." But the Witch Lady would have naught else, and departed

from the hall, murmuring against the King. Then, as it chanced,

Balin met her at the door, and immediately when he saw her, he rode

upon her, sword in hand, and, with one blow, smote off her head.

Thus he took vengeance for his mother's death, of which she had

been the cause, and, well content, rode away. But when it was told

King Arthur of the deed that Balin had done, he was full wroth,

nor was his anger lessened though Merlin declared the wrong the

Witch Lady had done to Balin. "Whatsoever cause he had against her,

yet should he have done her no violence in my court," said the

King, and bade Sir Lanceour of Ireland ride after Balin and bring

him back again.

Thus it came to pass that, as Sir Balin rode on his way, he heard

the hoof-beats of a horse fast galloping, and a voice cried loudly

to him: "Stay, Knight; for thou shalt stay, whether thou wilt or

not." "Fair Knight," answered Balin fiercely, "dost thou desire to

fight with me?" "Yea, truly," answered Lanceour; "for that cause

have I followed thee from Camelot." "Alas!" cried Balin, "then I

know thy quarrel. And yet, I dealt but justly by that vile woman,

and it grieves me to offend my lord King Arthur again." "Have done,

and make ready to fight," said Lanceour insolently; for he was

proud and arrogant, though a brave knight. So they rushed together,

and, at the first encounter, Sir Lanceour's spear was shivered

against the shield of the other, but Balin's spear pierced shield

and hauberk and Lanceour fell dead to the earth.

Then Sir Balin, sore grieved that he had caused the death of a

knight of Arthur's court, buried Lanceour as well as he might, and

continued sorrowfully on his journey in search of King Ryons.

Presently, as he rode through a great forest, he espied a knight

whom, by his arms, he knew at once for his brother, Sir Balan.

Great joy had they in their meeting, for Balan had believed Balin

still to be in prison. So Balin told Balan all that had befallen

him, and how he sought Ryons to avenge Arthur upon him for his

insolent message, and hoped thereby to win his lord's favour again.

"I will ride with thee, brother," said Balan, "and help thee all I

may." So the two went on their way till, presently, they met with

an old man--Merlin's self, though they knew him not, for he was

disguised. "Ah, Knight," said Merlin to Balin, "swift to strike and

swift to repent, beware, or thou shalt strike the most dolorous

blow dealt by man; for thou shalt slay thine own brother." "If I

believed thy words true," cried Balin hotly, "I would slay myself

to make thee a liar." "I know the past and I know the future," said

Merlin; "I know, too, the errand on which thou ridest, and I will

help thee if thou wilt." "Ah!" said Balin, "that pleases me well."

"Hide you both in this covert," said Merlin; "for presently there

shall come riding down this path King Ryons with sixty of his

knights." With these words he vanished. So Balin and Balan did as

he had bidden them, and when King Ryons and his men entered the

little path, they fell upon them with such fury that they slew more

than forty knights, while the rest fled, and King Ryons himself

yielded him to them. So Sir Balan rode with King Ryons to Camelot

that he might deliver him to King Arthur; but Balin went not with

them, for he would see more adventures before he sought King

Arthur's presence again.

After many days' travel and many encounters, it befell that, one

evening, Balin drew near to a castle; and when he would have sought

admittance, there stood by him an old man, and said: "Balin, turn

thee back, and it shall be better for thee," and so vanished. At

that moment there was blown a blast on a horn, such as is sounded

when the stag receives its death; and hearing it, Balin's heart

misgave him, and he cried: "That blast is blown for me, and I am

the prize. But not yet am I dead!"

At that instant the castle gate was raised and there appeared many

knights and ladies welcoming Balin into the castle. So he entered,

and presently they were all seated at supper. Then the lady of the

castle said to Balin: "Sir Knight, to-morrow thou must have ado

with a knight that keeps an island near-by; else mayest thou not

pass that way." "That is an evil custom," answered Balin; "but if I

must, I must." So that night he rested, but with the dawn he arose,

and was arming himself for battle when there came to him a knight

and said: "Sir, your shield is not good; I pray you, take mine

which is larger and stouter." In an evil hour, Balin suffered

himself to be persuaded, and taking the stranger's shield, left;

behind his own on which his arms were blazoned. Then, entering a

boat, he was conveyed to the island where the unknown knight held

the ford.

No sooner was he landed, than there came riding to him a knight

armed all in red armour, his horse, too, trapped all in red; and

without word spoken, they charged upon each other, and each bore

the other from the saddle. Thus for a while they lay, stunned by

the fall. The Red Knight was the first to rise, for Balin, all

wearied by his travels and many encounters, was sore shaken by the

fall. Then they fought together right fiercely, hacking away great

pieces of armour, and dealing each other dreadful wounds. But when

they paused to take breath, Balin, looking up, saw the battlements

of the castle filled with knights and ladies watching the struggle,

and immediately, shamed that the conflict should have so long

endured, he rushed again upon the Red Knight, aiming at him blows

that might have felled a giant. So they fought together a long

while; but at the last, the Red Knight drew back a little. Then

cried Balin: "Who art thou? for till now, never have I met my

match." Then said the Red Knight: "I am Balan, brother to the noble

knight, Sir Balin"; and with the word, he fell to the ground as one

dead. "Alas!" cried Balin, "that I should have lived to see this

day!" Then, as well as he might, for his strength was almost spent,

he crept on hands and knees to his brother's side and opened the

vizor of his helmet, and when he saw his brother's face all

ghastly, as it was, he cried: "O Balan, I have slain thee, as thou

hast also slain me! Oh! woeful deed I never to be forgotten of

men!" Then Balan, being somewhat recovered, told Balin how he had

been compelled by those at the castle to keep the ford against all

comers, and might never depart; and Balin told of the grievous

chance by which he had taken another's shield.

So these two died, slain by each other's hands. In one tomb they

were buried; and Merlin, passing that way, inscribed thereon the

full story of their deaths.

BOOK II

SIR LAUNCELOT

CHAPTER VIII

SIR LAUNCELOT DU LAC

Now, as time passed, King Arthur gathered into his Order of the

Round Table knights whose peers shall never be found in any age;

and foremost amongst them all was Sir Launcelot du Lac. Such was

his strength that none against whom he laid lance in rest could

keep the saddle, and no shield was proof against his sword dint;

but for his courtesy even more than for his courage and strength,

Sir Launcelot was famed far and near. Gentle he was and ever the

first to rejoice in the renown of another; and in the jousts, he

would avoid encounter with the young and untried knight, letting

him pass to gain glory if he might.

It would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of Sir

Launcelot, and all his adventures. He was of Gaul, for his father,

King Ban, ruled over Benwick; and some say that his first name was

Galahad, and that he was named Launcelot du Lac by the Lady of the

Lake who reared him when his mother died. Early he won renown by

delivering his father's people from the grim King Claudas who, for

more than twenty years, had laid waste the fair land of Benwick;

then, when there was peace in his own land, he passed into Britain,

to Arthur's court, where the King received him gladly, and made him

Knight of the Round Table and took him for his trustiest friend.

And so it was that, when Guenevere was to be brought to Canterbury,

to be married to the King, Launcelot was chief of the knights sent

to wait upon her, and of this came the sorrow of later days. For,

from the moment he saw her, Sir Launcelot loved Guenevere, for her

sake remaining wifeless all his days, and in all things being her

faithful knight. But busy-bodies and mischief-makers spoke evil of

Sir Launcelot and the Queen, and from their talk came the undoing

of the King and the downfall of his great work. But that was after

long years, and after many true knights had lived their lives,

honouring the King and Queen, and doing great deeds whereby the

fame of Arthur and his Order passed through all the world.

CHAPTER IX

THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHAPEL PERILOUS

Now on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Launcelot met a

damsel weeping bitterly, and seeing him, she cried, "Stay, Sir

Knight! By your knighthood I require you to aid me in my distress."

Immediately Sir Launcelot checked his horse and asked in what she

needed his service. "Sir," said the maiden, "my brother lies at the

point of death, for this day he fought with the stout knight, Sir

Gilbert, and sorely they wounded each other; and a wise woman, a

sorceress, has said that nothing may staunch my brother's wounds

unless they be searched with the sword and bound up with a piece

of the cloth from the body of the wounded knight who lies in the

ruined chapel hard by. And well I know you, my lord Sir Launcelot,

and that, if ye will not help me, none may." "Tell me your

brother's name," said Sir Launcelot. "Sir Meliot de Logris,"

answered the damsel. "A Knight of our Round Table," said Sir

Launcelot; "the more am I bound to your service. Only tell me,

gentle damsel, where I may find this Chapel Perilous." So she

directed him, and, riding through forest byeways, Sir Launcelot

came presently upon a little ruined chapel, standing in the midst

of a churchyard, where the tombs showed broken and neglected under

the dark yews. In front of the porch, Sir Launcelot paused and

looked, for thereon hung, upside down, dishonoured, the shield of

many a good knight whom Sir Launcelot had known.

As he stood wondering, suddenly there pressed upon him from all

sides thirty stout knights, all giants and fully armed, their drawn

swords in their hands and their shields advanced. With threatening

looks, they spoke to him saying: "Sir Launcelot, it were well ye

turned back before evil befell you." But Sir Launcelot, though he

feared to have to do with thirty such warriors, answered boldly: "I

turn not back for high words. Make them good by your deeds." Then

he rode upon them fiercely, whereupon instantly they scattered and

disappeared, and, sword in hand, Sir Launcelot entered the little

chapel. All was dark within, save that a little lamp hung from the

roof, and by its dim light he could just espy how on a bier before

the altar there lay, stark and cold, a knight sheathed in armour.

And drawing nearer, Sir Launcelot saw that the dead man lay on a

blood-stained mantle, his naked sword by his side, but that his

left hand had been lopped off at the wrist by a mighty sword-cut.

Then Sir Launcelot boldly seized the sword and with it cut off a

piece of the bloody mantle. Immediately the earth shook and the

walls of the chapel rocked, and in fear Sir Launcelot turned to go.

But, as he would have left the chapel, there stood before him in

the doorway a lady, fair to look upon and beautifully arrayed, who

gazed earnestly upon him, and said: "Sir Knight, put away from you

that sword lest it be your death." But Sir Launcelot answered her:

"Lady, what I have said, I do; and what I have won, I keep." "It is

well," said the lady. "Had ye cast away the sword your life days

were done. And now I make but one request. Kiss me once." "That may

I not do," said Sir Launcelot. Then said the lady: "Go your way,

Launcelot; ye have won, and I have lost. Know that, had ye kissed

me, your dead body had lain even now on the altar bier. For much

have I desired to win you; and to entrap you, I ordained this

chapel. Many a knight have I taken, and once Sir Gawain himself

hardly escaped, but he fought with Sir Gilbert and lopped off his

hand, and so got away. Fare ye well; it is plain to see that none

but our lady, Queen Guenevere, may have your services." With that,

she vanished from his sight. So Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and

rode away from that evil place till he met Sir Meliot's sister, who

led him to her brother where he lay, pale as the earth, and

bleeding fast. And when he saw Sir Launcelot, he would have risen

to greet him; but his strength failed him, and he fell back on his

couch. Sir Launcelot searched his wounds with the sword, and bound

them up with the blood-stained cloth, and immediately Sir Meliot

was sound and well, and greatly he rejoiced. Then Sir Meliot and

his sister begged Sir Launcelot to stay and rest, but he departed

on his adventures, bidding them farewell until he should meet them

again at Arthur's court.

As for the sorceress of the Chapel Perilous, it is said she died

of grief that all her charms had failed to win for her the good

knight Sir Launcelot.

CHAPTER X

SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FALCON

Sir Launcelot rode on his way, by marsh and valley and hill, till

he chanced upon a fair castle, and saw fly from it, over his head,

a beautiful falcon, with the lines still hanging from her feet. And

as he looked, the falcon flew into a tree where she was held fast

by the lines becoming entangled about the boughs. Immediately, from

the castle there came running a fair lady, who cried: "O Launcelot,

Launcelot! As ye are the noblest of all knights, I pray you help me

to recover my falcon. For if my husband discover its loss, he will

slay me in his anger." "Who is your husband, fair lady?" asked Sir

Launcelot. "Sir Phelot, a knight of Northgalis, and he is of a

hasty temper; wherefore, I beseech you, help me." "Well, lady,"

said Sir Launcelot, "I will serve you if I may; but the tree is

hard to climb, for the boughs are few, and, in truth, I am no

climber. But I will do my best." So the lady helped Sir Launcelot

to unarm, and he led his horse to the foot of the tree, and

springing from its back, he caught at the nearest bough, and drew

himself up into the branches. Then he climbed till he reached the

falcon and, tying her lines to a rotten bough, broke it off, and

threw down bird and bough to the lady below. Forthwith, Sir Phelot

came from amongst the trees and said: "Ah! Sir Launcelot! Now at

length I have you as I would; for I have long sought your life."

And Sir Launcelot made answer: "Surely ye would not slay me, an

unarmed man; for that were dishonour to you. Keep my armour if ye

will; but hang my sword on a bough where I may reach it, and then

do with me as ye can." But Sir Phelot laughed mockingly and said:

"Not so, Sir Launcelot. I know you too well to throw away my

advantage; wherefore, shift as ye may." "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot,

"that ever knight should be so unknightly. And you, madam, how

could ye so betray me?" "She did but as I commanded her," said Sir

Phelot.

Then Launcelot looked about him to see how he might help himself in

these straits, and espying above his head a great bare branch, he

tote it down. Then, ever watching his advantage, he sprang to the

ground on the far side of his horse, so that the horse was between

him and Sir Phelot. Sir Phelot rushed upon him with his sword, but

Sir Launcelot parried it with the bough, with which he dealt his

enemy such a blow on the head that Sir Phelot sank to the ground in

a swoon. Then Sir Launcelot seized his sword where it lay beside

his armour, and stooping over the fallen knight, unloosed his helm.

When the lady saw him do that, she shrieked and cried: "Spare his

life! spare his life, noble knight, I beseech you!" But Sir

Launcelot answered sternly: "A felon's death for him who does

felon's deeds. He has lived too long already," and with one blow,

he smote off his head. Then he armed himself, and mounting upon his

steed, rode away, leaving the lady to weep beside her lord.

BOOK III

SIR TRISTRAM

CHAPTER XI

OF THE BIRTH OF SIR TRISTRAM

In the days of Arthur, there ruled over the kingdom of Liones the

good knight Sir Meliodas; and his Queen was the fair Elizabeth,

sister of King Mark of Cornwall.

Now there was a lady, an enchantress, who had no good-will towards

King Meliodas and his Queen; so one day, when the King was

hunting, she brought it to pass by her charms that Meliodas chased

a hart till he found himself, far from all his men, alone by an old

castle, and there he was taken prisoner by the lady's knights.

When King Meliodas did not return home, the Queen was nigh crazed

with grief. Attended only by one of the ladies of her court, she

ran out into the forest to seek her lord. Long and far she

wandered, until she could go no further, but sank down at the foot

of a great tree, and there, in the midst of the forest, was her

little son born. When the Queen knew that she must die, she kissed

the babe and said: "Ah! little son, sad has been thy birth,

wherefore thy name shall be Tristram; but thou shalt grow to be a

brave knight and a strong." Then she charged her gentlewoman to

take care of the child and to commend her to King Meliodas; and

after that she died. All too late came many of the barons seeking

their Queen, and sorrowfully they bore her back to the castle where

presently the King arrived, released by the skill of Merlin from

the evil spells of the enchantress. Great indeed was his grief for

the death of his Queen. He caused her to be buried with all the

pomp and reverence due to so good and fair a lady, and long and

bitterly he mourned her loss and all the people with him.

But at the end of seven years, King Meliodas took another wife.

Then, when the Queen had sons of her own, it angered her to think

that in the days to come, her stepson Tristram, and none other,

should rule the fair land of Liones. The more she thought of it,

the more she hated him till, at the last, she was resolved to do

away with him. So she filled a silver goblet with a pleasant drink

in which she had mixed poison, and she set it in the room where

Tristram played with the young princes, his half-brothers. Now the

day was hot, and presently, being heated with his play, the young

prince, the Queen's eldest son, drank of the poisoned goblet; and

immediately he died. Much the Queen grieved, but more than ever she

hated her stepson Tristram, as if, through him, her son had died.

Presently, again she mixed poison and set it in a goblet; and that

time, King Meliodas, returning thirsty from the chase, took the cup

and would have drunk of it, only the Queen cried to him to forbear.

Then the King recalled to mind how his young son had drunk of a

seeming pleasant drink and died on the instant; and seizing the

Queen by the hand, he cried: "False traitress! tell me at once what

is in that cup, or I will slay thee!" Then the Queen cried him

mercy and told him all her sin. But in his wrath the King would

have no mercy, but sentenced her to be burnt at the stake, which,

in those days, was the doom of traitors. The day having come when

the Queen should suffer for her fault, she was led out and bound to

a stake in the presence of all the court, and the faggots were

heaped about her. Then the young prince Tristram kneeled before the

King and asked of him a favour: and the King, loving him much,

granted him his request. "Then," said Tristram, "I require you to

release the Queen, my stepmother, and to take her again to your

favour." Greatly the King marvelled, and said: "Ye should of right

hate her, seeing that she sought your life." But Tristram answered:

"I forgive her freely." "I give you then her life," said the King;

"do ye release her from the stake." So Tristram unloosed the chains

which bound the Queen and led her back to the castle, and from that

day the Queen loved him well; but as for King Meliodas, though he

forgave her and suffered her to remain at court, yet never again

would he have aught to do with her.

CHAPTER XII

HOW TRISTRAM FOUGHT WITH SIR MARHAUS OF IRELAND

Now King Meliodas, though he had pardoned the Queen, would keep his

son Tristram no longer at the court, but sent him into France.

There Tristram learnt all knightly exercises, so that there was

none could equal him as harper or hunter; and after seven years,

being by then a youth of nineteen, he returned to his own land of

Liones.

It chanced, in those days, that King Anguish of Ireland sent to

Cornwall, demanding the tribute paid him in former times by that

land. Then Mark, the Cornish King, called together his barons and

knights to take counsel; and by their advice, he made answer that

he would pay no tribute, and bade King Anguish send a stout knight

to fight for his right if he still dared claim aught of the land of

Cornwall.

Forthwith there came from Ireland Sir Marhaus, brother of the Queen

of Ireland. Now Sir Marhaus was Knight of the Round Table and in

his time there were few of greater renown. He anchored his ships

under the Castle of Tintagil, and sent messengers daily to King

Mark, bidding him pay the tribute or find one to fight in his

cause.

Then was King Mark sore perplexed, for not one of his knights dared

encounter Sir Marhaus. Criers were sent through all the land,

proclaiming that, to any knight that would take the combat upon

him, King Mark would give such gifts as should enrich him for life.

In time, word of all that had happened came to Liones, and

immediately Tristram sought his father, desiring his permission to

go to the court of his uncle, King Mark, to take the battle upon

him. Thus it came to pass that, with his father's good leave,

Tristram presented himself before King Mark, asking to be made

knight that he might do battle for the liberties of Cornwall. Then

when Mark knew that it was his sister's son, he rejoiced greatly,

and having made Tristram knight, he sent word to Sir Marhaus that

there was found to meet him a champion of better birth than Sir

Marhaus' self.

So it was arranged that the combat should take place on a little

island hard by, where Sir Marhaus had anchored his ships. Sir

Tristram, with his horse and arms, was placed on board a ship, and

when the island was gained, he leaped on shore, bidding his squire

put off again and only return when he was slain or victorious.