In the morning Martimor lay late and thought large thoughts of his
quest, and whither it might lead him, and to what honour it should bring
him. As he dreamed thus, suddenly he heard in the hall below a trampling
of feet and a shouting, with the voice of Lirette crying and shrieking.
With that he sprang out of his bed, and caught up his sword and dagger,
leaping lightly and fiercely down the stair.
There he saw three foul churls, whereof two strove with the miller,
beating him with great clubs, while the third would master the Maid and
drag her away to do her shame, but she fought shrewdly. Then Martimor
rushed upon the churls, shouting for joy, and there was a great medley
of breaking chairs and tables and cursing and smiting, and with his
sword he gave horrible strokes.
One of the knaves that fought with the miller, he smote upon the
shoulder and clave him to the navel. And at the other he foined fiercely
so that the point of the sword went through his back and stuck fast in
the wall. But the third knave, that was the biggest and the blackest,
and strove to bear away the Maid, left bold of her, and leaped upon
Martimor and caught him by the middle and crushed him so that his ribs
cracked.
Thus they weltered and wrung together, and now one of them was above
and now the other; and ever as they wallowed Martimor smote him with his
dagger, but there came forth no blood, only water.
Then the black churl broke away from him and ran out at the door of the
mill, and Martimor after. So they ran through the garden to the river,
and there the churl sprang into the water, and swept away raging and
foaming. And as he went he shouted, “Yet will I put thee to the worse,
and mar the Mill, and have the Maid!”’
Then Martimor cried, “Never while I live shalt thou mar the Mill or have
the Maid, thou foul, black, misbegotten churl!” So he returned to the
Mill, and there the damsel Lirette made him to understand that these
three churls were long time enemies of the Mill, and sought ever to
destroy it and to do despite to her and her father. One of them was
Ignis, and another was Ventus, and these were the twain that he had
smitten. But the third, that fled down the river (and he was ever the
fiercest and the most outrageous), his name was Flumen, for he dwelt in
the caves of the stream, and was the master of it before the Mill was
built.
“And now,” wept the Maid, “he must have had his will with me and with
the Mill, but for God’s mercy, thanked be our Lord Jesus!”
“Thank me too,” said Mlartimor.
“So I do,” said Lirette, and she kissed him. “Yet am I heavy at heart
and fearful, for my father is sorely mishandled and his arm is broken,
so that he cannot tend the Mill nor guard it. And Flumen is escaped;
surely he will harm us again. Now I know not, where I shall look for
help.”
“Why not here?” said Martimor.
Then Lirette looked him in the face, smiling a little sorrily. “But thou
ridest in a quest,” quoth she, “thou mayst not stay from thy adventures.”
“A month,” said he.
“Till my father be well?” said she.
“A month,” said he.
“Till thou hast put Flumen to the worse?” said she.
“Right willingly would I have to do with that base, slippery knave
again,” said he, “but more than a month I may not stay, for my quest
calls me and I must win worship of men or ever I become a knight.”
So they bound up the miller’s wounds and set the Mill in order. But
Martimor had much to do to learn the working of the Mill; and they were
busied with the grinding of wheat and rye and barley and divers kinds of
grain; and the millers hurts were mended every day; and at night there
was merry rest and good cheer; and Martimor talked with the Maid of
the great adventure that he must find; and thus the delay endured in
pleasant wise.