(Vv. 3685-3954.) When Lancelot heard his name, he was not slow to turn

around: he turns and sees seated up there at the window of the tower

her whom he desired most in the world to see. From the moment he caught

sight of her, he did not turn or take his eyes and face from her,

defending himself with backhand blows. And Meleagant meanwhile attacked

him as fiercely as he could, delighted to think that the other cannot

withstand him now; and they of the country are well pleased too,

while the foreigners are so distressed that they can no longer support

themselves, and many of them fall to earth either upon their knees or

stretched out prone; thus some are glad, and some distressed. Then the

damsel cried again from the window: "Ah, Lancelot, how is it that thou

dost now conduct thyself so foolishly? Once thou wert the embodiment

of prowess and of all that is good, and I do not think God ever made a

knight who could equal thee in valour and in worth. But now we see

thee so distressed that thou dealest back-hand blows and fightest thy

adversary, behind thy back. Turn, so as to be on the other side, and so

that thou canst face toward this tower, for it will help thee to keep

it in view." Then Lancelot is so ashamed and mortified that he hates

himself, for he knows full well that all have seen how, for some time

past, he has had the worst of the fight. Thereupon he leaps backward and

so manoeuvres as to force Meleagant into a position between him and the

tower. Meleagant makes every effort to regain his former position. But

Lancelot rushes upon him, and strikes him so violently upon his body and

shield whenever he tries to get around him, that he compels him to whirl

about two or three times in spite of himself. Lancelot's strength and

courage grow, partly because he has love's aid, and partly because he

never hated any one so much as him with whom he is engaged. Love and

mortal hate, so fierce that never before was such hate seen, make him so

fiery and bold that Meleagant ceases to treat it as a jest and begins to

stand in awe of him, for he had never met or known so doughty a knight,

nor had any knight ever wounded or injured him as this one does. He

is glad to get away from him, and he winces and sidesteps, fearing his

blows and avoiding them. And Lancelot does not idly threaten him, but

drives him rapidly toward the tower where the Queen was stationed on the

watch. There upon the tower he did her the homage of his blows until he

came so close that, if he advanced another step, he would lose sight

of her. Thus Lancelot drove him back and forth repeatedly in whatever

direction he pleased, always stopping before the Queen, his lady, who

had kindled the flame which compels him to fix his gaze upon her. And

this same flame so stirred him against Meleagant that he was enabled to

lead and drive him wherever he pleased. In spite of himself he drives

him on like a blind man or a man with a wooden leg. The king sees his

son so hard pressed that he is sorry for him and he pities him, and he

will not deny him aid and assistance if possible; but if he wishes to

proceed courteously, he must first beg the Queen's permission. So he

began to say to her: "Lady, since I have had you in my power, I have

loved you and faithfully served and honoured you. I never consciously

left anything undone in which I saw your honour involved; now repay

me for what I have done. For I am about to ask you a favour which you

should not grant unless you do so willingly. I plainly see that my son

is getting the worst of this battle; I do not speak so because of the

chagrin I feel, but in order that Lancelot, who has him in his power,

may not kill him. Nor ought you to wish to see him killed; not because

he has not wronged both you and him, but because I make the request of

you: so tell him, please, to stop beating him. If you will, you can thus

repay me for what I have done for you." "Fair sire, I am willing to do

so at your request," the Queen replies; "had I mortal hatred for your

son, whom it is true I do not love, yet you have served me so well that,

to please you, I am quite willing that he should desist." These words

were not spoken privately, but Lancelot and Meleagrant heard what was

said. The man who is a perfect lover is always obedient and quickly and

gladly does his mistress' pleasure. So Lancelot was constrained to do

his Lady's will, for he loved more than Pyramus, [421] if that were

possible for any man to do. Lancelot heard what was said, and as soon as

the last word had issued from her mouth, "since you wish him to desist,

I am willing that he should do so," Lancelot would not have touched him

or made a movement for anything, even if the other had killed him. He

does not touch him or raise his hand. But Meleagant, beside himself with

rage and shame when he hears that it has been necessary to intercede

in his behalf, strikes him with all the strength he can muster. And the

king went down from the tower to upbraid his son, and entering the list

he addressed him thus: "How now? Is this becoming, to strike him when he

is not touching thee? Thou art too cruel and savage, and thy prowess

is now out of place! For we all know beyond a doubt that he is thy

superior." Then Meleagant, choking with shame, says to the king: "I

think you must be blind! I do not believe you see a thing. Any one must

indeed be blind to think I am not better than he." "Seek some one to

believe thy words!" the king replies, "for all the people know whether

thou speakest the truth or a lie. All of us know full well the truth."

Then the king bids his barons lead his son away, which they do at once

in execution of his command: they led away Meleagant. But it was not

necessary to use force to induce Lancelot to withdraw, for Meleagant

might have harmed him grievously, before he would have sought to defend

himself. Then the king says to his son: "So help me God, now thou must

make peace and surrender the Queen. Thou must cease this quarrel once

for all and withdraw thy claim." "That is great nonsense you have

uttered! I hear you speak foolishly. Stand aside! Let us fight, and do

not mix in our affairs!" But the king says he will take a hand, for he

knows well that, were the fight to continue, Lancelot would kill his

son. "He kill me! Rather would I soon defeat and kill him, if you would

leave us alone and let us fight." Then the king says: "So help me God,

all that thou sayest is of no avail." "Why is that?" he asks. "Because I

will not consent. I will not so trust in thy folly and pride as to allow

thee to be killed. A man is a fool to court death, as thou dost in thy

ignorance. I know well that thou hatest me because I wish to save thy

life. God will not let me see and witness thy death, if I can help it,

for it would cause me too much grief." He talks to him and reproves him

until finally peace and good-will are restored. The terms of the peace

are these: he will surrender the Queen to Lancelot, provided that the

latter without reluctance will fight them again within a year of such

time as he shall choose to summon him: this is no trial to Lancelot.

When peace is made, all the people press about, and it is decided

that the battle shall be fought at the court of King Arthur, who holds

Britain and Cornwall in his sway: there they decide that it shall be.

And the Queen has to consent, and Lancelot has to promise, that if

Meleagant can prove him recreant, she shall come back with him again

without the interference of any one. When the Queen and Lancelot had

both agreed to this, the arrangement was concluded, and they both

retired and removed their arms. Now the custom in the country was that

when one issued forth, all the others might do so too. All called down

blessings upon Lancelot: and you may know that he must have felt great

joy, as in truth he did. All the strangers assemble and rejoice over

Lancelot, speaking so as to be heard by him: "Sire, in truth we were

joyful as soon as we heard your name, for we felt sure at once that we

should all be set free." There was a great crowd present at this glad

scene, as each one strives and presses forward to touch him if possible.

Any one who succeeded in touching him was more delighted than he could

tell. There was plenty of joy, and of sorrow too; those who were now set

free rejoiced unrestrainedly; but Meleagant and his followers have not

anything they want, but are pensive, gloomy, and downcast. The king

turns away from the list, taking with him Lancelot, who begs him to take

him to the Queen. "I shall not fail to do so," the king replies; "for it

seems to me the proper thing to do. And if you like, I will show you Kay

the seneschal." At this Lancelot is so glad that he almost falls at his

feet. Then the king took him at once into the hall, where the Queen had

come to wait for him.

(Vv. 3955-4030.) When the Queen saw the king holding Lancelot by the

hand, she rose before the king, but she looked displeased with clouded

brow, and she spoke not a word. "Lady, here is Lancelot come to see

you," says the king; "you ought to be pleased and satisfied." "I, sire?

He cannot please me. I care nothing about seeing him." "Come now, lady,"

says the king who was very frank and courteous, "what induces you to

act like this? You are too scornful toward a man who has served you so

faithfully that he has repeatedly exposed his life to mortal danger on

this journey for your sake, and who has defended and rescued you from my

son Meleagant who had deeply wronged you." "Sire, truly he has made

poor use of his time. I shall never deny that I feel no gratitude toward

him." Now Lancelot is dumbfounded; but he replies very humbly like a

polished lover: "Lady, certainly I am grieved at this, but I dare

not ask your reason." The Queen listened as Lancelot voiced his

disappointment, but in order to grieve and confound him, she would not

answer a single word, but returned to her room. And Lancelot followed

her with his eyes and heart until she reached the door; but she was not

long in sight, for the room was close by. His eyes would gladly have

followed her, had that been possible; but the heart, which is more

lordly and masterful in its strength, went through the door after her,

while the eyes remained behind weeping with the body. And the king said

privily to him: "Lancelot, I am amazed at what this means: and how it

comes about that the Queen cannot endure the sight of you, and that she

is so unwilling to speak with you. If she is ever accustomed to speak

with you, she ought not to be niggardly now or avoid conversation with

you, after what you have done for her. Now tell me, if you know, why and

for what misdeed she has shown you such a countenance." "Sire, I did not

notice that just now; but she will not look at me or hear my words, and

that distresses and grieves me much." "Surely," says the king, "she is

in the wrong, for you have risked your life for her. Come away now, fair

sweet friend, and we shall go to speak with the seneschal." "I shall be

glad to do so," he replies. Then they both go to the seneschal. As soon

as Lancelot came where he was, the seneschal's first exclamation was:

"How thou hast shamed me!" "I? How so?" Lancelot inquires; "tell me what

disgrace have I brought upon you?" "A very great disgrace, for thou hast

carried out what I could not accomplish, and thou hast done what I could

not do."

(Vv. 4031-4124.) Then the king left them together in the room, and went

out alone. And Lancelot inquires of the seneschal if he has been badly

off. "Yes," he answers, "and I still am so. I was never more wretched

than I am now. And I should have died a long time ago, had it not been

for the king, who in his compassion has shown me so much gentleness and

kindness that he willingly let me lack nothing of which I stood in need;

but I was furnished at once with everything that I desired. But opposed

to the kindness which he showed me, was Meleagant his son, who is full

of wickedness, and who summoned the physicians to him and bade them

apply such ointments as would kill me. Such a father and stepfather have

I had! For when the king had a good plaster applied to my wounds in his

desire that I should soon be cured, his treacherous son, wishing to put

me to death, had it promptly taken off and some harmful salve applied.

But I am very sure that the king was ignorant of this; he would not

tolerate such base and murderous tricks. But you do not know how

courteous he has been to my lady: no frontier tower since the time that

Noah built the ark was ever so carefully guarded, for he has guarded her

so vigilantly that, though his son chafed under the restraint, he would

nor let him see her except in the presence of the king himself. Up to

the present time the king in his mercy has shown her all the marks of

consideration which she herself proposed. She alone had the disposition

of her affairs. And the king esteemed her all the more for the loyalty

she showed. But is it true, as I am told, that she is so angry with you

that she has publicly refused to speak with you?" "You have been told

the exact truth," Lancelot replies, "but for God's sake, can you tell me

why she is so displeased with me?" He replies that he does not know, and

that he is greatly surprised at it. "Well, let it be as she pleases,"

says Lancelot, feeling his helplessness; "I must now take my leave, and

I shall go to seek my lord Gawain who has entered this land, and who

arranged with me that he would proceed directly to the waterbridge."

Then, leaving the room, he appeared before the king and asked for leave

to proceed in that direction. And the king willingly grants him leave to

go. Then those whom Lancelot had set free and delivered from prison ask

him what they are to do. And he replies: "All those who desire may come

with me, and those who wish to stay with the Queen may do so: there is

no reason why they should accompany me." Then all those, who so desire,

accompany him, more glad and joyous than is their wont. With the Queen

remain her damsels who are light of heart, and many knights and ladies

too. But there is not one of those who stay behind, who would not have

preferred to return to his own country to staying there. But on my

lord Gawain's account, whose arrival is expected, the Queen keeps them,

saying that she will never stir until she has news of him.

(Vv. 4125-4262.) The news spreads everywhere that the Queen is free to

go, and that all the other prisoners have been set at liberty and are

free to go whenever it suits and pleases them. Wherever the people of

the land gather together, they ask each other about the truth of this

report, and never talk of anything else. They are very much enraged that

all the dangerous passes have been overcome, and that any one may come

and go as he pleases. But when the natives of the country, who had not

been present at the battle, learned how Lancelot had been the victor,

they all betook themselves to the place where they knew he must pass

by, thinking that the king would be well pleased if they should seize

Lancelot and hale him back to him. All of his own men were without

their arms, and therefore they were at a disadvantage when they saw the

natives of the country coming under arms. It was not strange that they

seized Lancelot, who was without his arms. They lead him back prisoner,

his feet lashed together beneath his horse. Then his own men say:

"Gentlemen, this is an evil deed; for the king has given us his

safe-conduct, and we are under his protection." But the others reply:

"We do not know how that may be; but as we have taken you, you must

return with us to court." The rumour, which swiftly flies and runs,

reaches the king, that his men have seized Lancelot and put him to

death. When the king hears it, he is sorely grieved and swears angrily

by his head that they who have killed him shall surely die for the deed;

and that, if he can seize or catch them, it shall be their fate to be

hanged, burned, or drowned. And if they attempt to deny their deed, he

will not believe what they say, for they have brought him such grief and

shame that he would be disgraced were vengeance not to be exacted from

them; but he will be avenged without a doubt. The news of this spread

until it reached the Queen, who was sitting at meat. She almost killed

herself on hearing the false report about Lancelot, but she supposes it

to be true, and therefore she is in such dismay that she almost loses

the power to speak; but, because of those present, she forces herself

to say: "In truth, I am sorry for his death, and it is no wonder that

I grieve, for he came into this country for my sake, and therefore I

should mourn for him." Then she says to herself, so that the others

should not hear, that no one need ask her to drink or eat, if it is

true that he is dead, in whose life she found her own. Then grieving she

rises from the table, and makes her lament, but so that no one hears

or notices her. She is so beside herself that she repeatedly grasps

her throat with the desire to kill herself; but first she confesses to

herself, and repents with self-reproach, blaming and censuring herself

for the wrong she had done him, who, as she knew, had always been hers,

and would still be hers, if he were alive. She is so distressed at

the thought of her cruelty, that her beauty is seriously impaired. Her

cruelty and meanness affected her and marred her beauty more than all

the vigils and fastings with which she afflicted herself. When all her

sins rise up before her, she gathers them together, and as she reviews

them, she repeatedly exclaims: "Alas! of what was I thinking when my

lover stood before me and I should have welcomed him, that I would not

listen to his words? Was I not a fool, when I refused to look at or

speak to him? Foolish indeed? Rather was I base and cruel, so help me

God. I intended it as a jest, but he did not take it so, and has not

pardoned me. I am sure it was no one but me who gave him his death-blow.

When he came before me smiling and expecting that I would be glad to

see him and would welcome him, and when I would not look at him, was not

that a mortal blow? When I refused to speak with him, then doubtless at

one blow I deprived him of his heart and life. These two strokes have

killed him, I am sure; no other bandits have caused his death. God! can

I ever make amends for this murder and this crime? No, indeed; sooner

will the rivers and the sea dry up. Alas! how much better I should feel,

and how much comfort I should take, if only once before he died I had

held him in my arms! What? Yes, certainly, quite unclad, in order the

better to enjoy him. If he is dead, I am very wicked not to destroy

myself. Why? Can it harm my lover for me to live on after he is dead, if

I take no pleasure in anything but in the woe I bear for him? In giving

myself up to grief after his death, the very woes I court would be sweet

to me, if he were only still alive. It is wrong for a woman to wish to

die rather than to suffer for her lover's sake. It is certainly sweet

for me to mourn him long. I would rather be beaten alive than die and be

at rest."

(Vv. 4263-4414.) For two days the Queen thus mourned for him without

eating or drinking, until they thought she too would die. There are

plenty of people ready to carry bad news rather than good. The news

reaches Lancelot that his lady and sweetheart is dead. You need have

no doubt of the grief he felt; every one may feel sure that he was

afflicted and overcome with grief. Indeed, if you would know the truth,

he was so downcast that he held his life in slight esteem. He wished to

kill himself at once, but first he uttered a brief lament. He makes

a running noose at one end of the belt he wore, and then tearfully

communes thus with himself: "Ah, death, how hast thou spied me out and

undone me, when in the bloom of health! I am undone, and yet I feel no

pain except the grief within my heart. This is a terrible mortal grief.

I am willing that it should be so, and if God will, I shall die of it.

Then can I not die some other way, without God's consent? Yes, if he

will let me tie this noose around my neck. I think I can compel death,

even against her will, to take my life. Death, who covets only those

who fear her, will not come to me; but my belt will bring her within my

power, and as soon as she is mine, she will execute my desire. But, in

truth, she will come too tardily for me, for I yearn to have her now!"

Then he delays and hesitates no longer, but adjusts his head within the

noose until it rests about his neck; and in order that he may not

fail to harm himself, he fastens the end of the belt tightly about the

saddle-bow, without attracting the attention of any one. Then he let

himself slide to earth, intending his horse to drag him until he was

lifeless, for he disdains to live another hour. When those who ride with

him see him fallen to earth, they suppose him to be in a faint, for no

one sees the noose which he had attached about his neck. At once they

caught him in their arms and, on raising him, they found the noose which

he had put around his neck and with which he sought to kill himself.

They quickly cut the noose; but the noose had so hurt his throat that

for some time he could not speak; the veins of his neck and throat are

almost broken. Now he could not harm himself, even had he wished to

do so; however, he is grieved that they have laid hands on him, and he

almost burns up with rage, for willingly would he have killed himself

had no one chanced to notice him. And now when he cannot harm himself,

he cries: "Ah, vile and shameless death! For God's sake, why hadst thou

not the power and might to kill me before my lady died? I suppose it

was because thou wouldst not deign to do what might be a kindly deed. If

thou didst spare me, it must be attributed to thy wickedness. Ah, what

kind of service and kindness is that! How well hast thou employed them

here! A curse upon him who thanks thee or feels gratitude for such a

service! I know not which is more my enemy: life, which detains me, or

death, which will not slay me. Each one torments me mortally; and it

serves me right, so help me God, that in spite of myself I should still

live on. For I ought to have killed myself as soon as my lady the Queen

showed her hate for me; she did not do it without cause, but she had

some good reason, though I know not what it is. And if I had known what

it was before her soul went to God, I should have made her such rich

amends as would have pleased her and gained her mercy. God! what could

my crime have been? I think she must have known that I mounted upon the

cart. I do not know what other cause she can have to blame me. This has

been my undoing. If this is the reason of her hate, God! what harm could

this crime do? Any one who would reproach me for such an act never knew

what love is, for no one could mention anything which, if prompted by

love, ought to be turned into a reproach. Rather, everything that one

can do for his lady-love is to be regarded as a token of his love and

courtesy. Yet, I did not do it for my 'lady-love'. I know not by what

name to call her, whether 'lady-love', or not. I do not dare to call her

by this name. But I think I know this much of love: that if she loved

me, she ought not to esteem me less for this crime, but rather call me

her true lover, inasmuch as I regarded it as an honour to do all love

bade me do, even to mount upon a cart. She ought to ascribe this to

love; and this is a certain proof that love thus tries his devotees and

thus learns who is really his. But this service did not please my lady,

as I discovered by her countenance. And yet her lover did for her that

for which many have shamefully reproached and blamed him, though she was

the cause of it; and many blame me for the part I have played, and have

turned my sweetness into bitterness. In truth, such is the custom of

those who know so little of love, that even honour they wash in shame.

But whoever dips honour into shame, does not wash it, but rather sullies

it. But they, who maltreat him so, are quite ignorant of love; and he,

who fears not his commands, boasts himself very superior to him.

For unquestionably he fares well who obeys the commands of love, and

whatever he does is pardonable, but he is the coward who does not dare."

(Vv. 4415-4440.) Thus Lancelot makes his lament, and his men stand

grieving by his side, keeping hold of him and guarding him. Then the

news comes that the Queen is not dead. Thereupon Lancelot at once takes

comfort, and if his grief for her death had before been intense and

deep, now his joy for her life was a hundred thousand times as great.

And when they arrived within six or seven leagues of the castle where

King Bademagu was, grateful news of Lancelot was told him, how he was

alive and was coming hale and hearty, and this news the king was glad

to hear. He did a very courteous thing in going at once to appraise the

Queen. And she replies: "Fair sire, since you say so, I believe it is

true, but I assure you that, if he were dead, I should never be happy

again. All my joy would be cut off, if a knight had been killed in my

service."

(Vv. 4441-4530.) Then the king leaves her, and the Queen yearns ardently

for the arrival of her lover and her joy. She has no desire this time

to bear him any grudge. But rumour, which never rests but runs always

unceasingly, again reaches the Queen to the effect that Lancelot would

have killed himself for her sake, if he had had the chance. She is happy

at the thought that this is true, but she would not have had it happen

so for anything, for her sorrow would have been too great. Thereupon

Lancelot arrived in haste. [422] As soon as the king sees him, he runs

to kiss and embrace him. He feels as if he ought to fly, borne along by

the buoyancy of his joy. But his satisfaction is cut short by those who

had taken and bound his guest, and the king tells them they have come

in an evil hour, for they shall all be killed and confounded. Then they

made answer that they thought he would have it so. "It is I whom you

have insulted in doing your pleasure. He has no reason to complain,"

the king replies; "you have not shamed him at all, but only me who was

protecting him. However you look at it, the shame is mine. But if you

escape me now, you will see no joke in this." When Lancelot hears his

wrath, he puts forth every effort to make peace and adjust matters; when

his efforts have met with success, the king takes him away to see the

Queen. This time the Queen did not lower her eyes to the ground, but she

went to meet him cheerfully, honouring him all she could, and making him

sit down by her side. Then they talked together at length of all that

was upon their hearts, and love furnished them with so much to say that

topics did not lack. And when Lancelot sees how well he stands, and that

all he says finds favour with the Queen, he says to her in confidence:

"Lady, I marvel greatly why you received me with such a countenance when

you saw me the day before yesterday, and why you would not speak a word

to me: I almost died of the blow you gave me, and I had not the courage

to dare to question you about it, as I now venture to do. I am ready

now, lady, to make amends, when you have told me what has been the crime

which has caused me such distress." Then the Queen replies: "What? Did

you not hesitate for shame to mount the cart? You showed you were loath

to get in, when you hesitated for two whole steps. That is the reason

why I would neither address nor look at you." "May God save me from such

a crime again," Lancelot replies, "and may God show me no mercy, if you

were not quite right! For God's sake, lady, receive my amends at once,

and tell me, for God's sake, if you can ever pardon me." "Friend, you

are quite forgiven," the Queen replies; "I pardon you willingly." "Thank

you for that, lady," he then says; "but I cannot tell you here all that

I should like to say; I should like to talk with you more at leisure, if

possible." Then the Queen indicates a window by her glance rather than

with her finger, and says: "Come through the garden to-night and speak

with me at yonder window, when every one inside has gone to sleep. You

will not be able to get in: I shall be inside and you outside: to gain

entrance will be impossible. I shall be able to touch you only with my

lips or hand, but, if you please, I will stay there until morning for

love of you. Our bodies cannot be joined, for close beside me in my room

lies Kay the seneschal, who is still suffering from his wounds. And the

door is not open, but is tightly closed and guarded well. When you come,

take care to let no spy catch sight of you." "Lady," says he, "if I can

help it, no spy shall see me who might think or speak evil of us." Then,

having agreed upon this plan, they separate very joyfully.

(Vv. 4551-4650.) Lancelot leaves the room in such a happy frame that all

his past troubles are forgotten. But he was so impatient for the night

to come that his restlessness made the day seem longer than a hundred

ordinary days or than an entire year. If night had only come, he would

gladly have gone to the trysting place. Dark and sombre night at last

won its struggle with the day, and wrapped it up in its covering, and

laid it away beneath its cloak. When he saw the light of day obscured,

he pretended to be tired and worn, and said that, in view of his

protracted vigils, he needed rest. You, who have ever done the same, may

well understand and guess that he pretends to be tired and goes to bed

in order to deceive the people of the house; but he cared nothing about

his bed, nor would he have sought rest there for anything, for he could

not have done so and would not have dared, and furthermore he would not

have cared to possess the courage or the power to do so. Soon he softly

rose, and was pleased to find that no moon or star was shining, and that

in the house there was no candle, lamp, or lantern burning. Thus he went

out and looked about, but there was no one on the watch for him, for

all thought that he would sleep in his bed all night. Without escort or

company he quickly went out into the garden, meeting no one on the way,

and he was so fortunate as to find that a part of the garden-wall had

recently fallen down. Through this break he passes quickly and proceeds

to the window, where he stands, taking good care not to cough or sneeze,

until the Queen arrives clad in a very white chemise. She wore no cloak

or coat, but had thrown over her a short cape of scarlet cloth and

shrew-mouse fur. As soon as Lancelot saw the Queen leaning on the

window-sill behind the great iron bars, he honoured her with a gentle

salute. She promptly returned his greeting, for he was desirous of her,

and she of him. Their talk and conversation are not of vulgar, tiresome

affairs. They draw close to one another, until each holds the other's

hand. But they are so distressed at not being able to come together more

completely, that they curse the iron bars. Then Lancelot asserts that,

with the Queen's consent, he will come inside to be with her, and that

the bars cannot keep him out. And the Queen replies: "Do you not see how

the bars are stiff to bend and hard to break? You could never so twist,

pull or drag at them as to dislodge one of them." "Lady," says he, "have

no fear of that. It would take more than these bars to keep me out.

Nothing but your command could thwart my power to come to you. If you

will but grant me your permission, the way will open before me. But if

it is not your pleasure, then the way is so obstructed that I could not

possibly pass through." "Certainly," she says, "I consent. My will need

not stand in your way; but you must wait until I retire to my bed again,

so that no harm may come to you, for it would be no joke or jest if the

seneschal, who is sleeping here, should wake up on hearing you. So it is

best for me to withdraw, for no good could come of it, if he should see

me standing here." "Go then, lady," he replies; "but have no fear that I

shall make any noise. I think I can draw out the bars so softly and with

so little effort that no one shall be aroused."

(Vv. 4651-4754.) Then the Queen retires, and he prepares to loosen the

window. Seizing the bars, he pulls and wrenches them until he makes them

bend and drags them from their places. But the iron was so sharp that

the end of his little finger was cut to the nerve, and the first joint

of the next finger was torn; but he who is intent upon something else

paid no heed to any of his wounds or to the blood which trickled down.

Though the window is not low, Lancelot gets through it quickly and

easily. First he finds Kay asleep in his bed, then he comes to the bed

of the Queen, whom he adores and before whom he kneels, holding her more

dear than the relic of any saint. And the Queen extends her arms to him

and, embracing him, presses him tightly against her bosom, drawing him

into the bed beside her and showing him every possible satisfaction; her

love and her heart go out to him. It is love that prompts her to treat

him so; and if she feels great love for him, he feels a hundred thousand

times as much for her. For there is no love at all in other hearts

compared with what there is in his; in his heart love was so completely

embodied that it was niggardly toward all other hearts. Now Lancelot

possesses all he wants, when the Queen voluntarily seeks his company

and love, and when he holds her in his arms, and she holds him in hers.

Their sport is so agreeable and sweet, as they kiss and fondle each

other, that in truth such a marvellous joy comes over them as was never

heard or known. But their joy will not be revealed by me, for in a

story, it has no place. Yet, the most choice and delightful satisfaction

was precisely that of which our story must not speak. That night

Lancelot's joy and pleasure were very great. But, to his sorrow, day

comes when he must leave his mistress' side. It cost him such pain to

leave her that he suffered a real martyr's agony. His heart now stays

where the Queen remains; he has not the power to lead it away, for it

finds such pleasure in the Queen that it has no desire to leave her:

so his body goes, and his heart remains. But enough of his body stays

behind to spot and stain the sheets with the blood which has fallen from

his fingers. Full of sighs and tears, Lancelot leaves in great distress.

He grieves that no time is fixed for another meeting, but it cannot

be. Regretfully he leaves by the window through which he had entered so

happily. He was so badly wounded in the fingers that they were in sorry,

state; yet he straightened the bars and set them in their place again,

so that from neither side, either before or behind, was it evident that

any one had drawn out or bent any of the bars. When he leaves the room,

he bows and acts precisely as if he were before a shrine; then he goes

with a heavy heart, and reaches his lodgings without being recognised by

any one. He throws himself naked upon his bed without awaking any one,

and then for the first time he is surprised to notice the cuts in his

fingers; but he is not at all concerned, for he is very sure that the

wound was caused by dragging the window bars from the wall. Therefore he

was not at all worried, for he would rather have had both arms dragged

from his body than not enter through the window. But he would have been

very angry and distressed, if he had thus injured and wounded himself

under any other circumstances.

(Vv. 4755-5006.) In the morning, within her curtained room, the Queen

had fallen into a gentle sleep; she had not noticed that her sheets

were spotted with blood, but she supposed them to be perfectly white

and clean and presentable. Now Meleagant, as soon as he was dressed and

ready, went to the room where the Queen lay. He finds her awake, and he

sees the sheets spotted with fresh drops of blood, whereupon he nudges

his companions and, suspicious of some mischief, looks at the bed of Kay

the seneschal, and sees that his sheets are blood-stained too, for you

must know that in the night his wounds had begun to bleed afresh. Then

he said: "Lady, now I have found the evidence that I desired. It is very

true that any man is a fool to try to confine a woman: he wastes his

efforts and his pains. He who tries to keep her under guard loses her

sooner than the man who takes no thought of her. A fine watch, indeed,

has been kept by my father, who is guarding you on my behalf! He

has succeeded in keeping you from me, but, in spite of him, Kay the

seneschal has looked upon you last night, and has done what he pleased

with you, as can readily be proved." "What is that?" she asks. "Since I

must speak, I find blood on your sheets, which proves the fact. I know

it and can prove it, because I find on both your sheets and his the

blood which issued from his wounds: the evidence is very strong."

Then the Queen saw on both beds the bloody sheets, and marvelling, she

blushed with shame and said: "So help me God, this blood which I see

upon my sheets was never brought here by Kay, but my nose bled during

the night, and I suppose it must be from my nose." In saying so, she

thinks she tells the truth. "By my head," says Meleagant, "there is

nothing in what you say. Swearing is of no avail, for you are taken

in your guilt, and the truth will soon be proved." Then he said to the

guards who were present: "Gentlemen, do not move, and see to it that the

sheets are not taken from the bed until I return. I wish the king to do

me justice, as soon as he has seen the truth." Then he searched until he

found him, and failing at his feet, he said: "Sire, come to see what

you have failed to guard. Come to see the Queen, and you shall see the

certain marvels which I have already seen and tested. But, before you

go, I beg you not to fail to be just and upright toward me. You know

well to what danger I have exposed myself for the Queen; yet, you are no

friend of mine and keep her from me under guard. This morning I went to

see her in her bed, and I remarked that Kay lies with her every night.

Sire, for God's sake, be not angry, if I am disgruntled and if I

complain. For it is very humiliating for me to be hated and despised by

one with whom Kay is allowed to lie." "Silence!" says the king; "I don't

believe it." "Then come, my lord, and see the sheets and the state in

which Kay has left them. Since you will not believe my words, and since

you think I am lying, I will show you the sheets and the quilt covered

with blood from Kay's wounds." "Come now," says the king, "I wish to

see for myself, and my eyes will judge of the truth." Then the king goes

directly to the room, where the Queen got up at his approach. He sees

that the sheets are blood-stained on her bed and on Kay's alike and he

says: "Lady, it is going badly now, if what my son has said is true."

Then she replies: "So help me God, never even in a dream was uttered

such a monstrous lie. I think Kay the seneschal is courteous and loyal

enough not to commit such a deed, and besides, I do not expose my body

in the market-place, nor offer it of my own free will. Surely, Kay

is not the man to make an insulting proposal to me, and I have never

desired and shall never desire to do such a thing myself." "Sire, I

shall be much obliged to you," says Meleagant to his father, "if Kay

shall be made to atone for this outrage, and the Queen's shame thus

be exposed. It devolves upon you to see that justice is done, and this

justice I now request and claim. Kay has betrayed King Arthur, his lord,

who had such confidence in him that he entrusted to him what he loved

most in the world." "Let me answer, sire," says Kay, "and I shall

exonerate myself. May God have no mercy upon my soul when I leave this

world, if I ever lay with my lady! Indeed, I should rather be dead than

ever do my lord such an ugly wrong, and may God never grant me better

health than I have now but rather kill me on the spot, if such a thought

ever entered my mind! But I know that my wounds bled profusely last

night, and that is the reason why my sheets are stained with blood. That

is why your son suspects me, but surely he has no right to do so."

And Meleagant answers him: "So help me God, the devils and demons have

betrayed you. You grew too heated last night and, as a result of your

exertions, your wounds have doubtless bled afresh. There is no use in

your denying it; we can see it, and it is perfectly evident. It is

right that he should atone for his crime, who is so plainly taken in his

guilt. Never did a knight with so fair a name commit such iniquities

as this, and yours is the shame for it." "Sire, sire," says Kay to the

king, "I will defend the Queen and myself against the accusation of your

son. He harasses and distresses me, though he has no ground to treat me

so." "You cannot fight," the king replies, "you are too ill." "Sire, if

you will allow it, I will fight with him, ill as I am, and will show

him that I am not guilty of the crime which he imputes to me." But the

Queen, having secretly sent word to Lancelot, tells the king that she

will present a knight who will defend the seneschal, if Meleagant dares

to urge this charge. Then Meleagant said at once: "There is no knight

without exception, even were he a giant, whom I will not fight until one

of us is defeated." Then Lancelot came in, and with him such a rout

of knights that the whole hall was filled with them. As soon as he had

entered, in the hearing of all, both young and old, the Queen told

what had happened, and said: "Lancelot, this insult has been done me

by Meleagant. In the presence of all who hear his words he says I have

lied, if you do not make him take it back. Last night, he asserted,

Kay lay with me, because he found my sheets, like his, all stained with

blood; and he says that he stands convicted, unless he will undertake

his own defence, or unless some one else will fight the battle on his

behalf." Lancelot says: "You need never use arguments with me. May it

not please God that either you or he should be thus discredited! I am

ready to fight and to prove to the extent of my power that he never

was guilty of such a thought. I am ready to employ my strength in his

behalf, and to defend him against this charge." Then Meleagant jumped up

and said: "So help me God, I am pleased and well satisfied with that:

no one need think that I object." And Lancelot said: "My lord king, I

am well acquainted with suits and laws, with trials and verdicts: in

a question of veracity an oath should be taken before the fight."

Meleagant at once replies: "I agree to take an oath; so let the relics

be brought at once, for I know well that I am right." And Lancelot

answers him: "So help me God, no one who ever knew Kay the seneschal

would doubt his word on such a point." Then they call for their horses,

and ask that their arms be brought. This is promptly done, and when

the valets had armed them, they were ready for the fight. Then the holy

relics are brought forth: Meleagant steps forward, with Lancelot by his

side, and both fall on their knees. Then Meleagant, laying his hands

upon the relics, swears unreservedly: "So help me God and this holy

relic, Kay the seneschal lay with the Queen in her bed last night

and, had his pleasure with her." "And I swear that thou liest," says

Lancelot, "and furthermore I swear that he neither lay with her nor

touched her. And may it please God to take vengeance upon him who has

lied, and may He bring the truth to light! Moreover, I will take another

oath and swear, whoever may dislike it or be displeased, that if I am

permitted to vanquish Meleagant to-day, I will show him no mercy, so

help me God and these relics here!" The king felt no joy when he heard

this oath.

(Vv. 5007-5198.) When the oaths had been taken, their horses were

brought forward, which were fair and good in every way. Each man mounts

his own home, and they ride at once at each other as fast as the steeds

can carry them; and when the horses are in mid-career, the knights

strike each other so fiercely that there is nothing left of the lances

in their hands. Each brings the other to earth; however, they are not

dismayed, but they rise at once and attack each other with their sharp

drawn swords. The burning sparks fly in the air from their helmets. They

assail each other so bitterly with the drawn swords in their hands that,

as they thrust and draw, they encounter each other with their blows and

will not pause even to catch their breath. The king in his grief and

anxiety called the Queen, who had gone up in the tower to look out from

the balcony: he begged her for God's sake, the Creator, to let them be

separated. "Whatever is your pleasure is agreeable to me," the Queen

says honestly: "I shall not object to anything you do." Lancelot plainly

heard what reply the Queen made to the king's request, and from

that time he ceased to fight and renounced the struggle at once. But

Meleagant does not wish to stop, and continues to strike and hew at him.

But the king rushes between them and stops his son, who declares with an

oath that he has no desire for peace. He wants to fight, and cares not

for peace. Then the king says to him: "Be quiet, and take my advice, and

be sensible. No shame or harm shall come to thee, if thou wilt do what

is right and heed my words. Dost thou not remember that thou hast agreed

to fight him at King Arthur's court? And dost thou not suppose that

it would be a much greater honour for thee to defeat him there than

anywhere else?" The king says this to see if he can so influence him as

to appease him and separate them. And Lancelot, who was impatient to

go in search of my lord Gawain, requests leave of the king and Queen to

depart. With their permission he goes away toward the water-bridge, and

after him there followed a great company of knights. But it would have

suited him very well, if many of those who went had stayed behind. They

make long days' journeys until they approach the water-bridge, but are

still about a league from it. Before they came in sight of the bridge, a

dwarf came to meet them on a mighty hunter, holding a scourge with which

to urge on and incite his steed. In accordance with his instructions, he

at once inquired: "Which of you is Lancelot? Don't conceal him from me;

I am of your party; tell me confidently, for I ask the question for your

good." Lancelot replies in his own behalf, and says: "I am he whom thou

seekest and askest for." "Ah," says the dwarf, "frank knight, leave

these people, and trust in me. Come along with me alone, for I will take

thee to a goodly place. Let no one follow thee for anything, but let

them wait here; for we shall return presently." He, suspecting no harm

in this, bids all his men stay there, and follows the dwarf who has

betrayed him. Meanwhile his men who wait for him may continue to expect

him long in vain, for they, who have taken and seized him, have no

desire to give him up. And his men are in such a state of grief at his

failure to return that they do not know what steps to take. They all

say sorrowfully that the dwarf has betrayed them. It would be useless to

inquire for him: with heavy hearts they begin to search, but they know

not where to look for him with any hope of finding him. So they all take

counsel, and the most reasonable and sensible agree on this, it seems:

to go to the passage of the water-bridge, which is close by, to see if

they can find my lord Gawain in wood or plain, and then with his advice

search for Lancelot. Upon this plan they all agree without dissension.

Toward the water-bridge they go, and as soon as they reach the bridge,

they see my lord Gawain overturned and fallen from the bridge into the

stream which is very deep. One moment he rises, and the next he sinks;

one moment they see him, and the next they lose him from sight. They

make such efforts that they succeed in raising him with branches, poles

and hooks. He had nothing but his hauberk on his back, and on his head

was fixed his helmet, which was worth ten of the common sort, and he

wore his iron greaves, which were all rusty with his sweat, for he had

endured great trials, and had passed victoriously through many perils

and assaults. His lance, his shield, and horse were all behind on the

other bank. Those who have rescued him do not believe he is alive. For

his body was full of water, and until he got rid of it, they did not

hear him speak a word. But when his speech and voice and the passageway

to his heart are free, and as soon, as what he said could be heard and

understood, he tried to speak he inquired at once for the Queen, whether

those present had any news of her. And they replied that she is still

with King Bademagu, who serves her well and honourably. "Has no one come

to seek her in this land?" my lord Gawain then inquires of them. And

they answer him: "Yes, indeed." "Who?" "Lancelot of the Lake," they say,

"who crossed the sword-bridge, and rescued and delivered her as well

as all the rest of us. But we have been betrayed by a pot-bellied,

humpbacked, and crabbed dwarf. He has deceived us shamefully in seducing

Lancelot from us, and we do not know what he has done with him." "When

was that?" my lord Gawain inquires. "Sire, near here this very day this

trick was played on us, while he was coming with us to meet you." "And

how has Lancelot been occupied since he entered this land?" Then they

begin to tell him all about him in detail, and then they tell him about

the Queen, how she is waiting for him and asserting that nothing could

induce her to leave the country, until she sees him or hears some

credible news of him. To them my lord Gawain replies: "When we leave

this bridge, we shall go to search for Lancelot." There is not one who

does not advise rather that they go to the Queen at once, and have the

king seek Lancelot, for it is their opinion that his son Meleagant has

shown his enmity by having him cast into prison. But if the king can

learn where he is, he will certainly make him surrender him: they can

rely upon this with confidence.

(Vv. 5199-5256.) They all agreed upon this plan, and started at once

upon their way until they drew near the court where the Queen and king

were. There, too, was Kay the seneschal, and that disloyal man, full

to overflowing of treachery, who has aroused the greatest anxiety for

Lancelot on the part of the party which now arrives. They feel they

have been discomfited and betrayed, and they make great lament in their

misery. It is not a gracious message which reports this mourning to

the Queen. Nevertheless, she deports herself with as good a grace as

possible. She resolves to endure it, as she must, for the sake of my

lord Gawain. However, she does not so conceal her grief that it does not

somewhat appear. She has to show both joy and grief at once: her heart

is empty for Lancelot, and to my lord Gawain she shows excessive joy.

Every one who hears of the loss of Lancelot is grief-stricken and

distracted. The king would have rejoiced at the coming of my lord

Gawain and would have been delighted with his acquaintance; but he is

so sorrowful and distressed over the betrayal of Lancelot that he is

prostrated and full of grief. And the Queen beseeches him insistently

to have him searched for, up and down throughout the land, without

postponement or delay. My lord Gawain and Kay and all the others join

in this prayer and request. "Leave this care to me, and speak no more

of it," the king replies, "for I have been ready to do so for some

time. Without need of request or prayer this search shall be made with

thoroughness." Everyone bows in sign of gratitude, and the king at once

sends messengers through his realm, sagacious and prudent men-at-arms,

who inquired for him throughout the land. They made inquiry for him

everywhere, but gained no certain news of him. Not finding any, they

come back to the place where the knights remain; then Gawain and Kay and

all the others say that they will go in search of him, fully armed and

lance in rest; they will not trust to sending some one else.

(Vv. 5257-5378.) One day after dinner they were all in the hall putting

on their arms, and the point had been reached where there was nothing to

do but start, when a valet entered and passed by them all until he came

before the Queen, whose cheeks were by no means rosy! For she was in

such mourning for Lancelot, of whom she had no news, that she had lost

all her colour. The valet greeted her as well as the king, who was by

her side, and then all the others and Kay and my lord Gawain. He held a

letter in his hand which he gave to the king, who took it. The king had

it read in the hearing of all by one who made no mistake in reading it.

The reader knew full well how to communicate to them what was written in

the parchment: he says that Lancelot sends greetings to the king as his

kind lord, and thanks him for the honour and kindness he has shown him,

and that he now places himself at the king's orders. And know that he

is now hale and hearty at King Arthur's court, and he bids him tell

the Queen to come thither, if she will consent, in company with my lord

Gawain and Kay. In proof of which, he affixed his signature which they

should recognise, as indeed they did. At this they were very happy and

glad; the whole court resounds with their jubilation, and they say they

will start next day as soon as it is light. So, when the day broke, they

make ready and prepare: they rise and mount and start. With great joy

and jubilee the king escorts them for a long distance on their way. When

he has conducted them to the frontier and has seen them safely across

the border, he takes leave of the Queen, and likewise of all the rest.

And when he comes to take his leave, the Queen is careful to express

her gratitude for all the kindness he has shown to her, and throwing

her arms about his neck, she offers and promises him her own service and

that of her lord: no greater promise can she make. And my lord Gawain

promises his service to him, as to his lord and friend, and then Kay

does likewise, and all the rest. Then the king commends them to God as

they start upon their way. After these three, he bids the rest farewell,

and then turns his face toward home. The Queen and her company do not

tarry a single day until news of them reaches the court. King Arthur

was delighted at the news of the Queen's approach, and he is happy and

pleased at the thought that his nephew had brought about the Queen's

return, as well as that of Kay and of the lesser folk. But the truth is

quite different from what he thinks. All the town is cleared as they go

to meet them, and knights and vassals join in shouting as they approach:

"Welcome to my lord Gawain, who has brought back the Queen and many

another captive lady, and has freed for us many prisoners!" Then Gawain

answered them: "Gentlemen, I do not deserve your praise. Do not trouble

ever to say this again, for the compliment does not apply to me. This

honour causes me only shame, for I did not reach the Queen in time; my

detention made me late. But Lancelot reached there in time, and won such

honour as was never won by any other knight." "Where is he, then, fair

dear sire, for we do not see him here?" "Where?" echoes my lord Gawain;

"at the court of my lord the King, to be sure. Is he not?" "No, he is

not here, or anywhere else in this country. Since my lady was taken

away, we have had no news of him." Then for the first time my lord

Gawain realised that the letter had been forged, and that they had been

betrayed and deceived: by the letter they had been misled. Then they all

begin to lament, and they come thus weeping to the court, where the King

at once asks for information about the affair. There were plenty who

could tell him how much Lancelot had done, how the Queen and all the

captives were delivered from durance by him, and by what treachery the

dwarf had stolen him and drawn him away from them. This news is not

pleasing to the King, and he is very sorry and full of grief; but his

heart is so lightened by the pleasure he takes in the Queen's return,

that his grief concludes in joy. When he has what he most desires, he

cares little for the rest.

(Vv. 5379-5514.) While the Queen was out of the country, I believe, the

ladies and the damsels who were disconsolate, decided among themselves

that they would marry, soon, and they organised a contest and a

tournament. The lady of Noauz was patroness of it, with the lady of

Pomelegloi. They will have nothing to do with those who fare ill, but

they assert that they will accept those who comport themselves well in

the tournament. And they had the date of the contest proclaimed s long

while in advance in all the countries near and far, in order that there

might be more participants. Now the Queen arrived before the date they

had set, and as soon as the ladies heard of the Queen's return, most of

them came at once to the King and besought him to grant them a favour

and boon, which he did. He promised to do whatever they wished, before

he knew what their desire might be. Then they told him that they wished

him to let the Queen come to be present at their contest. And he who was

not accustomed to forbid, said he was willing, if she wished ir so. In

happy mood they go to the Queen and say to her: "Lady, do not deprive us

of the boon which the King has granted us." Then she asks them: "What

is that? Don't fail to tell!" Then they say to her: "If you will come to

our tournament, he will not gainsay you nor stand in the way." Then she

said that she would come, since he was willing that she should. Promptly

the dames send word throughout the realm that they are going to bring

the Queen on the day set for the tournament. The news spread far and

near, here and there, until it reached the kingdom whence no one used

to return--but now whoever wished might enter or pass out unopposed.

The news travelled in this kingdom until it came to a seneschal of

the faithless Meleagant may an evil fire burn him! This seneschal had

Lancelot in his keeping, for to him he had been entrusted by his enemy

Meleagant, who hated him with deadly hate. Lancelot learned the hour and

date of the tournament, and as soon as he heard of it, his eyes were not

tearless nor was his heart glad. The lady of the house, seeing Lancelot

sad and pensive, thus spoke to him: "Sire, for God's sake and for your

own soul's good, tell me truly," the lady said, "why you are so changed.

You won't eat or drink anything, and I see that you do not make merry or

laugh. You can tell me with confidence why you are so sad and troubled."

"Ah, lady, for God's sake, do not be surprised that I am sad! Truly, I

am very much downcast, since I cannot be present where all that is good

in the world will be assembled: that is, at the tournament where

there will be a gathering of the people who make the earth tremble.

Nevertheless, if it pleased you, and if God should incline your heart

to let me go thither, you might rest assured that I should be careful to

return to my captivity here." "I would gladly do it," she replied, "if I

did not see that my death and destruction would result. But I am in such

terror of my lord, the despicable Meleagant, that I would not dare to

do it, for he would kill my husband at once. It is not strange that I

am afraid of him, for, as you know, he is very bad." "Lady, if you are

afraid that I may not return to you at once after the tournament, I will

take an oath which I will never break, that nothing will detain me from

returning at once to my prison here immediately after the tournament."

"Upon my word," said she, "I will allow it upon one condition." "Lady,

what condition is that?" Then she replies: "Sire, upon condition that

you wilt swear to return to me, and promise that I shall have your

love." "Lady, I give you all the love I have, and swear to come back."

Then the lady laughs and says: "I have no cause to boast of such a gift,

for I know you have bestowed upon some one else the love for which I

have just made request. However, I do not disdain to take so much of it

as I can get. I shall be satisfied with what I can have, and will accept

your oath that you will be so considerate of me as to return hither a

prisoner."

(Vv. 5515-5594.) In accordance with her wish, Lancelot swears by Holy

Church that he will return without fail. And the lady at once gives him

the vermilion arms of her lord, and his horse which was marvellously

good and strong and brave. He mounts and leaves, armed with handsome,

new arms, and proceeds until he comes to Noauz. He espoused this side in

the tournament, and took his lodging outside the town. Never did such

a noble man choose such a small and lowly lodging-place; but he did not

wish to lodge where he might be recognised. There were many good and

excellent knights gathered within the town. But there were many more

outside, for so many had come on account of the presence of the Queen

that the fifth part could not be accommodated inside. For every one who

would have been there under ordinary circumstances, there were seven who

would not have come excepting on the Queen's account. The barons were

quartered in tents, lodges, and pavilions for five leagues around.

Moreover, it was wonderful how many gentle ladies and damsels were

there. Lancelot placed his shield outside the door of his lodging-place,

and then, to make himself more comfortable, he took off his arms and lay

down upon a bed which he held in slight esteem; for it was narrow

and had a thin mattress, and was covered with a coarse hempen cloth.

Lancelot had thrown himself upon the bed all disarmed, and as he

lay there in such poor estate, behold! a fellow came in in his

shirt-sleeves; he was a herald-at-arms, and had left his coat and shoes

in the tavern as a pledge; so he came running barefoot and exposed to

the wind. He saw the shield hanging outside the door, and looked at it:

but naturally he did not recognise it or know to whom it belonged, or

who was the bearer of it. He sees the door of the house standing open,

and upon entering, he sees Lancelot upon the bed, and as soon as he saw

him, he recognised him and crossed himself. And Lancelot made a sign to

him, and ordered him not to speak of him wherever he might go, for if

he should tell that he knew him, it would be better for him to have his

eyes put out or his neck broken. "Sire," the herald says, "I have

always held you in high esteem, and so long as I live, I shall never

do anything to cause you displeasure." Then he runs from the house and

cries aloud: "Now there has come one who will take the measure! [423]

Now there has come one who will take the measure!" The fellow shouts

this everywhere, and the people come from every side and ask him what is

the meaning of his cry. He is not so rash as to answer them, but goes

on shouting the same words: "Now there has come one who will take the

measure!" This herald was the master of us all, when he taught us to use

the phrase, for he was the first to make use of it.

(Vv. 5595-5640.) Now the crowd was assembled, including the Queen and

all the ladies, the knights and the other people, and there were many

men-at-arms everywhere, to the right and left. At the place where the

tournament was to be, there were some large wooden stands for the use of

the Queen with her ladies and damsels. Such fine stands were never seen

before they were so long and well constructed. Thither the ladies betook

themselves with the Queen, wishing to see who would fare better or worse

in the combat. Knights arrive by tens, twenties, and thirties, here

eighty and there ninety, here a hundred, there still more, and yonder

twice as many yet; so that the press is so great in front of the stands

and all around that they decide to begin the joust. As they assemble,

armed and unarmed, their lances suggest the appearance of a wood, for

those who have come to the sport brought so many lances that there is

nothing in sight but lances, banners, and standards. Those who are going

to take part begin to joust, and they find plenty of their companions

who had come with similar intent. Still others prepare to perform other

feats of chivalry. The fields, meadows, and fallow lands are so full of

knights that it is impossible to estimate how many of them are there.

But there was no sign of Lancelot at this first gathering of the

knights; but later, when he entered the middle of the field, the herald

saw him and could not refrain from crying out: "Behold him who will take

the measure! Behold him who will take the measure!" And the people ask

him who he is, but he will not tell them anything.

(Vv. 5641-6104.) When Lancelot entered the tournament, he was as good as

twenty of the best, and he began to fight so doughtily that no one could

take his eyes from him, wherever he was. On the Pomelegloi side there

was a brave and valorous knight, and his horse was spirited and swifter

than a wild stag. He was the son of the Irish king, and fought well

and handsomely. But the unknown knight pleased them all more a hundred

times. In wonder they all make haste to ask: "Who is this knight who

fights so well?" And the Queen privily called a clever and wise damsel

to her and said: "Damsel, you must carry a message, and do it quickly

and with few words. Go down from the stand, and approach yonder knight

with the vermilion shield, and tell him privately that I bid him do his

'worst'." She goes quickly, and with intelligence executes the Queen's

command. She sought the knight until she came up close to him; then

she said to him prudently and in a voice so low that no one standing by

might hear: "Sire, my lady the Queen sends you word by me that you shall

do your 'worst'." When he heard this, he replied: "Very willingly," like

one who is altogether hers. Then he rides at another knight as hard as

his horse can carry him, and misses his thrust which should have struck

him. From that time till evening fell he continued to do as badly as

possible in accordance with the Queen's desire. But the other, who

fought with him, did not miss his thrust, but struck him with such

violence that he was roughly handled. Thereupon he took to flight, and

after that he never turned his horse's head toward any knight, and were

he to die for it, he would never do anything unless he saw in it his

shame, disgrace, and dishonour; he even pretends to be afraid of all the

knights who pass to and fro. And the very knights who formerly esteemed

him now hurled jests and jibes at him. And the herald who had been

saying: "He will beat them all in turn!" is greatly dejected and

discomfited when he hears the scornful jokes of those who shout:

"Friend, say no more! This fellow will not take any one's measure again.

He has measured so much that his yardstick is broken, of which thou hast

boasted to us so much." Many say: "What is he going to do? He was so

brave just now; but now he is so cowardly that there is not a knight

whom he dares to face. The cause of his first success must have been

that he never engaged at arms before, and he was so brave at his first

attack that the most skilled knight dared not withstand him, for he

fought like a wild man. But now he has learned so much of arms that he

will never wish to bear them again his whole life long. His heart cannot

longer endure the thought, for there is nothing more cowardly than his

heart." And the Queen, as she watches him, is happy and well-pleased,

for she knows full well, though she does not say it, that this is surely

Lancelot. Thus all day long till evening he played his coward's part,

and late in the afternoon they separated. At parting there was a great

discussion as to who had done the best. The son of the Irish king thinks

that without doubt or contradiction he has all the glory and renown. But

he is grievously mistaken, for there were plenty of others as good as

he. Even the vermilion knight so pleased the fairest and gentlest of

the ladies and damsels that they had gazed at him more than at any

other knight, for they had remarked how well he fought at first, and how

excellent and brave he was; then he had become so cowardly that he dared

not face a single knight, and even the worst of them could defeat and

capture him at will. But knights and ladies all agreed that on the

morrow they should return to the list, and the damsels should choose

as their lords those who should win honour in that day's fight: on this

arrangement they all agree. Then they turn toward their lodgings, and

when they had returned, here and there men began to say: "What has

become of the worst, the most craven and despised of knights? Whither

did he go? Where is he concealed? Where is he to be found? Where shall

we search for him? We shall probably never see him again. For he has

been driven off by cowardice, with which he is so filled that there

is no greater craven in the world than he. And he is not wrong, for a

coward is a hundred times more at ease than a valorous fighting man.

Cowardice is easy of entreaty, and that is the reason he has given her

the kiss of peace and has taken from her all she has to give. Courage

never so debased herself as to lodge in his breast or take quarters near

him. But cowardice is altogether lodged with him, and she has found a

host who will honour her and serve her so faithfully that he is willing

to resign his own fair name for hers." Thus they wrangle all night,

vying with each other in slander. But often one man maligns another, and

yet is much worse himself than the object of his blame and scorn. Thus,

every one said what he pleased about him. And when the next day dawned,

all the people prepared and came again to the jousting place. The Queen

was in the stand again, accompanied by her ladies and damsels and many

knights without their arms, who had been captured or defeated, and these

explained to them the armorial bearings of the knights whom they most

esteem. Thus they talk among themselves: [424] "Do you see that knight

yonder with a golden band across the middle of his red shield? That is

Governauz of Roberdic. And do you see that other one, who has an eagle

and a dragon painted side by side upon his shield? That is the son of

the King of Aragon, who has come to this land in search of glory and

renown. And do you see that one beside him, who thrusts and jousts so

well, bearing a shield with a leopard painted on a green ground on

one part, and the other half is azure blue? That is Ignaures the

well-beloved, a lover himself and jovial. And he who bears the shield

with the pheasants portrayed beak to beak is Coguillanz of Mautirec. Do

you see those two side by side, with their dappled steeds, and golden

shields showing black lions? One is named Semiramis, and the other is

his companion; their shields are painted alike. And do you see the one

who has a shield with a gate painted on it, through which a stag appears

to be passing out? That is King Ider, in truth." Thus they talk up in

the stand. "That shield was made at Limoges, whence it was brought by

Pilades, who is very ardent and keen to be always in the fight. That

shield, bridle, and breast-strap were made at Toulouse, and were brought

here by Kay of Estraus. The other came from Lyons on the Rhone, and

there is no better under heaven; for his great merit it was presented

to Taulas of the Desert, who bears it well and protects himself with

it skilfully. Yonder shield is of English workmanship and was made at

London; you see on it two swallows which appear as if about to fly; yet

they do not move, but receive many blows from the Poitevin lances of

steel; he who has it is poor Thoas." Thus they point out and describe

the arms of those they know; but they see nothing of him whom they had

held in such contempt, and, not remarking him in the fray, they suppose

that he has slipped away. When the Queen sees that he is not there, she

feels inclined to send some one to search for him in the crowd until he

be found. She knows of no one better to send in search of him than she

who yesterday performed her errand. So, straightway calling her, she

said to her: "Damsel, go and mount your palfrey! I send you to the same

knight as I sent you yesterday, and do you seek him until you find him.

Do not delay for any cause, and tell him again to do his 'worst'. And

when you have given him this message, mark well what reply he makes."

The damsel makes no delay, for she had carefully noticed the direction

he took the night before, knowing well that she would be sent to him

again. She made her way through the ranks until she saw the knight, whom

she instructs at once to do his "worst" again, if he desires the love

and favour of the Queen which she sends him. And he makes answer: "My

thanks to her, since such is her will." Then the damsel went away, and

the valets, sergeants, and squires begin to shout: "See this marvellous

thing! He of yesterday with the vermilion arms is back again. What

can he want? Never in the world was there such a vile, despicable, and

craven wretch! He is so in the power of cowardice that resistance is

useless on his part." And the damsel returns to the Queen, who detained

her and would not let her go until she heard what his response had been;

then she heartily rejoiced, feeling no longer any doubt that this is he

to whom she altogether belongs, and he is hers in like manner. Then she

bids the damsel quickly return and tell him that it is her command and

prayer that he shall do his "best "; and she says she will go at once

without delay. She came down from the stand to where her valet with

the palfrey was awaiting her. She mounted and rode until she found the

knight, to whom she said at once: "Sire, my lady now sends word that you

shall do the 'best' you can!" And he replies: "Tell her now that it

is never a hardship to do her will, for whatever pleases her is my

delight." The maiden was not slow in bearing back this message, for she

thinks it will greatly please and delight the Queen. She made her way as

directly as possible to the stand, where the Queen rose and started to

meet her, however, she did not go down, but waited for her at the top

of the steps. And the damsel came happy in the message she had to bear.

When she had climbed the steps and reached her side, she said: "Lady, I

never saw so courteous g knight, for he is more than ready to obey every

command you send to him, for, if the truth be known, he accepts good and

evil with the same countenance." "Indeed," says the Queen, "that may

well be so." Then she returns to the balcony to watch the knights. And

Lancelot without delay seizes his shield by the leather straps, for he

is kindled and consumed by the desire to show his prowess. Guiding his

horse's head, he lets him run between two lines. All those mistaken and

deluded men, who have spent a large part of the day and night in heaping

him with ridicule, will soon be disconcerted. For a long time they have

had their sport and joke and fun. The son of the King of Ireland held

his shield closely gripped by the leather straps, as he spurs fiercely

to meet him from the opposite direction. They come together with such

violence that the son of the Irish king having broken and splintered his

lance, wishes no more of the tournament; for it was not moss he struck,

but hard, dry boards. In this encounter Lancelot taught him one of his

thrusts, when he pinned his shield to his arm, and his arm to his side,

and brought him down from his horse to earth. Like arrows the knights

at once fly out, spurring and pricking from either side, some to relieve

this knight, others to add to his distress. While some thus try to aid

their lords, many a saddle is left empty in the strife and fray. But

all that day Gawain took no hand at arms, though he was with the others

there, for he took such pleasure in watching the deeds of him with

the red painted arms that what the others did seemed to him pale in

comparison. And the herald cheered up again, as he shouted aloud so

that all could hear: "Here there has one come who will take the measure!

To-day you shall see what he can do. To-day his prowess shall appear."

Then the knight directs his steed and makes a very skilful thrust

against a certain knight, whom he strikes so hard that he carries him a

hundred feet or more from his horse. His feats with sword and lance are

so well performed that there is none of the onlookers who does not find

pleasure in watching him. Many even of those who bear arms find pleasure

and satisfaction in what he does, for it is great sport to see how he

makes horses and knights tumble and fall. He encounters hardly a single

knight who is able to keep his seat, and he gives the horses he wins to

those who want them. Then those who had been making game of him said:

"Now we are disgraced and mortified. It was a great mistake for us to

deride and vilify this man, for he is surely worth a thousand such as

we are on this field; for he has defeated and outdone all the knights

in the world, so that there is no one now that opposes him." And the

damsels, who amazed were watching him, all said that he might take them

to wife; but they did not dare to trust in their beauty or wealth, or

power or highness, for not for her beauty or wealth would this peerless

knight deign to choose any one of them. Yet, most of them are so

enamoured of him that they say that, unless they marry him, they will

not be bestowed upon any man this year. And the Queen, who hears them

boast, laughs to herself and enjoy the fun, for well she knows that if

all the gold of Arabia should be set before him, yet he who is beloved

by them all would not select the best, the fairest, or the most charming

of the group. One wish is common to them all--each wishes to have him as

her spouse. One is jealous of another, as if she were already his wife;

and all this is because they see him so adroit that in their opinion no

mortal man could perform such deeds as he had done. He did so well that

when the time came to leave the list, they admitted freely on both sides

that no one had equalled the knight with the vermilion shield. All said

this, and it was true. But when he left, he allowed his shield and lance

and trappings to fall where he saw the thickest press, then he rode off

hastily with such secrecy that no one of all the host noticed that he

had disappeared. But he went straight back to the place whence he had

come, to keep his oath. When the tournament broke up, they all searched

and asked for him, but without success, for he fled away, having no

desire to be recognised. The knights are disappointed and distressed,

for they would have rejoiced to have him there. But if the knights were

grieved to have been deserted thus, still greater was the damsels' grief

when they learned the truth, and they asserted by St. John that they

would not marry at all that year. If they can't have him whom they

truly love, then all the others may be dismissed. Thus the tourney was

adjourned without any of them choosing a husband. Meanwhile Lancelot

without delay repairs to his prison. But the seneschal arrived two or

three days before Lancelot, and inquired where he was. And his wife, who

had given to Lancelot his fair and well-equipped vermilion arms, as well

as his harness and his horse, told the truth to the seneschal--how she

had sent him where there had been jousting at the tourney of Noauz.

"Lady," the seneschal replies, "you could truly have done nothing worse

than that. Doubtless, I shall smart for this, for my lord Meleagant

will treat me worse than the beach-combers' law would treat me were I a

mariner in distress. I shall be killed or banished the moment he hears

the news, and he will have no pity for me." "Fair sire, be not now

dismayed," the lady said; "there is no occasion for the fear you feel.

There is no possibility of his detention, for he swore to me by the

saints that he would return as soon as possible."

(Vv. 6105-6166.) [425] Then the seneschal mounts, and coming to his

lord, tells him the whole story of the episode; but at the same time, he

emphatically reassures him, telling how his wife had received his oath

that he would return to his prison. "He will not break his word, I

know," says Meleagant: "and yet I am very much displeased at what your

wife has done. Not for any consideration would I have had him present at

that tournament. But return now, and see to it that, when he comes back,

he be so strictly guarded that he shall not escape from his prison or

have any freedom of body: and send me word at once." "Your orders shall

be obeyed," says the seneschal. Then he goes away and finds Lancelot

returned as prisoner in his yard. A messenger, sent by the seneschal,

runs back at once to Meleagant, appraising him of Lancelot's return.

When he heard this news, he took masons and carpenters who unwillingly

or of their own free-will executed his commands. He summoned the best

artisans in the land, and commanded them to build a tower, and exert

themselves to build it well. The stone was quarried by the seaside; for

near Gorre on this side there runs a big broad arm of the sea, in the

midst of which an island stood, as Meleagant well knew. He ordered the

stone to be carried thither and the material for the construction of

the tower. In less than fifty-seven days the tower was completely built,

high and thick and well-founded. When it was completed, he had Lancelot

brought thither by night, and after putting him in the tower, he ordered

the doors to be walled up, and made all the masons swear that they would

never utter a word about this tower. It was his will that it should be

thus sealed up, and that no door or opening should remain, except one

small window. Here Lancelot was compelled to stay, and they gave him

poor and meagre fare through this little window at certain hours, as the

disloyal wretch had ordered and commanded them.

(Vv. 6167-6220.) Now Meleagant has carried out all his purpose, and he

betakes himself to King Arthur's court: behold him now arrived! And when

he was before the King, he thus spoke with pride and arrogance: "King, I

have scheduled a battle to take place in thy presence and in thy

court. But I see nothing of Lancelot who agreed to be my antagonist.

Nevertheless, as my duty is, in the hearing of all who are present here,

I offer myself to fight this battle. And if he is here, let him now step

forth and agree to meet me in your court a year from now. I know not if

any one has told you how this battle was agreed upon. But I see knights

here who were present at our conference, and who, if they would, could

tell you the truth. If he should try to deny the truth, I should employ

no hireling to take my place, but would prove it to him hand to hand."

The Queen, who was seated beside the King, draws him to her as she says:

"Sire, do you know who that knight is? It is Meleagant who carried me

away while escorted by Kay the seneschal; he caused him plenty of shame

and mischief too." And the King answered her: "Lady, I understand; I

know full well that it is he who held my people in distress." The Queen

says no more, but the King addresses Meleagant: "Friend," he says, "so

help me God, we are very sad because we know nothing of Lancelot." "My

lord King," says Meleagant, "Lancelot told me that I should surely

find him here. Nowhere but in your court must I issue the call to this

battle, and I desire all your knights here to bear me witness that I

summon him to fight a year from to-day, as stipulated when we agreed to

fight."

(Vv. 6221-6458.) At this my lord Gawain gets up, much distressed at what

he hears: "Sire, there is nothing known of Lancelot in all this land,"

he says; "but we shall send in search of him and, if God will, we shall

find him yet, before the end of the year is reached, unless he be dead

or in prison. And if he does not appear, then grant me the battle, and

I will fight for him: I will arm myself in place of Lancelot, if he does

not return before that day." "Ah," says Meleagant, "for God's sake, my

fair lord King, grant him the boon. I join my request to his desire, for

I know no knight in all the world with whom I would more gladly try my

strength, excepting only Lancelot. But bear in mind that, if I do not

fight with one of them, I will accept no exchange or substitution for

either one." And the King says that this is understood, if Lancelot

does not return within the time. Then Meleagant left the royal court and

journeyed until he found his father, King Bademagu. In order to appear

brave and of consideration in his presence, he began by making a great

pretence and by assuming an expression of marvellous cheer. That day the

king was holding a joyous court at his city of Bade; [426] it was his

birthday, which he celebrated with splendour and generosity, and there

were many people of divers sorts gathered with him. All the palace

was filled with knights and damsels, and among them was the sister of

Meleagant, of whom I shall tell you, farther on, what is my thought

and reason for mentioning her here. But it is not fitting that I should

explain it here, for I do not wish to confuse or entangle my material,

but rather to treat it straight forwardly. Now I must tell you that

Meleagant in the hearing of all, both great and small, spoke thus to his

father boastingly: "Father," he says, "so help me God, please tell me

truly now whether he ought not to be well-content, and whether he is

not truly brave, who can cause his arms to be feared at King Arthur's

court?" To this question his father replies at once: "Son," he says,

"all good men ought to honour and serve and seek the company of one

whose deserts are such." Then he flattered him with the request that

he should not conceal why he has alluded to this, what he wishes, and

whence he comes. "Sire, I know not whether you remember," Meleagant

begins, "the agreements and stipulations which were recorded when

Lancelot and I made peace. It was then agreed, I believe, and in the

presence of many we were told, that we should present ourselves at the

end of a year at Arthur's court. I went thither at the appointed time,

ready equipped for my business there. I did everything that had been

prescribed: I called and searched for Lancelot, with whom I was to

fight, but I could not gain a sight of him: he had fled and run away.

When I came away, Gawain pledged his word that, if Lancelot is not alive

and does not return within the time agreed upon, no further postponement

will be asked, but that he himself will fight the battle against me in

place of Lancelot. Arthur has no knight, as is well known, whose fame

equals his, but before the flowers bloom again, I shall see, when we

come to blows, whether his fame and his deeds are in accord: I only

wish it could be settled now!" "Son," says his father, "thou art acting

exactly like a fool. Any one, who knew it not before, may learn of thy

madness from thy own lips. A good heart truly humbles itself, but the

fool and the boastful never lose their folly. Son, to thee I direct my

words, for the traits of thy character are so hard and dry, that

there is no place for sweetness or friendship. Thy heart is altogether

pitiless: thou art altogether in folly's grasp. This accounts for my

slight respect for thee, and this is what will cast thee down. If thou

art brave, there will be plenty of men to say so in time of need. A

virtuous man need not praise his heart in order to enhance his deed; the

deed itself will speak in its own praise. Thy self-praise does not aid

thee a whit to increase in any one's esteem; indeed, I hold thee in less

esteem. Son, I chasten thee; but to what end? It is of little use to

advise a fool. He only wastes his strength in vain who tries to cure

the madness of a fool, and the wisdom that one teaches and expounds is

worthless, wasted and unemployed, unless it is expressed in works." Then

Meleagant was sorely enraged and furious. I may truly say that never

could you see a mortal man so full of anger as he was; the last bond

between them was broken then, as he spoke to his father these ungracious

words: "Are you in a dream or trance, when you say that I am mad to tell

you how my matters stand? I thought I had come to you as to my lord and

my father; but that does not seem to be the case, for you insult me more

outrageously than I think you have any right to do; moreover, you can

give no reason for having addressed me thus." "Indeed, I can." "What is

it, then?" "Because I see nothing in thee but folly and wrath. I know

very well what thy courage is like, and that it will cause thee great

trouble yet. A curse upon him who supposes that the elegant Lancelot,

who is esteemed by all but thee, has ever fled from thee through fear.

I am sure that he is buried or confined in some prison whose door is

barred so tight that he cannot escape without leave. I should surely be

sorely grieved if he were dead or in distress. It would surely be too

bad, were a creature so splendidly equipped, so fair, so bold, yet so

serene, to perish thus before his time. But, may it please God, this

is not true." Then Bademagu said no more; but a daughter of his had

listened attentively to all his words, and you must know that it was she

whom I mentioned earlier in my tale, and who is not happy now to hear

such news of Lancelot. It is quite clear to her that he is shut up,

since no one knows any news of him or his wanderings. "May God never

look upon me, if I rest until I have some sure and certain news of

him!" Straightway, without making any noise or disturbance, she runs

and mounts a fair and easy-stepping mule. But I must say that when she

leaves the court, she knows not which way to turn. However, she asks no

advice in her predicament, but takes the first road she finds, and

rides along at random rapidly, unaccompanied by knight or squire. In her

eagerness she makes haste to attain the object of her search. Keenly she

presses forward in her quest, but it will not soon terminate. She may

not rest or delay long in any single place, if she wishes to carry out

her plan, to release Lancelot from his prison, if she can find him and

if it is possible. But in my opinion, before she finds him she will have

searched in many a land, after many a journey and many a quest, before

she has any news of him. But what would be the use of my telling you of

her lodgings and her journeyings? Finally, she travelled so far through

hill and dale, up and down, that more than a month had passed, and as

yet she had learned only so much as she knew before--that is, absolutely

nothing. One day she was crossing a field in a sad and pensive mood,

when she saw a tower in the distance standing by the shore of an arm of

the sea. Not within a league around about was there any house, cottage,

or dwelling-place. Meleagant had had it built, and had confined Lancelot

within. But of all this she still was unaware. As soon as she espied the

tower, she fixed her attention upon it to the exclusion of all else. And

her heart gives her assurance that here is the object of her quest; now

at last she has reached her goal, to which Fortune through many trials

has at last directed her.

(Vv. 6459-6656.) The damsel draws so near to the tower that she can

touch it with her hands. She walks about, listening attentively, I

suppose, if perchance she may hear some welcome sound. She looks down

and she gazes up, and she sees that the tower is strong and high and

thick. She is amazed to see no door or window, except one little narrow

opening. Moreover, there was no ladder or steps about this high, sheer

tower. For this reason she surmises that it was made so intentionally,

and that Lancelot is confined inside. But she resolves that before she

tastes of food, she will learn whether this is so or not. She thinks she

will call Lancelot by name, and is about to do so when she is deterred

by hearing from the tower a voice which was making a marvellously sad

moan as it called on death. It implores death to come, and complains of

misery unbearable. In contempt of the body and life, it weakly piped in

a low, hoarse tone: "Ah, fortune, how disastrously thy wheel has turned

for me! Thou hast mocked me shamefully: a while ago I was up, but now I

am down; I was well off of late, but now I am in a sorry state; not long

since thou didst smile on me, but now thy eyes are filled with tears.

Alas, poor wretch, why didst thou trust in her, when so soon she has

deserted thee! Behold, in a very little while she has cast thee down

from thy high estate! Fortune, it was wrong of thee to mock me thus; but

what carest thou! Thou carest not how it may turn out. Ah, sacred Cross!

All, Holy Ghost! How am I wretched and undone! How completely has my

career been closed! Ah, Gawain, you who possess such worth, and whose

goodness is unparalleled, surely I may well be amazed that you do

not come to succour me. Surely you delay too long and are not showing

courtesy. He ought indeed to receive your aid whom you used to love so

devotedly! For my part I may truly say that there is no lodging place or

retreat on either side of the sea, where I would not have searched for

you at least seven or ten years before finding you, if I knew you to be

in prison. But why do I thus torment myself? You do not care for me even

enough to take this trouble. The rustic is right when he says that it

is hard nowadays to find a friend! It is easy to rest the true friend

in time of need. Alas! more than a year has passed since first I was put

inside this tower. I feel hurt, Gawain, that you have so long deserted

me! But doubtless you know nothing of all this, and I have no ground for

blaming you. Yes, when I think of it, this must be the case, and I was

very wrong to imagine such a thing; for I am confident that not for all

the world contains would you and your men have failed to come to release

me from this trouble and distress, if you were aware of it. If for no

other reason, you would be bound to do this out of love for me, your

companion. But it is idle to talk about it--it cannot be. Ah, may the

curse and the damnation of God and St. Sylvester rest upon him who

has shut me up so shamefully! He is the vilest man alive, this envious

Meleagant, to treat me as evilly as possible!" Then he, who is wearing

out his life in grief, ceases speaking and holds his peace. But when

she, who was lingering at the base of the tower, heard what he said,

she did not delay, but acted wisely and called him thus: "Lancelot,"

as loudly as she could; "friend, up there, speak to one who is your

friend!" But inside he did not hear her words. Then she called out

louder yet, until he in his weakness faintly heard her, and wondered

who could be calling him. [427] He heard the voice and heard his name

pronounced, but he did not know who was calling him: he thinks it must

be a spirit. He looks all about him to see, I suppose, if he could espy

any one; but there is nothing to be seen but the tower and himself.

"God," says he, "what is that I heard? I heard some one speak, but see

nothing! Indeed, this is passing marvellous, for I am not asleep, but

wide awake. Of course, if this happened in a dream, I should consider it

an illusion; but I am awake, and therefore I am distressed." Then with

some trouble he gets up, and with slow and feeble steps he moves toward

the little opening. Once there, he peers through it, up and down and to

either side. When he had looked out as best he might, he caught sight of

her who had hailed him. He did not recognise her by sight. But she knew

him at once and said: "Lancelot, I have come from afar in search of you.

Now, thank God, at last I have found you. I am she who asked of you a

boon as you were on your way to the sword-bridge, and you very gladly

granted it at my request; it was the head I bade you cut from the

conquered knight whom I hated so. Because of this boon and this service

you did me, I have gone to this trouble. As a guerdon I shall deliver

you from here." "Damsel, many thanks to you," the prisoner then replied;

"the service I did you will be well repaid if I am set at liberty. If

you can get me out of here, I promise and engage to be henceforth always

yours, so help me the holy Apostle Paul! And as I may see God face to

face, I shall never fail to obey your commands in accordance with your

will. You may ask for anything I have, and receive it without delay."

"Friend, have no fear that you will not be released from here. You shall

be loosed and set free this very day. Not for a thousand pounds would I

renounce the expectation of seeing you free before the datum of another

day. Then I shall take you to a pleasant place, where you may rest and

take your ease. There you shall have everything you desire, whatever

it be. So have no fear. But first I must see if I can find some tool

anywhere hereabouts with which you might enlarge this hole, at least

enough to let you pass." "God grant that you find something," he said,

agreeing to this plan; "I have plenty of rope in here, which the rascals

gave me to pull up my food--hard barley bread and dirty water, which

sicken my stomach and heart." Then the daughter of Bademagu sought and

found a strong, stout, sharp pick, which she handed to him. He pounded,

and hammered and struck and dug, notwithstanding the pain it caused him,

until he could get out comfortably. Now he is greatly relieved and glad,

you may be sure, to be out Of prison and to get away from the place

where he has been so long confined. Now he is at large in the open air.

You may be sure that he would not go back again, were some one to gather

in a pile and give to him all the gold there is scattered in the world.

(Vv. 6657-6728.) Behold Lancelot now released, but so feeble that he

staggered from his weakness and disability. Gently, without hurting him,

she sets him before her on her mule, and then they ride off rapidly. But

the damsel purposely avoids the beaten track, that they may not be

seen, and proceeds by a hidden path; for if she had travelled openly,

doubtless some one would have recognised them and done them harm, and

she would not have wished that to happen. So she avoided the dangerous

places and came to a mansion where she often makes her sojourn because

of its beauty and charm. The entire estate and the people on it belonged

to her, and the place was well furnished, safe, and private. There

Lancelot arrived. And as soon as he had come, and had laid aside his

clothes, the damsel gently laid him on a lofty, handsome couch, then

bathed and rubbed him so carefully that I could not describe half the

care she took. She handled and treated him as gently as if he had been

her father. Her treatment makes a new man of him, as she revives him

with her cares. Now he is no less fair than an angel and is more nimble

and more spry than anything you ever saw. When he arose, he was no

longer mangy and haggard, but strong and handsome. And the damsel sought

out for him the finest robe she could find, with which she clothed him

when he arose. And he was glad to put it on, quicker than a bird

in flight. He kissed and embraced the maid, and then said to her

graciously: "My dear, I have only God and you to thank for being

restored to health again. Since I owe my liberty to you, you may take

and command at will my heart and body, my service and estate. I belong

to you in return for what you have done for me; but it is long since I

have been at the court of my lord Arthur, who has shown me great honour;

and there is plenty there for me to do. Now, my sweet gentle friend,

I beg you affectionately for leave to go; then, with your consent, I

should feel free to go." "Lancelot, fair, sweet dear friend, I am quite

willing," the damsel says; "I desire your honour and welfare above

everything everywhere." Then she gives him a wonderful horse she has,

the best horse that ever was seen, and he leaps up without so much as

saying to the stirrups "by your leave": he was up without considering

them. Then to God, who never lies, they commend each other with good

intent.

(Vv. 6729-7004.) Lancelot was so glad to be on the road that, if I

should take an oath, I could not possibly describe the joy he felt at

having escaped from his trap. But he said to himself repeatedly that woe

was the traitor, the reprobate, whom now he has tricked and ridiculed,

"for in spite of him I have escaped." Then he swears by the heart and

body of Him who made the world that not for all the riches and wealth

from Babylon to Ghent would he let Meleagant escape, if he once got him

in his power: for he has him to thank for too much harm and shame! But

events will soon turn out so as to make this possible; for this very

Meleagant, whom he threatens and presses hard, had already come to court

that day without being summoned by any one; and the first thing he did

was to search until he found my lord Gawain. Then the rascally proven

traitor asks him about Lancelot, whether he had been seen or found, as

if he himself did not know the truth. As a matter of fact, he did not

know the truth, although he thought he knew it well enough. And Gawain

told him, as was true, that he had not been seen, and that he had not

come. "Well, since I don't find him," says Meleagant, "do you come and

keep the promise you made me: I shall not longer wait for you." Then

Gawain makes answer: "I will keep presently my word with you, if it

please God in whom I place my trust. I expect to discharge my debt to

you. But if it comes to throwing dice for points, and I should throw

a higher number than you, so help me God and the holy faith, I'll not

withdraw, but will keep on until I pocket all the stakes." [428] Then

without delay Gawain orders a rug to be thrown down and spread before

him. There was no snivelling or attempt to run away when the squires

heard this command, but without grumbling or complaint they execute

what he commands. They bring the rug and spread it out in the place

indicated; then he who had sent for it takes his seat upon it and gives

orders to be armed by the young men who were standing unarmed before

him. There were two of them, his cousins or nephews, I know not

which, but they were accomplished and knew what to do. They arm him so

skilfully and well that no one could find any fault in the world with

them for any mistake in what they did. When they finished arming him,

one of them went to fetch a Spanish steed able to cross the fields,

woods, hills, and valleys more swiftly than the good Bucephalus. [429]

Upon a horse such as you have heard Gawain took his seat--the admired

and most accomplished knight upon whom the sign of the Cross was ever

made. Already he was about to seize his shield, when he saw Lancelot

dismount before him, whom he was not expecting to see. He looked at

him in amazement, because he had come so unexpectedly; and, if I am not

wrong, he was as much surprised as if he had fallen from the clouds.

However, no business of his own can detain him, as soon as he sees

Lancelot, from dismounting and extending his arms to him, as he

embraces, salutes and kisses him. Now he is happy and at ease, when he

has found his companion. Now I will tell you the truth, and you must not

think I lie, that Gawain would not wish to be chosen king, unless he had

Lancelot with him. The King and all the rest now learn that, in spite of

all, Lancelot, for whom they so long have watched, has come back quite

safe and sound. Therefore they all rejoice, and the court, which so

long has looked for him, comes together to honour him. Their happiness

dispels and drives away the sorrow which formerly was theirs. Grief

takes flight and is replaced by an awakening joy. And how about the

Queen? Does she not share in the general jubilee? Yes, verily, she

first of all. How so? For God's sake, where, then, could she be keeping

herself? She was never so glad in her life as she was for his return.

And did she not even go to him? Certainly she did; she is so close to

him that her body came near following her heart. Where is her heart,

then? It was kissing and welcoming Lancelot. And why did the body

conceal itself? Why is not her joy complete? Is it mingled with anger or

hate? No, certainly, not at all; but it may be that the King or some of

the others who are there, and who are watching what takes place, would

have taken the whole situation in, if, while all were looking on, she

had followed the dictates of her heart. If common-sense had not banished

this mad impulse and rash desire, her heart would have been revealed and

her folly would have been complete. Therefore reason closes up and

binds her fond heart and her rash intent, and made it more reasonable,

postponing the greeting until it shall see and espy a suitable and more

private place where they would fare better than here and now. The King

highly honoured Lancelot, and after welcoming him, thus spoke: "I have

not heard for a long time news of any man which were so welcome as news

of you; yet I am much concerned to learn in what region and in what land

you have tarried so long a time. I have had search made for you up and

down, all the winter and summer through, but no one could find a trace

of you." "Indeed, fair sire," says Lancelot, "I can inform you in a few

words exactly how it has fared with me. The miserable traitor Meleagant

has kept me in prison ever since the hour of the deliverance of the

prisoners in his land, and has condemned me to a life of shame in a

tower of his beside the sea. There he put me and shut me in, and there I

should still be dragging out my weary life, if it were not for a friend

of mine, a damsel for whom I once performed a slight service. In return

for the little favour I did her, she has repaid me liberally: she has

bestowed upon me great honour and blessing. But I wish to repay without

delay him for whom I have no love, who has sought out and devised for

me this shame and injury. He need not wait, for the sum is all ready,

principal and interest; but God forbid that he find in it cause to

rejoice!" Then Gawain said to Lancelot: "Friend, it will be only a

slight favour for me, who am in your debt, to make this payment for you.

Moreover, I am all ready and mounted, as you see. Fair, sweet friend, do

not deny me the boon I desire and request." But Lancelot replies that

he would rather have his eye plucked out, or even both of them, than be

persuaded to do this: he swears it shall never be so. He owes the debt

and he will pay it himself: for with his own hand he promised it. Gawain

plainly sees that nothing he can say is of any avail, so he loosens and

takes off his hauberk from his back, and completely disarms himself.

Lancelot at once arms himself without delay; for he is impatient to

settle and discharge his debt. Meleagant, who is amazed beyond measure

at what he sees, has reached the end of his good fortunes, and is about

to receive what is owing him. He is almost beside himself and comes

near fainting. "Surely I was a fool," he says, "not to go, before coming

here, to see if I still held imprisoned in my tower him who now has

played this trick on me. But, God, why should I have gone? What cause

had I to think that he could possibly escape? Is not the wall built

strong enough, and is not the tower sufficiently strong and high? There

was no hole or crevice in it, through which he could pass, unless he was

aided from outside. I am sure his hiding-place was revealed. If the wall

were worn away and had fallen into decay, would he not have been caught

and injured or killed at the same time? Yes, so help me God, if it had

fallen down, he would certainly have been killed. But I guess, before

that wall gives away without being torn down, that all the water in the

sea will dry up without leaving a drop and the world will come to an

end. No, that is not it: it happened otherwise: he was helped to escape,

and could not have got out otherwise: I have been outwitted through some

trickery. At any rate, he has escaped; but if I had been on my guard,

all this would never have happened, and he would never have come to

court. But it's too late now to repent. The rustic, who seldom errs,

pertinently remarks that it is too late to close the stable when

the horse is out. I know I shall now be exposed to great shame and

humiliation, if indeed I do not suffer and endure something worse. What

shall I suffer and endure? Rather, so long as I live, I will give him

full measure, if it please God, in whom I trust." Thus he consoles

himself, and has no other desire than to meet his antagonist on the

field. And he will not have long to wait, I think, for Lancelot goes

in search of him, expecting soon to conquer him. But before the assault

begins, the King bids them go down into the plain where the tower

stands, the prettiest place this side of Ireland for a fight. So they

did, and soon found themselves on the plain below. The King goes down

too, and all the rest, men and women in crowds. No one stays behind; but

many go up to the windows of the tower, among them the Queen, her ladies

and damsels, of whom she had many with her who were fair.

(Vv. 7005-7119.) In the field there stood a sycamore as fair as any tree

could be; it was wide-spread and covered a large area, and around it

grew a fine border of thick fresh grass which was green at all seasons

of the year. Under this fair and stately sycamore, which was planted

back in Abel's time, there rises a clear spring of water which flows

away hurriedly. The bed of the spring is beautiful and as bright as

silver, and the channel through which the water flows is formed, I

think, of refined and tested gold, and it stretches away across the

field down into a valley between the woods. There it pleases the King to

take his seat where nothing unpleasant is in sight. After the crowd has

drawn back at the King's command, Lancelot rushes furiously at Meleagant

as at one whom he hates cordially, but before striking him, he shouted

with a loud and commanding voice: "Take your stand, I defy you! And take

my word, this time you shall not be spared." Then he spurs his steed

and draws back the distance of a bow-shot. Then they drive their horses

toward each other at top speed, and strike each other so fiercely

upon their resisting shields that they pierced and punctured them. But

neither one is wounded, nor is the flesh touched in this first assault.

They pass each other without delay, and come back at the top of their

horses: speed to renew their blows on the strong, stout shields. Both of

the knights are strong and brave, and both of the horses are stout and

fast. So mighty are the blows they deal on the shields about their necks

that the lances passed clean through, without breaking or splintering,

until the cold steel reached their flesh. Each strikes the other with

such force that both are borne to earth, and no breast-strap, girth,

or stirrup could save them from falling backward over their saddle-bow,

leaving the saddle without an occupant. The horses run riderless over

hill and dale, but they kick and bite each other, thus showing their

mortal hatred. As for the knights who fell to earth, they leaped up

as quickly as possible and drew their swords, which were engraved with

chiselled lettering. Holding their shields before the face, they strive

to wound each other with their swords of steel. Lancelot stands in no

fear of him, for he knew half as much again about fencing as did his

antagonist, having learned it in his youth. Both dealt such blows on the

shield slung from their necks, and upon their helmets barred with gold,

that they crushed and damaged them. But Lancelot presses him hard and

gives him a mighty blow upon his right arm which, though encased in

mail, was unprotected by the shield, severing it with one clean stroke.

And when he felt the loss of his right arm, he said that it should be

dearly sold. If it is at all possible, he will not fail to exact the

price; he is in such pain and wrath and rage that he is well-nigh beside

himself, and he has a poor opinion of himself, if he cannot score on his

rival now. He rushes at him with the intent to seize him, but Lancelot

forestalls his plan, for with his trenchant sword he deals his body

such a cut as he will not recover from until April and May be passed. He

smashes his nose-guard against his teeth, breaking three of them in his

mouth. And Meleagant's rage is such that he cannot speak or say a word;

nor does he deign to cry for mercy, for his foolish heart holds tight in

such constraint that even now it deludes him still. Lancelot approaches

and, unlacing his helmet, cuts off his head. Never more will this man

trouble him; it is all over with him as he falls dead. Not a soul who

was present there felt any pity at the sight. The King and all the

others there are jubilant and express their joy. Happier than they

ever were before, they relieve Lancelot of his arms, and lead him away

exultingly.

(Vv. 7120-7134.) My lords, if I should prolong my tale, it would be

beside the purpose, and so I will conclude. Godefroi de Leigni, the

clerk, has written the conclusion of "the Cart"; but let no one find

fault with him for having embroidered on Chrétien's theme, for it was

done with the consent of Chrétien who started it. Godefroi has finished

it from the point where Lancelot was imprisoned in the tower. So much he

wrote; but he would fain add nothing more, for fear of disfiguring the

tale.

----Endnotes: Lancelot

Endnotes supplied by Prof. Foerster are indicated by "(F.)"; all other

endnotes are supplied by W.W. Comfort.

[Footnote 41: Marie, daughter of Louis VII. of France and Eleanor of

Aquitaine, married in 1164, Henri I., Count of Champagne. On the

poet's own statement below, she furnished him with the subject matter

("maitere") and the manner of treatment ("san") of this romance. (F.)]

[Footnote 42: The situation of Camelot has not been certainly

determined. Foerster places it in Somersetshire, while F. Paris

identified it with Colchester in Essex. (F.)]

[Footnote 43: The high value here set upon Kay by king Arthur is worth

noting in view of the unfavourable light in which Chrétien usually

portrays him.]

[Footnote 44: This enigmatic exclamation is addressed to the absent

Lancelot, who is the secret lover of Guinevere, and who, though he long

remains anonymous as "the Knight of the Cart", is really the hero of the

poem.]

[Footnote 45: It was not uncommon in old French romances and epic poems

for knights to be subjected to the mockery and raillery of the vulgar

townspeople (cf. "Aiol", 911-923; id. 2579-2733; and even Moliere in

"Monsieur de Pourceaugnac", f. 3).]

[Footnote 46: For magic beds with descending swords, see A. Hertel,

"Versauberte Oertlichkeiten", etc., p. 69 f. (Hanover, 1908).]

[Footnote 47: The wounded knight is the defeated seneschal.]

[Footnote 48: Mediaeval knights were such early risers as to cause us

astonishment!]

[Footnote 49: Lancelot has constantly in mind the Queen, for whose sake

he is enduring all this pain and shame.]

[Footnote 410: i.e., the Queen.]

[Footnote 411: Nothing can here be added to the tentative conjectures of

Foerster regarding the nature of these unknown remedies.]

[Footnote 412: A great annual fair at Paris marked the festival, on June

11, of St. Denis, the patron saint of the city. (F.)]

[Footnote 413: "Donbes" (=Dombes) is the reading chosen by Foerster from

a number of variants. None of these variants has any significance, but

a place-name rhyming with "tonbes" in the preceding verse is required.

Modern Dombes is the name of a former principality in Burgundy, between

the Rhone and the Saone, while Pampelune is, of course, a Spanish city

near the French frontier. (F.)]

[Footnote 414: The topography of the kingdom of Gorre, the land where

dwell the captives held by King Bademagu, is much confused. One would

suppose at first that the stream traversed by the two perilous bridges

formed the frontier of the kingdom. But here (v.2102), before reaching

such a frontier, the captives are already met. Foerster suggests that we

may be here at a sort of foreground or borderland which is defended by

the knight at the ford (v. 735 f.), and which, though not within the

limits of the kingdom, is nevertheless beneath the sway of Bademagu. In

the sequel the stream with the perilous bridges is placed immediately

before the King's palace (cf. Foerster's note and G. Paris in "Romania",

xxi. 471 note).]

[Footnote 415: For magic rings, see A. Hertel, op. cit., p. 62 f.]

[Footnote 416: This "dame" was the fairy Vivian, "the lady of the lake".

(F.)]

[Footnote 417: A good example of the moral dilemmas in which Chrétien

delights to place his characters. Under the displeasing shell of

allegory and mediaeval casuistry we have here the germ of psychological

analysis of motive.]

[Footnote 418: The legendary origin of this ointment, named after Mary

Magdelene, Mary the mother of James, and Mary Salome, is mentioned in

the epic poem "Mort Aimeri de Narbonne" (ed. "Anciens Textes", p. 86).

(F.)]

[Footnote 419: The universities of Montpellier and of Salerno were the

chief centres of medical study in the Middle Ages. Salerno is referred

to in "Cligés", v. 5818.]

[Footnote 420: The hero of the poem is here first mentioned by name.]

[Footnote 421: The classic love-story of Pyramus and Thisbe, told by

Ovid et al., was a favourite in the Middle Ages.]

[Footnote 422: Here he have the explanation of Guinevere's cold

reception of Lancelot; he had been faithless to the rigid code of

courtesy when he had hesitated for even a moment to cover himself with

shame for her sake.]

[Footnote 423: The expression "or est venuz qui aunera", less literally

means "who will defeat the entire field". Though Chrétien refers to the

expression as a current proverb, only two other examples of its use

have been found. (Cf. "Romania", xvi. 101, and "Ztsch. fur romanische

Philologie", xi. 430.) From this passage G. Paris surmised that Chrétien

himself was a herald-at-arms ("Journal des Savants", 1902, p. 296), but

as Foerster says, the text hardly warrants the supposition.]

[Footnote 424: The evident satisfaction with which Chrétien describes in

detail the bearings of the knights in the following passage lends colour

to Gaston Paris' conjecture that he was a herald as well as a poet.]

[Footnote 425: According to the statement made at the end of the poem

by the continuator of Chrétien, Godefroi de Leigni, it must have been at

about this point that the continuator took up the thread of the story.

It is not known why Chrétien dropped the poem where he did.]

[Footnote 426: Bade = Bath. (F.)]

[Footnote 427: The situation recalls that in "Aucassin et Nicolette",

where Aucassin confined in the tower hears his sweetheart calling to him

from outside.]

[Footnote 428: The figure is, of course, taken from the game of throwing

dice for high points. For an exhaustive account of dice-playing derived

from old French texts, cf. Franz Semrau, "Wurfel und Wurfelspiel in

alten Frankreich", "Beiheft" 23 of "Ztsch. fur romanische Philologie

(Halle," 1910).]

[Footnote 429: Alexander's horse.]