Surmounting the brink, he paused. There were so many enemies, he knew

not which to pursue first. But straight ahead, in the very middle of the

open, and far from any shelter, he saw a huddled group of children and

nurses fleeing impotently and aimlessly. Shrill cries came from the

cluster, which danced with colors, scarlet and yellow and blue and vivid

pink. To the mad buffalo, these were the most conspicuous and the

loudest of his foes, and therefore the most dangerous. With a bellow he

flung his tail straight in the air, and charged after them.

An appalling hush fell, for a few heartbeats, all over the field. Then

from different quarters appeared uniformed attendants, racing and

shouting frantically to divert the bull's attention. From fleeing groups

black-coated men leapt forth, armed only with their walking-sticks, and

rushed desperately to defend the flock of children, who now, in the

extremity of their terror, were tumbling as they ran. Some of the nurses

were fleeing far in front, while others, the faithful ones, with eyes

starting from their heads, grabbed up their little charges and struggled

on under the burden.

Already Last Bull was halfway across the space which divided him from

his foes. The ground shook under his ponderous gallop. At this moment

Payne reappeared on the broken porch.

One glance showed him that no one was near enough to intervene. With a

face stern and sorrowful he lifted the deadly .405 Winchester which he

had brought out with him. The spot he covered was just behind Last

Bull's mighty shoulder.

The smokeless powder spoke with a small, venomous report, unlike the

black powder's noisy reverberation. Last Bull stumbled. But recovering

himself instantly, he rushed on. He was hurt, and he felt it was those

fleeing foes who had done it. A shade of perplexity darkened Payne's

face. He fired again. This time his aim was true. The heavy expanding

bullet tore straight through bone and muscle and heart, and Last Bull

lurched forward upon his head, ploughing up the turf for yards. As his

mad eyes softened and filmed, he saw once more, perhaps,--or so the

heavy-hearted keeper who had slain him would have us believe,--the

shadowy plains unrolling under the wild sky, and the hosts of his

vanished kindred drifting past into the dark.

SECTION X

ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Baldwin, James, _The Story of Roland_. _The Story of Siegfried._

Baring-Gould, Sabine, _Curious Myths of the Middle Ages_.

Becquer, G. A., _Romantic Legends of Spain_.

Canton, W. V., _Child's Book of Saints_.

Cervantes-Saavedra, Miguel de, _Don Quixote_. [In translation, or

as retold by Havell or Parry.]

Church, Alfred J., _Stories from the Iliad_. _Stories from the

Odyssey._ _Heroes of Chivalry and Romance._ _Stories of Charlemagne

and the Twelve Peers of France._

Colum, Padraic, _The Adventures of Odysseus and the Tale of Troy_.

Crommelin, Emeline G., _Famous Legends_.

Darton, F. J. H., _Wonder Book of Old Romance_.

Farrington, Margaret V., _Tales of King Arthur_.

Finnemore, John, _The Story of Robin Hood and His Merry Men_.

Guerber, H. A., _Legends of the Middle Ages_.

Guest, Lady Charlotte, _The Mabinogion_.

Herbertson, Agnes G., _Heroic Legends_.

Homer, _Iliad_. [Prose translation by Lang, Leaf, and Myers;

poetic by Bryant.]

Homer, _Odyssey_. [Prose translation by George H. Palmer; poetic

by Bryant.]

Hull, Eleanor, _The Boys' Cuchulain: Heroic Legends of Ireland_.

Lamb, Charles, _The Adventures of Ulysses_.

Lane, E. W., _Arabian Nights' Entertainments_.

Lang, Andrew, _A Book of Romance_.

Lanier, Sidney, _The Boy's King Arthur_. _The Boy's Mabinogion_.

MacLeod, Mary, _King Arthur and His Noble Knights_.

Marshall, H. E., _The Story of William Tell_. _The Story of

Roland._

Marvin, Frank S. (and others), _Adventures of Odysseus_.

Morris, William, _Sigurd, the Volsung_.

Newbolt, Henry, _Stories from Froissart_.

Pyle, Howard, _Stories of King Arthur and His Knights_. _Some

Merry Adventures of Robin Hood._

Plummer, Mary W., _Stories from the Chronicle of the Cid_.

Ragozin, Z. A., _Frithjof and Roland_. _Siegfried and Beowulf._

Rolleston, T. W., _High Deeds of Finn_.

Scudder, Horace E., _The Book of Legends_.

Tappan, Eva March, _Robin Hood: His Book_.

Tennyson, Alfred, _The Idylls of the King_.

Warren, Maude Radford, _King Arthur and His Knights_. _Robin Hood

and His Merry Men._

Wilson, C. D., _Story of the Cid for Young People_.

SECTION X. ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND

INTRODUCTORY

_The material included._ The heading adopted for this section is used

somewhat loosely to include those many and varied collections of stories

which have with the passage of time been gradually brought together into

so-called cycles, unified around some central figure, or by means of

some kind of framework. It would thus bring into its scope the series of

stories which make up the Greek _Odyssey_, the Anglo-Saxon _Beowulf_,

the Finnish _Kalevala_, and other national epics. It would include the

stories centering around King Arthur, Siegfried, Roland, the Cid,

Alexander, Charlemagne, Robin Hood, and Reynard the Fox. Besides all

these cycles and others like them, there is a great body of separate

legends of persons and places, exemplified by "The Proud King," that

seem almost to constitute a work by themselves. The extended body of

eastern stories known as _The Arabian Nights_ are also placed here, as

is Cervantes' _Don Quixote_. The last inclusion may seem to violate even

the wide range of the heading, as _Don Quixote_ is distinctly one of the

world's great modern masterpieces, and is by a known author. But that

book is after all a cycle of adventures with a central figure not unlike

the romance cycles, and, since it is popularly supposed to have had its

origin in the purpose of humorously satirizing the romances of chivalry,

it may be allowed to stand in connection with them.

_The place for such stories._ The developing child soon passes out of

the period where the old fairy stories and their modern analogues

satisfy his needs. He comes into a period of hero-worship where he

demands not only courage and prowess of magnificent proportions, but

also a sinking of self in as equally magnificent and disinterested

service of great causes. To the child's mind there is nothing

fantastical about the chivalric ideas of courtesy, and friendship, and

all high personal ideals. It is the natural food of his mind. He will

allow nothing mean or unclean. It seems, roughly speaking, that the time

of greatest appeal for such stories is about the fourth, fifth, and

sixth grades. By the end of that period he is already well along toward

an interest in the real men and women of history, toward a more

realistic and practical conception of the problems of human life.

_The problems of choice and adaptation._ The wealth of material

available is so great as to be bewildering. As yet there is no common

agreement as to just which stories are best for our purpose, nor is

there any as to where particular stories should be used. The adapters

and story-tellers differ much in their views on these questions. Young

teachers, it is clear, cannot be expected to know this vast field in any

detail. The saving fact is that teachers can hardly make a mistake by

using any story that has awakened their own interest and enthusiasm, and

which, for that reason, they will be able to present in a simple and

striking form. Having in mind, then, the beginning teacher, we make the

following specific suggestions:

1. _Beowulf._ The inexperienced teacher will

find a splendid version, "The Story of

Beowulf," ready-made in Wyche's _Some Great

Stories and How to Tell Them_. To work from the

complete epic, use any of the translations by

Child, Tinker, Gummere, or Hall. "Perhaps it is

not too much to assert . . . that in its lofty

spirit, its vigor, and its sincerity, . . . it

reflects traits which are distinctive of

English-speaking people throughout the world."

2. _King Arthur._ The final source must be Sir

Thomas Malory's _Le Morte D'Arthur_,

represented in the following pages by Nos. 401,

402, and 403. Some passages from Malory should

be read to the class. For suggestions as to

method in handling the stories, see Wyche as

above, where there is a fine brief version. In

_King Arthur and His Knights_, by Mrs. Warren

(Maude Radford), may be found a good working

version of the whole cycle. ". . . In delicacy of

feeling, in reverence for women, in courtesy to

friend and foe, the Arthurian story

foreshadowed much that is gentlest and best in

modern civilization."

3. _Robin Hood._ Go at once to one of the

simple prose versions of the story.

Satisfactory ones are those by Miss Tappan, by

Mrs. Warren, or by Howard Pyle (the shorter

version). As time and opportunity offer read

the simple old ballads which are the source of

the story of "merry" Sherwood. "If ever verse

lashed abuse with a smile, it is this. The sun

shines brightly overhead; it is a good world to

be alive in, its wrongs are being righted, and

its very misfortunes are ultimately to bring

happier times."

4. A few stories about Roland, Siegfried, the

Cid, Charlemagne, and others may be used by

teachers who have had opportunity to get

acquainted with those great figures, or who

have access to some of the authorities listed

in the bibliography. This material is more

difficult to handle satisfactorily than that

already discussed, and may well be sparingly

used, if not omitted altogether. For a general

collection of legends, the ideal as to choice

and method of presentation is Scudder's _The

Book of Legends_ (No. 412). From _The Arabian

Nights_ use "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves"

(No. 398), "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp,"

and "The Stories of Sindbad the Sailor." Almost

any of the accessible versions will be

satisfactory. For _Reynard the Fox_, the one

adaptation that presents the story in a fairly

good form for children is that made by Sir

Henry Cole, available as edited by Joseph

Jacobs (Nos. 399 and 400). Perhaps as much of

_Don Quixote_ is given in this text (Nos.

405-411) as teachers can use. A full

translation is a satisfactory source for this

story, although the shortened forms by Havell

or Parry are admirable.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

Most of the books on story-telling have

discussions of the best ways of dealing with

the romance material. Especially valuable in

this connection are Wyche, _Great Stories and

How to Tell Them_, and Lyman, _Story Telling_.

For scholarly and yet not too difficult books

giving a perspective of the entire field see W.

W. Lawrence, _Medieval Story and the Beginnings

of the Social Ideals of English-speaking

People_, or W. P. Ker, _Epic and Romance_.

Consult MacClintock, "Hero-Tales and Romances,"

_Literature in the Elementary School_, chap.

viii.

398

_The Arabian Nights' Entertainment_ or

_Thousand and One Nights_ is a collection of

about four hundred old oriental stories,

chiefly from Persia, India, and Arabia. They

were brought together probably in the

thirteenth century and told orally as stories

told to entertain King Shahriyar; but scholars

think the collection was not written until some

time between the years 1350 and 1550. Some of

the stories probably were told as early as the

ninth century. The stories are of various

kinds--fables, anecdotes, legends, hero

stories, wonder stories, and romances. "The

Story of Alnaschar" (No. 235 in this book) is

one of the fables. The collection became known

to European readers in 1704, when it was

translated from the Arabic by a French scholar

named Galland. Since that time the fables have

been translated extensively. The translation

into English by Lane is the most valuable one

for a teacher who wishes to have all of the

book that is fit for public use. Like many of

the world's great compilations of this sort, it

is made up of a mixture of good and bad. The

oriental play of imagination in these stories

and the background of old Eastern scenery and

customs have made them a source of

entertainment and instruction for all civilized

nations. The story that follows has always been

one of the favorites among oriental wonder

stories, and is given in a familiar traditional

version.

ALI BABA, AND THE FORTY THIEVES

In a town in Persia there lived two brothers, the sons of a poor man;

the one was named Cassim, and the other Ali Baba. Cassim, the elder,

married a wife with a considerable fortune, and lived at his ease in a

handsome house, with plenty of servants; but the wife of Ali Baba was as

poor as himself; they dwelt in a mean cottage in the suburbs of the

city, and he maintained his family by cutting wood in a neighboring

forest.

One day when Ali Baba was in the forest and preparing to load his three

asses with the wood he had cut, he saw a troop of horsemen coming

towards him. He had often heard of robbers who infested that forest,

and, in a great fright, he hastily climbed a large thick tree, which

stood near the foot of a rock, and hid himself among the branches.

The horsemen soon galloped up to the rock, where they all dismounted.

Ali Baba counted forty of them, and he could not doubt but they were

thieves, by their ill-looking countenances. They each took a loaded

portmanteau from his horse; and he who seemed to be their captain,

turning to the rock, said, "Open Sesame," and immediately a door opened

in the rock, and all the robbers passed in, when the door shut itself.

In a short time the door opened again, and the forty robbers came out,

followed by their captain, who said, "Shut Sesame." The door instantly

closed; and the troop, mounting their horses, were presently out of

sight.

Ali Baba remained in the tree a long time, and seeing that the robbers

did not return, he ventured down, and, approaching close to the rock,

said, "Open Sesame." Immediately the door flew open, and Ali Baba beheld

a spacious cavern, very light, and filled with all sorts of

possessions,--merchandise, rich stuffs, and heaps of gold and silver

coin, which these robbers had taken from merchants and travelers.

Ali Baba then went in search of his asses, and having brought them to

the rock, took as many bags of gold coin as they could carry, and put

them on their backs, covering them with some loose fagots of wood.

Afterwards (not forgetting to say "Shut Sesame") he drove the asses back

to the city; and having unloaded them in the stable belonging to his

cottage, carried the bags into the house and spread the gold coin out

upon the floor before his wife.

His wife, delighted with so much money, wanted to count it; but finding

it would take up too much time, she was resolved to measure it, and

running to the house of Ali Baba's brother, she entreated them to lend

her a small measure. Cassim's wife was very proud and envious. "I

wonder," she said to herself, "what sort of grain such poor people can

have to measure; but I am determined I will find out what they are

doing." So before she gave the measure, she artfully rubbed the bottom

with some suet.

Away ran Ali Baba's wife, measured her money, and helped her husband to

bury it in the yard. Then she carried back the measure to her

brother-in-law's house, without perceiving that a piece of gold was left

sticking to the bottom of it. "Fine doings, indeed!" cried Cassim's wife

to her husband, after examining the measure. "Your brother there, who

pretends to be so poor, is richer than you are, for he does not count

his money, but measures it."

Cassim, hearing these words and seeing the piece of gold, grew as

envious as his wife; and hastening to his brother, threatened to inform

the Cadi of his wealth if he did not confess to him how he came by it.

Ali Baba without hesitation told him the history of the robbers and the

secret of the cave, and offered him half his treasure; but the envious

Cassim disdained so poor a sum, resolving to have fifty times more than

that out of the robbers' cave. Accordingly he rose early the next

morning and set out with ten mules loaded with great chests. He found

the rock easily enough by Ali Baba's description; and having said "Open

Sesame," he gained admission into the cave, where he found more treasure

than he had expected to behold even from his brother's account of it.

He immediately began to gather bags of gold and pieces of rich brocade,

all which he piled close to the door; but when he had got together as

much as his ten mules could possibly carry, or even more, and wanted to

get out to load them, the thoughts of his wonderful riches had made him

entirely forget the word which caused the door to open. In vain he tried

"Bame," "Fame," "Lame," "Tetame," and a thousand others. The door

remained as immovable as the rock itself, notwithstanding Cassim kicked

and screamed till he was ready to drop with fatigue and vexation.

Presently he heard the sound of horses' feet, which he rightly concluded

to be the robbers, and he trembled lest he should now fall a victim to

his thirst for riches. He resolved, however, to make an effort to

escape; and when he heard the "Sesame" pronounced, and saw the door

open, he sprang out, but was instantly put to death by the swords of the

robbers.

The thieves now held a council, but not one of them could possibly guess

by what means Cassim had got into the cave. They saw the heaps of

treasure he had piled ready to take away, but they did not miss what Ali

Baba had secured before. At length they agreed to cut Cassim's body into

four quarters and hang the pieces within the cave, that it might

terrify any one from further attempts; and also determined not to return

themselves for some time to the cave for fear of being watched and

discovered.

When Cassim's wife saw night come on, and her husband not returned, she

became greatly terrified; she watched at her window till daybreak and

then went to tell Ali Baba of her fears. Cassim had not informed him of

his design of going to the cave; but Ali Baba, now hearing of his

journey thither, went immediately in search of him. He drove his asses

to the forest without delay. He was alarmed to see blood near the rock;

and on entering the cave, he found the body of his unfortunate brother

cut to pieces and hung up within the door. It was now too late to save

him; but he took down the quarters and put them upon one of his asses,

covering them with fagots of wood; and, weeping for the miserable end of

his brother, he regained the city. The door of his brother's house was

opened by Morgiana, an intelligent, faithful female slave, who, Ali Baba

knew, was worthy to be trusted with the secret.

He therefore delivered the body to Morgiana, and went himself to impart

the sad tidings to the wife of Cassim. The poor woman was deeply

afflicted, and reproached herself with her foolish envy and curiosity,

as being the cause of her husband's death; but Ali Baba having convinced

her of the necessity of being very discreet, she checked her

lamentations and resolved to leave everything to the management of

Morgiana.

Morgiana, having washed the body, hastened to an apothecary's and asked

for some particular medicine, saying that it was for her master Cassim,

who was dangerously ill. She took care to spread the report of Cassim's

illness throughout the neighborhood; and as they saw Ali Baba and his

wife going daily to the house of their brother, in great affliction,

they were not surprised to hear shortly that Cassim had died of his

disorder.

The next difficulty was to bury him without discovery; but Morgiana was

ready to contrive a plan for that also. She put on her veil and went to

a distant part of the city very early in the morning, where she found a

poor cobbler just opening his stall. She put a piece of gold into his

hand, and told him he should have another, if he would suffer himself to

be blindfolded and go with her, carrying his tools with him. Mustapha,

the cobbler, hesitated at first, but the gold tempted him and he

consented; when Morgiana, carefully covering his eyes, so that he could

not see a step of the way, led him to Cassim's house; and taking him

into the room where the body was lying, removed the bandage from his

eyes, and bade him sew the mangled limbs together. Mustapha obeyed her

order; and having received two pieces of gold, was led blindfold the

same way back to his own stall.

Morgiana then covered the body with a winding-sheet and sent for the

undertaker to make preparations for the funeral. Cassim was buried with

all due solemnity the same day. Ali Baba now removed his few goods, and

all the gold coin that he had brought home from the cavern, to the house

of his deceased brother, of which he took possession; and Cassim's widow

received every kind attention from both Ali Baba and his wife.

After an interval of some months, the troop of robbers again visited

their retreat in the forest, and were completely astonished to find the

body taken away from the cave, and everything else remaining in its

usual order. "We are discovered," said the captain, "and shall certainly

be undone, if you do not adopt speedy measures to prevent our ruin.

Which of you, my brave comrades, will undertake to search out the

villain who is in possession of our secret?"

One of the boldest of the troop advanced, and offered himself; and was

accepted on the following conditions: namely, that if he succeeded in

his enterprise, he was to be made second in command of the troop; but

that if he brought false intelligence, he was immediately to be put to

death. The bold robber readily agreed to the conditions; and having

disguised himself, he proceeded to the city.

He arrived there about daybreak, and found the cobbler Mustapha in his

stall, which was always open before any other shop in the town. "Good

morrow, friend," said the robber, as he passed the stall, "you rise

betimes; I should think old as you are, you could scarcely see to work

by this light."

"Indeed, sir," replied the cobbler, "old as I am, I do not want for good

eyesight; as you must needs believe, when I tell you I sewed a dead body

together the other day, where I had not so good a light as I have now."

"A dead body!" exclaimed the robber; "you mean, I suppose, that you

sewed up the winding-sheet for a dead body."

"I mean no such thing," replied Mustapha; "I tell you that I sewed the

four quarters of a man together."

This was enough to convince the robber he had luckily met with the very

man who could give him the information he was in search of. However he

did not wish to appear eager to learn the particulars, lest he should

alarm the cobbler. "Ha! ha!" said he, "I find, good Mr. Cobbler, that

you perceive I am a stranger here, and you wish to make me believe that

the people of your city do impossible things."

"I tell you," said Mustapha in a loud and angry tone, "I sewed a dead

body together with my own hands."--"Then I suppose you can tell me also

where you performed this wonderful business." Upon this, Mustapha

related every particular of his being led blindfold to the house, etc.

"Well, my friend," said the robber, "it is a fine story, I confess, but

not very easy to believe; however, if you will convince me by showing me

the house you talk of, I will give you four pieces of gold to make

amends for my unbelief."

"I think," said the cobbler, after considering awhile, "that if you were

to blindfold me, I should remember every turning we made; but with my

eyes open I am sure I should never find it." Accordingly the robber

covered Mustapha's eyes with his handkerchief; and the cobbler led him

through most of the principal streets, and stopping by Cassim's door,

said, "Here it is; I went no further than this house."

The robber immediately marked the door with a piece of chalk; and,

giving Mustapha his four pieces of gold, dismissed him. Shortly after

the thief and Mustapha had quitted the door, Morgiana, coming home from

market, perceived the little mark of white chalk on the door. Suspecting

something was wrong, she directly marked four doors on one side and five

on the other of her master's, in exactly the same manner, without saying

a word to any one.

The robber meantime rejoined his troop and boasted greatly of his

success. His captain and comrades praised his diligence; and being well

armed, they proceeded to the town in different disguises, and in

separate parties of three and four together.

It was agreed among them that they were to meet in the market-place at

the dusk of evening, and that the captain and the robber who had

discovered the house were to go there first, to find out to whom it

belonged. When they arrived in the street, having a lantern with them,

they began to examine the doors, and found to their confusion and

astonishment that ten doors were marked exactly alike. The robber, who

was the captain's guide, could not say a word in explanation of this

mystery; and when the disappointed troop got back to the forest, his

enraged companions ordered him to be put to death.

Another now offered himself upon the same conditions as the former; and

having bribed Mustapha, and discovered the house, he made a mark with

the dark red chalk upon the door, in a part that was not in the least

conspicuous; and carefully examined the surrounding doors, to be certain

that no such marks were upon them. But nothing could escape the prying

eyes of Morgiana; scarcely had the robber departed, when she discovered

the red mark; and getting some red chalk, she marked seven doors on each

side, precisely in the same place and in the same manner. The robber,

valuing himself highly upon the precautions he had taken, triumphantly

conducted his captain to the spot; but great indeed was his confusion

and dismay when he found it impossible to say which, among fifteen

houses marked exactly alike, was the right one. The captain, furious

with his disappointment, returned again with the troop to the forest;

and the second robber was also condemned to death.

The captain having lost two of his troop, judged that their hands were

more active than their heads in such services; and he resolved to employ

no other of them, but to go himself upon the business. Accordingly he

repaired to the city and addressed himself to the cobbler Mustapha, who,

for six pieces of gold, readily performed the services for him he had

done for the other two strangers. The captain, much wiser than his men,

did not amuse himself with setting a mark upon the door, but attentively

considered the house, counted the number of windows, and passed by it

very often, to be certain that he should know it again.

He then returned to the forest, and ordered his troop to go into the

town, and buy nineteen mules and thirty-eight large jars, one full of

oil and the rest empty. In two or three days the jars were bought, and

all things in readiness; and the captain having put a man into each jar,

properly armed, the jars being rubbed on the outside with oil, and the

covers having holes bored in them for the men to breathe through, loaded

his mules, and in the habit of an oil-merchant entered the town in the

dusk of the evening. He proceeded to the street where Ali Baba dwelt,

and found him sitting in the porch of his house. "Sir," said he to Ali

Baba, "I have brought this oil a great way to sell, and am too late for

this day's market. As I am quite a stranger in this town, will you do me

the favor to let me put my mules into your court-yard, and direct me

where I may lodge to-night?"

Ali Baba, who was a very good-natured man, welcomed the pretended

oil-merchant very kindly, and offered him a bed in his own house; and

having ordered the mules to be unloaded in the yard, and properly fed,

he invited his guest in to supper. The captain, having seen the jars

placed ready in the yard, followed Ali Baba into the house, and after

supper was shown to the chamber where he was to sleep.

It happened that Morgiana was obliged to sit up later that night than

usual, to get ready her master's bathing linen for the following

morning; and while she was busy about the fire, her lamp went out, and

there was no more oil in the house. After considering what she could

possibly do for a light, she recollected the thirty-eight oil jars in

the yard and determined to take a little oil out of one of them for her

lamp. She took her oil pot in her hand and approached the first jar; the

robber within said, "Is it time, captain?"

Any other slave, on hearing a man in an oil jar, would have screamed

out; but the prudent Morgiana instantly recollected herself, and replied

softly, "No, not yet; lie still till I call you." She passed on to every

jar, receiving the same question and making the same answer, till she

came to the last, which was really filled with oil.

Morgiana was now convinced that this was a plot of the robbers to murder

her master, Ali Baba; so she ran back to the kitchen and brought out a

large kettle, which she filled with oil, and set it on a great wood

fire; and as soon as it boiled she went and poured into the jars

sufficient of the boiling oil to kill every man within them. Having done

this she put out her fire and her lamp, and crept softly to her chamber.

The captain of the robbers, finding everything quiet in the house, and

perceiving no light anywhere, arose and went down into the yard to

assemble his men. Coming to the first jar, he felt the steam of the

boiled oil; he ran hastily to the rest and found every one of his troop

put to death in the same manner. Full of rage and despair at having

failed in his design, he forced the lock of a door that led into the

garden and made his escape over the walls.

On the following morning Morgiana related to her master, Ali Baba, his

wonderful deliverance from the pretended oil-merchant and his gang of

robbers. Ali Baba at first could scarcely credit her tale; but when he

saw the robbers dead in the jars, he could not sufficiently praise her

courage and sagacity; and without letting any one else into the secret,

he and Morgiana the next night buried the thirty-seven thieves in a deep

trench at the bottom of the garden. The jars and mules, as he had no use

for them, were sent from time to time to the different markets and sold.

While Ali Baba took these measures to prevent his and Cassim's

adventures in the forest from being known, the captain returned to his

cave, and for some time abandoned himself to grief and despair. At

length, however, he determined to adopt a new scheme for the destruction

of Ali Baba. He removed by degrees all the valuable merchandise from the

cave to the city and took a shop exactly opposite to Ali Baba's house.

He furnished this shop with everything that was rare and costly, and

went by the name of the merchant Cogia Hassan. Many persons made

acquaintance with the stranger; among others, Ali Baba's son went every

day to the shop. The pretended Cogia Hassan soon appeared to be very

fond of Ali Baba's son, offered him many presents, and often detained

him at dinner, on which occasions he treated him in the handsomest

manner.

Ali Baba's son thought it was necessary to make some return to these

civilities, and pressed his father to invite Cogia Hassan to supper. Ali

Baba made no objection, and the invitation was accordingly given. The

artful Cogia Hassan would not too hastily accept this invitation, but

pretended he was not fond of going into company, and that he had

business which demanded his presence at home. These excuses only made

Ali Baba's son the more eager to take him to his father's house; and

after repeated solicitations, the merchant consented to sup at Ali

Baba's house the next evening.

A most excellent supper was provided, which Morgiana cooked in the best

manner, and as was her usual custom, she carried in the first dish

herself. The moment she looked at Cogia Hassan, she knew it was the

pretended oil-merchant. The prudent Morgiana did not say a word to any

one of this discovery, but sent the other slaves into the kitchen and

waited at table herself; and while Cogia Hassan was drinking, she

perceived he had a dagger hid under his coat.

When supper was ended, and the dessert and wine on the table, Morgiana

went away and dressed herself in the habit of a dancing-girl; she next

called Abdalla, a fellow slave, to play on his tabor while she danced.

As soon as she appeared at the parlor door, her master, who was very

fond of seeing her dance, ordered her to come in to entertain his guest

with some of her best dancing. Cogia Hassan was not very well satisfied

with this entertainment, yet was compelled, for fear of discovering

himself, to seem pleased with the dancing, while, in fact, he wished

Morgiana a great way off, and was quite alarmed lest he should lose his

opportunity of murdering Ali Baba and his son.

Morgiana danced several dances with the utmost grace and agility; and

then drawing a poniard from her girdle, she performed many surprising

things with it, sometimes presenting the point to one and sometimes to

another, and then seemed to strike it into her own bosom. Suddenly she

paused, and holding the poniard in the right hand, presented her left to

her master as if begging some money; upon which Ali Baba and his son

each gave her a small piece of money. She then turned to the pretended

Cogia Hassan, and while he was putting his hand into his purse, she

plunged the poniard into his heart.

"Wretch!" cried Ali Baba, "thou hast ruined me and my family."

"No, sir," replied Morgiana, "I have preserved, and not ruined you and

your son. Look well at this traitor, and you will find him to be the

pretended oil-merchant who came once before to rob and murder you."

Ali Baba pulled off the turban and the cloak which the false Cogia

Hassan wore and discovered that he was not only the pretended

oil-merchant, but the captain of the forty robbers who had slain his

brother Cassim; nor could he doubt that his perfidious aim had been to

destroy him, and probably his son, with the concealed dagger. Ali Baba,

who felt the new obligation he owed to Morgiana for thus saving his life

a second time, embraced her and said, "My dear Morgiana, I give you

your liberty; but my gratitude must not stop there: I will also marry

you to my son, who can esteem and admire you no less than does his

father." Then turning to his son, he added, "You, my son, will not

refuse the wife I offer; for, in marrying Morgiana, you take to wife the

preserver and benefactor of yourself and family." The son, far from

showing any dislike, readily and joyfully accepted his proposed bride,

having long entertained an affection for the good slave Morgiana.

Having rejoiced in their deliverance, they buried the captain that night

with great privacy, in the trench along with his troop of robbers; and a

few days afterwards, Ali Baba celebrated the marriage of his son and

Morgiana with a sumptuous entertainment. Every one who knew Morgiana

said she was worthy of her good fortune, and highly commended her

master's generosity toward her.

During a twelvemonth Ali Baba forbore to go near the forest, but at

length his curiosity incited him to make another journey.

When he came to the cave he saw no footsteps of either men or horses;

and having said, "Open Sesame," he went in, and judged by the state of

things deposited in the cavern that no one had been there since the

pretended Cogia Hassan had removed the merchandise to his shop in the

city. Ali Baba took as much gold home as his horse could carry.

Afterwards he carried his son to the cave and taught him the secret.

This secret they handed down to their posterity; and using their good

fortune with moderation, they lived in honor and splendor, and served

with dignity some of the chief offices in the city.

A quaint and interesting cycle of animal

stories was formed in the Middle Ages with the

fox, called Reynard, as the hero or central

character. Their origin was not different from

that of the cycles that grew up concerning such

popular heroes as King Arthur, Robin Hood,

Charlemagne, and Siegfried; but one difference

at least may be observed--Reynard is always

represented as evil, though clever and

successful. These stories of Reynard have

furnished material for many workers in the

field of literature and they have generally

served as a vehicle for satire. Indeed, there

was much satire in the original versions of the

folk. Perhaps the greatest of these modern

recensions is that of the German poet Goethe.

The best version for use with children is that

made by Sir Henry Cole ("Felix Summerley") and

edited more recently by Joseph Jacobs in his

usual masterly fashion. The introduction to

this edition gives just the facts that the

reader needs for understanding the significance

of the Reynard cycle.

399

It may be noted that King Lion, after hearing

many complaints about Reynard's evil ways,

decides to bring him to court for trial. The

first special constable sent to summon Reynard

was Bruin the Bear, and now we are to learn--

HOW BRUIN THE BEAR SPED WITH REYNARD THE FOX

The next morning away went _Bruin_ the bear in quest of the fox, armed

against all plots of deceit whatsoever. And as he came through a dark

forest, in which _Reynard_ had a bypath, which he used when he was

hunted, he saw a high mountain, over which he must pass to go to

_Malepardus_. For though _Reynard_ has many houses, yet _Malepardus_ is

his chiefest and most ancient castle, and in it he lay both for defense

and ease. Now at last when _Bruin_ was come to _Malepardus_, he found

the gates close shut, at which after he had knocked, sitting on his

tail, he called aloud, "Sir _Reynard_, are you at home? I am _Bruin_

your kinsman, whom the King hath sent to summon you to the court, to

answer many foul accusations exhibited against you, and hath taken a

great vow, that if you fail to appear to this summons, your life shall

answer your contempt, and your goods and honors shall lie confiscate at

his highness's mercy. Therefore, fair kinsman, be advised of your

friend, and go with me to the court to shun the danger that else will

fall upon you."

_Reynard_, lying close by the gate, as his custom was for the warm sun's

sake, hearing those words, departed into one of his holes, for

_Malepardus_ is full of many intricate and curious rooms, which

labyrinth-wise he could pass through, when either his danger or the

benefit of any prey required the same. There he meditated awhile with

himself how he might counterplot and bring the bear to disgrace (who he

knew loved him not) and himself to honor; at last he came forth, and

said, "Dear uncle _Bruin_, you are exceeding welcome. Pardon my slowness

in coming, for at your first speech I was saying my even song, and

devotion must not be neglected. Believe me, he hath done you no good

service, nor do I thank him which hath sent you this weary and long

journey, in which your much sweat and toil far exceeds the worth of the

labor. Certainly had you not come, I had to-morrow been at the court of

my own accord, yet at this time my sorrow is much lessened, inasmuch as

your counsel at this present may return me double benefit. Alas, cousin,

could his Majesty find no meaner a messenger than your noble self to

employ in these trivial affairs? Truly it appears strange to me,

especially since, next his royal self, you are of greatest renown both

in blood and riches. For my part, I would we were both at court, for I

fear our journey will be exceeding troublesome. To speak truth, since I

made mine abstinence from flesh, I have eaten such strange new meats,

that my body is very much distempered, and swelleth as if it would

break."

"Alas, dear cousin," said the bear, "what meat is that which maketh you

so ill?"

"Uncle," answered he, "what will it profit you to know? The meat was

simple and mean. We poor men are no lords, you know, but eat that for

necessity which others eat for wantonness; yet not to delay you, that

which I ate was honeycombs, great, full, and most pleasant, which,

compelled by hunger, I ate too unmeasurably and am thereby infinitely

distempered."

"Ha," quoth _Bruin_, "honeycombs? Do you make such slight respect of

them, nephew? Why it is meat for the greatest emperor in the world. Fair

nephew, help me but to some of that honey, and command me whilst I live;

for one little part thereof I will be your servant everlastingly."

"Sure," said the fox, "uncle, you but jest with me."

"But jest with you?" replied _Bruin_, "beshrew my heart then, for I am

in that serious earnest, that for one lick thereat you shall make me the

faithfullest of all your kindred."

"Nay," said the fox, "if you be in earnest, then know I will bring you

where so much is, that ten of you shall not be able to devour it at a

meal, only for your love's sake, which above all things I desire,

uncle."

"Not ten of us?" said the bear, "it is impossible; for had I all the

honey betwixt _Hybla_ and _Portugal_, yet I could in a short space eat

it all myself."

"Then know, uncle," quoth the fox, "that near at hand here dwelleth a

husbandman named _Lanfert_, who is master of so much honey that you

cannot consume it in seven years, which for your love and friendship's

sake I will put into your safe possession."

_Bruin_, mad upon the honey, swore, that to have one good meal thereof

he would not only be his faithful friend, but also stop the mouths of

all his adversaries.

_Reynard_, smiling at his easy belief, said, "If you will have seven

ton, uncle, you shall have it."

These words pleased the bear so well, and made him so pleasant, that he

could not stand for laughing.

Well, thought the fox, this is good fortune. Sure I will lead him where

he shall laugh more measurably; and then said, "Uncle, we must delay no

time, and I will spare no pains for your sake, which for none of my kin

I would perform."

The bear gave him many thanks, and so away they went, the fox promising

him as much honey as he could bear, but meant as many strokes as he

could undergo. In the end they came to _Lanfert's_ house, the sight

whereof made the bear rejoice. This _Lanfert_ was a stout and lusty

carpenter, who the other day had brought into his yard a great oak,

which, as their manner is, he began to cleave, and had struck into it

two wedges in such wise that the cleft stood a great way open, at which

the fox rejoiced much, for it was answerable to his wish. So with a

laughing countenance he said to the bear, "Behold now, dear uncle, and

be careful of yourself, for within this tree is so much honey that it is

unmeasurable. Try if you can get into it; yet, good uncle, eat

moderately, for albeit the combs are sweet and good, yet a surfeit is

dangerous, and may be troublesome to your body, which I would not for a

world, since no harm can come to you but must be my dishonor."

"Sorrow not for me, nephew _Reynard_," said the bear, "nor think me such

a fool that I cannot temper mine appetite."

"It is true, my best uncle, I was too bold. I pray you enter in at the

end, and you shall find your desire."

The bear with all haste entered the tree, with his two feet forward, and

thrust his head into the cleft, quite over the ears, which when the fox

perceived, he instantly ran and pulled the wedges out of the tree, so

that he locked the bear fast therein, and then neither flattery nor

anger availed the bear. For the nephew had by his deceit brought the

uncle into so false a prison that it was impossible by any art to free

himself of the same. Alas, what profited now his great strength and

valor? Why, they were both causes of more vexation; and finding himself

destitute of all relief, he began to howl and bray, and with scratching

and tumbling to make such a noise that _Lanfert_, amazed, came hastily

out of his house, having in his hand a sharp hook, whilst the bear lay

wallowing and roaring within the tree.

The fox from afar off said to the bear in scorn and mocking, "Is the

honey good, uncle, which you eat? How do you? Eat not too much, I

beseech you. Pleasant things are apt to surfeit, and you may hinder your

journey to the court. When _Lanfert_ cometh (if your belly be full) he

will give you drink to digest it, and wash it down your throat."

And having thus said, he went towards his castle. But by this time,

_Lanfert_, finding the bear fast taken in the tree, he ran to his

neighbors and desired them to come into his yard, for there was a bear

fast taken there. This was noised through all the town, so that there

was neither man, nor woman, nor child but ran thither, some with one

weapon, and some with another--as goads, rakes, broom-staves, or what

they could gather up. The priest had the handle of the cross, the clerk

the holy water sprinkler, and the priest's wife, Dame _Jullock_, with

her distaff, for she was then spinning; nay, the old beldames came that

had ne'er a tooth in their heads. This army put _Bruin_ into a great

fear, being none but himself to withstand them, and hearing the clamor

of the noise which came thundering upon him, he wrestled and pulled so

extremely that he got out his head, but he left behind him all the skin,

and his ears also; insomuch that never creature beheld a fouler or more

deformed beast. For the blood covering all his face, and his hands

leaving the claws and skin behind them, nothing remained but ugliness.

It was an ill market the bear came to, for he lost both motion and

sight--that is, feet and eyes. But notwithstanding this torment,

_Lanfert_, the priest, and the whole parish came upon him, and so

becudgeled him about his body part, that it might well be a warning to

all his misery, to know that ever the weakest shall still go most to the

wall. This the bear found by experience, for every one exercised the

height of their fury upon him. Even _Houghlin_ with the crooked leg, and

_Ludolf_ with the long broad nose, the one with a leaden mall, and the

other with an iron whip, all belashed poor sir _Bruin_; not so much but

sir _Bertolf_ with the long fingers, _Lanfert_ and _Ortam_ did him more

annoyance than all the rest, the one having a sharp Welsh hook, the

other a crooked staff well leaded at the end, which he used to play at

stab ball withal. There was _Birkin_ and _Armes Ablequack_, _Bane_ the

priest with his staff, and Dame _Jullock_ his wife; all these so

belabored the bear, that his life was in great danger. The poor bear in

this massacre sat and sighed extremely, groaning under the burden of

their strokes, of which _Lanfert's_ were the greatest and thundered most

dreadfully; for Dame _Podge_ of _Casport_ was his mother, and his father

was _Marob_ the steeple-maker, a passing stout man when he was alone.

_Bruin_ received of him many showers of stones till _Lanfert's_ brother,

rushing before the rest with a staff, struck the bear in the head such a

blow that he could neither hear nor see, so that awaking from his

astonishment the bear leaped into the river adjoining, through a cluster

of wives there standing together, of which he threw divers into the

water, which was large and deep, amongst whom the parson's wife was one;

which the parson seeing how she floated like a sea-mew, he left striking

the bear, and cried to the rest of the company, "Help! oh, help! Dame

_Jullock_ is in the water; help, both men and women, for whosoever saves

her, I give free pardon of all their sins and transgressions, and remit

all penance imposed whatsoever." This heard, every one left the bear to

help Dame _Jullock_, which as soon as the bear saw, he cut the stream

and swam away as fast as he could, but the priest with a great noise

pursued him, crying in his rage, "Turn, villain, that I may be revenged

of thee"; but the bear swam in the strength of the stream and suspected

not his calling, for he was proud that he was so escaped from them. Only

he bitterly cursed the honey tree and the fox, which had not only

betrayed him, but had made him lose his hood from his face, and his

gloves from his fingers. In this sort he swam some three miles down the

water, in which time he grew so weary that he went on land to get ease,

where blood trickled down his face; he groaned, sighed, and drew his

breath so short, as if his last hour had been expiring.

Now whilst these things were in doing, the fox in his way home stole a

fat hen, and threw her into his mail, and running through a bypath that

no man might perceive him, he came towards the river with infinite joy;

for he suspected that the bear was certainly slain: therefore he said to

himself, "My fortune is as I wished it, for the greatest enemy I had in

the court is now dead, nor can any man suspect me guilty thereof." But

as he spake these words, looking towards the river, he espied where

_Bruin_ the bear lay and rested, which struck his heart with grief, and

he railed against _Lanfert_ the carpenter, saying, "Silly fool that thou

art, what madman would have lost such good venison, especially being so

fat and wholesome, and for which he took no pains, for he was taken to

his hand; any man would have been proud of the fortune which thou

neglectest." Thus fretting and chiding, he came to the river, where he

found the bear all wounded and bloody, of which _Reynard_ was only

guilty; yet in scorn he said to the bear, "_Monsieur, Dieu vous garde_."

"O thou foul red villain," said the bear to himself, "what impudence is

like to this?"

But the fox went on with his speech, and said, "What, uncle? Have you

forgot anything at _Lanfert's_, or have you paid him for the honeycombs

you stole? If you have not, it will redound much to your disgrace, which

before you shall undergo, I will pay him for them myself. Sure the honey

was excellent good, and I know much more of the same price. Good uncle,

tell me before I go, into what order do you mean to enter, that you wear

this new-fashioned hood? Will you be a monk, an abbot, or a friar?

Surely he that shaved your crown hath cropped your ears; also your

foretop is lost, and your gloves are gone; fie, sloven, go not

bare-handed; they say you can sing _peccavi_ rarely."

These taunts made _Bruin_ mad with rage, but because he could not take

revenge, he was content to let him talk his pleasure. Then after a small

rest he plunged again into the river, and swam down the stream, and

landed on the other side, where he began with much grief to meditate how

he might get to the court, for he had lost his ears, his talons, and all

the skin off his feet, so that had a thousand deaths followed him, he

could not go. Yet of necessity he must move, that in the end compelled

by extremity, he set his tail on the ground, and tumbled his body over

and over; so by degrees, tumbling now half a mile, and then half a mile,

in the end he tumbled to the court, where divers beholding his strange

manner of approach, they thought some prodigy had come towards them;

but in the end the King knew him, and grew angry, saying, "It is sir

_Bruin_, my servant; what villains have wounded him thus, or where hath

he been that he brings his death thus along with him?"

"O my dread Sovereign Lord the King," cried out the bear, "I complain me

grievously unto you; behold how I am massacred, which I humbly beseech

you revenge on that false _Reynard_, who, for doing your royal pleasure,

hath brought me to this disgrace and slaughter."

Then said the King, "How durst he do this? Now by my crown I swear I

will take the revenge which shall make the traitors tremble!"

Whereupon the King sent for all his council, and consulted how and in

what sort to persecute against the fox, where it was generally concluded

that he should be again summoned to appear and answer his trespasses;

and the party to summon him they appointed to be _Tibert_ the cat, as

well for his gravity as wisdom; all which pleased the King well.

400

After many ups and downs in fortune Reynard is

finally on good terms with the king when

Isegrim the Wolf appears with another

accusation. Reynard's denial of the charges led

the Wolf to challenge him to mortal combat, a

well known medieval way of settling the truth

of conflicting evidence. The result appears in

the following:

THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE FOX AND THE WOLF

The fox answered not a word, but bowing himself down humbly to the

earth, both before the King and the Queen's Majesties, went forth into

the field; and at the same time the wolf was also ready, and stood

boasting, and giving out many proud and vainglorious speeches. The

marshals and rulers of the lists were the leopard and the loss. These

brought forth a book, on which the wolf swore and maintained his

assertion that the fox was a traitor and a murderer, which he would

prove on his body, or else be counted a recreant. Then _Reynard_ took

the book, and swore he lied as a false traitor and a thief, which he

would prove on his body, or be accounted a recreant.

When these ceremonies were done, the marshals of the field bade them do

their devoir. And then every creature avoided the lists, save Dame

_Rukenaw_, who stood by the fox, and bade him remember the words and

instructions she had given him, and call to mind how, when he was scarce

seven years old, he had then wisdom enough to pass the darkest night

without lantern or candle-light, or the help of the moon, when any

occasion required him; and that his experience was much greater, and his

reputation of wisdom more frequent with his companions; and therefore to

work so as he might win the day, which would be an eternal monument to

him and his family for ever.

To this the fox answered, "My best aunt, assure yourself I will do my

best, and not forget a tittle of your counsel. I doubt not but my

friends shall reap honor and my foes shame by my actions." To this the

ape said amen, and so departed.

When none but the combatants were in the lists, the wolf went toward the

fox with infinite rage and fury, and thinking to take the fox in his

forefeet, the fox leaped nimbly from him and the wolf pursued him, so

that there began a tedious chase between them, on which their friends

gazed. The wolf taking larger strides than the fox often overtook him,

and lifting up his feet to strike him, the fox avoided the blow and

smote him on the face with his tail, so that the wolf was stricken

almost blind, and he was forced to rest while he cleared his eyes; which

advantage when _Reynard_ saw, he scratched up the dust with his feet,

and threw it in the eyes of the wolf.

This grieved him worse than the former, so that he durst follow him no

longer, for the dust and sand sticking in his eyes smarted so sore, that

of force he must rub and wash it away, which _Reynard_ seeing, with all

the fury he had he ran upon him, and with his teeth gave him three sore

wounds on his head, and scoffing said, "Have I hit you, Mr. Wolf? I will

yet hit you better; you have killed many a lamb and many an innocent

beast, and would impose the fault upon me, but you shall find the price

of your knavery. I am marked to punish thy sins, and I will give thee

thy absolution bravely. It is good for thee that thou use patience, for

thy evil life is at my mercy. Yet, notwithstanding, if thou wilt kneel

down and ask my forgiveness, and confess thyself vanquished, though thou

be the worst thing living, yet I will spare thy life, for my pity makes

me loath to kill thee."

These words made _Isegrim_ both mad and desperate, so that he knew not

how to express his fury; his wounds bled, his eyes smarted, and his

whole body was oppressed. So that in the height of his fury he lifted up

his foot and struck the fox so great a blow that he felled him to the

ground. But _Reynard_, being nimble, quickly rose up again and

encountered the wolf, that between them began a dreadful and doubtful

combat.

The wolf was exceeding furious, and ten times he leaped to catch

_Reynard_ fast, but his skin was so slippery and oily he could not hold

him. Nay, so wondrous nimble was he in the fight, that when the wolf

thought to have him surest, he would shift himself between his legs and

under his belly, and every time gave the wolf a bite with his teeth, or

a slap on the face with his tail, that the poor wolf found nothing but

despair in the conflict, albeit his strength was much the greater.

Thus many wounds and bitings passing on either side, the one expressing

cunning, and the other strength; the one fury, the other temperance. In

the end the wolf being enraged that the battle had continued so long,

for had his feet been sound it had been much shorter, he said to

himself, "I will make an end of this combat, for I know my very weight

is able to crush him to pieces; and I lose much of my reputation, to

suffer him thus long to contend against me."

And this said, he struck the fox again so sore a blow on the head with

his foot, that he fell down to the ground, and ere he could recover

himself and arise, he caught him in his feet and threw him under him,

lying upon him in such wise, as if he would have pressed him to death.

Now began the fox to be grievously afraid, and all his friends also, and

all _Isegrim's_ friends began to shout for joy; but the fox defended

himself as well as he could with his claws, lying along, and the wolf

could not hurt him with his claws, his feet were so sore; only with his

teeth he snatched at him to bite him, which, when the fox saw, he smote

the wolf on the head with his fore-claws, so that he tore the skin

between his brows and his ears, and one of his eyes hung out of his

head, which put the wolf to infinite torment, and he howled out

extremely. Then _Isegrim_ wiping his face, the fox took advantage

thereof, and with his struggling got upon his feet.

At which the wolf was angry, and striking after him, caught the fox in

his arms, and held him fast; never was _Reynard_ in so great a strait as

then, for at that time great was their contention; but anger now made

the wolf forget his smart, and gripping the fox altogether under him, as

_Reynard_ was defending himself his hand lighted into _Isegrim's_ mouth,

so that he was in danger of losing it. Then said the wolf to the fox,

"Now either yield thyself as vanquished, or else certainly I will kill

thee; neither thy dust, thy mocks, nor any subtle invention shall now

save thee; thou art now left utterly desperate, and my wounds must have

their satisfaction."

When the fox heard this he thought it was a hard election, for both

brought his ruin; and suddenly concluding, he said, "Dear uncle, since

fortune commands me, I yield to be your servant, and at your

commandments will travel for you to the Holy Land, or any other

pilgrimage, or do any service which shall be beneficial to your soul or

the souls of your forefathers. I will do for the King or for our holy

father the Pope, I will hold of you my lands and revenues, and as I, so

shall all the rest of my kindred; so that you shall be a lord of many

lords, and none shall dare to move against you.

"Besides, whatsoever I get of pullets, geese, partridges, or clover,

flesh or fish, you, your wife, and children shall have the first choice,

ere any are eaten by me. I will ever stand by your side, and wheresoever

you go, no danger shall come near you; you are strong, and I am subtle;

we two joined together, what force can prevail against us? Again, we are

so near in blood that nature forbids there should be any enmity between

us; I would not have fought against you had I been sure of victory, but

that you first appealed me, and then you know of necessity I must do my

uttermost. I have also in this battle been courteous to you, and not

shown my worst violence, as I would on a stranger, for I know it is the

duty of a nephew to spare his uncle; and this you might well perceive by

my running from you. I tell you, it was an action much contrary to my

nature, for I might often have hurt you when I refused, nor are you

worse for me by anything more than the blemish of your eye, for which I

am sorry, and wished it had not happened; yet thereby know that you

shall reap rather benefit than loss thereby, for when other beasts in

their sleep shut two windows, you shall shut but one.

"As for my wife, children, and lineage, they shall fall down at your

feet before you in any presence; therefore, I humbly desire you, that

you will suffer poor _Reynard_ to live. I know you will kill me, but

what will that avail you, when you shall never live in safety for fear

of revengement of my kindred? Therefore, temperance in any man's wrath

is excellent, whereas rashness is ever the mother of repentance. But,

uncle, I know you to be valiant, wise, and discreet, and you rather seek

honor, peace, and good fame than blood and revenge."

_Isegrim_ the wolf said, "Infinite dissembler, how fain wouldst thou be

freed of my servitude? Too well I understand thee, and know that if

thou wert safe on thy feet thou wouldst forswear this submission; but

know all the wealth in the world shall not buy out thy ransom, for thee

and thy friends I esteem them not, nor believe anything thou hast

uttered. Too well I know thee, and am no bird for thy lime bush; chaff

cannot deceive me. Oh, how wouldst thou triumph if I should believe

thee, and say I wanted wit to understand thee; but thou shalt know I can

look both on this side and beyond thee. Thy many deceits used upon me

have now armed me against thee. Thou sayest thou hast spared me in the

battle; but look upon me, and my wounds will show how falsely thou

liest; thou never gavest me a time to breathe in, nor will I now give

thee a minute to repent in."

Now whilst _Isegrim_ was thus talking, the fox bethought himself how he

might best get free, and thrusting his other hand down he caught the

wolf fast by the neck, and he wrung him so extremely hard thereby, that

he made him shriek and howl out with the anguish; then the fox drew his

other hand out of his mouth, for the wolf was in such wondrous torment

that he had much ado to contain himself from swooning; for this torment

exceeded above the pain of his eye, and in the end he fell over and over

in a swoon; then presently _Reynard_ leaped upon him, and drew him about

the lists and dragged him by the legs, and struck, wounded, and bit him

in many places, so that all the whole field might take notice thereof.

At this, all _Isegrim's_ friends were full of sorrow, and with great

weeping and lamentation went to the King and prayed him to be pleased to

appease the combat and take it into his own hands; which suit the King

granted, and then the leopard and the loss, being marshals, entered the

lists and told the fox and the wolf that the King would speak with them,

and that the battle should there end, for he would take it into his own

hands and determine thereof; as for themselves they had done

sufficiently, neither would the King lose either of them. And to the fox

they said the whole field gave him the victory.

The greatest and most inspiring cycle of

medieval romances is that concerned with the

adventures of King Arthur and his Knights of

the Round Table. Developing largely as separate

stories, these romances were brought together

into an organic collection by Sir Thomas Malory

in the third quarter of the fifteenth century.

This work, called _Le Morte D'Arthur_, has

remained the standard Arthuriad and is the

source of most modern versions. It is one of

the great monuments of English prose, and,

while at first the strangeness of its style may

repel, the wonderful dignity of the story and

the sonorous quality of the language make a

strong appeal to children as well as to older

readers. Teachers should at least be acquainted

with a portion of Malory, and the three

selections following are taken from his text.

No. 404 is added as a suggestion as to how this

material may be worked up to tell to children.

401

According to a tradition in _Le Morte

D'Arthur_, Uther Pendragon, the father of

Arthur, was a powerful king in England. To

fulfill a promise made to Merlin, Uther

Pendragon allowed Merlin to take Arthur on the

day of his birth, that the child might not be

known as the son of the king. Merlin took the

child to Sir Ector, and the wife of Sir Ector

reared Arthur as one of her own children. The

following story is an account of how Arthur

learned of his parentage.

HOW ARTHUR BECAME KING

SIR THOMAS MALORY

After the death of Uther Pendragon, stood the realm in great jeopardy

long while, for every lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and

many weened to have been king. Then Merlin went to the Archbishop of

Canterbury and counselled him to send for all the lords of the realm and

all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London come by Christmas.

So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent for all the lords and

gentlemen of arms that they should come by Christmas even unto London.

So in the greatest church of London, whether it were Paul's or not the

French book maketh no mention, all the estates were long or day in the

church for to pray. And when matins and the first mass were done, there

was seen in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four

square, like unto a marble stone, and in midst thereof was like an anvil

of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword, and letters

there were written in gold about the sword that said thus:

"Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and

anvil, is rightwise king born of all England."

Then the people marveled and told it to the Archbishop. "I command,"

said the Archbishop, "that you keep you within your church, and pray

unto God still; that no man touch the sword till the high mass be all

done."

So when all masses were done, all the lords went to behold the stone and

the sword. And when they saw the scripture, some assayed; such as would

have been king. But none might stir the sword nor move it. "He is not

here," said the Archbishop, "that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not

God will make him known. But this is my counsel," said the Archbishop,

"that we provide ten knights, men of good fame, and they to keep this

sword."

So it was ordained, and there was made a cry, that every man should

essay that would, for to win the sword. And upon New Year's Day the

barons let make a jousts and a tournament, that all knights that would

joust or tourney there might play, and all this was ordained for to keep

the lords and the commons together, for the Archbishop trusted that God

would make him known that should win the sword. So upon New Year's Day,

when the service was done, the barons rode unto the field, some to joust

and some to tourney, and so it happened that Sir Ector rode unto the

jousts, and with him rode Sir Kay his son, and young Arthur that was his

nourished brother; and Sir Kay had been made knight at All Hallowmass

afore.

So as they rode to the joustsward, Sir Kay had lost his sword, for he

had left it at his father's lodging, and so he prayed young Arthur for

to ride for his sword. "I will well," said Arthur, and rode fast after

the sword, and when he came home, the lady and all were out to see the

jousting. Then was Arthur wroth, and said to himself, "I will ride to

the churchyard and take the sword with me that sticketh in the stone,

for my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day." So when

he came to the churchyard, Sir Arthur alit and tied his horse to the

stile, and so he went to the tent and found no knights there, for they

were at jousting; and so he handled the sword by the handles, and

lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and

rode his way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and delivered him the

sword.

As soon as Sir Kay saw the sword, he wist well it was the sword of the

stone, and so he rode to his father, Sir Ector, and said, "Sir, lo here

is the sword of the stone, wherefore I must be king of this land."

When Sir Ector beheld the sword, he returned again and came to the

church, and there they alit, all three, and went into the church. And

anon he made Sir Kay to swear upon a book how he came to that sword.

"Sir," said Sir Kay, "by my brother Arthur, for he brought it to me."

"How gat ye this sword?" said Sir Ector to Arthur.

"Sir, I will tell you. When I came home for my brother's sword, I found

nobody at home to deliver me his sword, and so I thought my brother Sir

Kay should not be swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it

out of the stone without any pain."

"Found ye any knights about this sword?" said Sir Ector.

"Nay," said Arthur.

"Now," said Sir Ector to Arthur, "I understand ye must be king of this

land."

"Wherefore I," said Arthur, "and for what cause?"

"Sir," said Ector, "for God will have it so, for there should never man

have drawn out this sword, but he that shall be rightways king of this

land. Now let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was and

pull it out again."

"That is no mastery," said Arthur, and so he put it in the stone;

therewithal Sir Ector essayed to pull out the sword and failed.

"Now essay," said Sir Ector unto Sir Kay. And anon he pulled at the

sword with all his might, but it would not be.

"Now shall ye essay," said Ector to Arthur.

"I will well," said Arthur, and pulled it out easily. And therewithal

Sir Ector knelt down to the earth, and Sir Kay. "Alas," said Arthur, "my

own dear father and brother, why kneel ye to me?"

"Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so. I was never your father nor of

your blood, but I wot well ye are of an higher blood than I weened ye

were." And then Sir Ector told him all, how he had taken him for to

nourish him, and by whose commandment, and by Merlin's deliverance. Then

Arthur made great doole when he understood that Sir Ector was not his

father.

"Sir," said Ector unto Arthur, "will ye be my good and gracious lord

when ye are king?"

"Else were I to blame," said Arthur, "for ye are the man in the world

that I am most beholden to, and my good lady and mother your wife, that

as well as her own hath fostered me and kept. And if ever it be God's

will that I be king as ye say, God forbid that I should fail you."

"Sir," said Sir Ector, "I will ask no more of you but that ye will make

my son, your foster brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your lands."

"That shall be done," said Arthur, "and more, by the faith of my body,

that never man shall have that office but he, while he and I live."

Therewithal they went unto the Archbishop and told him how the sword was

achieved, and by whom; and on the Twelfth-day all the barons came

thither, and to essay to take the sword, who that would essay. But there

afore them all, there might none take it out but Arthur; wherefore

there were many lords wroth, and said it was great shame unto them all

and the realm to be over-governed with a boy of no high blood born, and

so they fell out at that time that it was put off until Candlemas, and

then all the barons should meet there again; but always the ten knights

were ordained to watch the sword day and night, and so they set a

pavilion over the stone and the sword, and five always watched. So at

Candlemas many more great lords came thither for to have won the sword,

but there might none prevail. And right as Arthur did at Christmas, he

did at Candlemas, and pulled out the sword easily, whereof the barons

were sore agrieved and put it off in delay till the high feast of

Easter, yet there were some of the great lords had indignation that

Arthur should be king, and put it off in a delay till the feast of

Pentecost. And at the feast of Pentecost all manner of men essayed to

pull at the sword that would essay, but none might prevail but Arthur,

and he pulled it out afore all the lords and commons that were there,

wherefore all the commons cried at once, "We will have Arthur unto our

king. We will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is God's

will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against it, we will

slay him." And therewith they all kneeled at once, both rich and poor,

and cried Arthur mercy because they had delayed him so long, and Arthur

forgave them, and took the sword between both his hands, and offered it

upon the altar where the Archbishop was, and so was he made knight of

the best man that was there. And so anon was the coronation made. And

there was he sworn unto his lords and the commons for to be a true king

and to stand with true justice from thenceforth the days of his life.

402

After Arthur was made king, he spent several

years in war with his lawless barons before he

finally established a stable government in

England. Malory's accounts of these wars are

interspersed with stories of miraculous

incidents, accounts of the adventures of

knights, and descriptions of feasts,

tournaments, and jousts. The following is a

description of the jousting between the knights

of King Arthur and those of two French kings,

Ban and Bors, who had come to aid Arthur in his

wars.

A TOURNEY WITH THE FRENCH

SIR THOMAS MALORY

Then the king let purvey for a great feast, and let cry a great jousts.

And by All Hallowmass the two kings were come over the sea with three

hundred knights well arrayed both for peace and for war. And King Arthur

met with them ten miles out of London, and there was great joy as could

be thought or made. And on All Hallowmass at the great feast, sat in the

hall the three kings, and Sir Kay seneschal served in the hall, and Sir

Lucas the butler, and Sir Griflet. These three knights had the rule of

all the service that served the kings. And anon, as they had washed and

risen, all knights that would joust made them ready. By when they were

ready on horseback there were seven hundred knights. And Arthur, Ban,

and Bors, with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Sir Ector, Kay's

father, they were in a place covered with cloth of gold like an hall,

with ladies and gentlewomen, for to behold who did the best, and thereon

to give judgment.

And King Arthur and the two kings let depart the seven hundred knights

into two parties. And there were three hundred knights of the realm of

Benwick and of Gaul turned on the other side. Then they dressed their

shields, and began to couch their spears many good knights. So Griflet

was the first that met with a knight, one Ladinas, and they met so

eagerly that all men had wonder; and they so fought that their shields

fell to pieces, and horse and man fell to the earth; and both French

knight and English knight lay so long that all men weened they had been

dead. When Lucas the butler saw Griflet so lie, he horsed him again

anon, and they two did marvelous deeds of arms with many bachelors. Also

Sir Kay came out of an enbushment with five knights with him, and they

six smote other six down. But Sir Kay did that day marvelous deeds of

arms that there was none did so well as he that day. Then there come

Ladinas and Gracian, two knights of France, and did passing well, that

all men praised them. Then come there Sir Placidas, a good knight, and

met with Sir Kay, and smote him down horse and man, wherefore Sir

Griflet was wroth, and met with Sir Placidas so hard that horse and man

fell to the earth. But when the five knights wist that Sir Kay had a

fall, they were wroth out of wit, and therewith each of them five bare

down a knight. When King Arthur and the two kings saw them begin to wax

wroth on both parties, they leaped on small hackneys and let cry that

all men should depart unto their lodging. And so they went home and

unarmed them, and so to evensong and supper. And after, the three kings

went into a garden and gave the prize unto Sir Kay, and to Lucas the

butler, and unto Sir Griflet.

403

One part of _Le Morte D'Arthur_ will illustrate

almost as well as another the nature of the

adventure stories that grew up in the Middle

Ages regarding the traditional heroes of

chivalry. The following selection is taken from

the first part of the book.

ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR

SIR THOMAS MALORY

Then on a day there came in the court a squire on horseback, leading a

knight before him wounded to the death. He said, "There is a knight in

the forest who hath reared up a pavilion by a well, and hath slain my

master, a good knight whose name was Miles; wherefore I beseech you that

my master may be buried, and that some knight may revenge my master's

death."

Then the noise was great of that knight's death in the court, and every

man said his advice. Then came Griflet that was but a squire, and he was

but young, of the age of King Arthur; so he besought the king for all

his service that he had done him to give him the order of knighthood.

"Thou art full young and tender of age," said Arthur, "for to take so

high an order on thee."

"Sir," said Griflet, "I beseech you make me knight."

"Sir," said Merlin, "it were great pity to lose Griflet, for he will be

a passing good man when he is of age, abiding with you the term of his

life. And if he adventure his body with yonder knight at the fountain,

it is in great peril if ever he come again, for he is one of the best

knights in the world, and the strongest man of arms."

"Well," said Arthur. So at the desire of Griflet the king made him

knight. "Now," said Arthur unto Sir Griflet, "sith I have made you

knight thou must give me a gift."

"What ye will," said Griflet.

"Thou shalt promise me by the faith of thy body, when thou hast jousted

with the knight at the fountain, whether it fall ye to be on foot or on

horseback, that right so ye shall come again unto me without making any

more debate."

"I will promise you," said Griflet, "as you desire."

Then took Griflet his horse in great haste, and dressed his shield and

took a spear in his hand, and so he rode at a great wallop till he came

to the fountain, and thereby he saw a rich pavilion, and thereby under a

cloth stood a fair horse well saddled and bridled, and on a tree a

shield of divers colors and a great spear. Then Griflet smote on the

shield with the butt of his spear, that the shield fell down to the

ground. With that the knight came out of the pavilion and said, "Fair

knight, why smote ye down my shield?"

"For I will joust with you," said Griflet.

"It is better ye do not," said the knight, "for ye are but young, and

late made knight, and your might is nothing to mine."

"As for that," said Griflet, "I will joust with you."

"That is me loath," said the knight, "but sith I must needs, I will

dress me thereto. Of whence be ye?" said the knight.

"Sir, I am of Arthur's court."

So the two knights ran together that Griflet's spear all to-shivered;

and therewithal he smote Griflet through the shield and the left side,

and brake the spear that the truncheon stuck in his body, that horse and

knight fell down.

When the knight saw him lie so on the ground, he alit, and was passing

heavy, for he weened he had slain him, and then he unlaced his helm and

gat him wind, and so with the truncheon he set him on his horse and gat

him wind, and so betook him to God, and said he had a mighty heart, and

if he might live he would prove a passing good knight. And so Sir

Griflet rode to the court, where great dole was made for him. But

through good leeches he was healed and saved.

Right so came into the court twelve knights, who were aged men, and they

came from the Emperor of Rome, and they asked of Arthur truage for this

realm, other-else the emperor would destroy him and his land.

"Well," said King Arthur, "ye are messengers, therefore ye may say what

ye will, other-else ye should die therefore. But this is mine answer: I

owe the emperor no truage, nor none will I hold him, but on a fair field

I shall give him my truage that shall be with a sharp spear, or else

with a sharp sword, and that shall not be long."

And therewith the messengers departed passingly wroth, and King Arthur

as wroth, for in evil time came they then; for the king was passingly

wroth for the hurt of Sir Griflet. And so he commanded a privy man of

his chamber that or it be day his best horse and armor with all that

longeth unto his person, be without the city or to-morrow day. Right so

or to-morrow day he met with his man and his horse, and so mounted up

and dressed his shield and took his spear, and bade his chamberlain

tarry there till he came again. And so Arthur rode a soft pace till it

was day, and then was he ware of three churls chasing Merlin, and would

have slain him. Then the king rode unto them and bade them, "Flee,

churls!" Then were they afeard when they saw a knight, and fled.

"O Merlin," said Arthur, "here hadst thou been slain for all thy crafts

had I not been."

"Nay," said Merlin, "not so, for I could save myself an I would; and

thou art more near thy death than I am, for thou goest to the deathward,

an God be not thy friend."

So as they went thus talking they came to the fountain and the rich

pavilion there by it. Then King Arthur was ware where sat a knight armed

in a chair. "Sir knight," said Arthur, "for what cause abidest thou

here, that there may no knight ride this way but he joust with thee? I

rede thee leave that custom," said Arthur.

"This custom," said the knight, "have I used and will use maugre who

saith nay, and who is grieved with my custom let him amend it that

will."

"I will amend it," said Arthur.

"I shall defend thee," said the knight.

Anon he took his horse and dressed his shield and took a spear, and they

met so hard either on other's shield, that all to-shivered their spears.

Therewith anon Arthur pulled out his sword. "Nay, not so," said the

knight; "it is fairer that we twain run more together with sharp

spears."

"I will well," said Arthur, "an I had any more spears."

"I have enow," said the knight, so there came a squire and brought two

good spears, and Arthur chose one and he another; so they spurred their

horses and came together with all their mights, that either brake their

spears to their hands. Then Arthur set hand on his sword. "Nay," said

the knight, "ye shall do better. Ye are a passing good jouster as ever I

met withal, and once more for the love of the high order of knighthood

let us joust once again."

"I assent me," said Arthur.

Anon there were brought two great spears, and every knight gat a spear,

and therewith they ran together that Arthur's spear all to-shivered. But

the other knight hit him so hard in midst of the shield that horse and

man fell to the earth, and therewith Arthur was eager, and pulled out

his sword and said, "I will assay thee, sir knight, on foot, for I have

lost the honor on horseback."

"I will be on horseback," said the knight.

Then was Arthur wroth, and dressed his shield toward him with his sword

drawn. When the knight saw that, he alit, for him thought no worship to

have a knight at such avail, he to be on horseback and he on foot, and

so he alit and dressed his shield unto Arthur. And there began a strong

battle with many great strokes, and so hewed with their swords that the

cantels flew in the fields, and much blood they bled both, that all the

place there as they fought was overbled with blood, and thus they fought

long and rested them, and then they went to battle again, and so hurtled

together like two rams that either fell to the earth. So at the last

they smote together that both their swords met even together. But the

sword of the knight smote King Arthur's sword in two pieces, wherefore

he was heavy. Then said the knight unto Arthur, "Thou art in my daunger

whether me list to save thee or slay thee, and but thou yield thee as

overcome and recreant, thou shalt die."

"As for death," said King Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh, but to

yield me unto thee as recreant I had liefer die than be so shamed."

And therewithal the king leaped unto Pellinore, and took him by the

middle and threw him down, and raised off his helm. When the knight felt

that, he was adread, for he was a passing big man of might, and anon he

brought Arthur under him, and raised off his helm and would have smitten

off his head.

Therewithal came Merlin and said, "Knight, hold thy hand, for an thou

slay that knight thou puttest this realm in the greatest damage that

ever was realm; for this knight is a man of more worship that thou

wotest of."

"Why, who is he?" said the knight.

"It is King Arthur."

Then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, and heaved up his

sword, and therewith Merlin cast an enchantment to the knight, that he

fell to the earth in a great sleep. Then Merlin took up King Arthur, and

rode forth on the knight's horse.

"Alas!" said Arthur, "what hast thou done, Merlin? Hast thou slain this

good knight by thy crafts? There liveth not so worshipful a knight as he

was; I had liefer than the stint of my land a year that he were alive."

"Care ye not," said Merlin, "for he is wholer than ye; for he is but

asleep, and will awake within three hours. I told you," said Merlin,

"what a knight he was; here had ye been slain had I not been. Also there

liveth not a bigger knight than he is one, and he shall hereafter do you

right good service; and his name is Pellinore, and he shall have two

sons that shall be passing good men; save one they shall have no fellow

of prowess and of good living, and their names shall be Percivale of

Wales and Lamerake of Wales."

Right so the king and he departed and went unto an hermit that was a

good man and a great leech. So the hermit searched all his wounds and

gave him good salves; so the king was there three days, and then were

his wounds well amended that he might ride and go, and so departed.

And as they rode, Arthur said, "I have no sword."

"No force," said Merlin, "hereby is a sword that shall be yours, an I

may."

So they rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water and

broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed in

white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand.

"Lo!" said Merlin, "yonder is that sword that I spake of."

With that they saw a damosel going upon the lake. "What damosel is

that?" said Arthur.

"That is the Lady of the Lake," said Merlin; "and within that lake is a

rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and richly beseen;

and this damosel will come to you anon, and then speak ye fair to her

that she will give you that sword."

Anon withal came the damosel unto Arthur and saluted him, and he her

again. "Damosel," said Arthur, "what sword is that, that yonder the arm

holdeth above the water? I would it were mine, for I have no sword."

"Sir Arthur, king," said the damosel, "that sword is mine, and if ye

will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have it."

"By my faith," said Arthur, "I will give you what gift ye will ask."

"Well!" said the damosel. "Go ye into yonder barge, and row yourself to

the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, and I will ask my gift

when I see my time."

So Sir Arthur and Merlin alit and tied their horses to two trees, and so

they went into the ship, and when they came to the sword that the hand

held, Sir Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with him, and

the arm and the hand went under the water. And so they came unto the

land and rode forth, and then Sir Arthur saw a rich pavilion.

"What signifieth yonder pavilion?"

"It is the knight's pavilion," said Merlin, "that ye fought with last,

Sir Pellinore; but he is out; he is not there. He hath ado with a knight

of yours that hight Egglame, and they have foughten together, but at the

last Egglame fled, and else he had been dead, and he hath chased him

even to Carlion, and we shall meet with him anon in the highway."

"That is well said," said Arthur, "now have I a sword; now will I wage

battle with him, and be avenged on him."

"Sir, you shall not so," said Merlin, "for the knight is weary of

fighting and chasing, so that ye shall have no worship to have ado with

him; also he will not be lightly matched of one knight living, and

therefore it is my counsel, let him pass, for he shall do you good

service in short time, and his sons after his days. Also ye shall see

that day in short space, you shall be right glad to give him your sister

to wed."

"When I see him, I will do as ye advise me," said Arthur. Then Sir

Arthur looked on the sword, and liked it passing well.

"Whether liketh you the better," said Merlin, "the sword or the

scabbard?"

"Me liketh better the sword," said Arthur.

"Ye are more unwise," said Merlin, "for the scabbard is worth ten of the

swords, for whiles ye have the scabbard upon you, ye shall never lose no

blood be ye never so sore wounded, therefore keep well the scabbard

always with you."

So they rode unto Carlion, and by the way they met with Sir Pellinore;

but Merlin had done such a craft, that Pellinore saw not Arthur, and he

passed by without any words.

"I marvel," said Arthur, "that the knight would not speak."

"Sir," said Merlin, "he saw you not, for an he had seen you, ye had not

lightly departed."

So they came unto Carlion, whereof his knights were passing glad. And

when they heard of his adventures, they marveled that he would jeopard

his person so, alone. But all men of worship said it was merry to be

under such a chieftain, that would put his person in adventure as other

poor knights did.

This meanwhile came a messenger from King Rience of North Wales, and

king he was of all Ireland, and of many isles. And this was his message,

greeting well King Arthur in this manner wise, saying that King Rience

had discomfited and overcome eleven kings, and every each of them did

him homage, and that was this, they gave him their beards clean flayed

off, as much as there was; wherefore the messenger came for King

Arthur's beard. For King Rience had purfled a mantle with king's beards,

and there lacked one place of the mantle; wherefore he sent for his

beard, or else he would enter his lands, and burn and slay, and never

leave till he have the head and the beard.

"Well," said Arthur, "thou hast said thy message, the which is the most

villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent unto a king;

also thou mayest see my beard is full young yet to make a purfle of it.

But tell thou thy king this: I owe him none homage, nor none of mine

elders, but or it be long to, he shall do me homage on both his knees,

or else he shall lose his head, by the faith of my body, for this is the

most shamefulest message that ever I heard speak of. I have espied thy

king met never yet with worshipful man, but tell him I will have his

head without he do me homage." Then the messenger departed.

"Now is there any here," said Arthur, "that knoweth King Rience?"

Then answered a knight that hight Naram, "Sir, I know the king well. He

is a passing good man of his body, as few be living, and a passing proud

man, and Sir, doubt ye not he will make war on you with a mighty

puissance."

"Well," said Arthur, "I shall ordain for him in short time."

404

The story of "Arthur and Sir Accalon" is taken

from Maude Radford Warren's _King Arthur and

His Knights_. (By permission of the publishers,

Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.) The stories in

Malory are retold in a simple and direct style

that can be read easily by children in the

fifth grade. Most teachers will probably find

themselves obliged to use some such book for

any of these great cycles which they desire to

teach, owing to the amount of time and energy

required for working it up from the original

source.

ARTHUR AND SIR ACCALON

MAUDE RADFORD WARREN

There was a woman in Arthur's Court named Morgan le Fay, who had learned

a great deal about magic. She was a wicked woman, and hated the king

because he was more powerful than she, and because he was so good.

However, she pretended to be a true friend to him, and the king believed

in her. One day when they were talking together, she asked him if he

would not let her take charge of his wonderful sword Excalibur, and its

scabbard. She said that she would guard them so carefully that they

would never be stolen. As she was very eager, Arthur granted her

request.

One day in time of peace, King Arthur went out hunting with a certain

knight named Sir Accalon, who was the lover of Morgan le Fay. They rode

for a long time, and when they were tired, stopped to rest beside a

great lake. As they looked over its shining waters, they saw a beautiful

little ship, which sailed straight towards them, and ran up to the sands

at their feet. It was all covered with golden silks, which waved in the

gentle wind. King Arthur and Sir Accalon climbed into it and examined it

thoroughly, but they found no one on board.

They rested on two couches which were on the deck, until it grew dark.

Then they were about to return home, when all at once, a hundred torches

set on the sides of the ship were lighted, and suddenly there appeared

twelve beautiful damsels who told the two that they were welcome, and

that they should be served with a banquet.

Presently the maidens led the king and the knight into a room which had

a table covered with a white cloth embroidered in purple. It bore many

golden dishes, and each dish had a beautiful design carved upon it. Some

dishes had vine-leaves, others ivy-leaves; some had angels with long

robes sweeping back in graceful lines; and all these dishes held choice

food. The king and Sir Accalon ate to their hearts' content.

Then the damsels led them into two separate chambers. King Arthur was

tired and so sleepy that he gave but one glance at his bedroom. He saw

that it was hung in red silk embroidered with gold dragons and griffins.

Then he threw himself on his bed and slept very soundly.

When he awoke, he found himself not in the pretty bed-chamber, but in a

dark place. He could see nothing, but all about him he heard the sound

of complaining and weeping. He was much bewildered, but in a moment he

cried:

"What is this? Where am I?"

Then a voice answered:

"You are in prison, as we are."

"Who are you?" asked Arthur.

The voice replied:

"We are twenty knights, prisoners, and some of us have been here as long

as seven years. We are in the dungeons of a wicked lord named Sir Damas.

He has a younger brother, and the two brothers are enemies, quarreling

about their inheritance. Now the younger brother, Sir Ontzlake, is very

strong, but Sir Damas is not strong, and moreover, he is a coward. So he

tries to find a knight who will fight for him against Sir Ontzlake.

"But Sir Damas is so much hated that no one will fight for him. So he

goes about the country with a body of rough men, and whenever he sees a

knight, he captures him. Then he asks him to fight with Sir Ontzlake. So

far, all the knights have refused, and have been thrown into prison. We

do not have food enough, but we would rather die here than fight for Sir

Damas, who is so wicked."

At that moment a damsel entered the prison with a torch, which faintly

lighted the dismal place, and advanced to the king.

"Sir," she said, "will you fight for my lord, Sir Damas? If you will,

you shall be taken from this prison. If you will not, you shall die

here."

Arthur considered for some time, and then said:

"I would rather fight than die in prison. If I fight, will you deliver

also all these prisoners?"

The damsel promised, and Arthur consented to fight. While she went to

tell Sir Damas, Arthur said to the other prisoners:

"My friends, I do not know Sir Damas, and I do not know Sir Ontzlake. I

do not know whether they are bad or good. But I will fight, and then,

when I have conquered, I shall judge between them, and do justice to

both."

"That is a good plan," said the knights, "but why are you so sure that

you will conquer?"

"I am Arthur, the King," he replied.

At that the knights set up a great cry of joy, and the king continued:

"I shall send for my good sword Excalibur and the scabbard, and with

these I shall surely win."

So when Arthur and the knights were let out of prison, the king sent the

damsel who had visited them to Morgan le Fay for his sword and

scabbard.

Meantime, the knight who had accompanied Arthur on the little ship, Sir

Accalon, also awoke. He found himself in the palace of Morgan le Fay,

and he wondered very much where Arthur was. He went to the lady, who

said to him:

"My dear lord, the day has come when you can have great power if you

want it. Should you like to be king of this land, instead of Arthur?"

Now Sir Accalon was a traitor at heart. He wanted very much to be king,

even if the good Arthur was to be killed; so he said:

"Yes, truly."

Then she said:

"You shall be king, and I shall be your queen. All you need to do is to

fight a great battle, which you shall win. I have been using my magic.

It was I who sent the ship of silk to you and Arthur. I had him put into

prison, and I had you brought here."

Sir Accalon wondered very much. Then she told him of the fight King

Arthur was to make against Sir Ontzlake.

"But I have caused Sir Ontzlake to fall sick," she said, "and he cannot

fight. I shall go with you to his castle and you can offer to fight for

him."

"I to fight with the king!" cried Sir Accalon. "He would surely

overthrow me."

"He cannot," said Morgan le Fay, "because you are to fight with his

sword. A little while ago he sent to me for Excalibur and the scabbard,

but I returned him a false sword which looks like Excalibur, and a false

scabbard. You shall take the true ones, and then you will surely

overcome him and rule this land."

Then Sir Accalon was glad, and he hastened with the lady to the castle

of Sir Ontzlake. They found him groaning because he was ill and because

Sir Damas had sent him a challenge to fight with a knight, and he could

not accept it. He was much relieved when Morgan le Fay told him that Sir

Accalon would fight in his place.

Early in the afternoon, King Arthur and Sir Accalon rode into the field

where the combat was to be held. Arthur did not know who Sir Accalon

was, nor did any one else, except Morgan le Fay. Two sides of the field

were full of people, who came to watch, half of whom were friends of Sir

Damas, and the other half were friends of Sir Ontzlake.

Arthur and Sir Accalon rode at each other so furiously that at the shock

of the meeting both fell off their horses. Then they began to fight

fiercely with their swords. The king could make no headway with his

false steel, but whenever Sir Accalon struck at Arthur he drew blood.

The king was much amazed. He grew weaker and weaker, but still he kept

on his feet. Those who watched him were sorry for him; they thought they

had never seen a man fight so bravely. At last Arthur's sword broke, and

fell in two pieces on the ground. When Sir Accalon saw this, he cried:

"Now, yield to me."

"I will never yield," said the king, "and if you do not get me another

sword, you will be shamed before all men, for it is an unknightly thing

to fight with a defenseless man."

"I do not care," said Sir Accalon. "If you will not yield, defend

yourself with your shield as best you can."

He rushed at the king. Arthur was so weak that he could hardly stand,

but he guarded himself as well as he could with his shield. Soon he

could do no more, and fell to the ground.

At this moment the Lady of the Lake, who had given Arthur his sword,

came upon the field. She was invisible, but anyone who had listened

intently could have heard a sound like a ripple of water as she walked.

She caused Excalibur to fall out of the hand of Sir Accalon and drop

near Arthur.

When it fell, Arthur saw that it was his own Excalibur. He grasped its

handle and some of his strength came back. He struggled to his feet, and

rushing up to Sir Accalon, seized the scabbard of Excalibur and threw it

far over the field.

"Now," he said, "send for a second sword and fight with me."

Then Sir Accalon was afraid. Yet he thought that Arthur was so weak that

he could still be overcome. So he sent for a second sword, and they

began to fight again. Arthur's strength, however, had largely returned,

and in a short time he gave Sir Accalon a mortal stroke.

Sir Accalon fell to the ground, and the king, leaning over him, cried:

"Tell me who you are."

Then Sir Accalon was filled with remorse, and he said:

"Oh, my King, I have been a traitor to you, but now I am dying, and I am

sorry for what I have done. I deserve my death."

He told the king his name, and all about his treachery, and that of

Morgan le Fay.

King Arthur was sad.

"It is very hard to be deceived in a friend," he said, "but I forgive

you freely. I will try to cure your wound, and sometime I shall trust

you again."

"You cannot cure me," said Sir Accalon. "I am dying. Let them carry me

off the field."

So he was taken to a neighboring abbey, while the people crowded about

the king to congratulate him, but Arthur said:

"I am sad at heart. My victory is no comfort to me, for to-day I have

lost a friend whom I believed true."

Then he called the two brothers, Sir Damas and Sir Ontzlake, and judged

their cause. He decided that their property must be divided equally

between them, and that they must be friends. They promised never to

quarrel again. Arthur told them that they must be kind to other knights

and to all people. He said that if he heard that they were not, he could

come and punish them.

After this, Sir Damas gave back to the twenty knights all their money,

and they went on their way rejoicing. King Arthur mounted his horse and

rode over to the abbey, where he sat by the bed of Sir Accalon till the

poor knight died. Then the king went back alone to his Court at Camelot.

405-411

Miguel de Cervantes, the greatest literary

genius of Spain, was born in 1547 in a small

town near Madrid, and he died in 1616, the year

of the death of Shakespeare. He received a fair

education, and by reading he gained a thorough

knowledge of the romantic poetry of Spain and

Italy and of the romances of chivalry. At the

age of twenty-one he went to Italy. For several

years he was a soldier in the Spanish army.

When he was twenty-eight years old, he was

captured by pirates of Algiers and was held a

prisoner for five years. When he returned to

Spain, he attempted to make a living by writing

dramas and romances, and later he secured an

unimportant governmental position as commissary

and tax-collector in Seville. In 1606 he

published the first part of _Don Quixote_. This

book immediately became very popular, but it

did not bring him much money nor did it win for

him the recognition of literary men. All his

life he was poor, and sometimes apparently he

was actually in want of food. In 1615, one year

before his death, he published the second part

of _Don Quixote_, the greatest national book of

Spain.

_Don Quixote_ is a humorous satire upon the

romances of chivalry, which at the time were so

popular in Spain as to corrupt the national

life by their loose morals and false ideals. So

complete was the success of Cervantes that the

whole nation began to laugh at the absurdities

of the romances of chivalry, and it is said

that not one new edition of any book of

chivalry appeared in Spain after the

publication of _Don Quixote_.

Although the world no longer takes serious

consideration of the ideals of the romances of

chivalry, _Don Quixote_ will always be

remembered as a great book, for it abounds in

good-humored satire of human follies that are

found in all ages and countries. Sancho Panza

represents the type of person who does not have

imagination or spiritual ideals. Not much less

ridiculous, though much more deserving of

sympathy, is Don Quixote, who represents the

type of person who is controlled by imagination

and fanciful ideals, unbalanced by practical

judgment. The life of a person of either type

must be filled with absurdities.

The following selections are taken from

_Stories of Don Quixote_ retold by H. L.

Havell.

STORIES FROM DON QUIXOTE

I. DREAMS AND SHADOWS

The scene is laid in a village of La Mancha, a high and arid district of

Central Spain; and the time is towards the close of the sixteenth

century. On the outskirts of the village there stood at the time

mentioned a house of modest size, adjoining a little farm, the property

of a retired gentleman whose real name was Quisada or Quijada, but who

is now known to all mankind by the immortal title of Don Quixote. How he

came to alter his name we shall see presently.

On a hot summer afternoon this worthy gentleman was sitting in a small

upper room, which served him as a study, absorbed in the contents of a

huge folio volume, which lay open on the table before him. Other

volumes, of like bulky proportions, were piled up on chairs or strewn on

the floor around him. The reader was a man some fifty years of age, tall

and spare of figure, and with high, stern features of the severest

Spanish type. In his eyes, when from time to time he paused in his

reading and gazed absently before him, there was a look of wild

abstraction, as of one who lives in a world of dreams and shadows. One

hand, with bony, nervous fingers, rested on the open page; with the

other he grasped his sword, which lay sheathed on his lap.

No sound disturbs the sultry stillness of the chamber, save only the

droning of an imprisoned bee and the rustling of paper when the eager

student turned a leaf. Deeper and deeper grew his absorption; his eyes

seemed to devour the lines, and he clutched his hair with both hands, as

if he would tear it out by the roots. At last, overpowered by a frenzied

impulse, he leaped from his seat, and plucking his sword from the

scabbard, began cutting and thrusting at some invisible object, shouting

in a voice of thunder: "Unhand the maiden, foul caitiff! Give place, I

say, and let the princess go! What, wilt thou face me, vile robber?

Have at thee, then, and take the wages of thy villainy." As he uttered

the last words he aimed a tremendous thrust at his visionary opponent

and narrowly escaped transfixing the comely person of a young lady who

at this very moment entered the room, with signs of haste and alarm.

Behind her, in the dimly-lighted passage, appeared the portly figure of

an elderly dame, who was proclaimed, by the bunch of keys which hung at

her girdle, to be the gentleman's housekeeper.

"Dear uncle, what ails thee?" said the young lady, gazing with pity and

wonder at the poor distracted man, who stood arrested in his last

attitude, with rolling eyes and hair in wild disorder, while great beads

of sweat poured down his face. But he, whose mind was still soaring in

the regions of high romance, at once converted his niece into a rescued

princess, saved from violence by his prowess; and, lowering his blade

and dropping gracefully on one knee, he raised her hand to his lips and

said: "Fear nothing, gentle lady! There lies thine enemy in his gore";

and he pointed to a table which had been overset in one of his wild

rushes, carrying with it an inkstand, the contents of which were now

trickling in a black stream across the uncarpeted boards.

His niece was accustomed to the strange fits of her eccentric relative,

and, humoring his fancy, she answered: "Thou hast done well, and I thank

thee. But sit down now and rest awhile after thy toils; and I will bring

thee something to drink." With that she led him to a couch and left the

room, taking the housekeeper with her. In a few moments she returned,

bearing a great pitcher of cold water.

"'Tis a most rare elixir," said he, after taking a deep draught,

"prepared by the great enchanter Alquife, and of a magic potency." Then,

being exhausted by his violent exertions of body and mind he stretched

himself on the couch and soon sank into a quiet sleep.

II. PREPARING FOR THE QUEST

The extraordinary scene which has just been described was only one among

many which had occurred during several months, down to the time when our

story begins; and we must now go back a little and give some account of

our hero's habits and studies, which ended by bringing him to so

desperate a state. At that time by far the most popular form of light

literature was the Romances of Chivalry,--huge interminable fictions,

filled with the most extravagant visions that ever visited the slumbers

of a mad poet. Merely to unravel the story of one of these gigantic

romances is a task which would tax the strongest brain. They dealt with

the adventures of Knights-Errant, who wandered about the earth

redressing grievances and succoring the oppressed. Those who venture

into these vast jungles of romance are occasionally rewarded by passages

of great sweetness, nobility, and charm; but the modern reader soon

grows weary of enchanted forests, haunted by giants, dragons, and other

impossible monsters, of deserts where despairing lovers roam haggard and

forlorn, of dwarfs, goblins, wizards, and all the wild and grotesque

creations of the mediaeval fancy.

But in the times of which we are writing the passion for Books of

Chivalry rose to such a height that it became a serious public evil. In

Spain it reached its climax; and our humble gentleman of La Mancha is

only an extreme example of the effect which such studies produced on the

national mind. Being bitten by the craze for chivalrous fiction, he

gradually forsook all the healthy pursuits of a country life and gave

himself up entirely to reading such books as Amadis of Gaul, Palmerin of

England, and Belianis of Greece; and his infatuation reached such a

point that he sold several acres of good arable land to provide himself

with funds for the purchase of those ponderous folios with which we saw

him surrounded when he was first introduced to our notice. From dawn

till eve he pored over his darling books, and sometimes passed whole

nights in the same pursuit, until at last, having crammed his brain with

this perilous stuff, he began to imagine that these wild inventions were

sober reality. From this delusion there was but one step to the belief

that he himself was a principal actor in the adventures of which he

read; and when the fit was on him, he would take his sword and engage in

single combat with the creatures of his brain, stamping his feet and

alarming the household with his cries.

At first his frenzy was intermittent, and each attack was followed by a

lucid interval; but finally he lost his wits altogether and came to the

insane resolution of turning knight-errant and going out into the world

as the redresser of wrongs and the champion of the innocent. His

intention once formed, he at once took steps to carry it into effect.

From a dark corner of the house he brought out an old suit of armor,

which had been lying neglected for generations and was now covered with

mould and eaten with rust. He cleaned the pieces and repaired them as

well as he could; and observing that the helmet was a simple morion,

wanting a protection for the face, he made a vizor of pasteboard to

supply the defect. Then, wishing to prove the strength of his vizor, he

drew his sword and with one stroke destroyed what had cost him the labor

of a week. He was considerably shocked by the ease with which he had

demolished his handiwork; but having made a second vizor and

strengthened it with bars of iron, he did not choose to try any further

experiments, but accepted the helmet, thus fortified, as the finest

headpiece in the world.

Then he paid a visit to his old horse, and though the poor beast was a

mere living skeleton, broken-winded and with his feet full of

sandcracks, to his master's eyes he seemed a nobler steed than

Bucephalus, or Bavieca, the famous charger of the Cid. It was evident

that such a noble steed, who was to carry a warrior so famous, must have

a name by which all the world might know him; and accordingly, after

deliberating for four days and passing in review a multitude of titles,

he determined to call the beast Rozinante.

Having settled this weighty question, he next began to consider what

name he should assume himself, being by no means satisfied with that

which he had received from his father. Eight days were passed in

debating a matter so important to himself and to posterity, and at the

end of that time he resolved to call himself Don Quixote. But,

remembering that Amadis, not contented with his simple name, had taken

the additional title of Amadis of Gaul, he determined, in imitation of

that illustrious hero, his model and teacher in all things, to style

himself Don Quixote de La Mancha, and thereby confer immortal honor on

the land of his birth.

Nothing now remained but to choose a lady to be the mistress of his

affections and the load-star of his life; for, as he wisely reflected, a

knight-errant without a lady-love was like a tree without fruit or a

body without a soul. "If," he said to himself, "I should encounter some

giant, as commonly happens to knights-errant, and cut him in twain or

otherwise vanquish him and make him my prisoner, will it not be well to

have some lady to whom I may send him as a gift, so that he may enter

the presence of my sweet mistress and bow the knee before her, saying in

a humble and submissive voice: 'Lady, _I am the giant Caraculiambro,

vanquished in single combat by the knight Don Quixote de La Mancha,

whose praise no tongue can tell, and I have been commanded by him to

present myself to your grace, that you may dispose of me as your

Highness pleases_.'"

Our good knight was highly pleased with his own eloquence, and still

more so when he had made choice of his lady. In a neighboring village

there was a young girl, employed on a farm, with whom he had at one time

been in love, though he had never brought himself to declare his

passion. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and her he resolved to constitute

the queen of his heart, having conferred on her the sounding title of

Dulcinea del Toboso, or "The Sweet Lady of Toboso," the village where

she was born.

III. THE QUEST BEGINS

"The world is waiting for me," murmured our enthusiast, leaping from his

bed at the first peep of dawn and arming himself from head to foot. Then

treading softly, so as not to alarm the household, he went to the

stable, saddled Rozinante, and leading him out through a back gate of

the yard, mounted and rode forth into the plain, hugely delighted to

find himself fairly started on his great enterprise.

But hardly had he reached the open country when the terrible thought

occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight and by the laws of

chivalry was not entitled to engage in combat with any one who bore that

rank, and further, even if he were already a knight, he was obliged as a

novice to wear plain armor, without device of any kind. So much was he

perturbed by these reflections that he was within an ace of giving up

his whole design, and would have done so but for a happy inspiration,

which saved mankind from so dire a calamity. Many of the heroes of his

books of chivalry had got themselves dubbed knight by the first person

whom they met, and remembering this, he resolved to follow their

example. And as to his armor, he would rub and polish it until it was

whiter than ermine.

His scruples thus removed, he continued his journey, leaving his good

steed to choose what direction he pleased, as was the fashion with

knights-errant when they set out on their adventures. Thus pacing along

and dreaming of mighty deeds, he gave vent to his feelings in the

following rhapsody: "What a theme for the eloquence of some great master

of style--the feats of high emprise wrought by the valiant arm of Don

Quixote de La Mancha! Happy the pen which shall describe them, happy the

age which shall read the wondrous tale! And thou, brave steed, shalt

have thy part in the honor which is done to thy master, when poet and

sculptor and painter shall vie with one another in raising an eternal

monument to his fame."

Then recalling his part as an afflicted lover, he began to mourn his

hard lot in soft and plaintive tones: "O lady Dulcinea, queen of this

captive heart! Why hast thou withdrawn from me the light of thy

countenance and banished thy faithful servant from thy presence?

Shorten, I implore thee, the term of my penance and leave me not to

wither in solitude and despair."

Lost in these sublime and melancholy thoughts he rode slowly on from

hour to hour, until the sun became so hot that it was enough to melt his

brains, if he had possessed any. All that day he continued his journey

without meeting with any adventure, which vexed him sorely, for he was

eager to encounter some foeman worthy of his steel. Evening came on, and

both he and his horse were ready to drop with hunger and fatigue, when,

looking about him in search of some castle--or some hovel--where he

might find shelter and refreshment, he saw not far from the roadside a

small inn, and, setting spurs to Rozinante, rode up to the door at a

hobbling canter just as night was falling.

The inn was of the poorest and meanest description, frequented by

muleteers and other rude wayfarers; but to his perverted fancy it seemed

a turreted castle, with battlements of silver, drawbridge, and moat, and

all that belonged to a feudal fortress. Before the door were standing

two women, vagabonds of the lowest class, who were traveling in the

company of certain mule-drivers; but for him they were instantly

transformed into a pair of high-born maidens taking the air before the

castle gate.

To complete his illusion, just at this moment a swineherd, who was

collecting his drove from a neighboring stubble field, sounded a few

notes on his horn. This Don Quixote took for a signal which had been

given by some dwarf from the ramparts, to inform the inmates of the

castle of his approach; and so, with huge satisfaction, he lifted his

pasteboard vizor, and uncovering his haggard and dusty features, thus

addressed the women who were eyeing him with looks of no small alarm,

and evidently preparing to retreat: "Fly not, gracious ladies, neither

wrong me by dreaming that ye have aught to fear from me, for the order

of chivalry which I profess suffers not that I should do harm to any,

least of all to maidens of lofty lineage, such as I perceive you to be."

Hearing themselves accosted by that extraordinary figure in language to

which they were so little used, the women could not restrain their

mirth, but laughed so long and loud that Don Quixote began to be vexed

and said in a tone of grave rebuke, "Beauty and discourtesy are

ill-matched together, and unseemly is the laugh which folly breeds in a

vacant mind. Take not my words amiss, for I mean no offence, but am

ready to serve you with heart and hand."

At this dignified reproof, the damsels only laughed louder than before,

and there is no saying what might have come of it if the innkeeper, who

appeared at this moment, had not undertaken the office of peacemaker,

for which he was well fitted, being a fat, good-humored fellow, who

loved a quiet life. At first, when he saw that fantastic warrior on his

spectral steed, he was much inclined to join the girls in their noisy

merriment. But finding some ground for alarm in so many engines of war,

he contrived to swallow his laughter, and going up to Don Quixote, said

to him civilly enough: "If your honor is in search of quarters for the

night, you will find in this inn all that you require excepting a bed,

which is not to be had here."

Finding the governor of the fortress--that is to say, the landlord of

the inn--so obsequious, Don Quixote replied cheerfully: "Sir Castellan,

you will not find me hard to please, for

Arms are all my rich array,

My repose to fight alway."

"If that be your case, then," answered the innkeeper, humoring his

strange guest, "'tis plain that

Your couch is the field, your pillow a shield,

Your slumber a vigil from dusk until day:

and therefore you may dismount in the full assurance of finding under my

humble roof divers good reasons for keeping awake for a twelvemonth,

should such be your desire."

As he said this, he went and held the stirrup for Don Quixote, who was

so weak from his long fast that it cost him much pain and effort to

dismount. "I commend to thy especial care this my good steed," said he,

as soon as he had found his feet: "he is the rarest piece of horseflesh

that ever lived by bread."

The innkeeper bestowed but one glance on poor Rozinante, and finding

little to admire in him, he thrust him hastily into the stable and came

back to attend to the wants of his guest. Meanwhile Don Quixote

submitted to be disarmed by the young women, who had now made their

peace. Having removed his body armor, they tried to relieve him of his

helmet, which was attached to his neck by green ribbons. Being unable to

loose the knots, they proposed to cut the ribbons, but as he would not

allow them to do this, he was obliged to keep his helmet on all that

night, which made him the strangest and most diverting object that could

be imagined.

While the ladies were thus employed, our brave adventurer entertained

them with a strain of high-flown gallantry, seasoned with scraps from

the old ballads and romances which he had read. Not understanding a word

of what he said, they simply asked him, when they had finished, if he

wanted anything to eat. "A slight refection would not be ill-timed,"

answered Don Quixote, and learning that there was nothing to be had but

a "little trout," he bade them bring it with all speed. "Many little

trouts," he added jestingly, "will serve my turn as well as one big one.

Only let it be brought at once, for I begin to be conscious of a

wondrous void within the compass of my sword-belt."

The "little trout" proved to be neither more nor less than a dish of

stockfish, Poor John, or in plain English, salted cod, and that of the

rankest. An odor the reverse of savory heralded its approach, and Don

Quixote sat down at the table, which had been set, for coolness, before

the door, and applied himself to his lenten fare. But being much

incommoded by his helmet, he could not find the way to his mouth, and

remained staring in dismay at the reeking mess and the filthy black

bread which accompanied it, until one of the damsels, perceiving his

distress, came to his relief and fed him with small morsels, which she

deftly conveyed to their proper destination through the opening of his

helmet. To give him drink was a harder matter, but this problem was

solved with great ingenuity by the landlord, who brought a hollow cane,

and placing one end in his mouth, poured the wine in at the other.

And so in solemn silence, broken now and then by the stifled laughter of

the onlookers, the strange meal proceeded; and when it was nearly at an

end, a clownish fellow passed by, blowing on a rustic pipe. But for Don

Quixote, who had transformed the inn into a castle, the fat publican

into a powerful governor, and the vagabond damsels into high-born

ladies, it was an easy matter to find in those rude notes a strain of

rare music, provided for his delectation while he sat at table; and he

concluded his repast in a state of high satisfaction with his first

day's adventures.

IV. THE KNIGHTLY VIGIL

But one uncomfortable thought chilled the heat of his enthusiasm--he had

not yet been dubbed a knight and was therefore still unqualified to

engage in any chivalrous adventure. Accordingly, as soon as he had

finished his scanty and sordid meal, he took the landlord aside, and

shutting himself up with him in the stable and falling on his knees

before him, said: "I will never rise from this posture, valiant knight,

until thou hast granted me of thy courtesy the favor which I desire, and

which shall redound to thine honor and to the benefit of the human

race."

Dumbfoundered at the strange attitude and still stranger language of his

guest, the landlord stared at him, not knowing what to do or say. He

begged him to rise, but Don Quixote steadily refused, so that at last he

was obliged to give the promise required.

"I expected no less from your High Mightiness," answered Don Quixote.

"And now hear what I desire: to-morrow at dawn you shall dub me knight,

and to that end I will this night keep the vigil of arms in the chapel

of your castle, so that I may be ready to receive the order of chivalry

in the morning and forthwith set out on the path of toil and glory which

awaits those who follow the perilous profession of knight-errant."

By this time the landlord began to perceive that Don Quixote was not

right in his wits, and being somewhat of a wag he resolved to make

matter for mirth by humoring his whim; and so he replied that such

ambition was most laudable, and just what he would have looked for in a

gentleman of his gallant presence. He had himself, he said, been a

cavalier of fortune in his youth--which in a certain sense was true, for

he had been a notorious thief and rogue, known to every magistrate in

Spain--and now, in his declining years, he was living in the retirement

of his castle, where his chief pleasure was to entertain wandering

knights; which, being interpreted, meant that he was a rascally landlord

and grew fat by cheating the unfortunate travelers who stayed at his

inn.

Then he went on to say that, with regard to the vigil of arms, it could

be held in the courtyard of the castle, as the chapel had been pulled

down to make place for a new one. "And to-morrow," he concluded, "you

shall be dubbed a knight--a full knight, and a perfect knight, so that

none shall be more so in all the world."

Having thanked the landlord for his kindness, and promised to obey him,

as his adoptive father, in all things, Don Quixote at once prepared to

perform the vigil of arms. Collecting his armor, he laid the several

pieces in a horse-trough which stood in the center of the inn-yard, and

then, taking his shield on his arm and grasping his lance, he began to

pace up and down with high-bred dignity before the trough.

The landlord had lost no time in informing those who were staying at the

inn of the mad freaks of his guest, and a little crowd was gathered to

watch his proceedings from a distance, which they were the better able

to do as the moon was shining with unusual brightness. Sometimes they

saw him stalking to and fro, with serene composure, and sometimes he

would pause in his march and stand for a good while leaning on his lance

and scanning his armor with a fixed and earnest gaze.

While this was going on, one of the mule-drivers took it into his head

to water his team, and approaching the horse-trough prepared to remove

Don Quixote's armor, which was in his way. Perceiving his intentions,

Don Quixote cried to him in a loud voice, saying: "O thou, whoever thou

art, audacious knight who drawest near to touch the armor of the bravest

champion that ever girt on sword, look what thou doest, and touch it

not, if thou wouldst not pay for thy rashness with thy life!"

The valiant defiance was thrown away on the muleteer, whose thick head

needed other arguments, and taking the armor by the straps, he flung it

a good way from him. Which when Don Quixote saw, he raised his eyes to

heaven, and fixing his thoughts (as may be supposed) on his lady

Dulcinea, he exclaimed: "Shine on me, light of my life, now, when the

first insult is offered to my devoted heart! Let not thy countenance and

favor desert me in this, my first adventure."

As he put up this pious appeal he let go his shield, and lifting his

lance in both hands, brought it down with such force on the muleteer's

head that he fell senseless to the ground; and if the blow had been

followed by another, he would have needed no physician to cure him.

Having done this, Don Quixote collected his armor, and began pacing up

and down again, with the same tranquility as before.

Presently another muleteer, knowing nothing of what had happened, came

up to the trough with the same intention as the first and was about to

lay hands on the armor when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or

asking favor of any one, once more lifted his lance and dealt the fellow

two smart strokes, which made two cross gashes on his crown.

Meanwhile the alarm had been raised in the house, and the whole troop of

muleteers now came running to avenge their comrades. Seeing himself

threatened by a general assault, Don Quixote drew his sword, and

thrusting his arm into his shield cried: "Queen of Beauty, who givest

power and might to this feeble heart, now let thine eyes be turned upon

thy slave, who stands on the threshold of so great a peril."

His words were answered by the muleteers with a shower of stones, which

he kept off as well as he could with his shield. At the noise of the

fray the innkeeper came puffing up, and called upon the muleteers to

desist. "The man is mad," said he, "as I told you before, and the law

cannot touch him, though he should kill you all."

"Ha! art thou there, base and recreant knight?" shouted Don Quixote in a

voice of thunder. "Is this thy hospitality to knights-errant? 'Tis well

for thee that I have not yet received the order of knighthood, or I

would have paid thee home for this outrage. As to you, base and sordid

pack, I care not for you a straw. Come one, come all, and take the wages

of your folly and presumption."

His tones were so threatening, and his aspect was so formidable, that he

struck terror into the hearts of his assailants, who drew back and left

off throwing stones; and, after some further parley, he allowed them to

carry off the wounded, and returned with unruffled dignity to the vigil

of arms.

The landlord was now thoroughly tired of his guest's wild antics, and,

resolving to make an end of the business, lest worse should come of it,

he went up to Don Quixote and asked pardon for the violence of that

low-born rabble, who had acted, he said, without his knowledge, and had

been properly chastised for their temerity. He added that the ceremony

of conferring knighthood might be performed in any place, and that two

hours sufficed for the vigil of arms, so that Don Quixote had fulfilled

this part of his duty twice over, as he had now been watching for double

that time.

All this was firmly believed by Don Quixote, and he requested that he

might be made a knight without further delay; for if, he said, he were

attacked again, after receiving the order of chivalry, he was determined

not to leave a soul alive in the castle, excepting those to whom he

might show mercy at the governor's desire.

The landlord, whose anxiety was increased by this alarming threat, went

and fetched a book in which he kept his accounts, and came back,

attended by a boy who carried a stump of candle, and by the two damsels

aforesaid. Then, bidding Don Quixote to kneel before him, he began to

murmur words from his book, in the tone of one who was saying his

prayers, and in the midst of his reading he raised his hand and gave Don

Quixote a smart blow on the neck, and then taking the sword laid it

gently on his shoulder, muttering all the time between his teeth with

the same air of devotion. Then he directed one of the ladies to gird on

his sword, which she did with equal liveliness and discretion--and she

had much need of the latter quality to prevent an explosion of

laughter--; however, the specimen which the new knight had just given of

his prowess kept their merriment in check.

When his spurs had been buckled on by the other damsel, the ceremony was

completed, and after some further compliments Don Quixote saddled

Rozinante and rode forth, a new-made knight, ready to astonish the world

with feats of arms and chivalry. The innkeeper, who was glad to see the

last of him, let him go without making any charge for what he had

consumed.

V. ON HONOR'S FIELD

On leaving the inn Don Quixote turned his horse's steps homewards, being

resolved to obtain a supply of money, and, above all, to provide himself

with a squire before seeking more distant scenes of adventure. Presently

he came to a cross-road, and after hesitating a moment, he resolved to

imitate his favorite heroes by leaving the direction to his steed, who

immediately took the nearest way to his stable. After advancing about

two leagues, our knight came in view of a great troop of people, who, as

it afterwards turned out, were merchants of Toledo, on their way to

Murcia to buy silk. There were six of them jogging comfortably along

under their umbrellas, with four servants on horseback, and three

mule-drivers walking and leading their beasts.

Here was a new opportunity, as Don Quixote thought, of displaying his

knightly valor, so he settled himself firmly in his stirrups, grasped

his lance, covered his breast with his shield, and stood waiting for the

arrival of those knights-errant,--for such he judged them to be; and

when they were come within hearing, he raised his voice and cried with

an air of proud defiance: "Halt, every mother's son of you, and confess

that in all the world there is no damsel more beautiful than the empress

of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso!"

Hearing the strange words and seeing the extravagant figure of him who

uttered them, the merchants drew up, and one of them, who was of a

waggish disposition, answered for the whole company and said: "Sir

Knight, we do not know the good lady of whom you speak; let us see her,

and if she is of such beauty as you describe, we will most gladly make

the confession which you require."

"If you were to see her," replied Don Quixote, "you must needs be

convinced that what I say is true, and that would be a poor triumph for

me. No, on the faith of my word alone, you must believe it, confess it,

assert it, swear to it, and maintain it! If not, I defy you to battle,

ye sons of lawlessness and arrogance! Here I stand ready to receive you,

whether ye come singly, as the rule of knighthood demands, or all

together, as is the custom with churls like you."

"Sir Knight," answered the merchant, "I entreat you in the name of all

this noble company, that you constrain us not to lay perjury to our

souls by swearing to a thing which we have neither seen nor heard. Show

us, at least, some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a

grain of wheat, that our scruples may be satisfied. For so strongly are

we disposed in favor of the fair dame, that even if the picture should

exhibit her squinting with one eye, and dropping brimstone and vermilion

from the other, for all that we will vow and profess that she is as

lovely as you say."

"There drops not from her," shouted Don Quixote, aflame with fury,

"there drops not, I say, that which thou namest, but only sweet perfumes

and pearly dew. Neither is she cross-eyed nor hunch-backed, but straight

and slender as a peak of Guadarrama. But ye shall pay for the monstrous

blasphemy which ye have spoken against the angelic beauty of my lady and

queen."

With these words he leveled his lance and hurled himself upon the

speaker with such vigor and frenzy that if Rozinante had not chanced to

stumble and fall in mid career, the rash merchant would have paid dear

for his jest. Down went Rozinante, and his master rolled over and over

for some distance across the plain. Being brought up at last by a

projecting rock, he made frantic efforts to rise, but was kept down by

the weight of his armor and lay plunging and kicking on his back, but

ceased not for a moment to hurl threats and defiances at his laughing

foes. "Fly not, ye cowards, ye dastards! Wait awhile! Tis not by my

fault, but by the fault of my horse that I lie prostrate here."

One of the mule-drivers, who was somewhat hot-tempered, was so provoked

by the haughty language of the poor fallen knight, that he resolved to

give him the answer on his ribs, and running up he snatched the lance

from Don Quixote's hands, broke it in pieces, and taking one of them

began to beat him with such good-will that in spite of the armor he

bruised him like wheat in a mill-hopper. And he found the exercise so

much to his liking that he continued it until he had shivered every

fragment of the broken lance into splinters. Nevertheless he could not

stop the mouth of our valiant knight, who during all that tempest of

blows went on defying heaven and earth and shouting menaces against

those bandits, as he now supposed them to be.

At length the mule-driver grew weary, and the whole party rode off,

leaving the battered champion on the ground. When they were gone he made

another attempt to rise. But if he failed when he was sound and whole,

how much less could he do it now that he was almost hammered to pieces!

Notwithstanding, his heart was light and gay, for in his own fancy he

was a hero of romance, lying covered with wounds on honor's field.

VI. THE RETURN HOME

Two days had passed since Don Quixote left his home, and his niece and

his housekeeper were growing very anxious about him. More than once they

had heard him declare his intention to turn knight-errant, and they

began to fear that he had carried out his mad design. On the evening of

the second day, a few hours after he had been so roughly handled by the

muleteer, they heard a loud voice calling outside the street door: "Open

to Sir Baldwin and the Lord Marquis of Mantua, who is brought to your

gates grievously wounded." They made haste to unbar the door, and when

it was opened they saw a strange sight: mounted on an ass, whose head

was held by a laboring man of the village, sat Don Quixote, huddled

together in a most uncavalier-like posture, his armor all battered and

his face begrimed with dirt. Hard by stood Rozinante, a woeful object,

crooking his knees and drooping his head; and tied in a bundle on his

back were the splintered fragments of Don Quixote's lance.

When they saw who it was, they gathered round him with eager questions

and cries of welcome; but he checked them with a gesture and said:

"Control yourselves, all of you! I am grievously hurt, and if it be

possible let some one go and fetch Urganda the wise woman, that she may

examine and heal my wounds."

"Alack-a-day!" cried the housekeeper, lifting up her hands. "Did I not

tell you, gentlemen, that I knew on which foot my master halted? Come,

dear sir, and we will cure you, without the help of Urganda or anyone

else." And with many maledictions against the books of chivalry which

had done the kind gentleman so ill a turn, she assisted him to dismount,

and amongst them they carried him to his room, took off his armor, and

laid him on his bed. Then they inquired where he was hurt, and Don

Quixote exclaimed that he was bruised from head to foot, having been

thrown from his horse in an encounter with ten giants, the most

outrageous and ferocious in the world.

VII. THE BATTLE WITH THE WINDMILLS

For two weeks Don Quixote remained peacefully at home, and many were the

pleasant discussions which passed between him and his old friends, the

priest and barber, on his favorite theme--the pressing need of reviving

the profession of knight-errantry, and his own peculiar fitness for

rendering this great service to the world. All this time he was secretly

negotiating with a certain peasant, a neighbor of his, whose name was

Sancho Panza, an honest, poor man, not much better furnished with wits

than the knight himself. This simple fellow lent a ready ear to his

grand tales of glory and conquest, and at last consented to follow him

as his squire, being especially tempted by certain mysterious hints

which Don Quixote let fall concerning an "Isle," of which his new master

promised to make him governor at the first opportunity.

This matter being arranged Don Quixote patched up his armor, obtained a

new lance, and having provided himself with a sum of money, gave notice

to his squire of the day on which he proposed to start. Sancho, who was

short and fat and little used to traveling on foot, asked leave to bring

his ass, remarking that it was a very good one. This proposal gave the

knight pause, for, try as he would, he could remember no authority for a

squire on a long-eared charger; but finally he gave the required

permission, resolving to furnish him with a worthier steed as soon as

possible, by taking the horse of the first discourteous knight whom he

met.

When all was ready they set off together one night, without taking leave

of their families, and rode steadily on, so that by daybreak they were

beyond the reach of pursuit. Sancho Panza sat his ass like a patriarch,

carrying with him his saddle-bags and leather bottle; and all his

thoughts were of the Isle which his master had promised him. Don Quixote

was lost in loftier meditations until he was roused from his reverie by

the voice of his squire, who said: "I hope your Grace has not forgotten

the Isle which I was to have, for I shall know well how to govern it,

however big it may be."

"As to that," replied Don Quixote "thou needest have no fear; I shall

only be complying with an ancient and honorable custom of

knights-errant, and, indeed, I purpose to improve on their practice,

for, instead of waiting, as they often did, until thou art worn out in

my service, I shall seek the first occasion to bestow on thee this gift;

and it may be that before a week has passed thou wilt be crowned king of

that Isle."

"Well," said Sancho, "if this miracle should come to pass, my good wife

Joan will be a queen and my sons young princes."

"Who doubts it?" answered Don Quixote.

"I do," rejoined Sancho. "My Joan a queen! Nay, if it rained crowns, I

don't believe that one would ever settle on my dame's head. Believe me,

your honor, she's not worth three farthings as a queen; she might manage

as a countess, though that would be hard enough."

"Think not so meanly of thyself, Sancho," said Don Quixote, gravely.

"Marquis is the very least title which I intend for thee, if thou wilt

be content with that."

"That I will, and heaven bless your honor," said Sancho heartily. "I

will take what you give and be thankful, knowing that you will not make

the burden too heavy for my back."

Chatting thus, they reached the top of rising ground and saw before them

thirty or forty windmills in the plain below; and as soon as Don Quixote

set eyes on them he said to his squire: "Friend Sancho, we are in luck

to-day! See, there stands a troop of monstrous giants, thirty or more,

and with them I will forthwith do battle and slay them every one. With

their spoils we will lay the foundation of our fortune, as is the

victor's right; moreover it is doing heaven good service to sweep this

generation of vipers from off the face of the earth."

"What giants do you mean?" asked Sancho Panza.

"Those whom thou seest yonder," answered his master, "with the long

arms, which in such creatures are sometimes two leagues in length."

"What is your honor thinking of?" cried Sancho. "Those are not giants,

but windmills, and their arms, as you call them, are the sails, which,

being driven by the wind, set the millstones going."

"'Tis plain," said Don Quixote, "that thou hast still much to learn in

our school of adventures. I tell thee they are giants, and if thou art

afraid, keep out of the way and pass the time in prayer while I am

engaged with them in fierce and unequal battle."

Saying this, he set spurs to Rozinante, and turning a deaf ear to the

cries of Sancho, who kept repeating that the supposed giants were

nothing but windmills, he thundered across the plain, shouting at the

top of his voice: "Fly not, ye cowardly loons, for it is only a single

knight who is coming to attack you!"

Just at this moment there came a puff of wind, which set the sails in

motion; seeing which, Don Quixote cried: "Ay, swing your arms! If ye had

more of them than Briareos himself, I would make you pay for it." Then,

with a heartfelt appeal to his lady Dulcinea, he charged full gallop at

the nearest mill, and pierced the descending sail with his lance. The

weapon was shivered to pieces, and horse and rider, caught by the sweep

of the sail, were sent rolling with great violence across the plain.

"Heaven preserve us!" cried Sancho, who had followed as fast as his ass

could trot, and found his master lying very still by the side of his

steed. "Did I not warn your honor that those things were windmills and

not giants at all? Surely none could fail to see it, unless he had such

another whirligig in his own pate!"

"Be silent, good Sancho!" replied Don Quixote, "and know that the things

of war, beyond all others, are subject to continual mutation. Moreover,

in the present case I think, nay, I am sure, that an alien power has

been at work, even that wicked enchanter Friston; he it is who has

changed those giants into windmills to rob me of the honor of their

defeat. But in the end all his evil devices shall be baffled by my good

sword."

"Heaven grant that it may be so!" said Sancho, assisting him to rise;

and the knight then remounted Rozinante, whose shoulders were almost

splayed by his fall, and turned his face towards the Puerto Lapice, a

rugged mountain pass through which ran the main road from Madrid to

Andalusia; for such a place, he thought, could not fail to afford rich

and varied matter for adventures.

412

One of the best of Mr. Scudder's many fine

compilations for children is his _Book of

Legends_ from which the following story is

taken. It is the same story that Longfellow

tells in his _Tales of a Wayside Inn_ under the

title of "King Robert of Sicily." ("The Proud

King" is used here by permission of and special

arrangement with the publishers, The Houghton

Mifflin Co., Boston.)

THE PROUD KING

HORACE E. SCUDDER

There was once a king who ruled over many lands; he went to war, and

added one country after another to his kingdom. At last he came to be

emperor, and that is as much as any man can be. One night, after he was

crowned emperor, he lay awake and thought about himself.

"Surely," he said, "no one can be greater than I am, on earth or in

heaven."

The proud king fell asleep with these thoughts. When he awoke, the day

was fair, and he looked out on the pleasant world.

"Come," he said to the men about him; "to-day we will go a-hunting."

The horses were brought, the dogs came leaping, the horns sounded, and

the proud king with his courtiers rode off to the sport. They had hunted

all the morning, and were now in a deep wood. In the fields the sun had

beat upon their heads, and they were glad of the shade of the trees; but

the proud king wished for something more. He saw a lake not far off, and

he said to his men:

"Bide ye here, while I bathe in the lake and cool myself."

Then he rode apart till he came to the shore of the lake. There he got

down from his horse, laid aside his clothes, and plunged into the cool

water. He swam about, and sometimes dived beneath the surface, and so

was once more cool and fresh.

Now while the proud king was swimming away from the shore and diving to

the bottom, there came one who had the same face and form as the king.

He drew near the shore, dressed himself in the king's clothes, mounted

the king's horse and rode away. So when the proud king was once more

cool and fresh, and came to the place where he had left his clothes and

his horse, there were no clothes to be seen, and no horse.

The proud king looked about, but saw no man. He called, but no one heard

him. The air was mild, but the wood was dark, and no sunshine came

through to warm him after his cool bath. He walked by the shore of the

lake and cast about in his mind what he should do.