So by wildsome ways in strange countries and through many waters and
valleys rode Martimor forty days, but adventure met him none, blow the
wind never so fierce or fickle. Neither dragons, nor giants, nor false
knights, nor distressed ladies, nor fays, nor kings imprisoned could he
find.
“These are ill times for adventure,” said he, “the world is full of meat
and sleepy. Now must I ride farther afield and undertake some ancient,
famous quest wherein other knights have failed and fallen. Either I
shall follow the Questing Beast with Sir Palamides, or I shall find
Merlin at the great stone whereunder the Lady of the Lake enchanted him
and deliver him from that enchantment, or I shall assay the cleansing
of the Forest Perilous, or I shall win the favour of La Belle Dame Sans
Merci, or mayhap I shall adventure the quest of the Sangreal. One or
other of these will I achieve, or bleed the best blood of my body.” Thus
pondering and dreaming he came by the road down a gentle hill with close
woods on either hand; and so into a valley with a swift river flowing
through it; and on the river a Mill.
So white it stood among the trees, and so merrily whirred the wheel as
the water turned it, and so bright blossomed the flowers in the garden,
that Martimor had joy of the sight, for it minded him of his own
country. “But here is no adventure,” thought he, and made to ride by.
Even then came a young maid suddenly through the garden crying and
wringing her hands. And when she saw him she cried him help. At this
Martimor alighted quickly and ran into the garden, where the young maid
soon led him to the millpond, which was great and deep, and made him
understand that her little hound was swept away by the water and was
near to perishing.
There saw he a red and white brachet, caught by the swift stream that
ran into the race, fast swimming as ever he could swim, yet by no means
able to escape. Then Martimor stripped off his harness and leaped into
the water and did marvellously to rescue the little hound. But the
fierce river dragged his legs, and buffeted him, and hurtled at him, and
drew him down, as it were an enemy wrestling with him, so that he had
much ado to come where the brachet was, and more to win back again, with
the brachet in his arm, to the dry land.
Which when he had done he was clean for-spent and fell upon the ground
as a dead man. At this the young maid wept yet more bitterly than she
had wept for her hound, and cried aloud, “Alas, if so goodly a man
should spend his life for my little brachet!” So she took his head upon
her knee and cherished him and beat the palms of his hands, and the
hound licked his face. And when Martimor opened his eyes he saw the face
of the maid that it was fair as any flower.
Then was she shamed, and put him gently from her knee, and began to
thank him and to ask with what she might reward him for the saving of
the brachet.
“A night’s lodging and a day’s cheer,” quoth Martimor.
“As long as thee liketh,” said she, “for my father, the miller, will
return ere sundown, and right gladly will he have a guest so brave.”
“Longer might I like,” said he, “but longer may I not stay, for I ride
in a quest and seek great adventures to become a knight.”
So they bestowed the horse in the stable, and went into the Mill; and
when the miller was come home they had such good cheer with eating of
venison and pan-cakes, and drinking of hydromel, and singing of pleasant
ballads, that Martimor clean forgot he was in a delay. And going to his
bed in a fair garret he dreamed of the Maid of the Mill, whose name was
Lirette.