LANCELOT

or, The Knight of the Cart

(Vv. 1-30.) Since my lady of Champagne wishes me to undertake to write a

romance, [41] I shall very gladly do so, being so devoted to her

service as to do anything in the world for her, without any intention

of flattery. But if one were to introduce any flattery upon such an

occasion, he might say, and I would subscribe to it, that this lady

surpasses all others who are alive, just as the south wind which blows

in May or April is more lovely than any other wind. But upon my word, I

am not one to wish to flatter my lady. I will simply say: "The Countess

is worth as many queens as a gem is worth of pearls and sards." Nay I

shall make no comparison, and yet it is true in spite of me; I will say,

however, that her command has more to do with this work than any thought

or pains that I may expend upon it. Here Chrétien begins his book about

the Knight of the Cart. The material and the treatment of it are given

and furnished to him by the Countess, and he is simply trying to carry

out her concern and intention. Here he begins the story.

(Vv. 31-172.) Upon a certain Ascension Day King Arthur had come from

Caerleon, and had held a very magnificent court at Camelot as was

fitting on such a day. [42] After the feast the King did not quit his

noble companions, of whom there were many in the hall. The Queen was

present, too, and with her many a courteous lady able to converse in

French. And Kay, who had furnished the meal, was eating with the others

who had served the food. While Kay was sitting there at meat, behold

there came to court a knight, well equipped and fully armed, and thus

the knight appeared before the King as he sat among his lords. He gave

him no greeting, but spoke out thus: "King Arthur, I hold in captivity

knights, ladies, and damsels who belong to thy dominion and household;

but it is not because of any intention to restore them to thee that I

make reference to them here; rather do I wish to proclaim and serve thee

notice that thou hast not the strength or the resources to enable thee

to secure them again. And be assured that thou shalt die before thou

canst ever succour them." The King replies that he must needs endure

what he has not the power to change; nevertheless, he is filled with

grief. Then the knight makes as if to go away, and turns about, without

tarrying longer before the King; but after reaching the door of the

hall, he does not go down the stairs, but stops and speaks from there

these words: "King, if in thy court there is a single knight in whom

thou hast such confidence that thou wouldst dare to entrust to him the

Queen that he might escort her after me out into the woods whither I am

going, I will promise to await him there, and will surrender to thee all

the prisoners whom I hold in exile in my country if he is able to defend

the Queen and if he succeeds in bringing her back again." Many who

were in the palace heard this challenge, and the whole court was in

an uproar. Kay, too, heard the news as he sat at meat with those who

served. Leaving the table, he came straight to the King, and as if

greatly enraged, he began to say: "O King, I have served thee long,

faithfully, and loyally; now I take my leave, and shall go away, having

no desire to serve thee more." The King was grieved at what he heard,

and as soon as he could, he thus replied to him: "Is this serious, or

a joke?" And Kay replied: "O King, fair sire, I have no desire to jest,

and I take my leave quite seriously. No other reward or wages do I wish

in return for the service I have given you. My mind is quite made up to

go away immediately." "Is it in anger or in spite that you wish to

go?" the King inquired; "seneschal, remain at court, as you have done

hitherto, and be assured that I have nothing in the world which I would

not give you at once in return for your consent to stay." "Sire," says

Kay, "no need of that. I would not accept for each day's pay a measure

of fine pure gold." Thereupon, the King in great dismay went off to

seek the Queen. "My lady," he says, "you do not know the demand that the

seneschal makes of me. He asks me for leave to go away, and says he will

no longer stay at court; the reason of this I do not know. But he will

do at your request what he will not do for me. Go to him now, my lady

dear. Since he will not consent to stay for my sake, pray him to remain

on your account, and if need be, fall at his feet, for I should never

again be happy if I should lose his company." [43] The King sends the

Queen to the seneschal, and she goes to him. Finding him with the rest,

she went up to him, and said: "Kay, you may be very sure that I am

greatly troubled by the news I have heard of you. I am grieved to say

that I have been told it is your intention to leave the King. How does

this come about? What motive have you in your mind? I cannot think that

you are so sensible or courteous as usual. I want to ask you to remain:

stay with us here, and grant my prayer." "Lady," he says, "I give you

thanks; nevertheless, I shall not remain." The Queen again makes her

request, and is joined by all the other knights. And Kay informs her

that he is growing tired of a service which is unprofitable. Then the

Queen prostrates herself at full length before his feet. Kay beseeches

her to rise, but she says that she will never do so until he grants her

request. Then Kay promises her to remain, provided the King and she will

grant in advance a favour he is about to ask. "Kay," she says, "he will

grant it, whatever it may be. Come now, and we shall tell him that upon

this condition you will remain." So Kay goes away with the Queen to the

King's presence. The Queen says: "I have had hard work to detain Kay;

but I have brought him here to you with the understanding that you will

do what he is going to ask." The King sighed with satisfaction, and said

that he would perform whatever request he might make.

(Vv. 173-246.) "Sire," says Kay, "hear now what I desire, and what is

the gift you have promised me. I esteem myself very fortunate to gain

such a boon with your consent. Sire, you have pledged your word that you

would entrust to me my lady here, and that we should go after the knight

who awaits us in the forest." Though the King is grieved, he trusts him

with the charge, for he never went back upon his word. But it made

him so ill-humoured and displeased that it plainly showed in his

countenance. The Queen, for her part, was sorry too, and all those

of the household say that Kay had made a proud, outrageous, and mad

request. Then the King took the Queen by the hand, and said: "My lady,

you must accompany Kay without making objection." And Kay said: "Hand

her over to me now, and have no fear, for I shall bring her back

perfectly happy and safe." The King gives her into his charge, and he

takes her off. After them all the rest go out, and there is not one who

is not sad. You must know that the seneschal was fully armed, and his

horse was led into the middle of the courtyard, together with a palfrey,

as is fitting, for the Queen. The Queen walked up to the palfrey, which

was neither restive nor hard-mouthed. Grieving and sad, with a sigh the

Queen mounts, saying to herself in a low voice, so that no one could

hear: "Alas, alas, if you only knew it, I am sure you would never allow

me without interference to be led away a step." [44] She thought she

had spoken in a very low tone; but Count Guinable heard her, who was

standing by when she mounted. When they started away, as great a lament

was made by all the men and women present as if she already lay dead

upon a bier. They do not believe that she will ever in her life come

back. The seneschal in his impudence takes her where that other knight

is awaiting her. But no one was so much concerned as to undertake to

follow him; until at last my lord Gawain thus addressed the King his

uncle: "Sire," he says, "you have done a very foolish thing, which

causes me great surprise; but if you will take my advice, while they are

still near by, I and you will ride after them, and all those who wish

to accompany us. For my part, I cannot restrain myself from going in

pursuit of them at once. It would not be proper for us not to go after

them, at least far enough to learn what is to become of the Queen,

and how Kay is going to comport himself." "Ah, fair nephew," the King

replied, "you have spoken courteously. And since you have undertaken the

affair, order our horses to be led out bridled and saddled that there

may be no delay in setting out."

(Vv. 247-398.) The horses are at once brought out, all ready and with

the saddles on. First the King mounts, then my lord Gawain, and all the

others rapidly. Each one, wishing to be of the party, follows his own

will and starts away. Some were armed, but there were not a few without

their arms. My lord Gawain was armed, and he bade two squires lead by

the bridle two extra steeds. And as they thus approached the forest,

they saw Kay's horse running out; and they recognised him, and saw that

both reins of the bridle were broken. The horse was running wild, the

stirrup-straps all stained with blood, and the saddle-bow was broken and

damaged. Every one was chagrined at this, and they nudged each other and

shook their heads. My lord Gawain was riding far in advance of the rest

of the party, and it was not long before he saw coming slowly a knight

on a horse that was sore, painfully tired, and covered with sweat. The

knight first saluted my lord Gawain, and his greeting my lord Gawain

returned. Then the knight, recognising my lord Gawain, stopped and thus

spoke to him: "You see, sir, my horse is in a sweat and in such case as

to be no longer serviceable. I suppose that those two horses belong to

you now, with the understanding that I shall return the service and the

favour, I beg you to let me have one or the other of them, either as a

loan or outright as a gift." And he answers him: "Choose whichever you

prefer." Then he who was in dire distress did not try to select the

better or the fairer or the larger of the horses, but leaped quickly

upon the one which was nearer to him, and rode him off. Then the one he

had just left fell dead, for he had ridden him hard that day, so that

he was used up and overworked. The knight without delay goes pricking

through the forest, and my lord Gawain follows in pursuit of him with

all speed, until he reaches the bottom of a hill. And when he had gone

some distance, he found the horse dead which he had given to the knight,

and noticed that the ground had been trampled by horses, and that broken

shields and lances lay strewn about, so that it seemed that there had

been a great combat between several knights, and he was very sorry and

grieved not to have been there. However, he did not stay there long, but

rapidly passed on until he saw again by chance the knight all alone on

foot, completely armed, with helmet laced, shield hanging from his neck,

and with his sword girt on. He had overtaken a cart. In those days such

a cart served the same purpose as does a pillory now; and in each good

town where there are more than three thousand such carts nowadays, in

those times there was only one, and this, like our pillories, had to do

service for all those who commit murder or treason, and those who are

guilty of any delinquency, and for thieves who have stolen others'

property or have forcibly seized it on the roads. Whoever was convicted

of any crime was placed upon a cart and dragged through all the streets,

and he lost henceforth all his legal rights, and was never afterward

heard, honoured, or welcomed in any court. The carts were so dreadful in

those days that the saying was then first used: "When thou dost see and

meet a cart, cross thyself and call upon God, that no evil may befall

thee." The knight on foot, and without a lance, walked behind the cart,

and saw a dwarf sitting on the shafts, who held, as a driver does, a

long goad in his hand. Then he cries out: "Dwarf, for God's sake,

tell me now if thou hast seen my lady, the Queen, pass by here." The

miserable, low-born dwarf would not give him any news of her, but

replied: "If thou wilt get up into the cart I am driving thou shalt

hear to-morrow what has happened to the Queen." Then he kept on his way

without giving further heed. The knight hesitated only for a couple of

steps before getting in. Yet, it was unlucky for him that he shrank from

the disgrace, and did not jump in at once; for he will later rue his

delay. But common sense, which is inconsistent with love's dictates,

bids him refrain from getting in, warning him and counselling him to do

and undertake nothing for which he may reap shame and disgrace. Reason,

which dares thus speak to him, reaches only his lips, but not his heart;

but love is enclosed within his heart, bidding him and urging him to

mount at once upon the cart. So he jumps in, since love will have it

so, feeling no concern about the shame, since he is prompted by love's

commands. And my lord Gawain presses on in haste after the cart, and

when he finds the knight sitting in it, his surprise is great. "Tell

me," he shouted to the dwarf, "if thou knowest anything of the Queen."

And he replied: "If thou art so much thy own enemy as is this knight

who is sitting here, get in with him, if it be thy pleasure, and I

will drive thee along with him." When my lord Gawain heard that, he

considered it great foolishness, and said that he would not get in, for

it would be dishonourable to exchange a horse for a cart: "Go on, and

wherever thy journey lies, I will follow after thee."

(Vv. 399-462.) Thereupon they start ahead, one mounted on his horse, the

other two riding in the cart, and thus they proceed in company. Late in

the afternoon they arrive at a town, which, you must know, was very

rich and beautiful. All three entered through the gate; the people are

greatly amazed to see the knight borne upon the cart, and they take no

pains to conceal their feelings, but small and great and old and young

shout taunts at him in the streets, so that the knight hears many vile

and scornful words at his expense. [45] They all inquire: "To what

punishment is this knight to be consigned? Is he to be rayed, or hanged,

or drowned, or burned upon a fire of thorns? Tell us, thou dwarf,

who art driving him, in what crime was he caught? Is he convicted of

robbery? Is he a murderer, or a criminal?" And to all this the dwarf

made no response, vouchsafing to them no reply. He conducts the knight

to a lodging-place; and Gawain follows the dwarf closely to a tower,

which stood on the same level over against the town. Beyond there

stretched a meadow, and the tower was built close by, up on a lofty

eminence of rock, whose face formed a sharp precipice. Following the

horse and cart, Gawain entered the tower. In the hall they met a damsel

elegantly attired, than whom there was none fairer in the land, and with

her they saw coming two fair and charming maidens. As soon as they saw

my lord Gawain, they received him joyously and saluted him, and then

asked news about the other knight: "Dwarf, of what crime is this knight

guilty, whom thou dost drive like a lame man?" He would not answer

her question, but he made the knight get out of the cart, and then he

withdrew, without their knowing whither he went. Then my lord Gawain

dismounts, and valets come forward to relieve the two knights of their

armour. The damsel ordered two green mantles to be brought, which they

put on. When the hour for supper came, a sumptuous repast was set. The

damsel sat at table beside my lord Gawain. They would not have changed

their lodging-place to seek any other, for all that evening the damsel

showed them gear honour, and provided them with fair and pleasant

company.

(Vv. 463-538.) When they had sat up long enough, two long, high beds

were prepared in the middle of the hall; and there was another bed

alongside, fairer and more splendid than the rest; for, as the story

testifies, it possessed all the excellence that one could think of in

a bed. When the time came to retire, the damsel took both the guests to

whom she had offered her hospitality; she shows them the two fine,

long, wide beds, and says: "These two beds are set up here for the

accommodation of your bodies; but in that one yonder no one ever lay who

did not merit it: it was not set up to be used by you." The knight who

came riding on the cart replies at once: "Tell me," he says, "for what

cause this bed is inaccessible." Being thoroughly informed of this, she

answers unhesitatingly: "It is not your place to ask or make such an

inquiry. Any knight is disgraced in the land after being in a cart, and

it is not fitting that he should concern himself with the matter upon

which you have questioned me; and most of all it is not right that he

should lie upon the bed, for he would soon pay dearly for his act. So

rich a couch has not been prepared for you, and you would pay dearly for

ever harbouring such a thought." He replies: "You will see about

that presently.".... "Am I to see it?".... "Yes.".... "It will soon

appear.".... "By my head," the knight replies, "I know not who is to pay

the penalty. But whoever may object or disapprove, I intend to lie upon

this bed and repose there at my ease." Then he at once disrobed in the

bed, which was long and raised half an ell above the other two, and was

covered with a yellow cloth of silk and a coverlet with gilded stars.

The furs were not of skinned vair but of sable; the covering he had on

him would have been fitting for a king. The mattress was not made of

straw or rushes or of old mats. At midnight there descended from the

rafters suddenly a lance, as with the intention of pinning the knight

through the flanks to the coverlet and the white sheets where he lay.

[46] To the lance there was attached a pennon all ablaze. The coverlet,

the bedclothes, and the bed itself all caught fire at once. And the tip

of the lance passed so close to the knight's side that it cut the skin a

little, without seriously wounding him. Then the knight got up, put out

the fire and, taking the lance, swung it in the middle of the hall, all

this without leaving his bed; rather did he lie down again and slept as

securely as at first.

(Vv. 539-982.) In the morning, at daybreak, the damsel of the tower had

Mass celebrated on their account, and had them rise and dress. When Mass

had been celebrated for them, the knight who had ridden in the cart sat

down pensively at a window, which looked out upon the meadow, and he

gazed upon the fields below. The damsel came to another window close by,

and there my lord Gawain conversed with her privately for a while about

something, I know not what. I do not know what words were uttered, but

while they were leaning on the window-sill they saw carried along the

river through the fields a bier, upon which there lay a knight, [47] and

alongside three damsels walked, mourning bitterly. Behind the bier they

saw a crowd approaching, with a tall knight in front, leading a fair

lady by the horse's rein. The knight at the window knew that it was the

Queen. He continued to gaze at her attentively and with delight as long

as she was visible. And when he could no longer see her, he was minded

to throw himself out and break his body down below. And he would have

let himself fall out had not my lord Gawain seen him, and drawn him

back, saying: "I beg you, sire, be quiet now. For God's sake, never

think again of committing such a mad deed. It is wrong for you to

despise your life." "He is perfectly right," the damsel says; "for will

not the news of his disgrace be known everywhere? Since he has been upon

the cart, he has good reason to wish to die, for he would be better dead

than alive. His life henceforth is sure to be one of shame, vexation,

and unhappiness." Then the knights asked for their armour, and armed

themselves, the damsel treating them courteously, with distinction and

generosity; for when she had joked with the knight and ridiculed him

enough, she presented him with a horse and lance as a token of her

goodwill. The knights then courteously and politely took leave of the

damsel, first saluting her, and then going off in the direction taken

by the crowd they had seen. Thus they rode out from the town without

addressing them. They proceeded quickly in the direction they had seen

taken by the Queen, but they did not overtake the procession, which

had advanced rapidly. After leaving the fields, the knights enter an

enclosed place, and find a beaten road. They advanced through the woods

until it might be six o'clock, [48] and then at a crossroads they met a

damsel, whom they both saluted, each asking and requesting her to

tell them, if she knows, whither the Queen has been taken. Replying

intelligently, she said to them: "If you would pledge me your word, I

could set you on the right road and path, and I would tell you the name

of the country and of the knight who is conducting her; but whoever

would essay to enter that country must endure sore trials, for before

he could reach there he must suffer much." Then my lord Gawain replies:

"Damsel, so help me God, I promise to place all my strength at your

disposal and service, whenever you please, if you will tell me now the

truth." And he who had been on the cart did not say that he would pledge

her all his strength; but he proclaims, like one whom love makes

rich, powerful and bold for any enterprise, that at once and without

hesitation he will promise her anything she desires, and he puts himself

altogether at her disposal. "Then I will tell you the truth," says

she. Then the damsel relates to them the following story: "In truth, my

lords, Meleagant, a tall and powerful knight, son of the King of Gorre,

has taken her off into the kingdom whence no foreigner returns, but

where he must perforce remain in servitude and banishment." Then they

ask her: "Damsel, where is this country? Where can we find the way

thither?" She replies: "That you shall quickly learn; but you may be

sure that you will meet with many obstacles and difficult passages, for

it is not easy to enter there except with the permission of the king,

whose name is Bademagu; however, it is possible to enter by two very

perilous paths and by two very difficult passage-ways. One is called the

water-bridge, because the bridge is under water, and there is the same

amount of water beneath it as above it, so that the bridge is exactly in

the middle; and it is only a foot and a half in width and in thickness.

This choice is certainly to be avoided, and yet it is the less dangerous

of the two. In addition there are a number of other obstacles of which I

will say nothing. The other bridge is still more impracticable and much

more perilous, never having been crossed by man. It is just like a sharp

sword, and therefore all the people call it 'the sword-bridge'. Now I

have told you all the truth I know." But they ask of her once again:

"Damsel, deign to show us these two passages." To which the damsel makes

reply: "This road here is the most direct to the water-bridge, and that

one yonder leads straight to the sword-bridge." Then the knight, who

had been on the cart, says: "Sire, I am ready to share with you without

prejudice: take one of these two routes, and leave the other one to me;

take whichever you prefer." "In truth," my lord Gawain replies, "both of

them are hard and dangerous: I am not skilled in making such a choice,

and hardly know which of them to take; but it is not right for me

to hesitate when you have left the choice to me: I will choose the

water-bridge." The other answers: "Then I must go uncomplainingly to the

sword-bridge, which I agree to do." Thereupon, they all three part, each

one commending the others very courteously to God. And when she sees

them departing, she says: "Each one of you owes me a favour of my

choosing, whenever I may choose to ask it. Take care not to forget

that." "We shall surely not forget it, sweet friend," both the knights

call out. Then each one goes his own way, and he of the cart is occupied

with deep reflections, like one who has no strength or defence against

love which holds him in its sway. His thoughts are such that he

totally forgets himself, and he knows not whether he is alive or dead,

forgetting even his own name, not knowing whether he is armed or not, or

whither he is going or whence he came. Only one creature he has in mind,

and for her his thought is so occupied that he neither sees nor hears

aught else. [49] And his horse bears him along rapidly, following no

crooked road, but the best and the most direct; and thus proceeding

unguided, he brings him into an open plain. In this plain there was a

ford, on the other side of which a knight stood armed, who guarded it,

and in his company there was a damsel who had come on a palfrey. By this

time the afternoon was well advanced, and yet the knight, unchanged and

unwearied, pursued his thoughts. The horse, being very thirsty, sees

clearly the ford, and as soon as he sees it, hastens toward it. Then he

on the other side cries out: "Knight, I am guarding the ford, and forbid

you to cross." He neither gives him heed, nor hears his words, being

still deep in thought. In the meantime, his horse advanced rapidly

toward the water. The knight calls out to him that he will do wisely to

keep at a distance from the ford, for there is no passage that way; and

he swears by the heart within his breast that he will smite him if he

enters the water. But his threats are not heard, and he calls out to

him a third time: "Knight, do not enter the ford against my will and

prohibition; for, by my head, I shall strike you as soon as I see you in

the ford." But he is so deep in thought that he does not hear him. And

the horse, quickly leaving the bank, leaps into the ford and greedily

begins to drink. And the knight says he shall pay for this, that his

shield and the hauberk he wears upon his back shall afford him no

protection. First, he puts his horse at a gallop, and from a gallop he

urges him to a run, and he strikes the knight so hard that he knocks

him down flat in the ford which he had forbidden him to cross. His

lance flew from his hand and the shield from his neck. When he feels the

water, he shivers, and though stunned, he jumps to his feet, like one

aroused from sleep, listening and looking about him with astonishment,

to see who it can be who has struck him. Then face to face with the

other knight, he said: "Vassal, tell me why you have struck me, when I

was not aware of your presence, and when I had done you no harm." "Upon

my word, you had wronged me," the other says: "did you not treat me

disdainfully when I forbade you three times to cross the ford, shouting

at you as loudly as I could? You surely heard me challenge you at least

two or three times, and you entered in spite of me, though I told you

I should strike you as soon as I saw you in the ford." Then the knight

replies to him: "Whoever heard you or saw you, let him be damned, so far

as I am concerned. I was probably deep in thought when you forbade me

to cross the ford. But be assured that I would make you reset it, if I

could just lay one of my hands on your bridle." And the other replies:

"Why, what of that? If you dare, you may seize my bridle here and now. I

do not esteem your proud threats so much as a handful of ashes." And he

replies: "That suits me perfectly. However the affair may turn out, I

should like to lay my hands on you." Then the other knight advances

to the middle of the ford, where the other lays his left hand upon his

bridle, and his right hand upon his leg, pulling, dragging, and pressing

him so roughly that he remonstrates, thinking that he would pull his

leg out of his body. Then he begs him to let go, saying: "Knight, if

it please thee to fight me on even terms, take thy shield and horse

and lance, and joust with me." He answers: "That will I not do, upon my

word; for I suppose thou wouldst run away as soon as thou hadst escaped

my grip." Hearing this, he was much ashamed, and said: "Knight, mount

thy horse, in confidence for I will pledge thee loyally my word that I

shall not flinch or run away." Then once again he answers him: "First,

thou wilt have to swear to that, and I insist upon receiving thy oath

that thou wilt neither run away nor flinch, nor touch me, nor come near

me until thou shalt see me on my horse; I shall be treating thee very

generously, if, when thou art in my hands, I let thee go." He can

do nothing but give his oath; and when the other hears him swear, he

gathers up his shield and lance which were floating in the ford and by

this time had drifted well down-stream; then he returns and takes his

horse. After catching and mounting him, he seizes the shield by the

shoulder-straps and lays his lance in rest. Then each spurs toward the

other as fast as their horses can carry them. And he who had to defend

the ford first attacks the other, striking him so hard that his lance is

completely splintered. The other strikes him in return so that he throws

him prostrate into the ford, and the water closes over him. Having

accomplished that, he draws back and dismounts, thinking he could drive

and chase away a hundred such. While he draws from the scabbard his

sword of steel, the other jumps up and draws his excellent flashing

blade. Then they clash again, advancing and covering themselves with the

shields which gleam with gold. Ceaselessly and without repose they

wield their swords; they have the courage to deal so many blows that the

battle finally is so protracted that the Knight of the Cart is greatly

ashamed in his heart, thinking that he is making a sorry start in the

way he has undertaken, when he has spent so much time in defeating a

single knight. If he had met yesterday a hundred such, he does not think

or believe that they could have withstood him; so now he is much grieved

and wroth to be in such an exhausted state that he is missing his

strokes and losing time. Then he runs at him and presses him so hard

that the other knight gives way and flees. However reluctant he may

be, he leaves the ford and crossing free. But the other follows him in

pursuit until he falls forward upon his hands; then he of the cart runs

up to him, swearing by all he sees that he shall rue the day when he

upset him in the ford and disturbed his revery. The damsel, whom the

knight had with him, upon hearing the threats, is in great fear, and

begs him for her sake to forbear from killing him; but he tells her that

he must do so, and can show him no mercy for her sake, in view of

the shameful wrong that he has done him. Then, with sword drawn, he

approaches the knight who cries in sore dismay: "For God's sake and for

my own, show me the mercy I ask of you." And he replies: "As God may

save me, no one ever sinned so against me that I would not show him

mercy once, for God's sake as is right, if he asked it of me in God's

name. And so on thee I will have mercy; for I ought not to refuse thee

when thou hast besought me. But first, thou shalt give me thy word to

constitute thyself my prisoner whenever I may wish to summon thee."

Though it was hard to do so, he promised him. At once the damsel said:

"O knight, since thou hast granted the mercy he asked of thee, if ever

thou hast broken any bonds, for my sake now be merciful and release this

prisoner from his parole. Set him free at my request, upon condition

that when the time comes, I shall do my utmost to repay thee in any way

that thou shalt choose." Then he declares himself satisfied with the

promise she has made, and sets the knight at liberty. Then she is

ashamed and anxious, thinking that he will recognise her, which she did

not wish. But he goes away at once, the knight and the damsel commending

him to God, and taking leave of him. He grants them leave to go, while

he himself pursues his way, until late in the afternoon he met a damsel

coming, who was very fair and charming, well attired and richly dressed.

The damsel greets him prudently and courteously, and he replies:

"Damsel, God grant you health and happiness." Then the damsel said

to him: "Sire, my house is prepared for you, if you will accept my

hospitality, but you shall find shelter there only on condition that you

will lie with me; upon these terms I propose and make the offer." Not a

few there are who would have thanked her five hundred times for such

a gift; but he is much displeased, and made a very different answer:

"Damsel, I thank you for the offer of your house, and esteem it highly,

but, if you please, I should be very sorry to lie with you." "By my

eyes," the damsel says, "then I retract my offer." And he, since it is

unavoidable, lets her have her way, though his heart grieves to give

consent. He feels only reluctance now; but greater distress will be his

when it is time to go to bed. The damsel, too, who leads him away, will

pass through sorrow and heaviness. For it is possible that she will

love him so that she will not wish to part with him. As soon as he had

granted her wish and desire, she escorts him to a fortified place, than

which there was none fairer in Thessaly; for it was entirely enclosed by

a high wall and a deep moat, and there was no man within except him whom

she brought with her.

(Vv. 983-1042.) Here she had constructed for her residence a quantity of

handsome rooms, and a large and roomy hall. Riding along a river bank,

they approached their lodging-place, and a drawbridge was lowered to

allow them to pass. Crossing the bridge, they entered in, and found the

hall open with its roof of tiles. Through the open door they pass, and

see a table laid with a broad white cloth, upon which the dishes were

set, and the candles burning in their stands, and the gilded silver

drinking-cups, and two pots of wine, one red and one white. Standing

beside the table, at the end of a bench, they found two basins of warm

water in which to wash their hands, with a richly embroidered towel, all

white and clean, with which to dry their hands. No valets, servants, or

squires were to be found or seen. The knight, removing his shield from

about his neck, hangs it upon a hook, and, taking his lance, lays it

above upon a rack. Then he dismounts from his horse, as does the damsel

from hers. The knight, for his part, was pleased that she did not care

to wait for him to help her to dismount. Having dismounted, she runs

directly to a room and brings him a short mantle of scarlet cloth which

she puts on him. The hall was by no means dark; for beside the light

from the stars, there were many large twisted candles lighted there, so

that the illumination was very bright. When she had thrown the mantle

about his shoulders, she said to him: "Friend, here is the water and the

towel; there is no one to present or offer it to you except me whom you

see. Wash your hands, and then sit down, when you feel like doing so.

The hour and the meal, as you can see, demand that you should do so."

He washes, and then gladly and readily takes his seat, and she sits down

beside him, and they eat and drink together, until the time comes to

leave the table.

(Vv. 1043-1206.) When they had risen from the table, the damsel said to

the knight: "Sire, if you do not object, go outside and amuse yourself;

but, if you please, do not stay after you think I must be in bed. Feel

no concern or embarrassment; for then you may come to me at once, if you

will keep the promise you have made." And he replies: "I will keep my

word, and will return when I think the time has come." Then he went out,

and stayed in the courtyard until he thought it was time to return and

keep the promise he had made. Going back into the hall, he sees nothing

of her who would be his mistress; for she was not there. Not finding or

seeing her, he said: "Wherever she may be, I shall look for her until I

find her." He makes no delay in his search, being bound by the promise

he had made her. Entering one of the rooms, he hears a damsel cry aloud,

and it was the very one with whom he was about to lie. At the same time,

he sees the door of another room standing open, and stepping toward it,

he sees right before his eyes a knight who had thrown her down, and was

holding her naked and prostrate upon the bed. She, thinking that he had

come of course to help her, cried aloud: "Help, help, thou knight, who

art my guest. If thou dost not take this man away from me, I shall find

no one to do so; if thou dost not succour me speedily, he will wrong me

before thy eyes. Thou art the one to lie with me, in accordance with

thy promise; and shall this man by force accomplish his wish before thy

eyes? Gentle knight, exert thyself, and make haste to bear me aid." He

sees that the other man held the damsel brutally uncovered to the waist,

and he is ashamed and angered to see him assault her so; yet it is not

jealousy he feels, nor will he be made a cuckold by him. At the door

there stood as guards two knights completely armed and with swords

drawn. Behind them there stood four men-at-arms, each armed with an axe

the sort with which you could split a cow down the back as easily as a

root of juniper or broom. The knight hesitated at the door, and thought:

"God, what can I do? I am engaged in no less an affair than the quest of

Queen Guinevere. I ought not to have the heart of a hare, when for her

sake I have engaged in such a quest. If cowardice puts its heart in me,

and if I follow its dictates, I shall never attain what I seek. I am

disgraced, if I stand here; indeed, I am ashamed even to have thought

of holding back. My heart is very sad and oppressed: now I am so ashamed

and distressed that I would gladly die for having hesitated here so

long. I say it not in pride: but may God have mercy on me if I do not

prefer to die honourably rather than live a life of shame! If my path

were unobstructed, and if these men gave me leave to pass through

without restraint, what honour would I gain? Truly, in that case the

greatest coward alive would pass through; and all the while I hear

this poor creature calling for help constantly, and reminding me of my

promise, and reproaching me with bitter taunts." Then he steps to the

door, thrusting in his head and shoulders; glancing up, he sees two

swords descending. He draws back, and the knights could not check their

strokes: they had wielded them with such force that the swords struck

the floor, and both were broken in pieces. When he sees that the swords

are broken, he pays less attention to the axes, fearing and dreading

them much less. Rushing in among them, he strikes first one guard in

the side and then another. The two who are nearest him he jostles and

thrusts aside, throwing them both down flat; the third missed his stroke

at him, but the fourth, who attacked him, strikes him so that he cuts

his mantle and shirt, and slices the white flesh on his shoulder so

that the blood trickles down from the wound. But he, without delay,

and without complaining of his wound, presses on more rapidly, until he

strikes between the temples him who was assaulting his hostess. Before

he departs, he will try to keep his pledge to her. He makes him stand up

reluctantly. Meanwhile, he who had missed striking him comes at him as

fast as he can and, raising his arm again, expects to split his head to

the teeth with the axe. But the other, alert to defend himself, thrusts

the knight toward him in such a way that he receives the axe just where

the shoulder joins the neck, so that they are cleaved apart. Then the

knight seizes the axe, wresting it quickly from him who holds it; then

he lets go the knight whom he still held, and looks to his own defence;

for the knights from the door, and the three men with axes are all

attacking him fiercely. So he leaped quickly between the bed and the

wall, and called to them: "Come on now, all of you. If there were

thirty-seven of you, you would have all the fight you wish, with me so

favourably placed; I shall never be overcome by you." And the damsel

watching him, exclaimed: "By my eyes, you need have no thought of that

henceforth where I am." Then at once she dismisses the knights and the

men-at-arms, who retire from there at once, without delay or objection.

And the damsel continues: "Sire you have well defended me against the

men of my household. Come now, and I'll lead you on." Hand in hand they

enter the hall, but he was not at all pleased, and would have willingly

dispensed with her.

(Vv. 1207-1292.) In the midst of the hall a bed had been set up, the

sheets of which were by no means soiled, but were white and wide and

well spread out. The bed was not of shredded straw or of coarse spreads.

But a covering of two silk cloths had been laid upon the couch. The

damsel lay down first, but without removing her chemise. He had great

trouble in removing his hose and in untying the knots. He sweated with

the trouble of it all; yet, in the midst of all the trouble, his promise

impels and drives him on. Is this then an actual force? Yes, virtually

so; for he feels that he is in duty bound to take his place by the

damsel's side. It is his promise that urges him and dictates his act.

So he lies down at once, but like her, he does not remove his shirt. He

takes good care not to touch her; and when he is in bed, he turns away

from her as far as possible, and speaks not a word to her, like a monk

to whom speech is forbidden. Not once does he look at her, nor show her

any courtesy. Why not? Because his heart does not go out to her. She

was certainly very fair and winsome, but not every one is pleased and

touched by what is fair and winsome. The knight has only one heart, and

this one is really no longer his, but has been entrusted to some one

else, so that he cannot bestow it elsewhere. Love, which holds all

hearts beneath its sway, requires it to be lodged in a single place.

All hearts? No, only those which it esteems. And he whom love deigns to

control ought to prize himself the more. Love prized his heart so highly

that it constrained it in a special manner, and made him so proud of

this distinction that I am not inclined to find fault with him, if he

lets alone what love forbids, and remains fixed where it desires. The

maiden clearly sees and knows that he dislikes her company and would

gladly dispense with it, and that, having no desire to win her love,

he would not attempt to woo her. So she said: "My lord, if you will not

feel hurt, I will leave and return to bed in my own room, and you will

be more comfortable. I do not believe that you are pleased with my

company and society. Do not esteem me less if I tell you what I think.

Now take your rest all night, for you have so well kept your promise

that I have no right to make further request of you. So I commend you

to God; and shall go away." Thereupon she arises: the knight does not

object, but rather gladly lets her go, like one who is the devoted lover

of some one else; the damsel clearly perceived this, and went to her

room, where she undressed completely and retired, saying to herself: "Of

all the knights I have ever known, I never knew a single knight whom I

would value the third part of an angevin in comparison with this one. As

I understand the case, he has on hand a more perilous and grave affair

than any ever undertaken by a knight; and may God grant that he succeed

in it." Then she fell asleep, and remained in bed until the next day's

dawn appeared.

(Vv. 1293-1368.) At daybreak she awakes and gets up. The knight awakes

too, dressing, and putting on his arms, without waiting for any help.

Then the damsel comes and sees that he is already dressed. Upon seeing

him, she says: "May this day be a happy one for you." "And may it be

the same to you, damsel," the knight replies, adding that he is waiting

anxiously for some one to bring out his horse. The maiden has some one

fetch the horse, and says: "Sire, I should like to accompany you for

some distance along the road, if you would agree to escort and conduct

me according to the customs and practices which were observed before we

were made captive in the kingdom of Logres." In those days the customs

and privileges were such that, if a knight found a damsel or lorn maid

alone, and if he cared for his fair name, he would no more treat her

with dishonour than he would cut his own throat. And if he assaulted

her, he would be disgraced for ever in every court. But if, while she

was under his escort, she should be won at arms by another who engaged

him in battle, then this other knight might do with her what he pleased

without receiving shame or blame. This is why the damsel said she would

go with him, if he had the courage and willingness to safe guard her in

his company, so that no one should do her any harm. And he says to her:

"No one shall harm you, I promise you, unless he harm me first." "Then,"

she says, "I will go with you." She orders her palfrey to be saddled,

and her command is obeyed at once. Her palfrey was brought together with

the knight's horse. Without the aid of any squire, they both mount, and

rapidly ride away. She talks to him, but not caring for her words, he

pays no attention to what she says. He likes to think, but dislikes to

talk. Love very often inflicts afresh the wound it has given him. Yet,

he applied no poultice to the wound to cure it and make it comfortable,

having no intention or desire to secure a poultice or to seek a

physician, unless the wound becomes more painful. Yet, there is one

whose remedy he would gladly seek .... [410] They follow the roads and

paths in the right direction until they come to a spring, situated

in the middle of a field, and bordered by a stone basin. Some one had

forgotten upon the stone a comb of gilded ivory. Never since ancient

times has wise man or fool seen such a comb. In its teeth there was

almost a handful of hair belonging to her who had used the comb.

(Vv. 1369-1552.) When the damsel notices the spring, and sees the stone,

she does not wish her companion to see it; so she turns off in another

direction. And he, agreeably occupied with his own thoughts, does not at

once remark that she is leading him aside; but when at last he notices

it, he is afraid of being beguiled, thinking that she is yielding and is

going out of the way in order to avoid some danger. "See here, damsel,"

he cries, "you are not going right; come this way! No one, I think, ever

went straight who left this road." "Sire, this is a better way for us,"

the damsel says, "I am sure of it." Then he replies to her: "I don't

know, damsel, what you think; but you can plainly see that the beaten

path lies this way; and since I have started to follow it, I shall not

turn aside. So come now, if you will, for I shall continue along this

way." Then they go forward until they come near the stone basin and

see the comb. The knight says: "I surely never remember to have seen

so beautiful a comb as this." "Let me have it," the damsel says.

"Willingly, damsel," he replies. Then he stoops over and picks it up.

While holding it, he looks at it steadfastly, gazing at the hair until

the damsel begins to laugh. When he sees her doing so, he begs her to

tell him why she laughs. And she says: "Never mind, for I will never

tell you." "Why not?" he asks. "Because I don't wish to do so." And when

he hears that, he implores her like one who holds that lovers ought to

keep faith mutually: "Damsel, if you love anything passionately, by that

I implore and conjure and beg you not to conceal from me the reason why

you laugh." "Your appeal is so strong," she says, "that I will tell you

and keep nothing back. I am sure, as I am of anything, that this comb

belonged to the Queen. And you may take my word that those are strands

of the Queen's hair which you see to be so fair and light and radiant,

and which are clinging in the teeth of the comb; they surely never grew

anywhere else." Then the knight replied: "Upon my word, there are plenty

of queens and kings; what queen do you mean?" And she answered: "In

truth, fair sire, it is of King Arthur's wife I speak." When he

hears that, he has not strength to keep from bowing his head over

his saddle-bow. And when the damsel sees him thus, she is amazed and

terrified, thinking he is about to fall. Do not blame her for her fear,

for she thought him in a faint. He might as well have swooned, so near

was he to doing so; for in his heart he felt such grief that for a long

time he lost his colour and power of speech. And the damsel dismounts,

and runs as quickly as possible to support and succour him; for she

would not have wished for anything to see him fall. When he saw her, he

felt ashamed, and said: "Why do you need to bear me aid?" You must not

suppose that the damsel told him why; for he would have been ashamed

and distressed, and it would have annoyed and troubled him, if she had

confessed to him the truth. So she took good care not to tell the truth,

but tactfully answered him: "Sire, I dismounted to get the comb; for

I was so anxious to hold it in my hand that I could not longer wait."

Willing that she should have the comb, he gives it to her, first pulling

out the hair so carefully that he tears none of it. Never will the eye

of man see anything receive such honour as when he begins to adore these

tresses. A hundred thousand times he raises them to his eyes and mouth,

to his forehead and face: he manifests his joy in every way, considering

himself rich and happy now. He lays them in his bosom near his heart,

between the shirt and the flesh. He would not exchange them for a

cartload of emeralds and carbuncles, nor does he think that any sore

or illness can afflict him now; he holds in contempt essence of pearl,

treacle, and the cure for pleurisy; [411] even for St. Martin and St.

James he has no need; for he has such confidence in this hair that he

requires no other aid. But what was this hair like? If I tell the truth

about it, you will think I am a mad teller of lies. When the mart is

full at the yearly fair of St. Denis, [412] and when the goods are

most abundantly displayed, even then the knight would not take all this

wealth, unless he had found these tresses too. And if you wish to know

the truth, gold a hundred thousand times refined, and melted down as

many times, would be darker than is night compared with the brightest

summer day we have had this year, if one were to see the gold and set it

beside this hair. But why should I make a long story of it? The damsel

mounts again with the comb in her possession; while he revels and

delights in the tresses in his bosom. Leaving the plain, they come to

a forest and take a short cut through it until they come to a narrow

place, where they have to go in single file; for it would have been

impossible to ride two horses abreast. Just where the way was narrowest,

they see a knight approach. As soon as she saw him, the damsel

recognised him, and said: "Sir knight, do you see him who yonder comes

against us all armed and ready for a battle? I know what his intention

is: he thinks now that he cannot fail to take me off defenceless with

him. He loves me, but he is very foolish to do so. In person, and by

messenger, he has been long wooing me. But my love is not within his

reach, for I would not love him under any consideration, so help me God!

I would kill myself rather than bestow my love on him. I do not doubt

that he is delighted now, and is as satisfied as if he had me already

in his power. But now I shall see what you can do, and I shall see

how brave you are, and it will become apparent whether your escort can

protect me. If you can protect me now, I shall not fail to proclaim that

you are brave and very worthy." And he answered her: "Go on, go on!"

which was as much as to say: "I am not concerned; there is no need of

your being worried about what you have said."

(Vv. 1553-1660.) While they were proceeding, talking thus, the knight,

who was alone, rode rapidly toward them on the run. He was the more

eager to make haste, because he felt more sure of success; he felt that

he was lucky now to see her whom he most dearly loves. As soon as he

approaches her, he greets her with words that come from his heart:

"Welcome to her, whence-soever she comes, whom I most desire, but who

has hitherto caused me least joy and most distress!" It is not fitting

that she should be so stingy of her speech as not to return his

greeting, at least by word of mouth. The knight is greatly elated when

the damsel greets him; though she does not take the words seriously, and

the effort costs her nothing. Yet, if he had at this moment been victor

in a tournament, he would not have so highly esteemed himself, nor

thought he had won such honour and renown. Being now more confident of

his worth, he grasped the bridle rein, and said: "Now I shall lead you

away: I have to-day sailed well on my course to have arrived at last

at so good a port. Now my troubles are at an end: after dangers, I have

reached a haven; after sorrow, I have attained happiness; after pain, I

have perfect health; now I have accomplished my desire, when I find

you in such case that I can without resistance lead you away with me

at once." Then she says: "You have no advantage; for I am under this

knight's escort." "Surely, the escort is not worth much," he says, "and

I am going to lead you off at once. This knight would have time to eat a

bushel of salt before he could defend you from me; I think I could never

meet a knight from whom I should not win you. And since I find you here

so opportunely, though he too may do his best to prevent it, yet I will

take you before his very eyes, however disgruntled he may be." The other

is not angered by all the pride he hears expressed, but without any

impudence or boasting, he begins thus to challenge him for her: "Sire,

don't be in a hurry, and don't waste your words, but speak a little

reasonably. You shall not be deprived of as much of her as rightly

belongs to you. You must know, however, that the damsel has come hither

under my protection. Let her alone now, for you have detained her long

enough!" The other gives them leave to burn him, if he does not take her

away in spite of him. Then the other says: "It would not be right for

me to let you take her away; I would sooner fight with you. But if we

should wish to fight, we could not possibly do it in this narrow road.

Let us go to some level place--a meadow or an open field." And he

replies that that will suit him perfectly: "Certainly, I agree to

that: you are quite right, this road is too narrow. My horse is so much

hampered here that I am afraid he will crush his flank before I can turn

him around." Then with great difficulty he turns, and his horse

escapes without any wound or harm. Then he says: "To be sure, I am much

chagrined that we have not met in a favourable spot and in the presence

of other men, for I should have been glad to have them see which is the

better of us two. Come on now, let us begin our search: we shall find in

the vicinity some large, broad, and open space." Then they proceed to a

meadow, where there were maids, knights, and damsels playing at divers

games in this pleasant place. They were not all engaged in idle sport,

but were playing backgammon and chess or dice, and were evidently

agreeably employed. Most were engaged in such games as these; but

the others there were engaged in sports, dancing, singing, tumbling,

leaping, and wrestling with each other.

(Vv. 1661-1840.) A knight somewhat advanced in years was on the other

side of the meadow, seared upon a sorrel Spanish steed. His bridle and

saddle were of gold, and his hair was turning grey. One hand hung at

his side with easy grace. The weather being fine, he was in his shirt

sleeves, with a short mantle of scarlet cloth and fur slung over his

shoulders, and thus he watched the games and dances. On the other side

of the field, close by a path, there were twenty-three knights mounted

on good Irish steeds. As soon as the three new arrivals come into view,

they all cease their play and shout across the fields: "See, yonder

comes the knight who was driven in the cart! Let no one continue his

sport while he is in our midst. A curse upon him who cares or deigns

to play so long as he is here!" Meanwhile he who loved the damsel and

claimed her as his own, approached the old knight, and said: "Sire, I

have attained great happiness; let all who will now hear me say that God

has granted me the thing that I have always most desired; His gift would

not have been so great had He crowned me as king, nor would I have been

so indebted to Him, nor would I have so profited; for what I have gained

is fair and good." "I know not yet if it be thine," the knight replies

to his son. But the latter answers him: "Don't you know? Can't you see

it, then? For God's sake, sire, have no further doubt, when you see that

I have her in my possession. In this forest, whence I come, I met her as

she was on her way. I think God had fetched her there for me, and I have

taken her for my own." "I do not know whether this will be allowed by

him whom I see coming after thee; he looks as if he is coming to demand

her of thee." During this conversation the dancing had ceased because of

the knight whom they saw, nor were they gaily playing any more because

of the disgust and scorn they felt for him. But the knight without

delay came up quickly after the damsel, and said: "Let the damsel alone,

knight, for you have no right to her! If you dare, I am willing at once

to fight with you in her defence." Then the old knight remarked: "Did I

not know it? Fair son, detain the damsel no longer, but let her go." He

does not relish this advice, and swears that he will not give her up:

"May God never grant me joy if I give her up to him! I have her, and I

shall hold on to her as something that is mine own. The shoulder-strap

and all the armlets of my shield shall first be broken, and I shall have

lost all confidence in my strength and arms, my sword and lance, before

I will surrender my mistress to him." And his father says: "I shall not

let thee fight for any reason thou mayest urge. Thou art too confident

of thy bravery. So obey my command." But he in his pride replies: "What?

Am I a child to be terrified? Rather will I make my boast that there is

not within the sea-girt land any knight, wheresoever he may dwell, so

excellent that I would let him have her, and whom I should not expect

speedily to defeat." The father answers: "Fair son, I do not doubt that

thou dost really think so, for thou art so confident of thy strength.

But I do not wish to see thee enter a contest with this knight." Then

he replies: "I shall be disgraced if I follow your advice. Curse me if

I heed your counsel and turn recreant because of you, and do not do

my utmost in the fight. It is true that a man fares ill among his

relatives: I could drive a better bargain somewhere else, for you are

trying to take me in. I am sure that where I am not known, I could act

with better grace. No one, who did not know me, would try to thwart my

will; whereas you are annoying and tormenting me. I am vexed by your

finding fault with me. You know well enough that when any one is blamed,

he breaks out still more passionately. But may God never give me joy if

I renounce my purpose because of you; rather will I fight in spite of

you!" "By the faith I bear the Apostle St. Peter," his father says, "now

I see that my request is of no avail. I waste my time in rebuking thee;

but I shall soon devise such means as shall compel thee against thy will

to obey my commands and submit to them." Straightway summoning all the

knights to approach, he bids them lay hands upon his son whom he cannot

correct, saying: "I will have him bound rather than let him fight. You

here are all my men, and you owe me your devotion and service: by all

the fiefs you hold from me, I hold you responsible, and I add my prayer.

It seems to me that he must be mad, and that he shows excessive pride,

when he refuses to respect my will." Then they promise to take care of

him, and say that never, while he is in their charge, shall he wish to

fight, but that he must renounce the damsel in spite of himself. Then

they all join and seize him by the arms and neck. "Dost thou not think

thyself foolish now?" his father asks; "confess the truth: thou hast not

the strength or power to fight or joust, however distasteful and hard it

may be for thee to admit it. Thou wilt be wise to consent to my will

and pleasure. Dost thou know what my intention is? In order somewhat to

mitigate thy disappointment, I am willing to join thee, if thou wilt, in

following the knight to-day and to-morrow, through wood and plain, each

one mounted on his horse. Perhaps we shall soon find him to be of such a

character and bearing that I might let thee have thy way and fight with

him." To this proposal the other must perforce consent. Like the man

who has no alternative, he says that he will give in, provided they

both shall follow him. And when the people in the field see how this

adventure has turned out, they all exclaim: "Did you see? He who was

mounted on the cart has gained such honour here that he is leading away

the mistress of the son of my lord, and he himself is allowing it. We

may well suppose that he finds in him some merit, when he lets him take

her off. Now cursed a hundred times be he who ceases longer his sport on

his account! Come, let us go back to our games again." Then they resume

their games and dances.

(Vv. 1841-1966.) Thereupon the knight turns away, without longer

remaining in the field, and the damsel accompanies him. They leave in

haste, while the father and his son ride after them through the mown

fields until toward three o'clock, when in a very pleasant spot they

come upon a church; beside the chancel there was a cemetery enclosed by

a wall. The knight was both courteous and wise to enter the church on

foot and make his prayer to God, while the damsel held his horse for him

until he returned. When he had made his prayer, and while he was coming

back, a very old monk suddenly presented himself; whereupon the knight

politely requests him to tell him what this place is; for he does not

know. And he tells him it is a cemetery. And the other says: "Take me

in, so help you God!" "Gladly, sire," and he takes him in. Following the

monk's lead, the knight beholds the most beautiful tombs that one could

find as far as Dombes [413] or Pampelune; and on each tomb there were

letters cut, telling the names of those who were destined to be buried

there. And he began in order to read the names, and came upon some which

said: "Here Gawain is to lie, here Louis, and here Yvain." After

these three, he read the names of many others among the most famed and

cherished knights of this or any other land. Among the others, he finds

one of marble, which appears to be new, and is more rich and handsome

than all the rest. Calling the monk, the knight inquired: "Of what use

are these tombs here?" And the monk replied: "You have already read the

inscriptions; if you have understood, you must know what they say, and

what is the meaning of the tombs." "Now tell me, what is this large one

for?" And the hermit answered: "I will tell you. That is a very large

sarcophagus, larger than any that ever was made; one so rich and

well-carved was never seen. It is magnificent without, and still more so

within. But you need not be concerned with that, for it can never do you

any good; you will never see inside of it; for it would require seven

strong men to raise the lid of stone, if any one wished to open it. And

you may be sure that to raise it would require seven men stronger than

you and I. There is an inscription on it which says that any one who can

lift this stone of his own unaided strength will set free all the men

and women who are captives in the land, whence no slave or noble can

issue forth, unless he is a native of that land. No one has ever come

back from there, but they are detained in foreign prisons; whereas

they of the country go and come in and out as they please." At once

the knight goes to grasp the stone, and raises it without the slightest

trouble, more easily than ten men would do who exerted all their

strength. And the monk was amazed, and nearly fell down at the sight of

this marvellous thing; for he thought he would never see the like again,

and said: "Sire, I am very anxious to know your name. Will you tell me

what it is?" "Not I," says the knight, "upon my word." "I am certainly

sorry, for that," he says; "but if you would tell me, you would do me a

great favour, and might benefit yourself. Who are you, and where do

you come from?" "I am a knight, as you may see, and I was born in the

kingdom of Logre. After so much information, I should prefer to be

excused. Now please tell me, for your part, who is to lie within this

tomb." "Sire, he who shall deliver all those who are held captive in

the kingdom whence none escapes." And when he had told him all this, the

knight commended him to God and all His saints. And then, for the first

time, he felt free to return to the damsel. The old white-haired monk

escorts him out of the church, and they resume their way. While the

damsel is mounting, however, the hermit relates to her all that the

knight had done inside, and then he begged her to tell him, if she knew,

what his name was; but she assured him that she did not know, but that

there was one sure thing she could say, namely, that there was not such

a knight alive where the four winds of heaven blow.

(Vv. 1967-2022.) Then the damsel takes leave of him, and rides swiftly

after the knight. Then those who were following them come up and see

the hermit standing alone before the church. The old knight in his shirt

sleeves said: "Sire, tell us, have you seen a knight with a damsel in

his company?" And he replies: "I shall not be loath to tell you all

I know, for they have just passed on from here. The knight was inside

yonder, and did a very marvellous thing in raising the stone from the

huge marble tomb, quite unaided and without the least effort. He is bent

upon the rescue of the Queen, and doubtless he will rescue her, as well

as all the other people. You know well that this must be so, for you

have often read the inscription upon the stone. No knight was ever born

of man and woman, and no knight ever sat in a saddle, who was the equal

of this man." Then the father turns to his son, and says: "Son, what

dost thou think about him now? Is he not a man to be respected who has

performed such a feat? Now thou knowest who was wrong, and whether it

was thou or I. I would not have thee fight with him for all the town of

Amiens; and yet thou didst struggle hard, before any one could dissuade

thee from thy purpose. Now we may as well go back, for we should be very

foolish to follow him any farther." And he replies: "I agree to that.

It would be useless to follow him. Since it is your pleasure, let us

return." They were very wise to retrace their steps. And all the time

the damsel rides close beside the knight, wishing to compel him to

give heed to her. She is anxious to learn his name, and she begs and

beseeches him again and again to tell her, until in his annoyance he

answers her: "Have I not already told you that I belong in King Arthur's

realm? I swear by God and His goodness that you shall not learn my

name." Then she bids him give her leave to go, and she will turn back,

which request he gladly grants.

(Vv. 2023-2198.) Thereupon the damsel departs, and he rides on alone

until it grew very late. After vespers, about compline, as he pursued

his way, he saw a knight returning from the wood where he had been

hunting. With helmet unlaced, he rode along upon his big grey hunter,

to which he had tied the game which God had permitted him to take. This

gentleman came quickly to meet the knight, offering him hospitality.

"Sire," he says, "night will soon be here. It is time for you to be

reasonable and seek a place to spend the night. I have a house of mine

near at hand, whither I shall take you. No one ever lodged you better

than I shall do, to the extent of my resources: I shall be very glad, if

you consent." "For my part, I gladly accept," he says. The gentleman

at once sends his son ahead, to prepare the house and start the

preparations for supper. The lad willingly executes his command

forthwith, and goes off at a rapid pace, while the others, who are in

no haste, follow the road leisurely until they arrive at the house. The

gentleman's wife was a very accomplished lady; and he had five sons,

whom he dearly loved, three of them mere lads, and two already knights;

and he had two fair and charming daughters, who were still unmarried.

They were not natives of the land, but were there in durance, having

been long kept there as prisoners away from their native land of Logres.

When the gentleman led the knight into his yard, the lady with her sons

and daughters jumped up and ran to meet them, vying in their efforts to

do him honour, as they greeted him and helped him to dismount. Neither

the sisters nor the five brothers paid much attention to their father,

for they knew well enough that he would have it so. They honoured the

knight and welcomed him; and when they had relieved him of his armour,

one of his host's two daughters threw her own mantle about him, taking

it from her own shoulders and throwing it about his neck. I do not

need to tell how well he was served at supper; but when the meal

was finished, they felt no further hesitation in speaking of various

matters. First, the host began to ask him who he was, and from what

land, but he did not inquire about his name. The knight promptly

answered him: "I am from the kingdom of Logres, and have never been in

this land before." And when the gentleman heard that, he was greatly

amazed, as were his wife and children too, and each one of them was sore

distressed. Then they began to say to him: "Woe that you have come here,

fair sire, for only trouble will come of it! For, like us, you will

be reduced to servitude and exile." "Where do you come from, then?" he

asked. "Sire, we belong in your country. Many men from your country

are held in servitude in this land. Cursed be the custom, together with

those who keep it up! No stranger comes here who is not compelled to

stay here in the land where he is detained. For whoever wishes may come

in, but once in, he has to stay. About your own fate, you may be at

rest, you will doubtless never escape from here." He replies: "Indeed,

I shall do so, if possible." To this the gentleman replies: "How? Do you

think you can escape?" "Yes, indeed, if it be God's will; and I shall do

all within my power." "In that case, doubtless all the rest would be set

free; for, as soon as one succeeds in fairly escaping from this durance,

then all the rest may go forth unchallenged." Then the gentleman

recalled that he had been told and informed that a knight of great

excellence was making his way into the country to seek for the Queen,

who was held by the king's son, Meleagant; and he said to himself: "Upon

my word, I believe it is he, and I'll tell him so." So he said to him:

"Sire, do not conceal from me your business, if I promise to give

you the best advice I know. I too shall profit by any success you may

attain. Reveal to me the truth about your errand, that it may be to your

advantage as well as mine. I am persuaded that you have come in search

of the Queen into this land and among these heathen people, who are

worse than the Saracens." And the knight replies: "For no other purpose

have I come. I know not where my lady is confined, but I am striving

hard to rescue her, and am in dire need of advice. Give me any counsel

you can." And he says: "Sire, you have undertaken a very grievous task.

The road you are travelling will lead you straight to the sword-bridge.

[414] You surely need advice. If you would heed my counsel, you would

proceed to the sword-bridge by a surer way, and I would have you

escorted thither." Then he, whose mind is fixed upon the most direct

way, asks him: "Is the road of which you speak as direct as the other

way?" "No, it is not," he says; "it is longer, but more sure." Then he

says: "I have no use for it; tell me about this road I am following!" "I

am ready to do so," he replies; "but I am sure you will not fare well if

you take any other than the road I recommend. To-morrow you will reach

a place where you will have trouble: it is called 'the stony passage'.

Shall I tell you how bad a place it is to pass? Only one horse can go

through at a time; even two men could not pass abreast, and the passage

is well guarded and defended. You will meet with resistance as soon as

you arrive. You will sustain many a blow of sword and lance, and will

have to return full measure before you succeed in passing through." And

when he had completed the account, one of the gentleman's sons, who was

a knight, stepped forward, saying: "Sire, if you do not object, I will

go with this gentleman." Then one of the lads jumps up, and says: "I too

will go." And the father gladly gives them both consent. Now the knight

will not have to go alone, and he expresses his gratitude, being much

pleased with the company.

(Vv. 2199-2266.) Then the conversation ceases, and they take the knight

to bed, where he was glad to fall asleep. As soon as daylight was

visible he got up, and those who were to accompany him got up too. The

two knights donned their armour and took their leave, while the young

fellow started on ahead. Together they pursued their way until they came

at the hour of prime to "the stony passage." In the middle of it they

found a wooden tower, where there was always a man on guard. Before they

drew near, he who was on the tower saw them and cried twice aloud: "Woe

to this man who comes!" And then behold! A knight issued from the tower,

mounted and armed with fresh armour, and escorted on either side by

servants carrying sharp axes. Then, when the other draws near the

passage, he who defends it begins to heap him with abuse about the cart,

saying: "Vassal, thou art bold and foolish, indeed, to have entered this

country. No man ought ever to come here who had ridden upon a cart,

and may God withhold from him His blessing!" Then they spur toward each

other at the top of their horses' speed. And he who was to guard the

passage-way at once breaks his lance and lets the two pieces fall; the

other strikes him in the neck, reaching him beneath the shield, and

throws him over prostrate upon the stones. Then the servants come

forward with the axes, but they intentionally fail to strike him, having

no desire to harm or damage him; so he does not deign to draw his sword,

and quickly passes on with his companions. One of them remarks to the

other: "No one has ever seen so good a knight, nor has he any equal. Is

not this a marvellous thing, that he has forced a passage here?" And the

knight says to his brother: "Fair brother, for God's sake, make haste

to go and tell our father of this adventure." But the lad asserts and

swears that he will not go with the message, and will never leave the

knight until he has dubbed and knighted him; let his brother go with the

message, if he is so much concerned.

(Vv. 2267-2450.) Then they go on together until about three o'clock,

when they come upon a man, who asks them who they are. And they answer:

"We are knights, busy about our own affairs." Then the man says to the

knight: "Sire, I should be glad to offer hospitality to you and your

companions here." This invitation he delivers to him whom he takes to be

the lord and master of the others. And this one replies to him: "I could

not seek shelter for the night at such an hour as this; for it is not

well to tarry and seek one's ease when one has undertaken some great

task. And I have such business on hand that I shall not stop for the

night for some time yet." Then the man continues: "My house is not near

here, but is some distance ahead. It will be late when you reach there,

so you may proceed, assured that you will find a place to lodge just

when it suits you." "In that case," he says, "I will go thither."

Thereupon the man starts ahead as guide, and the knight follows along

the path. And when they had proceeded some distance, they met a squire

who was coming along at a gallop, mounted upon a nag that was as fat

and round as an apple. And the squire calls our to the man: "Sire,

sire, make haste! For the people of Logres have attacked in force the

inhabitants of this land, and war and strife have already broken out;

and they say that this country has been invaded by a knight who has

been in many battles, and that wherever he wishes to go, no one, however

reluctantly, is able to deny him passage. And they further say that he

will deliver those who are in this country, and will subdue our people.

Now take my advice and make haste!" Then the man starts at a gallop, and

the others are greatly delighted at the words they have heard, for they

are eager to help their side. And the vavasor's son says: "Hear what

this squire says! Come and let us aid our people who are fighting their

enemies!" Meanwhile the man rides off, without waiting for them, and

makes his way rapidly toward a fortress which stood upon a fortified

hill; thither he hastens, till he comes to the gate, while the others

spur after him. The castle was surrounded by a high wall and moat. As

soon as they had got inside, a gate was lowered upon their heels, so

that they could not get out again. Then they say: "Come on, come on!

Let us not stop here!" and they rapidly pursue the man until they reach

another gate which was not closed against them. But as soon as the man

had passed through, a portcullis dropped behind him. Then the others

were much dismayed to see themselves shut in, and they think they must

be bewitched. But he, of whom I have more to tell, wore upon his finger

a ring, whose stone was of such virtue that any one who gazed at it was

freed from the power of enchantment. [415] Holding the ring before his

eyes, he gazed at it, and said: "Lady, lady, so help me God, now I have

great need of your succour!" [416] This lady was a fairy, who had given

it to him, and who had cared for him in his infancy. And he had great

confidence that, wherever he might be, she would aid and succour him.

But after appealing to her and gazing upon the ring, he realises that

there is no enchantment here, but that they are actually shut in and

confined. Then they come to the barred door of a low and narrow postern

gate. Drawing their swords, they all strike it with such violence that

they cut the bar. As soon as they were outside the tower, they see that

a fierce strife was already begun down in the meadows, and that there

are at least a thousand knights engaged, beside the low-bred infantry.

While they were descending to the plain, the wise and moderate son of

the vavasor remarked: "Sire, before we arrive upon the field, it would

be wise for us, it seems to me, to find out and learn on which side our

people are. I do not know where they are placed, but I will go and

find out, if you wish it so." "I wish you would do so," he replies,

"go quickly, and do not fail to come back again at once." He goes and

returns at once, saying: "It has turned out well for us, for I have

plainly seen that these are our troops on this side of the field." Then

the knight at once rode into the fight and jousted with a knight who

was approaching him, striking him in the eye with such violence that he

knocked him lifeless to the ground. Then the lad dismounts, and taking

the dead knight's horse and arms, he arms himself with skill and

cleverness. When he was armed, he straightway mounts, taking the shield

and the lance, which was heavy, stiff, and decorated, and about his

waist he girt a sharp, bright, and flashing sword. Then he followed his

brother and lord into the fight. The latter demeaned himself bravely

in the melee for some time, breaking, splitting, and crushing shields,

helmets and hauberks. No wood or steel protected the man whom he

struck; he either wounded him or knocked him lifeless from the horse.

Unassisted, he did so well that he discomfited all whom he met, while

his companions did their part as well. The people of Logres, not knowing

him, are amazed at what they see, and ask the vavasor's sons about the

stranger knight. This reply is made to them: "Gentlemen, this is he who

is to deliver us all from durance and misery, in which we have so long

been confined, and we ought to do him great honour when, to set us free,

he has passed through so many perils and is ready to face many more. He

has done much, and will do yet more." Every one is overjoyed at hearing

this welcome news. The news travelled fast, and was noised about, until

it was known by all. Their strength and courage rise, so that they slay

many of those still alive, and apparently because of the example of

a single knight they work greater havoc than because of all the rest

combined. And if it had not been so near evening, all would have gone

away defeated; but night came on so dark that they had to separate.

(Vv. 2451-2614.) When the battle was over, all the captives pressed

about the knight, grasping his rein on either side, and thus addressing

him: "Welcome, fair sire," and each one adds: "Sire, for the name of

God, do not fail to lodge with me!" What one says they all repeat, for

young and old alike insist that he must lodge with them, saying: "You

will be more comfortably lodged with me than with any one else." Thus

each one addresses him to his face, and in the desire to capture him,

each one drags him from the rest, until they almost come to blows.

Then he tells them that they are very foolish and silly to struggle so.

"Cease this wrangling among yourselves, for it does no good to me or

you. Instead of quarrelling among ourselves, we ought rather to lend one

another aid. You must not dispute about the privilege of lodging me, but

rather consider how to lodge me in such a place that it may be to your

general advantage, and that I may be advanced upon my way." Then each

one exclaims at once: "That is my house, or, No, it is mine," until the

knight replies: "Follow my advice and say nothing more; the wisest of

you is foolish to contend this way. You ought to be concerned to further

my affairs, and instead you are seeking to turn me aside. If you had

each individually done me all the honour and service it is possible to

do, and I had accepted your kindness, by all the saints of Rome I

swear that I could not be more obliged to you than I am now for your

good-will. So may God give me joy and health, your good intentions

please me as much as if each one of you had already shown me great

honour and kindness: so let the will stand for the deed!" Thus he

persuades and appeases them all. Then they take him quickly along the

road to a knight's residence, where they seek to serve him: all rejoice

to honour and serve him throughout the evening until bedtime, for they

hold him very dear. Next morning, when the time came to separate, each

one offers and presents himself, with the desire to accompany him; but

it is not his will or pleasure that any one shall go with him except the

two whom he had brought with him. Accompanied by them alone, he

resumed his journey. That day they rode from morn till evening without

encountering any adventure. When it was now very late, and while they

were riding rapidly out of a forest, they saw a house belonging to a

knight, and seated at the door they saw his wife, who had the bearing of

a gentle lady. As soon as she espied them coming, she rose to her feet

to meet them, and greeted them joyfully with a smile: "Welcome! I wish

you to accept my house; this is your lodging; pray dismount" "Lady,

since it is your will, we thank you, and will dismount; we accept your

hospitality for the night." When they had dismounted, the lady had the

horses taken by members of her well-ordered household. She calls

her sons and daughters who come at once: the youths were courteous,

handsome, and well-behaved, and the daughters were fair. She bids the

lads remove the saddles and curry the horses well; no one refused to do

this, but each carried out her instructions willingly. When she ordered

the knights to be disarmed, her daughters step forward to perform this

service. They remove their armour, and hand them three short mantles

to put on. Then at once they take them into the house which was very

handsome. The master was not at home, being out in the woods with two

of his sons. But he presently returned, and his household, which was

well-ordered, ran to meet him outside the door. Quickly they untie and

unpack the game he brings, and tell him the news: "Sire, sire, you do

not know that you have three knights for guests." "God be praised for

that," he says. Then the knight and his two sons extend a glad welcome

to their guests. The rest of the household were not backward, for even

the least among them prepared to perform his special task. While some

run to prepare the meal, others light the candles in profusion; still

others get a towel and basins, and offer water for the hands: they are

not niggardly in all this. When all had washed, they take their seats.

Nothing that was done there seemed to be any trouble or burdensome.

But at the first course there came a surprise in the form of a knight

outside the door. As he sat on his charger, all armed from head to feet,

he looked prouder than a bull, and a bull is a yew proud beast. One leg

was fixed in the stirrup, but the other he had thrown over the mane of

his horse's neck, to give himself a careless and jaunty air. Behold him

advancing thus, though no one noticed him until he came forward with the

words: "I wish to know which is the man who is so foolish and proud

a numskull that he has come to this country and intends to cross the

sword-bridge. All his pains will come to naught, and his expedition

is in vain." Then he, who felt no fear at all, thus replies with

confidence: "I am he who intends to cross the bridge." "Thou? Thou?

How didst thou dare to think of such a thing? Before undertaking such

a course, thou oughtest to have thought of the end that is in store for

thee, and thou oughtest to have in mind the memory of the cart on which

thou didst ride. I know not whether thou feelest shame for the ride

thou hadst on it, but no sensible man would have embarked on such an

enterprise as this if he had felt the reproach of his action."

(Vv. 2615-2690.) Not a word does he deign to reply to what he hears the

other say; but the master of the house and all the others express their

surprise openly: "Ah, God, what a misfortune this is," each one of them

says to himself; "cursed be the hour when first a cart was conceived or

made! For it is a very vile and hateful thing. Ah, God, of what was he

accused? Why was he carried in a cart? For what sin, or for what crime?

He will always suffer the reproach. If he were only clear of this

disgrace, no knight could be found in all the world, however his valour

might be proved, who would equal the merit of this knight. If all good

knights could be compared, and if the truth were to be known, you

could find none so handsome or so expert." Thus they expressed their

sentiments. Then he began his speech of impudence: "Listen, thou knight,

who art bound for the sword-bridge! If thou wishest, thou shalt cross

the water very easily and comfortably. I will quickly have thee ferried

over in a skiff. But once on the other side, I will make thee pay me

toll, and I will take thy head, if I please to do so, or if not, thou

shalt be held at my discretion." And he replies that he is not seeking

trouble, and that he will never risk his head in such an adventure for

any consideration. To which the other answers at once: "Since thou

wilt not do this, whosesoever the shame and loss may be, thou must come

outside with me and there engage me hand to hand." Then, to beguile him.

the other says: "If I could refuse, I would very gladly excuse myself;

but in truth I would rather fight than be compelled to do what is

wrong." Before he arose from the table where they were sitting, he told

the youths who were serving him, to saddle his horse at once, and fetch

his arms and give them to him. This order they promptly execute: some

devote themselves to arming him, while others go to fetch his horse. As

he slowly rode along completely armed, holding his shield tight by the

straps, you must know that he was evidently to be included in the list

of the brave and fair. His horse became him so well that it is evident

he must be his own, and as for the shield he held by the straps and the

helmet laced upon his head, which fitted him so well, you would never

for a moment have thought that he had borrowed it or received it as a

loan; rather, you would be so pleased with him that you would maintain

that he had been thus born and raised: for all this I should like you to

take my word.

(Vv. 2691-2792.) Outside the gate, where the battle was to be fought,

there was a stretch of level ground well adapted for the encounter. When

they catch sight of each other, they spur hotly to the attack and come

together with such a shock, dealing such blows with their lances, that

they first bend, then buckle up, and finally fly into splinters. With

their swords they then hew away at their shields, helmets, and hauberks.

The wood is cut and the steel gives way, so that they wound each other

in several places. They pay each other such angry blows that it seems

as if they had made a bargain. The swords often descend upon the horses'

croups, where they drink and feast upon their blood; their riders strike

them upon the flanks until at last they kill them both. And when both

have fallen to earth, they attack each other afoot; and if they had

cherished a mortal hatred, they could not have assailed each other more

fiercely with their swords. They deal their blows with greater frequency

than the man who stakes his money at dice and never fails to double the

stakes every time he loses; yet, this game of theirs was very different;

for there were no losses here, but only fierce blows and cruel strife.

All the people came out from the house: the master, his lady, his sons

and daughters; no man or woman, friend or stranger, stayed behind,

but all stood in line to see the fight in progress in the broad,

level field. The Knight of the Cart blames and reproaches himself for

faintheartedness when he sees his host watching him and notices all the

others looking on. His heart is stirred with anger, for it seems to him

that he ought long since to have beaten his adversary. Then he strikes

him, rushing in like a storm and bringing his sword down close by his

head; he pushes and presses him so hard that he drives him from his

ground and reduces him to such a state of exhaustion that he has little

strength to defend himself. Then the knight recalls how the other had

basely reproached him about the cart; so he assails him and drubs him so

soundly that not a string or strap remains unbroken about the neck-band

of his hauberk, and he knocks the helmet and ventail from his head. His

wounds and distress are so great that he has to cry for mercy. Just

as the lark cannot withstand or protect itself against the hawk which

outflies it and attacks it from above, so he in his helplessness and

shame, must invoke him and sue for mercy. And when he hears him beg for

mercy, he ceases his attack and says: "Dost thou wish for mercy?" He

replies: "You have asked a very clever question; any fool could ask

that. I never wished for anything so much as I now wish for mercy."

Then he says to him: "Thou must mount, then, upon a cart. Nothing thou

couldst say would have any influence with me, unless thou mountest the

cart, to atone for the vile reproaches thou didst address to me with thy

silly mouth." And the knight thus answers him: "May it never please God

that I mount a cart!" "No?" he asks; "then you shall die." "Sire, you

can easily put me to death; but I beg and beseech you for God's sake

to show me mercy and not compel me to mount a cart. I will agree to

anything, however grievous, excepting that. I would rather die a hundred

times than undergo such a disgrace. In your goodness and mercy you can

tell me nothing so distasteful that I will not do it."

(Vv. 2793-2978.) While he is thus beseeching him, behold across the

field a maiden riding on a tawny mule, her head uncovered and her dress

disarranged. In her hand she held a whip with which she belaboured the

mule; and in truth no horse could have galloped so fast as was the pace

of the mule. The damsel called out to the Knight of the Cart: "May God

bless thy heart, Sir Knight, with whatever delights thee most!" And he,

who heard her gladly, says: "May God bless you, damsel, and give you joy

and health!" Then she tells him of her desire. "Knight," she says, "in

urgent need I have come from afar to thee to ask a favour, for which

thou wilt deserve the best guerdon I can make to thee; and I believe

that thou wilt yet have need of my assistance." And he replies: "Tell

me what it is you wish; and if I have it, you shall have it at once,

provided it be not something extravagant." Then she says: "It is the

head of the knight whom thou hast just defeated; in truth, thou

hast never dealt with such a wicked and faithless man. Thou wilt be

committing no sin or wrong, but rather doing a deed of charity, for he

is the basest creature that ever was or ever shall be." And when he who

had been vanquished hears that she wishes him to be killed, he says to

him: "Don't believe her, for she hates me; but by that God who was

at once Father and Son, and who chose for His mother her who was His

daughter and handmaiden, I beg you to have mercy upon me!" "Ah, knight!"

the maid exclaims, "pay no attention to what this traitor says! May God

give thee all the joy and honour to which thou dost aspire, and may

He give thee good success in thy undertaking." Then the knight is in

a predicament, as he thinks and ponders over the question: whether to

present to her the head she asks him to cut off, or whether he shall

allow himself to be touched by pity for him. [417] He wishes to respect

the wishes of both her and him. Generosity and pity each command him to

do their will; for he was both generous and tender-hearted. But if

she carries off the head, then will pity be defeated and put to

death; whereas, if she does not carry off the head, generosity will

be discomfited. Thus, pity and generosity hold him so confined and so

distressed that he is tormented and spurred on by each of them in turn.

The damsel asks him to give her the head, and on the other hand the

knight makes his request, appealing to his pity and kindness. And,

since he has implored him, shall he not receive mercy? Yes, for it never

happened that, when he had put down an enemy and compelled him to sue

for mercy, he would refuse such an one his mercy or longer bear him any

grudge. Since this is his custom, he will not refuse his mercy to him

who now begs and sues for it. And shall she have the head she covets?

Yes, if it be possible. "Knight," he says, "it is necessary for thee to

fight me again, and if thou dost care to defend thy head again, I will

show thee such mercy as to allow thee to resume the helmet; and I will

give thee time to arm thy body and thy head as well as possible. But, if

I conquer thee again, know that thou shalt surely die." And he replies:

"I desire nothing better than that, and ask for no further favour."

"And I will give thee this advantage," he adds: "I will fight thee as

I stand, without changing my present position." Then the other knight

makes ready, and they begin the fight again eagerly. But this time the

knight triumphed more quickly than he had done at first. And the damsel

at once cries out: "Do not spare him, knight, for anything he may say to

thee. Surely he would not have spared thee, had he once defeated thee.

If thou heedest what he says, be sure that he will again beguile thee.

Fair knight, cut off the head of the most faithless man in the empire

and kingdom, and give it to me! Thou shouldst present it to me, in view

of the guerdon I intend for thee. For another day may well come when, if

he can, he will beguile thee again with his words." He, thinking his end

is near, cries aloud to him for mercy; but his cry is of no avail, nor

anything that he can say. The other drags him by the helmet, tearing all

the fastening, and he strikes from his head the ventail and the gleaming

coif. Then he cries out more loudly still: "Mercy, for God's sake!

Mercy, sir!" But the other answers: "So help me, I shall never again

show thee pity, after having once let thee off." "Ah," he says, "thou

wouldst do wrong to heed my enemy and kill me thus." While she, intent

upon his death, admonishes him to cut off his head, and not to believe

a word he says. He strikes: the head flies across the sward and the body

fails. Then the damsel is pleased and satisfied. Grasping the head by

the hair, the knight presents it to the damsel, who takes it joyfully

with the words: "May thy heart receive such delight from whatever it

most desires as my heart now receives from what I most coveted. I had

only one grief in life, and that was that this man was still alive. I

have a reward laid up for thee which thou shalt receive at the proper

time. I promise thee that thou shalt have a worthy reward for the

service thou hast rendered me. Now I will go away, with the prayer

that God may guard thee from harm." Then the damsel leaves him, as each

commends the other to God. But all those who had seen the battle in the

plain are overjoyed, and in their joy they at once relieve the knight of

his armour, and honour him in every way they can. Then they wash their

hands again and take their places at the meal, which they eat with

better cheer than is their wont. When they had been eating for some

time, the gentleman turned to his guest at his side, and said: "Sire, a

long while ago we came hither from the kingdom of Logres. We were born

your countrymen, and we should like to see you win honour and fortune

and joy in this country; for we should profit by it as well as you, and

it would be to the advantage of many others, if you should gain honour

and fortune in the enterprise you have undertaken in this land." And he

makes answer: "May God hear your desire."

(Vv. 2979-3020.) When the host had dropped his voice and ceased

speaking, one of his sons followed him and said: "Sire, we ought to

place all our resources at your service, and give them outright rather

than promise them; if you have any need of our assistance, we ought not

to wait until you ask for it. Sire, be not concerned over your horse

which is dead. We have good strong horses here. I want you to take

anything of ours which you need, and you shall choose the best of

our horses in place of yours." And he replies: "I willingly accept."

Thereupon, they have the beds prepared and retire for the night. The

next morning they rise early, and dress, after which they prepare to

start. Upon leaving, they fail in no act of courtesy, but take leave of

the lady, her lord, and all the rest. But in order to omit nothing, I

must remark that the knight was unwilling to mount the borrowed steed

which was standing ready at the door; rather, he caused him to be ridden

by one of the two knights who had come with him, while he took the

latter's horse instead, for thus it pleased him best to do. When each

was seated on his horse, they all asked for leave to depart from their

host who had served them so honourably. Then they ride along the road

until the day draws to a close, and late in the afternoon they reach the

sword-bridge.

(Vv. 3021-3194.) At the end of this very difficult bridge they dismount

from their steeds and gaze at the wicked-looking stream, which is as

swift and raging, as black and turgid, as fierce and terrible as if

it were the devil's stream; and it is so dangerous and bottomless that

anything failing into it would be as completely lost as if it fell into

the salt sea. And the bridge, which spans it, is different from any

other bridge; for there never was such a one as this. If any one asks of

me the truth, there never was such a bad bridge, nor one whose flooring

was so bad. The bridge across the cold stream consisted of a polished,

gleaming sword; but the sword was stout and stiff, and was as long as

two lances. At each end there was a tree-trunk in which the sword

was firmly fixed. No one need fear to fall because of its breaking

or bending, for its excellence was such that it could support a

great weight. But the two knights who were with the third were much

discouraged; for they surmised that two lions or two leopards would be

found tied to a great rock at the other end of the bridge. The water

and the bridge and the lions combine so to terrify them that they both

tremble with fear, and say: "Fair sire, consider well what confronts

you; for it is necessary and needful to do so. This bridge is badly made

and built, and the construction of it is bad. If you do not change your

mind in time, it will be too late to repent. You must consider which of

several alternatives you will choose. Suppose that you once get across

(but that cannot possibly come to pass, any more than one could hold in

the winds and forbid them to blow, or keep the birds from singing,

or re-enter one's mother's womb and be born again--all of which is as

impossible as to empty the sea of its water); but even supposing that

you got across, can you think and suppose that those two fierce lions

that are chained on the other side will not kill you, and suck the blood

from your veins, and eat your flesh and then gnaw your bones? For my

part, I am bold enough, when I even dare to look and gaze at them. If

you do not take care, they will certainly devour you. Your body will

soon be torn and rent apart, for they will show you no mercy. So take

pity on us now, and stay here in our company! It would be wrong for

you to expose yourself intentionally to such mortal peril." And he,

laughing, replies to them: "Gentlemen, receive my thanks and gratitude

for the concern you feel for me: it comes from your love and kind

hearts. I know full well that you would not like to see any mishap come

to me; but I have faith and confidence in God, that He will protect me

to the end. I fear the bridge and stream no more than I fear this dry

land; so I intend to prepare and make the dangerous attempt to cross.

I would rather die than turn back now." The others have nothing more to

say; but each weeps with pity and heaves a sigh. Meanwhile he prepares,

as best he may, to cross the stream, and he does a very marvellous thing

in removing the armour from his feet and hands. He will be in a sorry

state when he reaches the other side. He is going to support himself

with his bare hands and feet upon the sword, which was sharper than a

scythe, for he had not kept on his feet either sole or upper or hose.

But he felt no fear of wounds upon his hands or feet; he preferred to

maim himself rather than to fall from the bridge and be plunged in

the water from which he could never escape. In accordance with this

determination, he passes over with great pain and agony, being wounded

in the hands, knees, and feet. But even this suffering is sweet to him:

for Love, who conducts and leads him on, assuages and relieves the pain.

Creeping on his hands, feet, and knees, he proceeds until he reaches

the other side. Then he recalls and recollects the two lions which he

thought he had seen from the other side; but, on looking about, he does

not see so much as a lizard or anything else to do him harm. He raises

his hand before his face and looks at his ring, and by this test he

proves that neither of the lions is there which he thought he had seen,

and that he had been enchanted and deceived; for there was not a living

creature there. When those who had remained behind upon the bank saw

that he had safely crossed, their joy was natural; but they do not know

of his injuries. He, however, considers himself fortunate not to have

suffered anything worse. The blood from his wounds drips on his shirt

on all sides. Then he sees before him a tower, which was so strong that

never had he seen such a strong one before: indeed, it could not have

been a better tower. At the window there sat King Bademagu, who was very

scrupulous and precise about matters of honour and what was right, and

who was careful to observe and practise loyalty above all else; and

beside him stood his son, who always did precisely the opposite so far

as possible, for he found his pleasure in disloyalty, and never wearied

of villainy, treason, and felony. From their point of vantage they had

seen the knight cross the bridge with trouble and pain. Meleagant's

colour changed with the rage and displeasure he felt; for he knows now

that he will be challenged for the Queen; but his character was such

that he feared no man, however strong or formidable. If he were not base

and disloyal, there could no better knight be found; but he had a heart

of wood, without gentleness and pity. What enraged his son and roused

his ire, made the king happy and glad. The king knew of a truth that he

who had crossed the bridge was much better than any one else. For no one

would dare to pass over it in whom there dwelt any of that evil nature

which brings more shame upon those who possess it than prowess brings

of honour to the virtuous. For prowess cannot accomplish so much as

wickedness and sloth can do: it is true beyond a doubt that it is

possible to do more evil than good.

(Vv. 3195-3318.) I could say more on these two heads, if it did not

cause me to delay. But I must turn to something else and resume my

subject, and you shall hear how the king speaks profitably to his son:

"Son," he says, "it was fortunate that thou and I came to look out

this window; our reward has been to witness the boldest deed that ever

entered the mind of man. Tell me now if thou art not well disposed

toward him who has performed such a marvellous feat. Make peace and be

reconciled with him, and deliver the Queen into his hands. Thou shalt

gain no glory in battle with him, but rather mayst thou incur great

loss. Show thyself to be courteous and sensible, and send the Queen to

meet him before he sees thee. Show him honour in this land of thine, and

before he asks it, present to him what he has come to seek. Thou knowest

well enough that he has come for the Queen Guinevere. Do not act so that

people will take thee to be obstinate, foolish, or proud. If this man

has entered thy land alone, thou shouldst bear him company, for one

gentleman ought not to avoid another, but rather attract him and honour

him with courtesy. One receives honour by himself showing it; be sure

that the honour will be thine, if thou doest honour and service to him

who is plainly the best knight in the world." And he replies: "May God

confound me, if there is not as good a knight, or even a better one

than he!" It was too bad that he did not mention himself, of whom he

entertains no mean opinion. And he adds: "I suppose you wish me to clasp

my hands and kneel before him as his liegeman, and to hold my lands from

him? So help me God, I would rather become his man than surrender to

him the Queen! God forbid that in such a fashion I should deliver her

to him! She shall never be given up by me, but rather contested and

defended against all who are so foolish as to dare to come in quest

of her." Then again the king says to him: "Son, thou wouldst act very

courteously to renounce this pretension. I advise thee and beg thee to

keep the peace. Thou knowest well that the honour will belong to the

knight, if he wins the Queen from thee in battle. He would doubtless

rather win her in battle than as a gift, for it will thus enhance

his fame. It is my opinion that he is seeking her, not to receive her

peaceably, but because he wishes to win her by force of arms. So it

would be wise on thy part to deprive him of the satisfaction of fighting

thee. I am sorry to see thee so foolish; but if thou dost not heed my

advice, evil will come of it, and the ensuing misfortune will be worse

for thee. For the knight need fear no hostility from any one here save

thee. On behalf of myself and all my men, I will grant him a truce and

security. I have never yet done a disloyal deed or practised treason and

felony, and I shall not begin to do so now on thy account any more than

I would for any stranger. I do not wish to flatter thee, for I promise

that the knight shall not lack any arms, or horse or anything else he

needs, in view of the boldness he has displayed in coming thus far.

He shall be securely guarded and well defended against all men here

excepting thee. I wish him clearly to understand that, if he can

maintain himself against thee, he need have no fear of any one else." "I

have listened to you in silence long enough," says Meleagant, "and you

may say what you please. But little do I care for all you say. I am not

a hermit, nor so compassionate and charitable, and I have no desire to

be so honourable as to give him what I most love. His task will not be

performed so quickly or so lightly; rather will it turn out otherwise

than as you and he expect. You and I need not quarrel because you aid

him against me. Even if he enjoys peace and a truce with you and all

your men, what matters that to me? My heart does not quail on that

account; rather, so help me God, I am glad that he need not feel concern

for any one here but me; I do not wish you to do on my account anything

which might be construed as disloyalty or treachery. Be as compassionate

as you please, but let me be cruel." "What? Wilt thou not change thy

mind?" "No," he says. "Then I will say nothing more. I will leave thee

alone to do thy best and will go now to speak with the knight. I wish

to offer and present to him my aid and counsel in all respects; for I am

altogether on his side."

(Vv. 3319-3490.) Then the king goes down and orders them to bring his

horse. A large steed is brought to him, upon which he springs by the

stirrup, and he rides off with some of his men: three knights and two

squires he bade to go with him. They did not stop their ride downhill

until they came to the bridge, where they see him stanching his wounds

and wiping the blood from them. The king expects to keep him as his

guest for a long time while his wounds are healing; but he might as well

expect to drain the sea. The king hastens to dismount, and he who was

grievously wounded, stood up at once to meet him, though he did not know

him, and he gave no more evidence of the pain he felt in his feet and

hands than if he had been actually sound. The king sees that he is

exerting himself, and quickly runs to greet him with the words: "Sire,

I am greatly amazed that you have fallen upon us in this land. But be

welcome, for no one will ever repeat the attempt: it never happened in

the past, and it will never happen in the future that any one should

perform such a hardy feat or expose himself to such peril. And know that

I admire you greatly for having executed what no one before ever dared

to conceive. You will find me very kindly disposed, and loyal and

courteous toward you. I am the king of this land, and offer you freely

all my counsel and service; and I think I know pretty well what you have

come here to seek. You come, I am sure, to seek the Queen." "Sire,"

he replies, "your surmise is correct; no other cause brings me here."

"Friend, you must suffer hardship to obtain her," he replies; "and you

are sorely wounded, as I see by the wounds and the flowing blood. You

will not find him who brought her hither so generous as to give her up

without a struggle; but you must tarry, and have your wounds cared for

until they are completely healed. I will give you some of 'the three

Marys' ointment, [418] and something still better, if it can be found,

for I am very solicitous about your comfort and your recovery. And the

Queen is so confined that no mortal man has access to her--not even my

son, who brought her here with him and who resents such treatment, for

never was a man so beside himself and so desperate as he. But I am well

disposed toward you, and will gladly give you, so help me God, all of

which you stand in need. My son himself will not have such good arms but

that I will give you some that are just as good, and a horse, too,

such as you will need, though my son will be angry with me. Despite the

feelings of any one, I will protect you against all men. You will have

no cause to fear any one excepting him who brought the Queen here. No

man ever menaced another as I have menaced him, and I came near driving

him from my land, in my displeasure because he will not surrender her

to you. To be sure, he is my son; but feel no concern, for unless he

defeats you in battle, he can never do you the slightest harm against my

will." "Sire," he says, "I thank you. But I am losing time here which

I do not wish to waste. I have no cause to complain, and have no wound

which is paining me. Take me where I can find him; for with such arms

as I have, I am ready to divert myself by giving and receiving blows."

"Friend, you had better wait two or three weeks until your wounds are

healed, for it would be well for you to tarry here at least two weeks,

and not on any account could I allow it, or look on, while you fought

in my presence with such arms and with such an outfit." And he replies:

"With your permission, no other arms would be used than these, for I

should prefer to fight with them, and I should not ask for the slightest

postponement, adjournment or delay. However, in deference to you, I

will consent to wait until to-morrow; but despite what any one may say,

longer I will not wait." Then the king assured him that all would

be done as he wished; then he has the lodging-place prepared, and

insistently requests his men, who are in the company, to serve him,

which they do devotedly. And the king, who would gladly have made peace,

had it been possible, went at once to his son and spoke to him like one

who desires peace and harmony, saying: "Fair son, be reconciled now with

this knight without a fight! He has not come here to disport himself or

to hunt or chase, but he comes in search of honour and to increase his

fame and renown, and I have seen that he stands in great need of rest.

If he had taken my advice, he would not have rashly undertaken, either

this month or the next, the battle which he so greatly desires. If thou

makest over the Queen to him, dost thou fear any dishonour in the deed?

Have no fear of that, for no blame can attach to thee; rather is it

wrong to keep that to which one has no rightful claim. He would gladly

have entered the battle at once, though his hands and feet are not

sound, but cut and wounded." Meleagant answers his father thus: "You are

foolish to be concerned. By the faith I owe St. Peter, I will not take

your advice in this matter. I should deserve to be drawn apart with

horses, if I heeded your advice. If he is seeking his honour, so do I

seek mine; if he is in search of glory, so am I; if he is anxious for

the battle, so am I a hundred times more so than he." "I see plainly,"

says the king, "that thou art intent upon thy mad enterprise, and thou

shalt have thy fill of it. Since such is thy pleasure, to-morrow thou

shalt try thy strength with the knight." "May no greater hardship ever

visit me than that!" Meleagant replies; "I would much rather it were

to-day than to-morrow. Just see how much more downcast I am than is

usual! My eyes are wild, and my face is pale! I shall have no joy or

satisfaction or any cause for happiness until I am actually engaged with

him."

(Vv. 3491-3684.) The king understands that further advice and prayers

are of no avail, so reluctantly he leaves his son and, taking a good,

strong horse and handsome arms, he sends them to him who well deserves

them, together with a surgeon who was a loyal and Christian man. There

was in the world no more trusty man, and he was more skilled in the

cure of wounds than all the doctors of Montpeilier. [419] That night

he treated the knight as best he could, in accordance with the king's

command. Already the news was known by the knights and damsels, the

ladies and barons of all the country-side, and all through the night

until daybreak strangers and friends were making long journeys from all

the country round. When morning came, there was such a press before the

castle that there was not room to move one's foot. And the king, rising

early in his distress about the battle, goes directly to his son, who

had already laced upon his head the helmet which was of Poitiers make.

No delay or peace is possible, for though the king did his best, his

efforts are of no effect. In the middle of the castle-square, where all

the people are assembled, the battle will be fought in compliance with

the king's wish and command. The king sends at once for the stranger

knight, and he is conducted to the grounds which were filled with people

from the kingdom of Logres. For just as people are accustomed to go

to church to hear the organ on the annual feast-days of Pentecost or

Christmas, so they had all assembled now. All the foreign maidens from

King Arthur's realm had fasted three days and gone barefoot in their

shifts, in order that God might endow with strength and courage the

knight who was to fight his adversary on behalf of the captives. Very

early, before prime had yet been sounded, both of the knights fully

armed were led to the place, mounted upon two horses equally protected.

Meleagant was very graceful, alert, and shapely; the hauberk with its

fine meshes, the helmet, and the shield hanging from his neck--all these

became him well. All the spectators, however, favoured the other knight,

even those who wished him ill, and they say that Meleagant is worth

nothing compared with him. As soon as they were both on the ground, the

king comes and detains them as long as possible in an effort to make

peace between them, but he is unable to persuade his son. Then he says

to them: "Hold in your horses until I reach the top of the tower. It

will be only a slight favour, if you will wait so long for me." Then in

sorrowful mood he leaves them and goes directly to the place where he

knew he would find the Queen. She had begged him the evening before to

place her where she might have an unobstructed view of the battle; he

had granted her the boon, and went now to seek and fetch her, for he

was very anxious to show her honour and courtesy. He placed her at one

window, and took his place at another window on her right. Beside them,

there were gathered there many knights and prudent dames and damsels,

who were natives of that land; and there were many others, who were

captives, and who were intent upon their orisons and prayers. Those who

were prisoners were praying for their lord, for to God and to him they

entrusted their succour and deliverance. Then the combatants without

delay make all the people stand aside; then they clash the shields with

their elbows, and thrust their arms into the straps, and spur at each

other so violently that each sends his lance two arms' length through

his opponent's shield, causing the lance to split and splinter like a

flying spark. And the horses meet head on, clashing breast to breast,

and the shields and helmets crash with such a noise that it seems like

a mighty thunder-clap; not a breast-strap, girth, rein or surcingle

remains unbroken, and the saddle-bows, though strong, are broken to

pieces. The combatants felt no shame in falling to earth, in view of

their mishaps, but they quickly spring to their feet, and without waste

of threatening words rush at each other more fiercely than two wild

boars, and deal great blows with their swords of steel like men whose

hate is violent. Repeatedly they trim the helmets and shining hauberks

so fiercely that after the sword the blood spurts out. They furnished

an excellent battle, indeed, as they stunned and wounded each other with

their heavy, wicked blows. Many fierce, hard, long bouts they sustained

with equal honour, so that the onlookers could discern no advantage on

either side. But it was inevitable that he who had crossed the bridge

should be much weakened by his wounded hands. The people who sided with

him were much dismayed, for they notice that his strokes are growing

weaker, and they fear he will get the worst of it; it seemed to them

that he was weakening, while Meleagant was triumphing, and they began

to murmur all around. But up at the window of the tower there was a wise

maiden who thought within herself that the knight had not undertaken the

battle either on her account or for the sake of the common herd who had

gathered about the list, but that his only incentive had been the Queen;

and she thought that, if he knew that she was at the window seeing and

watching him, his strength and courage would increase. And if she had

known his name, she would gladly have called to him to look about him.

Then she came to the Queen and said: "Lady, for God's sake and your

own as well as ours, I beseech you to tell me, if you know, the name of

yonder knight, to the end that it may be of some help to him." "Damsel,"

the Queen replies, "you have asked me a question in which I see no hate

or evil, but rather good intent; the name of the knight, I know, is

Lancelot of the Lake." [420] "God, how happy and glad at heart I am!"

the damsel says. Then she leans forward and calls to him by name so

loudly that all the people hear: "Lancelot, turn about and see who is

here taking note of thee!"