Now, when Sir Marhaus saw that Tristram was but a youth, he cried

aloud to him: "Be advised, young Sir, and go back to your ship.

What can ye hope to do against me, a proven knight of Arthur's

Table?" Then Tristram made answer: "Sir and most famous champion, I

have been made knight to do battle with you, and I promise myself

to win honour thereby, I who have never before encountered a proven

knight." "If ye can endure three strokes of my sword, it shall be

honour enough," said Sir Marhaus. Then they rushed upon each other,

and at the first encounter each unhorsed the other, and Sir

Marhaus' spear pierced Sir Tristram's side and made a grievous

wound. Drawing their swords, they lashed at each other, and the

blows fell thick as hail till the whole island re-echoed with the

din of onslaught. So they fought half a day, and ever it seemed

that Sir Tristram grew fresher and nimbler while Sir Marhaus became

sore wearied. And at the last, Sir Tristram aimed a great blow at

the head of his enemy, and the sword crashed through the helmet and

bit into the skull so that a great piece was broken away from the

edge of Tristram's sword. Then Sir Marhaus flung away sword and

shield, and when he might regain his feet, fled shrieking to his

ships. "Do ye flee?" cried Tristram. "I am but newly made knight;

but rather than flee, I would be hewn piecemeal."

Then came Gouvernail, Sir Tristram's squire, and bore his master

back to land, where Mark and all the Cornish lords came to meet him

and convey him to the castle of Tintagil. Far and wide they sent

for surgeons to dress Sir Tristram's wound, but none might help

him, and ever he grew weaker. At the last, a wise woman told King

Mark that in that land alone whence came the poisoned spear could

Sir Tristram find cure. Then the King gave orders and a ship was

made ready with great stores of rich furnishings, to convey Sir

Tristram to Ireland, there to heal him of his wound.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FAIR ISOLT

Thus Tristram sailed to Ireland, and when he drew nigh the coast,

he called for his harp, and sitting up on his couch on the deck,

played the merriest tune that was ever heard in that land. And the

warders on the castle wall, hearing him, sent and told King Anguish

how a ship drew near with one who harped as none other might. Then

King Anguish sent knights to convey the stranger into the castle.

So when he was brought into the King's presence, Tristram declared

that he was Sir Tramtrist of Liones, lately made knight, and

wounded in his first battle; for which cause he was come to

Ireland, to seek healing. Forthwith the King made him welcome, and

placed him in the charge of his daughter, Isolt. Now Isolt was

famed for her skill in surgery, and, moreover, she was the fairest

lady of that time, save only Queen Guenevere. So she searched and

bandaged Sir Tristram's wound, and presently it was healed. But

still Sir Tristram abode at King Anguish's court, teaching the Fair

Isolt to harp, and taking great pleasure in her company. And ever

the princess doubted whether Sir Tristram were not a renowned

knight and ever she liked him better.

So the time passed merrily with feastings and in the jousts, and in

the lists Sir Tristram won great honour when he was recovered of

his wound.

At last it befell upon a day that Sir Tristram had gone to the bath

and left his sword lying on the couch. And the Queen, entering,

espied it, and taking it up, drew the sword from the sheath and

fell to admiring the mighty blade. Presently she saw that the edge

was notched, and while she pondered how great a blow must have

broken the good steel, suddenly she bethought her of the piece

which had been found in the head of her brother, Sir Marhaus.

Hastening to her chamber, she sought in a casket for the fragment,

and returning, placed it by the sword edge, where it fitted as well

as on the day it was first broken. Then she cried to her daughter:

"This, then, is the traitor knight who slew my brother, Sir

Marhaus"; and snatching up the sword, she rushed upon Sir Tristram

where he sat in his bath, and would have killed him, but that his

squire restrained her. Having failed of her purpose, she sought her

husband, King Anguish, and told him all her story: how the knight

they had harboured was he who had slain Sir Marhaus. Then the King,

sore perplexed, went to Sir Tristram's chamber, where he found him

fully armed, ready to get to horse. And Tristram told him all the

truth, how in fair fight he had slain Sir Marhaus. "Ye did as a

knight should," said King Anguish; "and much it grieves me that I

may not keep you at my court; but I cannot so displease my Queen or

barons." "Sir," said Tristram, "I thank you for your courtesy, and

will requite it as occasion may offer. Moreover, here I pledge my

word, as I am good knight and true, to be your daughter's servant,

and in all places and at all times to uphold her quarrel. Wherefore

I pray you that I may take my leave of the princess."

Then, with the King's permission, Sir Tristram went to the Fair

Isolt and told her all his story; "And here," said he, "I make my

vow ever to be your true knight, and at all times and in all places

to uphold your quarrel." "And on my part" answered the Fair Isolt,

"I make promise that never these seven years will I marry any man,

save with your leave and as ye shall desire." Therewith they

exchanged rings, the Fair Isolt grieving sore the while. Then Sir

Tristram strode into the court and cried aloud, before all the

barons: "Ye knights of Ireland, the time is come when I must

depart. Therefore, if any man have aught against me, let him stand

forth now, and I will satisfy him as I may." Now there were many

present of the kin of Sir Marhaus, but none dared have ado with Sir

Tristram; so, slowly he rode away, and with his squire took ship

again for Cornwall.

CHAPTER XIV

HOW KING MARK SENT SIR TRISTRAM TO FETCH HIM A WIFE

When Sir Tristram had come back to Cornwall, he abode some time at

the court of King Mark. Now in those days the Cornish knights were

little esteemed, and none less than Mark himself, who was a coward,

and never adventured himself in fair and open combat, seeking

rather to attack by stealth and have his enemy at an advantage. But

the fame of Sir Tristram increased daily, and all men spoke well of

him. So it came to pass that King Mark, knowing himself despised,

grew fearful and jealous of the love that all men bore his nephew;

for he seemed in their praise of him to hear his own reproach. He

sought, therefore, how he might rid himself of Tristram even while

he spoke him fair and made as if he loved him much, and at the last

he bethought him how he might gain his end and no man be the wiser.

So one day, he said to Tristram: "Fair nephew, I am resolved to

marry, and fain would I have your aid." "In all things, I am yours

to command," answered Sir Tristram. "I pray you, then," said King

Mark, "bring me to wife the Fair Isolt of Ireland. For since I have

heard your praises of her beauty, I may not rest unless I have her

for my Queen." And this he said thinking that, if ever Sir Tristram

set foot in Ireland, he would be slain.

But Tristram, nothing mistrusting, got together a company of

gallant knights, all fairly arrayed as became men sent by their

King on such an errand; and with them he embarked on a goodly ship.

Now it chanced that when he had reached the open sea, a great storm

arose and drove him back on to the coast of England, and landing

with great difficulty he set up his pavilion hard by the city of

Camelot.

Presently, word was brought him by his squire that King Anguish

with his company lay hard by, and that the King was in sore

straits; for he was charged with the murder of a knight of Arthur's

court, and must meet in combat Sir Blamor, one of the stoutest

knights of the Round Table. Then Sir Tristram rejoiced, for he saw

in this opportunity of serving King Anguish the means of earning

his good will. So he betook himself to the King's tent, and

proffered to take upon him the encounter, for the kindness shown

him by King Anguish in former days. And the King gratefully

accepting of his championship, the next day Sir Tristram

encountered with Sir Blamor, overthrew him, and so acquitted the

Irish King of the charge brought against him. Then in his joy, King

Anguish begged Sir Tristram to voyage with him to his own land,

bidding Tristram ask what boon he would and he should have it. So

rejoicing in his great fortune, Sir Tristram sailed once again for

the Irish land.

CHAPTER XV

HOW SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOLT DRANK OF THE MAGIC POTION

Then King Anguish made haste to return to Ireland, taking Sir

Tristram with him. And when he was come there and had told all his

adventures, there was great rejoicing over Sir Tristram, but of

none more than of the Fair Isolt. So when Sir Tristram had stayed

there some while, King Anguish reminded him of the boon he should

ask and of his own willingness to grant it. "Sir King," replied Sir

Tristram, "now will I ask it. Grant me your daughter, the Fair

Isolt, that I may take her to Cornwall, there to become the wife of

my uncle, King Mark." Then King Anguish grieved when he heard Sir

Tristram's request, and said: "Far more gladly would I give her to

you to wife." "That may not be," replied Sir Tristram; "my honour

forbids." "Take her then," said King Anguish, "she is yours to wed

or to give to your uncle, King Mark, as seems good to you."

So a ship was made ready and there entered it the Fair Isolt and

Sir Tristram, and Gouvernail, his squire, and Dame Bragwaine, who

was maid to the princess. But before they sailed, the Queen gave in

charge to Gouvernail and Dame Bragwaine a phial of wine which King

Mark and Isolt should drink together on their wedding-day; "For,"

said the Queen, "such is the magic virtue of this wine, that,

having drunk of it, they may never cease from loving one another."

Now it chanced, one day, that Sir Tristram sat and harped to the

Fair Isolt; and the weather being hot, he became thirsty. Then

looking round the cabin he beheld a golden flask, curiously shaped

and wrought; and laughing, he said to the Fair Isolt: "See, madam,

how my man and your maid care for themselves; for here is the best

wine that ever I tasted. I pray you, now, drink to me." So with

mirth and laughter, they pledged each other, and thought that never

before had they tasted aught so good. But when they had made an end

of drinking, there came upon them the might of the magic charm; and

never from that day, for good or for ill, might they cease from

their love. And so much woe was wrought; for, mindful of his pledge

to his uncle, Sir Tristram brought Isolt in all honour into the

land of Cornwall where she was wedded with pomp and ceremony to

King Mark, the craven King, who hated his nephew even more than

before, because he had returned in safety and made good his promise

as became an honourable knight. And from that day he never ceased

seeking the death of Sir Tristram.

CHAPTER XVI

OF THE END OF SIR TRISTRAM

Then again Sir Tristram abode at King Mark's court, ever rendering

the Fair Isolt loyal and knightly service; for King Mark would

imperil his life for none, no matter what the need.

Now among the Cornish knights, there was much jealousy of Sir

Tristram de Liones, and chief of his enemies was his own cousin,

Sir Andred. With lying words, Sir Andred sought to stir up King

Mark against his nephew, speaking evil of the Queen and of Sir

Tristram. Now Mark was afraid openly to accuse Sir Tristram, so he

set Sir Andred to spy upon him. At last, it befell one day that Sir

Andred saw Sir Tristram coming, alone and unarmed, from the Queen's

presence, and with twelve other knights, he fell upon him and bound

him. Then these felon knights bore Sir Tristram to a little chapel

standing upon a great rock which jutted out into the sea. There

they would have slain him, unarmed and bound. But Sir Tristram,

perceiving their intent, put forth suddenly all his strength, burst

his bonds, and wresting a sword from Sir Andred, cut him down; and

so he did with six other knights. Then while the rest, being but

cowards, gave back a little, he shut to and bolted the doors

against them, and sprang from the window on to the sea-washed rocks

below. There he lay as one dead, until his squire, Gouvernail,

coming in a little boat, took up his master, dressed his wounds,

and carried him to the coast of England.

So Sir Tristram was minded to remain in that country for a time.

Then, one day, as he rode through the forest near Camelot, there

came running to him a fair lady who cried: "Sir Tristram, I claim

your aid for the truest knight in all the world, and that is none

other than King Arthur." "With a good heart," said Sir Tristram;

"but where may I find him?" "Follow me," said the lady, who was

none other than the Lady of the Lake herself, and ever mindful of

the welfare of King Arthur. So he rode after her till he came to a

castle, and in front of it he saw two knights who beset at once

another knight, and when Sir Tristram came to the spot, the two had

borne King Arthur to the ground and were about to cut off his head.

Then Sir Tristram called to them to leave their traitor's work and

look to themselves; with the word, one he pierced through with his

spear and the other he cut down, and setting King Arthur again upon

his horse, he rode with him until they met with certain of Arthur's

knights. But when King Arthur would know his name, Tristram would

give none, but said only that he was a poor errant knight; and so

they parted.

But Arthur, when he was come back to Camelot, sent for Sir

Launcelot and other of his knights, bidding them seek for such an

one as was Sir Tristram and bring him to the court. So they

departed, each his own way, and searched for many days, but in

vain. Then it chanced, at last, as Sir Launcelot rode on his way,

he espied Sir Tristram resting beside a tomb; and, as was the

custom of knights errant, he called upon him to joust. So the two

ran together and each broke his spear. Then they sprang to the

ground and fought with their swords, and each thought that never

had he encountered so stout or so skilled a knight. So fiercely

they fought that, perforce, at last they must rest. Then said Sir

Launcelot: "Fair Knight, I pray you tell me your name, for never

have I met so good a knight." "In truth," said Sir Tristram, "I am

loth to tell my name." "I marvel at that," said Sir Launcelot; "for

mine I will tell you freely. I am Launcelot du Lac." Then was Sir

Tristram filled at once with joy and with sorrow; with joy that at

last he had encountered the noblest knight of the Round Table, with

sorrow that he had done him such hurt, and without more ado he

revealed his name. Now Sir Launcelot, who ever delighted in the

fame of another, had long desired to meet Sir Tristram de Liones,

and rejoicing to have found him, he knelt right courteously and

proffered him his sword, as if he would yield to him. But Tristram

would not have it so, declaring that, rather, he should yield to

Sir Launcelot. So they embraced right heartily, and when Sir

Launcelot questioned him, Sir Tristram acknowledged that it was he

who had come to King Arthur's aid. Together, then, they rode to

Camelot, and there Sir Tristram was received with great honour by

King Arthur, who made him Knight of the Round Table.

Presently, to Tristram at Camelot, there came word that King Mark

had driven the Fair Isolt from court, and compelled her to have her

dwelling in a hut set apart for lepers. Then Sir Tristram was wroth

indeed, and mounting his horse, rode forth that same hour, and

rested not till he had found the lepers' hut, whence he bore the

Queen to the castle known as the Joyous Garde; and there he held

her, in safety and honour, in spite of all that King Mark could do.

And all men honoured Sir Tristram, and felt sorrow for the Fair

Isolt; while as for King Mark, they scorned him even more than

before.

But to Sir Tristram, it was grief to be at enmity with his uncle

who had made him knight, and at last he craved King Arthur's aid to

reconcile him to Mark. So then the King, who loved Sir Tristram,

sent messengers to Cornwall to Mark, bidding him come forthwith to

Camelot; and when the Cornish King was arrived, Arthur required him

to set aside his enmity to Tristram, who had in all things been his

loyal nephew and knight. And King Mark, his head full of hate, but

fearful of offending his lord, King Arthur, made fair proffers of

friendship, begging Sir Tristram to return to Cornwall with him,

and promising to hold him in love and honour. So they were

reconciled, and when King Mark returned to Cornwall, thither Sir

Tristram escorted the Fair Isolt, and himself abode there,

believing his uncle to mean truly and honourably by him.

But under a seeming fair exterior, King Mark hated Sir Tristram

more than ever, and waited only to have him at an advantage. At

length he contrived the opportunity he sought. For he hid him in

the Queen's chamber at a time when he knew Sir Tristram would come

there unarmed, to harp to the Fair Isolt the music that she loved.

So as Sir Tristram, all unsuspecting, bent over his harp, Mark

leaped from his lurking place and dealt him such a blow from behind

that, on the instant, he fell dead at the feet of the Fair Isolt.

So perished the good knight, Sir Tristram de Liones Nor did the

Fair Isolt long survive him, for refusing all comfort, she pined

away, and died within a few days, and was laid in a tomb beside

that of her true knight. But the felon King paid the price of his

treachery with his life; for Sir Launcelot himself avenged the

death of his friend and the wrongs of the Fair Isolt.

BOOK IV

KING ARTHUR'S NEPHEWS

CHAPTER XVII

SIR GAWAIN AND THE LADY

Among the knights at King Arthur's court were his nephews, the sons

of his sister, Queen Bellicent, and of that King Lot of Orkney, who

had joined the league against Arthur in the first years of his

reign.

Of each, many tales are told; of Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth to

their great renown, but of Sir Mordred to his shame. For Sir Gawain

and Sir Gareth were knights of great prowess; but Sir Mordred was a

coward and a traitor, envious of other men's fame, and a

tale-bearer.

Now Sir Gawain was known as the Ladies' Knight, and this is how he

came by the name. It was at Arthur's marriage-feast, when Gawain

had just been made knight, that a strange thing befell. There

entered the hall a white hart, chased by a hound, and when it had

run round the hall, it fled through the doorway again, still

followed by the hound. Then, by Merlin's advice, the quest of the

hart was given to Gawain as a new-made knight, to follow it and see

what adventures it would bring him. So Sir Gawain rode away, taking

with him three couples of greyhounds for the pursuit. At the last,

the hounds caught the hart, and killed it just as it reached the

court-yard of a castle. Then there came forth from the castle a

knight, and he was grieved and wroth to see the hart slain, for it

was given him by his lady; so, in his anger, he killed two of the

hounds. At that moment Sir Gawain entered the court-yard, and an

angry man was he when he saw his greyhounds slain. "Sir Knight,"

said he, "ye would have done better to have taken your vengeance on

me rather than on dumb animals which but acted after their kind."

"I will be avenged on you also," cried the knight; and the two

rushed together, cutting and thrusting that it was wonderful they

might so long endure. But at the last the knight grew faint, and

crying for mercy, offered to yield to Sir Gawain. "Ye had no mercy

on my hounds," said Sir Gawain. "I will make you all the amends in

my power," answered the knight. But Sir Gawain would not be turned

from his purpose, and unlacing the vanquished knight's helmet, was

about to cut off his head, when a lady rushed out from the castle

and flung herself on the body of the fallen knight. So it chanced

that Sir Gawain's sword descending smote off the lady's head. Then

was Sir Gawain grieved and sore ashamed for what he had done, and

said to the knight: "I repent for what I have done; and here I give

you your life. Go only to Camelot, to King Arthur's court, and tell

him ye are sent by the knight who follows the quest of the white

hart." "Ye have slain my lady," said the other, "and now I care not

what befalls me." So he arose and went to King Arthur's court.

Then Sir Gawain prepared to rest him there for the night; but

scarcely had he lain down when there fell upon him four knights,

crying: "New-made knight, ye have shamed your knighthood, for a

knight without mercy is without honour." Then was Sir Gawain borne

to the earth, and would have been slain, but that there came forth

from the castle four ladies who besought the knights to spare his

life; so they consented and bound him prisoner.

The next morning Sir Gawain was brought again before the knights

and their dames; and because he was King Arthur's nephew, the

ladies desired that he should be set free, only they required that

he should ride again to Camelot, the murdered lady's head hanging

from his neck, and her dead body across his saddle-bow; and that

when he arrived at the court he should confess his misdeeds.

So Sir Gawain rode sadly back to Camelot, and when he had told his

tale, King Arthur was sore displeased. And Queen Guenevere held a

court of her ladies to pass sentence on Sir Gawain for his

ungentleness. These then decreed that, his life long, he must never

refuse to fight for any lady who desired his services, and that

ever he should be gentle and courteous and show mercy to all. From

that time forth, Sir Gawain never failed in aught that dame or

damsel asked of him, and so he won and kept the title of the

Ladies' Knight.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE ADVENTURES OF SIR GARETH

Gareth was the youngest of the sons of Lot and Bellicent, and had

grown up long after Gawain and Mordred left their home for King

Arthur's court; so that when he came before the King, all humbly

attired, he was known not even by his own brothers.

King Arthur was keeping Pentecost at Kink Kenadon on the Welsh

border and, as his custom was, waited to begin the feast until some

adventure should befall. Presently there was seen approaching a

youth, who, to the wonderment of all that saw, leaned upon the

shoulders of two men, his companions; and yet as he passed up the

hall, he seemed a goodly youth, tall and broad-shouldered. When he

stood before the King, suddenly he drew himself up, and after due

greeting, said: "Sir King, I would ask of you three boons; one to

be granted now and two hereafter when I shall require them." And

Arthur, looking upon him, was pleased, for his countenance was open

and honest. So he made answer; "Fair son, ask of me aught that is

honourable and I will grant it." Then the youth said: "For this

present, I ask only that ye will give me meat and drink for a year

and a day." "Ye might have asked and had a better gift," replied

the King; "tell me now your name." "At this time, I may not tell

it," said the youth. Now King Arthur trusted every man until he

proved himself unworthy, and in this youth he thought he saw one

who should do nobly and win renown; so laughing, he bade him keep

his own counsel since so he would, and gave him in charge to Sir

Kay, the Seneschal.

Now Sir Kay was but harsh to those whom he liked not, and from the

first he scorned the young man; "For none," said he, "but a

low-born lout would crave meat and drink when he might have asked

for a horse and arms." But Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain took the

youth's part. Neither knew him for Gareth of the Orkneys, but both

believed him to be a youth of good promise who, for his own

reasons, would pass in disguise for a season.

So Gareth lived the year among the kitchen-boys, all the time

mocked and scorned by Sir Kay, who called him Fairhands because his

hands were white and shapely. But Launcelot and Gawain showed him

all courtesy, and failed not to observe how, in all trials of

strength, he excelled his comrades, and that he was ever present to

witness the feats of the knights in the tournaments.

So the year passed, and again King Arthur was keeping the feast of

Pentecost with his knights, when a damsel entered the hall and

asked his aid: "For," said she, "my sister is closely besieged in

her castle by a strong knight who lays waste all her lands. And

since I know that the knights of your court be the most renowned in

the world, I have come to crave help of your mightiest." "What is

your sister's name, and who is he that oppresses her?" asked the

King. "The Red Knight, he is called," replied the damsel. "As for

my sister I will not say her name, only that she is a high-born

lady and owns broad lands." Then the King frowned and said: "Ye

would have aid but will say no name. I may not ask knight of mine

to go on such an errand."

Then forth stepped Gareth from among the serving men at the hall

end and said: "Sir King, I have eaten of your meat in your kitchen

this twelvemonth since, and now I crave my other two boons." "Ask

and have," replied the King. "Grant me then the adventure of this

damsel, and bid Sir Launcelot ride after me to knight me at my

desire, for of him alone would I be made knight." "It shall be so,"

answered the King. "What!" cried the damsel, "I ask for a knight

and ye give me a kitchen-boy. Shame on you, Sir King." And in

great wrath she fled from the hall, mounted her palfrey and rode

away. Gareth but waited to array himself in the armour which he had

kept ever in readiness for the time when he should need it, and

mounting his horse, rode after the damsel.

But when Sir Kay knew what had happened, he was wroth, and got to

horse to ride after Gareth and bring him back. Even as Gareth

overtook the damsel, so did Kay come up with him and cried: "Turn

back, Fairhands! What, sir, do ye not know me?" "Yes," answered

Gareth, "I know you for the most discourteous knight in Arthur's

court." Then Sir Kay rode upon him with his lance, but Gareth

turned it aside with his sword and pierced Sir Kay through the side

so that he fell to the ground and lay there without motion. So

Gareth took Sir Kay's shield and spear and was about to ride away,

when seeing Sir Launcelot draw near, he called upon him to joust.

At the first encounter, Sir Launcelot unhorsed Gareth, but quickly

helped him to his feet. Then, at Gareth's desire, they fought

together with swords, and Gareth did knightly till, at length, Sir

Launcelot said, laughing: "Why should we fight any longer? Of a

truth ye are a stout knight." "If that is indeed your thought, I

pray you make me knight," cried Gareth. So Sir Launcelot knighted

Gareth, who, bidding him farewell, hastened after the damsel, for

she had ridden on again while the two knights talked. When she saw

him coming, she cried: "Keep off! ye smell of the kitchen!"

"Damsel," said Sir Gareth, "I must follow until I have fulfilled

the adventure." "Till ye accomplish the adventure, Turn-spit? Your

part in it shall soon be ended." "I can only do my best," answered

Sir Gareth.

Now as they rode through the forest, they met with a knight sore

beset by six thieves, and him Sir Gareth rescued. The knight then

bade Gareth and the damsel rest at his castle, and entertained them

right gladly until the morn, when the two rode forth again.

Presently, they drew near to a deep river where two knights kept

the ford. "How now, kitchen-knave? Will ye fight or escape while ye

may?" cried the damsel. "I would fight though there were six

instead of two," replied Sir Gareth. Therewith he encountered the

one knight in mid-stream and struck him such a blow on the head

that he fell, stunned, into the water and was drowned. Then,

gaining the land, Gareth cleft in two both helmet and head of the

other knight, and turned to the damsel, saying: "Lead on; I

follow."

But the damsel mocked him, saying: "What a mischance is this that a

kitchen-boy should slay two noble knights! Be not over-proud,

Turn-spit. It was but luck, if indeed ye did not attack one knight

from behind." "Say what you will, I follow," said Sir Gareth.

So they rode on again, the damsel in front and Sir Gareth behind,

till they reached a wide meadow where stood many fair pavilions;

and one, the largest, was all of blue, and the men who stood about

it were clothed in blue, and bore shields and spears of that

colour; and of blue, too, were the trappings of the horses. Then

said the damsel: "Yonder is the Blue Knight, the goodliest that

ever ye have looked upon, and five hundred knights own him lord."

"I will encounter him," said Sir Gareth; "for if he be good knight

and true as ye say, he will scarce set on me with all his

following; and man to man, I fear him not." "Fie!" said the damsel,

"for a dirty knave, ye brag loud. And even if ye overcome him, his

might is as nothing to that of the Red Knight who besieges my lady

sister. So get ye gone while ye may." "Damsel," said Sir Gareth,

"ye are but ungentle so to rebuke me; for, knight or knave, I have

done you good service, nor will I leave this quest while life is

mine." Then the damsel was ashamed, and, looking curiously at

Gareth, she said: "I would gladly know what manner of man ye are.

For I heard you call yourself kitchen-knave before Arthur's self,

but ye have ever answered patiently though I have chidden you

shamefully; and courtesy comes only of gentle blood." Thereat Sir

Gareth but laughed, and said: "He is no knight whom a maiden can

anger by harsh words."

So talking, they entered the field, and there came to Sir Gareth a

messenger from the Blue Knight to ask him if he came in peace or in

war. "As your lord pleases," said Sir Gareth. So when the messenger

had brought back this word, the Blue Knight mounted his horse, took

his spear in his hand, and rode upon Sir Gareth. At their first

encounter their lances shivered to pieces, and such was the shock

that their horses fell dead. So they rushed on each other with

sword and shield, cutting and slashing till the armour was hacked

from their bodies; but at last, Sir Gareth smote the Blue Knight

to the earth. Then the Blue Knight yielded, and at the damsel's

entreaty, Sir Gareth spared his life.

So they were reconciled, and at the request of the Blue Knight, Sir

Gareth and the damsel abode that night in his tents. As they sat at

table, the Blue Knight said: "Fair damsel, are ye not called

Linet?" "Yes," answered she, "and I am taking this noble knight to

the relief of my sister, the Lady Liones." "God speed you, Sir,"

said the Blue Knight, "for he is a stout knight whom ye must meet.

Long ago might he have taken the lady, but that he hoped that Sir

Launcelot or some other of Arthur's most famous knights, coming to

her rescue, might fall beneath his lance. If ye overthrow him, then

are ye the peer of Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram." "Sir Knight,"

answered Gareth, "I can but strive to bear me worthily as one whom

the great Sir Launcelot made knight."

So in the morning they bade farewell to the Blue Knight, who vowed

to carry to King Arthur word of all that Gareth had achieved; and

they rode on, till, in the evening, they came to a little ruined

hermitage where there awaited them a dwarf, sent by the Lady

Liones, with all manner of meats and other store. In the morning,

the dwarf set out again to bear word to his lady that her rescuer

was come. As he drew near the castle, the Red Knight stopped him,

demanding whence he came. "Sir," said the dwarf, "I have been with

my lady's sister, who brings with her a knight to the rescue of my

lady." "It is lost labour," said the Red Knight; "even though she

brought Launcelot or Tristram, I hold myself a match for them."

"He is none of these," said the dwarf, "but he has overthrown the

knights who kept the ford, and the Blue Knight yielded to him."

"Let him come," said the Red Knight; "I shall soon make an end of

him, and a shameful death shall he have at my hands, as many a

better knight has had." So saying, he let the dwarf go.

Presently, there came riding towards the castle Sir Gareth and the

damsel Linet, and Gareth marvelled to see hang from the trees some

forty knights in goodly armour, their shields reversed beside them.

And when he inquired of the damsel, she told him how these were the

bodies of brave knights who, coming to the rescue of the Lady

Liones, had been overthrown and shamefully done to death by the Red

Knight. Then was Gareth shamed and angry, and he vowed to make an

end of these evil practices. So at last they drew near to the

castle walls, and saw how the plain around was covered with the Red

Knight's tents, and the noise was that of a great army. Hard by was

a tall sycamore tree, and from it hung a mighty horn, made of an

elephant's tusk. Spurring his horse, Gareth rode to it, and blew

such a blast that those on the castle walls heard it; the knights

came forth from their tents to see who blew so bold a blast, and

from a window of the castle the Lady Liones looked forth and waved

her hand to her champion. Then, as Sir Gareth made his reverence to

the lady, the Red Knight called roughly to him to leave his

courtesy and look to himself; "For," said he, "she is mine, and to

have her, I have fought many a battle." "It is but vain labour,"

said Sir Gareth, "since she loves you not. Know, too, Sir Knight,

that I have vowed to rescue her from you." "So did many another who

now hangs on a tree," replied the Red Knight, "and soon ye shall

hang beside them." Then both laid their spears in rest, and spurred

their horses. At the first encounter, each smote the other full in

the shield, and the girths of the saddles bursting, they were borne

to the earth, where they lay for awhile as if dead. But presently

they rose, and setting their shields before them, rushed upon each

other with their swords, cutting and hacking till the armour lay on

the ground in fragments. So they fought till noon and then rested;

but soon they renewed the battle, and so furiously they fought,

that often they fell to the ground together. Then, when the bells

sounded for evensong, the knights rested again a while, unlacing

their helms to breathe the evening air. But looking up to the

castle windows, Gareth saw the Lady Liones gazing earnestly upon

him; then he caught up his helmet, and calling to the Red Knight,

bade him make ready for the battle; "And this time," said he, "we

will make an end of it." "So be it," said the Red Knight. Then the

Red Knight smote Gareth on the hand that his sword flew from his

grasp, and with another blow he brought him grovelling to the

earth. At the sight of this, Linet cried aloud, and hearing her,

Gareth, with a mighty effort, threw off the Red Knight, leaped to

his sword and got it again within his hand. Then he pressed the Red

Knight harder than ever, and at the last bore him to the earth,

and unlacing his helm, made ready to slay him; but the Red Knight

cried aloud: "Mercy; I yield." At first, remembering the evil

deaths of the forty good knights, Gareth was unwilling to spare

him; but the Red Knight besought him to have mercy, telling him

how, against his will, he had been bound by a vow to make war on

Arthur's knights. So Sir Gareth relented, and bade him set forth at

once for Kink Kenadon and entreat the King's pardon for his evil

past. And this the Red Knight promised to do.

Then amidst much rejoicing, Sir Gareth was borne into the castle.

There his wounds were dressed by the Lady Liones, and there he

rested until he recovered his strength. And having won her love,

when Gareth returned to Arthur's court, the Lady Liones rode with

him, and they two were wed with great pomp in the presence of the

whole Fellowship of the Round Table; the King rejoicing much that

his nephew had done so valiantly. So Sir Gareth lived happily with

Dame Liones, winning fame and the love of all true knights. As for

Linet, she came again to Arthur's court and wedded Sir Gareth's

younger brother, Sir Gaheris.

BOOK V

SIR GERAINT

CHAPTER XIX

THE ADVENTURES OF GERAINT

It befell, one Whitsunday, that Arthur was holding his court at

Caerleon, when word was brought to him of a splendid white stag

that ranged the Forest of Dean, and forthwith the King proclaimed a

hunt for the morrow.

So, with the dawn, there was much trampling of hoofs and baying of

hounds as all the knights got to horse; but Queen Guenevere

herself, though she had said she would ride with the hunt, slept

late, and when she called her maidens to her, it was broad day.

Then, with much haste, she arrayed herself, and taking one of her

ladies with her, rode to a little rising ground in the forest, near

which, as she well knew, the hunt must pass.

Presently, as she waited, there came riding by the gallant knight,

Geraint of Devon. He was arrayed neither for the chase nor for the

fight, but wore a surcoat of white satin and about him a loose

scarf of purple, with a golden apple at each corner. And when the

Queen had answered his salutation, she said: "How is it, Prince,

that ye be not ridden with the hunters?" "Madam," answered he,

"with shame I say it; I slept too late." Smiling, the Queen said:

"Then are we both in the same case, for I also arose too late. But

tarry with me, and soon ye will hear the baying of the hounds; for

often I have known them break covert here."

Then as they waited on the little woodland knoll, there came riding

past a knight full armed, a lady with him, and behind them a dwarf,

misshapen and evil-looking, and they passed without word or

salutation to the Queen.

Then said Guenevere to Geraint: "Prince, know ye yonder knight?"

"Nay, madam," said he; "his arms I know not, and his face I might

not see." Thereupon the Queen turned to her attendant and said:

"Ride after them quickly and ask the dwarf his master's name." So

the maiden did as she was bidden; but when she inquired of the

dwarf, he answered her roughly: "I will not tell thee my master's

name." "Since thou art so churlish," said she, "I will even ask him

himself." "That thou shalt not," he cried, and struck her across

the face with his whip. So the maiden, alarmed and angered, rode

back to the Queen and told her all that had happened. "Madam,"

cried Geraint, "the churl has wronged your maiden and insulted your

person. I pray you, suffer me to do your errand myself." With the

word, he put spurs to his horse and rode after the three. And when

he had come up with the dwarf, he asked the knight's name as the

maiden had done, and the dwarf answered him as he had answered the

Queen's lady. "I will speak with thy master himself," said Geraint.

"Thou shalt not, by my faith!" said the dwarf. "Thou art not

honourable enough to speak with my lord." "I have spoken with men

of as good rank as he," answered Geraint, and would have turned his

horse's head that he might ride after the knight; but the dwarf

struck him across the face such a blow that the blood spurted forth

over his purple scarf. Then, in his wrath, Geraint clapped hand to

sword, and would have slain the churl, but that he bethought him

how powerless was such a misshapen thing. So refraining himself, he

rode back to the Queen and said: "Madam, for the time the knight

has escaped me. But, with your leave, I will ride after him, and

require of him satisfaction for the wrong done to yourself and to

your maiden. It must be that I shall come presently to a town where

I may obtain armour. Farewell; if I live, ye shall have tidings of

me by next even." "Farewell," said the Queen; "I shall ever hold

your good service in remembrance."

So Geraint rode forth on his quest, and followed the road to the

ford of the Usk, where he crossed, and then went on his way until

he came to a town, at the further end of which rose a mighty

castle. And as he entered the town, he saw the knight and the lady,

and how, as they rode through the streets, from every window the

folk craned their necks to see them pass, until they entered the

castle and the gate fell behind them. Then was Geraint satisfied

that they would not pass thence that night, and turned him about to

see where he could obtain the use of arms that, the next day, he

might call the knight to account.

Now it seemed that the whole town was in a ferment. In every house,

men were busy polishing shields, sharpening swords, and washing

armour, and scarce could they find time to answer questions put to

them; so at the last, finding nowhere in the town to rest, Geraint

rode in the direction of a ruined palace, which stood a little

apart from the town, and was reached by a marble bridge spanning a

deep ravine. Seated on the bridge was an old man, hoary-headed, and

clothed in the tattered remains of what had once been splendid

attire, who gave Geraint courteous greeting. "Sir," said Geraint,

"I pray you, know ye where I may find shelter for this night?"

"Come with me," said the old man, "and ye shall have the best my

old halls afford." So saying, he led Geraint into a great

stone-paved court-yard, surrounded by buildings, once strong

fortifications, but then half burned and ruinous. There he bade

Geraint dismount, and led the way into an upper chamber, where sat

an aged dame, and with her a maiden the fairest that ever Geraint

had looked upon, for all that her attire was but a faded robe and

veil. Then the old man spoke to the maiden, saying: "Enid, take the

good knight's charger to a stall and give him corn. Then go to the

town and buy us provision for a feast to-night." Now it pleased not

Geraint that the maiden should thus do him service; but when he

made to accompany her, the old man, her father, stayed him and kept

him in converse until presently she was returned from the town and

had made all ready for the evening meal. Then they sat them down to

supper, the old man and his wife with Geraint between them; and the

fair maid, Enid, waited upon them, though it irked the Prince to

see her do such menial service.

So as they ate, they talked, and presently Geraint asked of the

cause why the palace was all in ruins. "Sir knight," said the old

man, "I am Yniol, and once I was lord of a broad earldom. But my

nephew, whose guardian I had been, made war upon me, affirming that

I had withheld from him his dues; and being the stronger, he

prevailed, and seized my lands and burnt my halls, even as ye see.

For the townsfolk hold with him, because that, with his tournaments

and feastings, he brings many strangers their way." "What then is

all the stir in the town even now?" asked Geraint. "To-morrow,"

said the Earl, "they hold the tournament of the Sparrow-Hawk. In

the midst of the meadow are set up two forks, and on the forks a

silver rod, and on the rod the form of a Sparrow-Hawk. Two years

has it been won by the stout knight Edeyrn, and if he win it the

morrow, it shall be his for aye, and he himself known as the

Sparrow-Hawk." "Tell me," cried Geraint, "is that the knight that

rode this day with a lady and a dwarf to the castle hard by?" "The

same," said Yniol; "and a bold knight he is." Then Geraint told

them of the insult offered that morning to Queen Guenevere and her

maiden, and how he had ridden forth to obtain satisfaction. "And

now, I pray you," said Geraint, "help me to come by some arms, and

in to-morrow's lists will I call this Sparrow-Hawk to account."

"Arms have I," answered the Earl, "old and rusty indeed, yet at

your service. But, Sir Knight, ye may not appear in to-morrow's

tournament, for none may contend unless he bring with him a lady in

whose honour he jousts." Then cried Geraint: "Lord Earl, suffer me

to lay lance in rest in honour of the fair maiden, your daughter.

And if I fall to-morrow, no harm shall have been done her, and if I

win, I will love her my life long, and make her my true wife." Now

Enid, her service ended, had left them to their talk; but the Earl,

rejoicing that so noble a knight should seek his daughter's love,

promised that, with the maiden's consent, all should be as the

Prince desired.

So they retired to rest that night, and the next day at dawn,

Geraint arose, and, donning the rusty old armour lent him by Earl

Yniol, rode to the lists; and there amongst the humbler sort of

onlookers, he found the old Earl and his wife and with them their

fair daughter.

Then the heralds blew their trumpets, and Edeyrn bade his lady-love

take the Sparrow-Hawk, her due as fairest of the fair. "Forbear,"

cried Geraint; "here is one fairer and nobler for whom I claim the

prize of the tournament." "Do battle for it, then!" cried Edeyrn.

So the two took their lances and rushed upon one another with a

crash like thunder, and each broke his spear. Thus they encountered

once and again; but at the last Geraint bore down upon Edeyrn with

such force that he carried him from his horse, saddle and all. Then

he dismounted, and the two rushed upon each other with their

swords. Long they fought, the sparks flying and their breath coming

hard, till, exerting all his strength, Geraint dealt the other such

a blow as cleft his helmet and bit to the bone. Then Edeyrn flung

away his sword and yielded him. "Thou shalt have thy life," said

Geraint, "upon condition that, forthwith, thou goest to Arthur's

court, there to deliver thyself to our Queen, and make such

atonement as shall be adjudged thee, for the insult offered her

yester morn." "I will do so," answered Edeyrn; and when his wounds

had been dressed he got heavily to horse and rode forth to

Caerleon.

Then the young Earl, Yniol's nephew, adjudged the Sparrow-Hawk to

Geraint, as victor in the tourney, and prayed him to come to his

castle to rest and feast. But Geraint, declining courteously, said

that it behoved him to go there where he had rested the night

before. "Where may that have been?" asked the Earl; "for though ye

come not to my castle, yet would I see that ye fare as befits your

valour." "I rested even with Yniol, your uncle," answered Geraint.

The young Earl mused awhile, and then he said: "I will seek you,

then, in my uncle's halls, and bring with me the means to furnish

forth a feast."

And so it was. Scarcely had Prince Geraint returned to the ruined

hall and bathed and rested him after his labours, when the young

Earl arrived, and with him forty of his followers bearing all

manner of stores and plenishings. And that same hour, the young

Earl was accorded with Yniol, his uncle, restoring to him the lands

of which he had deprived him, and pledging his word to build up

again the ruined palace.

When they had gone to the banquet, then came to them Enid, attired

in beautiful raiment befitting her rank; and the old Earl led her

to Geraint, saying: "Prince, here is the maiden for whom ye fought,

and freely I bestow her upon you." So Geraint took her hand before

them all and said: "She shall ride with me to Caerleon, and there

will I wed her before Arthur's court." Then to Enid he said:

"Gentle maiden, bear with me when I pray you to don the faded robe

and veil in which first I saw you." And Enid, who was ever gentle

and meek, did as he desired, and that evening they rode to

Caerleon.

So when they drew near the King's palace, word was brought to

Guenevere of their approach. Then the Queen went forth to greet the

good knight, and when she had heard all his story, she kissed the

maiden, and leading her into her own chamber, arrayed her right

royally for her marriage with the Prince. And that evening they

were wed amidst great rejoicing, in the presence of all the

knights and ladies of the court, the King himself giving Enid to

her husband. Many happy days they spent at Caerleon, rejoicing in

the love and good-will of Arthur and his Queen.

CHAPTER XX

GERAINT AND ENID

Geraint and the fair Enid abode more than a year at Arthur's court;

Enid winning daily more and more the love of all by her gentleness

and goodness, and Geraint being ever amongst the foremost in the

tournament. But presently there came word of robber raids upon the

borders of Devon; wherefore the Prince craved leave of Arthur to

return to his own land, there to put down wrong and oppression, and

maintain order and justice. And the King bade him go and secure to

every man his due.

So Geraint passed to his own land, Enid going with him; and soon he

had driven the oppressors from their strongholds and established

peace and order, so that the poor man dwelt in his little cot

secure in his possessions. But when all was done, and there was

none dared defy him, Geraint abode at home, neglectful of the

tournament and the chase, and all those manly exercises in which he

had once excelled, content if he had but the companionship of his

wife; so that his nobles murmured because he withdrew himself from

their society, and the common people jeered at him for a laggard.

Now these evil rumours came to Enid's ears, and it grieved her that

she should be the cause, however unwillingly, of her husband's

dishonour; and since she could not bring herself to speak to her

lord of what was in her heart, daily she grew more sorrowful, till

the Prince, aware of her altered demeanour, became uneasy, not

knowing its source.

So time went by till it chanced, one summer morning, that with the

first rays of the sun, Enid awoke from her slumbers, and, rising,

gazed upon her husband as he lay, and marvelled at his strength.

"Alas!" said she, "to be the cause that my lord suffers shame!

Surely I should find courage to tell him all, were I indeed true

wife to him!" Then, by ill chance, her tears falling upon him awoke

him, so that he heard her words, but brokenly, and seeing her weep

and hearing her accuse herself, it came into his thought that, for

all his love and care for her, she was weary of him, nay, even that

perhaps she loved him not at all. In anger and grief he called to

his squire and bade him saddle his charger and a palfrey for Enid;

and to her he said: "Put on thy meanest attire, and thou shalt ride

with me into the wilderness. It seems that I have yet to win me

fame; but before thou seest home again, thou shalt learn if indeed

I am fallen so low as thou deemest." And Enid, wondering and

troubled, answered, "I know naught of thy meaning, my lord." "Ask

me nothing," said Geraint. So sorrowfully and in silence Enid

arrayed herself, choosing for her apparel the faded robe and veil

in which first her lord had seen her.

Then the squire brought them their horses; but when he would have

mounted and ridden after, Geraint forbade him. And to Enid the

Prince said: "Ride before me and turn not back, no matter what thou

seest or hearest. And unless I speak to thee, say not a word to

me."

So they rode forward along the least frequented road till they came

to a vast forest, which they entered. There Enid, as she rode in

front, saw four armed men lurking by the road, and one said to the

other: "See, now is our opportunity to win much spoil at little

cost; for we may easily overcome this doleful knight, and take from

him his arms and lady." And Enid hearing them, was filled with fear

and doubt; for she longed to warn her lord of his danger, yet

feared to arouse his wrath, seeing he had bidden her keep silence.

Then said she to herself: "Better to anger him, even to the slaying

of me, than have the misery of seeing him perish." So she waited

till Geraint drew near, and said: "Lord, there lie in wait for thee

four men fully armed, to slay and rob thee." Then he answered her

in anger: "Did I desire thy silence or thy warning? Look, then, and

whether thou desirest my life or my death, thou shalt see that I

dread not these robbers." Then, as the foremost of the four rode

upon him, Geraint drove upon him with his spear with such force

that the weapon stood out a cubit behind him; and so he did with

the second, and the third, and the fourth. Then, dismounting from

his horse, he stripped the dead felons of their armour, bound it

upon their horses, and tying the bridle reins together, bade Enid

drive the beasts before her. "And," said he, "I charge thee, at thy

peril, speak no word to me."

So they went forward; and presently Enid saw how three horsemen,

well armed and well mounted, rode towards them. And one said to the

other: "Good fortune, indeed! Here are four horses and four suits

of armour for us, and but one knight to deal with; a craven too, by

the way he hangs his head." Then Enid thought within herself how

her lord was wearied with his former combat, and resolved to warn

him even at her own peril. So she waited till he was come up with

her, and said: "Lord, there be three men riding towards us, and

they promise themselves rich booty at small cost." Wrathfully spoke

Geraint: "Their words anger me less than thy disobedience"; and

immediately rushing upon the mid-most of the three knights, he bore

him from his horse; then he turned upon the other two who rode

against him at the same moment, and slew them both. As with the

former caitiffs, so now Geraint stripped the three of their armour,

bound it upon the horses, and bade Enid drive these forward with

the other four.

Again they rode on their way, and, for all his anger, it smote

Geraint to the heart to see the gentle lady labouring to drive

forward the seven horses. So he bade her stay, for they would go no

farther then, but rest that night as best they might in the forest;

and scarcely had they dismounted and tethered the horses before

Geraint, wearied with his encounters, fell asleep; but Enid

remained watching, lest harm should come to her lord while he

slept.

With the first ray of light, Geraint awoke, and his anger against

Enid was not passed; so, without more ado, he set her on her

palfrey and bade her drive the horses on in front as before,

charging her that, whatever befell, that day at least, she should

keep silence.

Soon they passed from the forest into open land, and came upon a

river flowing through broad meadows where the mowers toiled. Then,

as they waited to let the horses drink their fill, there drew near

a youth, bearing a basket of bread and meat and a blue pitcher

covered over with a bowl. So when the youth saluted them, Geraint

stayed him, asking whence he came. "My lord," said the lad, "I am

come from the town hard by, to bring the mowers their breakfast."

"I pray thee, then," said the Prince, "give of the food to this

lady, for she is faint." "That will I gladly," answered the youth,

"and do ye also partake, noble sir"; and he spread the meal for

them on the grass while they dismounted. So when they had eaten and

were refreshed, the youth gathered up the basket and pitcher,

saying he would return to the town for food for the mowers. "Do

so," said the Prince, "and when thou art come there, take for me

the best lodging that thou mayst. And for thy fair service, take a

horse and armour, whichsoever thou wilt." "My lord, ye reward me

far beyond my deserts," cried the youth. "Right gladly will I make

all ready against your arrival, and acquaint my master, the Earl,

of your coming."

So Geraint and Enid followed after the youth to the town, and

there they found everything prepared for their comfort, even as he

had promised; for they were lodged in a goodly chamber well

furnished with all that they might require. Then said Geraint to

Enid: "Abide at one end of the room and I will remain at the other.

And call the woman of the house if thou desirest her aid and

comfort in aught." "I thank thee, lord," answered Enid patiently;

but she called for no service, remaining silent and forlorn in the

farthest corner of the great chamber.

Presently there came to the house the Earl, the youth's master, and

with him twelve goodly knights to wait upon him. And Geraint

welcomed them right heartily, bidding the host bring forth his best

to furnish a feast. So they sat them down at the table, each in his

degree according to his rank, and feasted long and merrily; but

Enid remained the while shrinking into her corner if perchance she

might escape all notice.

As they sat at the banquet, the Earl asked Prince Geraint what

quest he followed. "None but mine own inclination and the adventure

it may please heaven to send," said Geraint. Then the Earl, whose

eye had oft sought Enid as she sat apart, said: "Have I your good

leave to cross the room and speak to your fair damsel? For she

joins us not in the feast." "Ye have it freely," answered the

Prince. So the Earl arose, and approaching Enid, bowed before her,

and spoke to her in low tones, saying: "Damsel, sad life is yours,

I fear, to journey with yonder man." "To travel the road he takes

is pleasant enough to me," answered Enid. "But see what slights he

puts upon you! To suffer you to journey thus, unattended by page or

maiden, argues but little love or reverence for you." "It is as

nothing, so that I am with him," said Enid. "Nay, but," said the

Earl, "see how much happier a life might be yours. Leave this

churl, who values you not, and all that I have, land and riches,

and my love and service for ever shall be yours." "Ye cannot tempt

me, with aught that ye can offer, to be false to him to whom I

vowed my faith," said she. "Ye are a fool!" said the Earl in a

fierce whisper. "One word to these my knights, and yonder is a dead

man. Then who shall hinder me that I take you by force? Nay, now,

be better advised, and I vow you my whole devotion for all time."

Then was Enid filled with dread of the man and his might, and

seeking but to gain time, she said: "Suffer me to be for this

present, my lord, and to-morrow ye shall come and take me as by

force. Then shall my name not suffer loss." "So be it," said he; "I

will not fail you." With that he left her, and taking his leave of

Geraint, departed with his followers.

Never a word of what the Earl had said did Enid tell her husband

that night; and on the departure of his guests, the Prince,

unheedful of her, flung him on the couch, and soon slept, despite

his grief and wrath. But Enid watched again that night, and, before

cock-crow, arose, set all his armour ready in one place, and then,

though fearful of his wrath, stepped to his side and touching him

gently, said: "Awake, my lord, and arm you, and save me and

yourself." Then she told him of all the Earl had said and of the

device she had used to save them both. Then wrathfully he rose and

armed himself, bidding her rouse the host to saddle and bring forth

the horses. When all was ready, Prince Geraint asked the man his

reckoning. "Ye owe but little," said the host. "Take then the seven

horses and the suits of armour," said Geraint. "Why, noble sir,"

cried the host, "I scarce have spent the value of one." "The richer

thou," answered Geraint. "Now show me the road from the town."

So the man guided them from the town, and scarce was he returned

when Earl Durm--for so was the Earl named--hammered at the door,

with forty followers at his back. "Where is the knight who was here

erewhile?" "He is gone hence, my lord," answered the host. "Fool

and villain!" cried the Earl, "why didst thou suffer him to escape?

Which way went he?" And the man, fearful and trembling, directed

the Earl the road Geraint had gone.

So it came to pass, as they rode on their way, Enid in front, the

Prince behind, that it seemed to Enid she heard the beat of many

horse-hoofs. And, as before, she broke Geraint's command, caring

little for aught that might befall her in comparison of loss to

him. "My lord," said she, "seest thou yonder knight pursuing thee

and many another with him?" "Yea, in good truth, I see him," said

Geraint, "and I see, too, that never wilt thou obey me." Then he

turned him about and, laying lance in rest, bore straight down upon

Earl Durm, who foremost rushed upon him; and such was the shock of

their encounter, that Earl Durm was borne from his saddle and lay

without motion as one dead. And Geraint charged fiercely upon the

Earl's men, unhorsing some and wounding others; and the rest,

having little heart for the fight after their master's overthrow,

turned and fled.

Then Geraint signed to Enid to ride on as before, and so they

journeyed the space of another hour while the summer sun beat upon

them with ever increasing force. Now the Prince had received a

grievous hurt in the encounter with Earl Durm and his men; but such

was his spirit that he heeded it not, though the wound bled sore

under his armour. Presently, as they rode, there came to them the

sound of wailing, and by the wayside they saw a lady weeping

bitterly over a knight who lay dead on the ground. "Lady," said

Geraint, "what has befallen you?" "Noble knight," she replied, "as

we rode through the forest, my husband and I, three villains set

upon him at once, and slew him." "Which way went they?" asked

Geraint. "Straight on by this high-road that ye follow even now,"

answered she. Then Geraint bade Enid remain with the lady while he

rode on to take vengeance on the miscreants. And Enid waited

fearfully the long while he was gone, and her heart rejoiced when

she saw him returning. But soon her joy was turned to sorrow, for

his armour was all dented and covered with blood and his face

ghastly; and even as he reached her side, he fell from his horse,

prone on the ground. Then Enid strove to loosen his armour, and

having found the wound, she staunched it as best she might and

bound it with her veil. And taking his head on her lap, she chafed

his hands and tried with her own body to shield him from the sun,

her tears falling fast the while. So she waited till, perchance,

help might come that way; and presently, indeed, she heard the

tramp of horses, and a troop came riding by with the Earl Limours

at their head. And when the Earl saw the two fallen knights and the

weeping women beside them, he stayed his horse, and said: "Ladies,

what has chanced to you?" Then she whose husband had been slain

said: "Sir, three caitiffs set on my husband at once and slew him.

Then came this good knight and went in pursuit of them, and as I

think, slew them; but when he came back, he fell from his horse,

sore wounded as ye see, and, I fear me, by now he is dead." "Nay,

gentle sir," cried Enid; "it cannot be that he is dead. Only, I

beseech you, suffer two of your men to carry him hence to some

place of shelter where he may have help and tendance." "I misdoubt

me, it is but labour wasted," said the Earl; "nevertheless, for the

sake of your fair face, it shall be as ye desire." Then he ordered

two of his men to carry Geraint to his halls and two more to stay

behind and bury the dead knight, while he caused the two women to

be placed on led horses; and so they rode to his castle. When they

were arrived there, the two spearmen who had carried Geraint,

placed him on a settle in the hall, and Enid crouched by his side,

striving if by any means she might bring him back to life. And

gradually Geraint recovered, though still he lay as in a swoon,

hearing indeed what passed around him, but dimly, as from a

distance.

Soon there came into the hall many servitors, who brought forth

the tables and set thereon all manner of meats, haunches of venison

and boars' heads and great pasties, together with huge flagons of

wine. Then when all was set, there came trooping to the board the

whole company of Earl Limours' retainers; last of all came the Earl

himself and took his place on the raised dais. Suddenly, as he

feasted and made merry, he espied Enid, who, mistrusting him

utterly, would fain have escaped his eye. And when he saw her, he

cried: "Lady, cease wasting sorrow on a dead man and come hither.

Thou shalt have a seat by my side; ay, and myself, too, and my

Earldom to boot." "I thank you, lord," she answered meekly, "but, I

pray you, suffer me to be as I am." "Thou art a fool," said

Limours; "little enough he prized thee, I warrant, else had he not

put thy beauty to such scorn, dressing it in faded rags! Nay, be

wise; eat and drink, and thou wilt think the better of me and my

fair proffer." "I will not," cried Enid; "I will neither eat nor

drink, till my lord arise and eat with me." "Thou vowest more than

thou canst perform. He is dead already. Nay, thou shalt drink."

With the word, he strode to her and thrust into her hand a goblet

brimming with wine, crying, "Drink." "Nay, lord," she said, "I

beseech you, spare me and be pitiful." "Gentleness avails nothing

with thee," cried the Earl in wrath; "thou hast scorned my fair

courtesy. Thou shalt taste the contrary." So saying, he smote her

across the face.

Then Enid, knowing all her helplessness, uttered an exceeding

bitter cry, and the sound roused Geraint. Grasping his sword, with

one bound he was upon the Earl and, with one blow, shore his neck

in two. Then those who sat at meat fled shrieking, for they

believed that the dead had come to life.

But Geraint gazed upon Enid and his heart smote him, thinking of

the sorrow he had brought upon her. "Lady and sweet wife," he

cried, "for the wrong I have done thee, pardon me. For, hearing thy

words not three days since at morn, I doubted thy love and thy

loyalty. But now I know thee and trust thee beyond the power of

words to shake my faith." "Ah! my lord," cried Enid, "fly, lest

they return and slay thee." "Knowest thou where is my charger?" "I

will bring thee to it." So they found the war-horse and Geraint

mounted it, setting Enid behind him; thus they went forth in the

direction of the nearest town, that they might find rest and

succour. Then, as they rode, there came forth from a glade of the

forest a knight, who, seeing Geraint, at once laid lance in rest as

if he would ride upon him. And Enid, fearing for her husband,

shrieked aloud, crying: "Noble knight, whosoever ye be, encounter

not with a man nigh wounded to the death." Immediately the knight

raised his lance and looking more attentively upon, them, he

exclaimed: "What! is it Prince Geraint? Pardon me, noble knight,

that I knew you not at once. I am that Edeyrn whom once ye

overthrew and spared. At Arthur's court, whither ye sent me, I was

shown kindness and courtesy little deserved, and now am I knight of

Arthur's Round Table. But how came ye in such a case?" Then Geraint

told him of his encounter with the three caitiffs, and how he had

afterwards been borne to the castle of Earl Limours. "To do justice

on that same felon is Arthur himself here even now," cried Edeyrn.

"His camp is hard by." Then Geraint told Edeyrn how Limours lay

dead in his own halls, justly punished for the many wrongs he had

done, and how his people were scattered. "Come then yourself to

greet the King and tell him what has chanced." So he led the way to

Arthur's camp, where it lay in the forest hard by. Then were they

welcomed by the King himself and a tent assigned to them, where

Geraint rested until his wounds were healed.

Never again, from that time forth, had Geraint a doubt of the love

and truth of Enid; and never from that time had she to mourn that

he seemed to set small store by his knightly fame. For after he was

cured, they returned to their own land, and there Geraint upheld

the King's justice, righting wrong and putting down robbery and

oppression, so that the people blessed him and his gentle wife.

Year by year, his fame grew, till his name was known through all

lands; and at last, when his time was come, he died a knightly

death, as he had lived a knightly life, in the service of his lord,

King Arthur.

BOOK VI

THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN

CHAPTER XXI

THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN

King Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and it was

the time of the evening banquet, when there entered the hall the

good knight, Sir Kynon. A brave warrior was he, and of good

counsel, but he seemed in weary plight as, after due salutation to

all, he took his place at the Round Table. So it was that all were

eager to hear of his adventure, yet none would question him until

he had eaten and drunk. But when he was refreshed, the King said to

him: "Whence come ye, Sir Kynon? For it would seem that ye have met

with hard adventure." "Sir King," answered Kynon, "it has been with

me as never before; for I have encountered with, and been

overthrown by, a single knight." All were filled with wonder at his

words, for never before had Sir Kynon been worsted in any meeting,

man to man. Then said the King: "The stoutest of us must some time

meet his match; yet did ye bear you valiantly, I doubt not. Tell us

now, I pray you, of your adventures." "Noble lord," said Kynon, "I

had determined to journey into other lands; for I would seek new

and untried adventures. So I passed into a far land, and it

chanced, one day, that I found myself in the fairest valley I had

ever seen. Through it there flowed a mighty river, which I

followed, until I came, as evening fell, to a castle, the largest

and strongest I have ever seen. At the castle gate I espied a man

of right noble mien, who greeted me courteously, and bade me enter.

So as we sat at supper, he inquired of my journey and the quest I

followed, and I told him how I sought but adventure, and whether,

perchance, I might encounter one stronger than myself. Then the

lord of the castle smiled and said: 'I can bring you to such an

one, if ye would rather that I showed you your disadvantage than

your advantage.' And when I questioned him further, he replied:

'Sleep here this night, and to-morrow I will show you such an one

as ye seek.' So I rested that night, and with the dawn I rose and

took my leave of the lord of the castle, who said to me: 'If ye

will persevere in your quest, follow the path to the head of the

glade, and ascend the wooded steep until ye come to an open space

in the forest, with but one great tree in its midst. Under the tree

is a fountain, and beside it a marble slab to which is chained a

silver bowl. Take a bowlful of water and dash it upon the slab, and

presently there will appear a knight spurring to encounter with

you. If ye flee, he will pursue, but if ye overcome him, there

exists none in this world whom ye need fear to have ado with.'

"Forthwith I departed, and following these directions, I came at

last to such a space as he described, with the tree and fountain in

its midst. So I took the bowl and dashed water from the fountain

upon the marble slab, and, on the instant, came a clap of thunder

so loud as near deafened me, and a storm of hailstones the biggest

that ever man saw. Scarce was I recovered from my confusion, when I

saw a knight galloping towards me. All in black was he, and he rode

a black horse. Not a word we spoke, but we dashed against each

other, and at the first encounter I was unhorsed. Still not a word

spoke the Black Knight, but passing the butt-end of his lance

through my horse's reins, rode away, leaving me shamed and on foot.

So I made my way back to the castle, and there I was entertained

again that night right hospitably, none questioning me as to my

adventure. The next morning, when I rose, there awaited me a noble

steed, ready saddled and bridled, and I rode away and am returned

hither. And now ye know my story and my shame."

Then were all grieved for the discomfiture of Sir Kynon, who had

ever borne himself boldly and courteously to all; and they strove

to console him as best they might. Presently there rose from his

siege the good knight Sir Owain of Rheged, and said: "My lord, I

pray you, give me leave to take upon me this adventure. For I would

gladly seek this wondrous fountain and encounter with this same

Black Knight." So the King consented, and on the morrow Sir Owain

armed him, mounted his horse, and rode forth the way Sir Kynon had

directed him.

So he journeyed many a day until at last he reached the valley of

which Sir Kynon had told, and presently he came to the strong

castle and, at the gate, met the lord thereof, even as Sir Kynon

had done. And the lord of the castle gave him a hearty welcome and

made him good cheer, asking nothing of his errand till they were

seated about the board. Then, when questioned, Sir Owain declared

his quest, that he sought the knight who guarded the fountain. So

the lord of the castle, failing to dissuade Sir Owain from the

adventure, directed him how he might find the forest glade wherein

was the wondrous fountain.

With the dawn, Sir Owain rose, mounted his horse, and rode forward

until he had found the fountain. Then he dashed water on the marble

slab and instantly there burst over him the fearful hailstorm, and

through it there came pricking towards him the Black Knight on the

black steed. In the first onset, they broke their lances and then,

drawing sword, they fought blade to blade. Sore was the contest,

but at the last Owain dealt the Black Knight so fierce a blow that

the sword cut through helmet and bone to the very brain. Then the

Black Knight knew that he had got his death-wound, and turning his

horse's head, fled as fast as he might, Sir Owain following close

behind. So they came, fast galloping, to the gate of a mighty

castle, and instantly the portcullis was raised and the Black

Knight dashed through the gateway. But Sir Owain, following close

behind, found himself a prisoner, fast caught between two gates;

for as the Black Knight passed through the inner of the two gates,

it was closed before Sir Owain could follow. For the moment none

noticed Sir Owain, for all were busied about the Black Knight, who

drew not rein till he was come to the castle hall; then as he

strove to dismount, he fell from his saddle, dead.

All this Sir Owain saw through the bars of the gate that held him

prisoner; and he judged that his time was come, for he doubted not

but that the people of the castle would hold his life forfeit for

the death of their lord. So as he waited, suddenly there stood at

his side a fair damsel, who, laying finger on lip, motioned to him

to follow her. Much wondering, he obeyed, and climbed after her up

a dark winding staircase, that led from the gateway into a tiny

chamber high in the tower. There she set food and wine before him,

bidding him eat; then when he was refreshed, she asked him his name

and whence he came. "Truly," answered he, "I am Owain of Rheged,

knight of King Arthur's Round Table, who, in fair fight, have

wounded, I doubt not to the death, the Black Knight that guards the

fountain and, as I suppose, the lord of this castle. Wherefore,

maiden, if ye intend me evil, lead me where I may answer for my

deed, boldly, man to man." "Nay," answered the damsel eagerly, "in

a good hour ye are come. Well I know your name, for even here have

we heard of your mighty deeds; and by good fortune it may be that

ye shall release my lady." "Who is your lady?" asked Sir Owain.

"None other than the rightful Chatelaine of this castle and

Countess of broad lands besides; but this year and more has the

Black Knight held her prisoner in her own halls because she would

not listen to his suit." "Then lead me to your lady forthwith,"

cried Sir Owain; "right gladly will I take her quarrel upon me if

there be any that will oppose me." So she led him to the Countess'

bower, and there he made him known to the fair lady and proffered

her his services. And she that had long deemed there was no

deliverance for her, accepted them right gladly. So taking her by

the hand, he led her down to the hall, and there, standing at the

door, he proclaimed her the lawful lady of that castle and all its

lands, and himself ready to do battle in her cause. But none

answered his challenge, for those that had held with the Black

Knight, deprived of their leader, had lost heart, whereas they that

for their loyalty to their lady had been held in subjection,

gathered fast about Sir Owain, ready to do battle. So in short

space, Sir Owain drove forth the lawless invaders of the Countess'

lands, and called together her vassals that they might do homage

to her anew.

Thus he abode in the castle many days, seeking in all that he might

to do her service, until through all her lands order was restored,

and her right acknowledged. But when all was done, Sir Owain yet

tarried in the lady's castle; for he loved her much, but doubted

ever of her favour. So one day, Luned, the damsel who had come to

his aid on the day that he slew the Black Knight, said to him:

"Alas! Sir Knight, the time must come when ye will leave us. And

who will then defend my lady's fountain, which is the key to all

her lands? For who holds the fountain, holds the land also." "I

will never fail your lady while there is breath in my body," cried

Sir Owain. "Then were it well that ye stayed here ever," answered

Luned. "Gladly would I," answered Sir Owain, "if that I might." "Ye

might find a way if your wits were as sharp as your sword," she

answered, and laughing, left him, but herself sought her lady. Long

he pondered her words, and he was still deep in thought, when there

came to him the Countess, and said: "Sir Knight, I hear that ye

must leave us." "Nay, my lady," answered Sir Owain, "I will stay as

long as ye require my services." "There must ever be one to guard

the fountain, and he who guards the fountain, is lord of these

lands," answered the lady softly. Then Sir Owain found words at

last, and bending the knee, he said: "Lady, if ye love me, I will

stay and guard you and your lands; and if ye love me not, I will go

into my own country, and yet will I come again whensoever ye have

need of me. For never loved I any but you." Then the Countess bade

him stay, and calling her vassals together, she commanded all to do

homage to him, and took him for her husband in presence of them

all.

Thus Sir Owain won the Lady of the Fountain.

BOOK VII

SIR PEREDUR

CHAPTER XXII

THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PEREDUR

At one time there was in the North of Britain a great Earl named

Evrawc. A stout knight he was, and few were the tournaments at

which he was not to be found in company with six of his sons; the

seventh only, who was too young to bear arms, remaining at home

with his mother. But at the last, after he had won the prize at

many a tourney, Earl Evrawc was slain, and his six sons with him;

and then the Countess fled with Peredur, her youngest, to a lonely

spot in the midst of a forest, far from the dwellings of men; for

she was minded to bring him up where he might never hear of jousts

and feats of arms, that so at least one son might be left to her.

So Peredur was reared amongst women and decrepit old men, and even

these were strictly commanded never to tell the boy aught of the

great world beyond the forest, or what men did therein. None the

less, he grew up active and fearless, as nimble and sure-footed as

the goats, and patient of much toil.

Then, one day, when Peredur was grown a tall, strong youth, there

chanced what had never chanced before; for there came riding

through the forest, hard by where Peredur dwelt with his mother, a

knight in full armour, none other, indeed, than the good knight,

Sir Owain himself. And seeing him, Peredur cried out: "Mother, what

is that, yonder?" "An angel, my son," said his mother. "Then will I

go and become an angel with him," said Peredur; and before any one

could stay him, he was gone.

When Sir Owain saw him approaching, he reined in his horse, and

after courteous salutation, said: "I pray thee, fair youth, tell

me, hast thou seen a knight pass this way?" "I know not what a

knight may be," answered Peredur. "Why, even such an one as I,"

answered Sir Owain. "If ye will tell me what I ask you, I will tell

you what ye ask me," said Peredur; and when Owain, laughing,

consented, Peredur touched the saddle, demanding, "What is this?"

"Surely, a saddle," replied Sir Owain; and, in like manner, Peredur

asked him of all the parts of his armour, and Owain answered him

patiently and courteously. Then when he had ended his questions,

Peredur said: "Ride forward; for yesterday I saw from a distance

such an one as ye are, ride through the forest."

Sir Peredur returned to his mother, and exclaimed: "Mother, that

was no angel, but a noble knight"; and hearing his words, his

mother fell into a swoon. But Peredur hastened to the spot where

were tethered the horses that brought them firewood and food from

afar, and from them he chose a bony piebald, which seemed the

strongest and in the best condition. Then he found a pack and

fastened it on the horse's back, in some way to resemble a saddle,

and strove with twigs to imitate the trappings he had seen upon Sir

Owain's horse. When his preparations were complete, he returned to

the Countess, who, by then, was recovered from her swoon; and she

saw that all her trouble had been in vain, and that the time was

come when she must part with her son. "Thou wilt ride forth, my

son?" she asked. "Yea, with your leave," he answered. "Hear, then,

my counsel," said she; "go thy way to Arthur's court, for there are

the noblest and truest knights. And wheresoever thou seest a

church, fail not to say thy prayers, and whatsoever woman demands

thy aid, refuse her not."

So, bidding his mother farewell, Peredur mounted his horse, and

took in his hand a long, sharp-pointed stake. He journeyed many

days till, at last, he had come to Caerleon, where Arthur held his

court, and dismounting at the door, he entered the hall. Even as he

did so, a stranger knight, who had passed in before him, seized a

goblet and, dashing the wine in the face of Queen Guenevere, held

the goblet aloft and cried: "If any dare dispute this goblet with

me or venture to avenge the insult done to Arthur's Queen, let him

follow me to the meadow without, where I will await him."

And for sheer amazement at this insolence, none moved save Peredur,

who cried aloud: "I will seek out this man and do vengeance upon

him." Then a voice exclaimed: "Welcome, goodly Peredur, thou flower

of knighthood"; and all turned in surprise to look upon a little

misshapen dwarf, who, a year before, had craved and obtained

shelter in Arthur's court, and since then had spoken no word. But

Kay the Seneschal, in anger that a mere boy, and one so strangely

equipped as Peredur, should have taken up the Queen's quarrel when

proven knights had remained mute, struck the dwarf, crying: "Thou

art ill-bred to remain mute a year in Arthur's court, and then to

break silence in praise of such a fellow." Then Peredur, who saw

the blow, cried, as he left the hall: "Knight, hereafter ye shall

answer to me for that blow." Therewith, he mounted his piebald and

rode in haste to the meadow. And when the knight espied him, he

cried to him: "Tell me, youth, saw'st thou any coming after me from

the court?" "I am come myself," said Peredur. "Hold thy peace,"

answered the knight angrily, "and go back to the court and say

that, unless one comes in haste, I will not tarry, but will ride

away, holding them all shamed." "By my faith," said Peredur,

"willingly or unwillingly, thou shalt answer to me for thine

insolence; and I will have the goblet of thee, ay, and thy horse

and armour to boot." With that, in a rage, the knight struck

Peredur a violent blow between the neck and the shoulder with the

butt-end of his lance. "So!" cried Peredur, "not thus did my

mother's servants play with me; and thus will I play with thee";

and drove at him with his pointed stake that it entered the eye of

the knight, who forthwith fell dead from his horse. Then Peredur

dismounted and began wrenching at the fastenings of the dead man's

armour, for he saw in the adventure the means of equipping himself

as a knight should ride; but knowing not the trick of the

fastenings, his efforts were in vain. While he yet struggled, there

rode up Sir Owain who had followed in hot haste from the court; and

when he saw the fallen knight, he was amazed that a mere lad,

unarmed and unskilled in knightly exercises, should thus have

prevailed. "Fair youth," said he, "what would ye?" "I would have

this knight's iron coat, but I cannot stir it for all my efforts."

"Nay, young Sir," said Sir Owain, "leave the dead his arms, and

take mine and my horse, which I give you right gladly; and come

with me to the King to receive the order of knighthood, for, by my

faith, ye have shown yourself worthy of it." "I thank you, noble

Sir," answered Peredur, "and gladly I accept your gift; but I will

not go with you now. Rather will I seek other adventures and prove

me further first; nor will I seek the King's presence until I have

encountered with the tall knight that so misused the dwarf, and

have called him to account. Only, I pray you, take this goblet to

Queen Guenevere, and say to my lord, King Arthur, that, in all

places and at all times, I am his true vassal, and will render him

such service as I may." Then, with Sir Owain's help, Peredur put on

the armour, and mounting his horse, after due salutation, rode on

his way.

So, for many days, Peredur followed his adventures, and many a

knight he met and overthrew. To all he yielded grace, requiring

only that they should ride to Caerleon, there to give themselves up

to the King's pleasure, and say that Peredur had sent them. At last

he came to a fair castle that rose from the shores of a lake, and

there he was welcomed by a venerable old man who pressed him to

make some stay. So, as they sat at supper, the old man asked

Peredur many questions of himself and his adventure, gazing

earnestly on him the while; and, at last, he said: "I know thee who

thou art. Thou art my sister's son. Stay now with me, and I will

teach thee the arts and courtesy and noble bearing of a gentle

knight, and give thee the degree when thou art accomplished in all

that becomes an honourable knight." Thereto Peredur assented

gladly, and remained with his uncle until he had come to a perfect

knowledge of chivalry; after that, he received the order of

knighthood at the old man's hands, and rode forth again to seek

adventures. Presently he came to the city of Caerleon, but though

Arthur was there with all his court, Sir Peredur chose to make

himself known to none; for he had not yet avenged the dwarf on Sir

Kay. Now it chanced, as he walked through the city, he saw at her

casement a beautiful maiden whose name was Angharad; and at once he

knew that he had seen the damsel whom he must love his life long.

So he sought to be acquainted with her, but she scorned him,

thinking him but some unproved knight, since he consorted not with

those of Arthur's court; and, at last, finding he might in no wise

win her favour at that time, he made a vow that never would he

speak to Christian man or woman until he had gained her love, and

forthwith rode away again. After long journeyings, he came one

night to a castle, and, knocking, gained admittance and courteous

reception from the lady who owned it. But it seemed to Sir Peredur

that there hung over all a gloom, none caring to talk or make

merry, though there was no lack of the consideration due to a

guest. Then when the evening hour was come, they took their places

at the board, Peredur being set at the Countess' right hand; and

two nuns entered and placed before the lady a flagon of wine and

six white loaves, and that was all the fare. Then the Countess gave

largely of the food to Sir Peredur, keeping little for herself and

her attendants; but this pleased not the knight, who, heedless of

his oath, said: "Lady, permit me to fare as do the others," and he

took but a small portion of that which she had given him. Then the

Countess, blushing as with shame, said to him: "Sir Knight, if we

make you poor cheer, far otherwise is our desire, but we are in

sore straits." "Madam," answered Peredur courteously, "for your

welcome I thank you heartily; and, I pray you, if there is aught in

which a knight may serve you, tell me your trouble." Then the

Countess told him how she had been her father's one child, and heir

to his broad lands; and how a neighbouring baron had sought her

hand; but she, misliking him, had refused his suit, so that his

wrath was great. Then, when her father died, he had made war upon

her, overrunning all her lands till nothing was left to her but the

one castle. Long since, all the provision stored therein was

consumed, and she must have yielded her to the oppressor but for

the charity of the nuns of a neighbouring monastery, who had

secretly supplied her with food when, for fear, her vassals had

forsaken her. But that day the nuns had told her that no longer

could they aid her, and there was naught left save to submit to the

invader. This was the story that, with many tears, the Countess

related to Peredur. "Lady," said he, "with your permission, I will

take upon me your quarrel, and to-morrow I will seek to encounter

this felon." The Countess thanked him heartily and they retired to

rest for that night.

In the morning betimes, Sir Peredur arose, donned his armour and,

seeking the Countess, desired that the portcullis might be raised,

for he would sally forth to seek her oppressor. So he rode out from

the castle and saw in the morning light a plain covered with the

tents of a great host. With him he took a herald to proclaim that

he was ready to meet any in fair fight, in the Countess' quarrel.

Forthwith, in answer to his challenge, there rode forward the baron

himself, a proud and stately knight mounted on a great black

horse. The two rushed together, and, at the first encounter, Sir

Peredur unhorsed his opponent, bearing him over the crupper with

such force that he lay stunned, as one dead. Then, Peredur, drawing

his sword, dismounted and stood over the fallen knight, who, when

he was recovered a little, asked his mercy. "Gladly will I grant

it," answered Peredur, "but on these conditions. Ye shall disband

this host, restore to the Countess threefold all of which ye have

deprived her, and, finally, ye shall submit yourself unto her as

her vassal." All this the baron promised to do, and Peredur

remained with the Countess in her castle until she was firmly

established in that which was rightfully hers. Then he bade her

farewell, promising his aid if ever she should need his services,

and so rode forth again.