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Title: The Red Romance Book
Author: Various, - To be updated
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Red Romance Book" ***
Transcriber's Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of changes is
found at the end of the book.
[Illustration: HOW GUNNAR MET HALLGERDA]
THE
RED ROMANCE BOOK
EDITED BY
ANDREW LANG
[Illustration]
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
1921
_PREFACE_
WHAT ROMANCES ARE
(TO CHILDREN AND OTHERS)
I once read a book about a poor little lonely boy in a great house with
a large library. This boy was pale, dull, and moping. Nobody knew what
was the matter with him. But somebody tracked him into the library and
saw him take a huge thick black book, half as tall as himself, out of a
bookcase, and sit down and read it. The name of the book was
_Polexander_. So he sat and sobbed over _Polexander_, because it was so
very dull and so very long. There were 800 pages, and he had only read
sixty-seven. But some very stupid grown-up person had told him that he
must always begin a book at the beginning, and, if he once began, he
must read every word of it, and read nothing else till he had finished
every word of it.
The boy saw that he would die of weariness long before he reached the
end of _Polexander_, but he stuck to it like the other boy who stood by
the burning deck long after it was 'time for him to go.' So _Polexander_
was taken away from him and locked up, and so his life was saved.
Now, in the first place _Polexander_ was a romance, but it was not like
the romances in this book, for it was dreadfully long, and mainly about
the sorrows of lovers who cannot get married. That could not amuse a
small boy. In the second place, every boy should stop reading a book as
soon as he finds that he does not like it, just as you are not expected
to eat more mutton than you want to eat. Lesson books are another thing;
you have to read them, and if you do not you will get into trouble. They
are not meant to be amusing, but to teach Latin grammar, or geography,
or arithmetic, which are not gay. As to this book of Romances, if you do
not like one story, give it up and try another. If you do not like any
of them, read something else that you do like.
Now what are romances? They are grown-up people's fairy tales or
story-books, but they are the kind of story-books that grown-up people
read long ago, when there were castles and knights, and tournaments, and
the chief business of gentlemen was to ride about in full armour,
fighting, while ladies sat at home doing embroidery work, or going to
see the men tilt at tournaments, just as they go to see cricket matches
now. But they liked tournaments better, because they understood the
rules of the game. Anybody could see when one knight knocked another
down, horse and all, but many ladies do not understand leg before
wicket, or stumping.
The stories that they read were called 'romances,' but were in prose.
Before people could read they were not in prose but in poetry, and were
recited by minstrels. Mrs. Lang, who did the stories in this book, says:
'Many hundreds of years ago, when most of these stories were told in the
halls of great castles, the lives of children were very different from
what they are now. The little girls were taught by their mothers'
maidens to spin and embroider, or make simple medicines from the common
herbs, and the boys learnt to ride and tilt, and shoot with bows and
arrows; but their tasks done, no one paid any further heed to them. They
had very few games, and in the long winter evenings the man who went
from house to house, telling or singing the tales of brave deeds, must
have been welcome indeed. From him the children, who early became men
and women, heard of the evil fate that awaited cowardice and treachery,
and grew to understand that it was their duty through life to help those
that were weaker than themselves.' That was long, long ago, when nobody
but priests and a very few gentlemen could read and write. They just
listened to stories in rhyme, which the minstrels sang, striking their
harps at the end of each verse.
The stories were really fairy tales, dressed up and spun out, and
instead of 'a boy' or 'a king' or 'a princess' with no name, the old
fairy adventures were said to have happened to people with names: King
Arthur, or Charlemagne, or Bertha Broadfoot. A little real history came
in, but altered, and mixed up with fairy tales, and done into rhyme.
Later, more and more people learned to read, and now the long poems were
done into prose, and written in books, not printed but written books;
and these were the Romances, very long indeed, all about fighting, and
love-making, and giants, and dwarfs, and magicians, and enchanted
castles, and dragons and flying horses. These romances were the novels
of the people of the Middle Ages, about whom you can read in the History
Books of Mrs. Markham. They were not much like the novels which come
from the library for your dear mothers and aunts. There is not much
fighting in them, though there is any amount of love-making, and there
are no giants; and if there is a knight, he is usually a grocer or a
doctor, quite the wrong sort of knight.
Here is the beginning of a celebrated novel: 'Comedy is a game played to
throw reflections upon social life, and it deals with human nature in
the drawing-rooms of civilised men and women.' You do not want to read
any more of that novel. It is not at all like a good old romance of
knights and dragons and enchanted princesses and strong wars. The
knights and ladies would not have looked at such a book, all about
drawing-rooms.
Now, in this book, we have made the old romances much shorter, keeping
the liveliest parts, in which curious things happen. Some of the tales
were first told in Iceland eight hundred years ago, and are mostly true
and about real people. Some are from the ancient French romances of the
adventures of Charlemagne, and his peers and paladins. Some are from
later Italian poems of the same kind. 'Cupid and Psyche' is older, and
so is the story of the man who was changed into a donkey. These are from
an old Latin romance, written when people were still heathens, most of
them. Some are about the Danes in England (of whom you may have heard),
but there is not much history in them.
Mrs. Lang says: 'In this book you will read of men who, like Don
Quixote, were often mistaken but never mean, and of women, such as Una
and Bradamante, who kept patient and true, in spite of fierce trials and
temptations. I have only related a few of their adventures, but when you
grow older you can read them for yourselves, in the languages in which
they were written.'
'Don Quixote' was written by a Spaniard, Cervantes, in the time of James
I. of England, to show what would happen if a man tried to behave like a
knight of old, after people had become more civilised and less
interesting. Don Quixote was laughed at, because he came too late into
too old a world. But he was as brave and good a knight as the best
paladin of them all. So about the knights and ladies and dwarfs and
giants, I hope you will think like Sir Walter Scott, when he was a boy,
and read the old romances. He says: 'Heaven only knows how glad I was to
find myself in such company.'
If you like the kind of company, then read 'Ivanhoe,' by Sir Walter
Scott, for that is the best romance in the world.
All the stories in this book were done by Mrs. Lang, out of the old
romances.
ANDREW LANG.
CONTENTS
PAGE
_How William of Palermo was carried off by the Werwolf_ 1
_The Disenchantment of the Werwolf_ 13
_The Slaying of Hallgerda's Husbands_ 28
_The Death of Gunnar_ 45
_Njal's Burning_ 71
_The Lady of Solace_ 84
_Una and the Lion_ 93
_How the Red Cross Knight slew the Dragon_ 105
_Amys and Amyle_ 128
_The Tale of the Cid_ 141
_The Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance_ 165
_The Adventure of the Two Armies who turned out to be Flocks
of Sheep_ 177
_The Adventure of the Boiling Lights_ 190
_The Helmet of Mambrino_ 194
_How Don Quixote was Enchanted while guarding the Castle_ 202
_Don Quixote's Home-coming_ 209
_The Meeting of Huon and Oberon, King of the Fairies_ 213
_How Oberon saved Huon_ 221
_Havelok and Goldborough_ 234
_Cupid and Psyche_ 251
_Sir Bevis the Strong_ 267
_Ogier the Dane_ 287
_How the Ass became a Man again_ 298
_Guy of Warwick_ 309
_How Bradamante conquered the Wizard_ 320
_The Ring of Bradamante_ 331
_The Fulfilling of the Prophecy_ 341
_The Knight of the Sun_ 351
_How the Knight of the Sun rescued his Father_ 360
_ILLUSTRATIONS_
_COLOURED PLATES_
_How Gunnar met Hallgerda_ _Frontispiece_
_The Werwolf carries Prince William away_ _To face p._ 2
_The Lady of Solace_ " 86
_At the sight of the Lion she flung down the pitcher_ " 102
_The End of the Dragon_ " 124
_Softly she rose to her feet and stole out of the wood_ " 134
_Aphrodite finds Psyche's Task accomplished_ " 264
_How the Fairies came to see Ogier the Dane_ " 288
_PLATES_
_The Lovers meet by plan of Alexandrine_ _To face p._ 8
_The Bearskin--Am not I a bold Beast?_ " 14
_The Fury of the Werwolf_ " 24
_How Thorwald was slain by Thiostolf_ " 32
_Thiostolf decides to slay Glum_ " 40
_Otkell and Gunnar in the Field_ " 58
_Gunnar's last Fight and Hallgerda's Revenge_ " 66
_How Kari escaped from Njal's House_ " 78
_The Lady of Solace helps the Fallen Knight_ " 88
_The Red Cross Knight enters the Monster's Cave_ " 96
_Una saved by the Wood-Folk_ " 106
_Arthur fights the Seven-Headed Serpent_ " 112
_In the Cave of Despair_ " 120
_Rodrigo brings home the head of Gomez_ " 142
_Don Diego and Don Fernan show that they are cowards_ " 154
_Don Quixada declared that he would give his Housekeeper
and his Niece into the bargain for the pleasure of
bestowing one kick on Ganelon the traitor_ " 166
_Don Quixote determines to attack the Windmills_ " 180
_How the Galley Slaves repaid Don Quixote_ " 198
_The Meeting of Huon and Oberon_ " 216
_Round the Bag which held the Boy a brilliant Light was
shining_ " 236
_Zephyr carries Psyche down from the Mountain_ " 254
_Little Bevis avenges his Father_ " 268
_Strong Sir Bevis keeps the Two Dragons at Bay_ " 278
_Bradamante defeats the Wizard with the Ring_ " 326
_Roger borne away from Bradamante_ " 332
_The Two Damsels rescue Roger from the Rabble_ " 336
_The Giant's Daughter reproaches the Two Brothers_ " 360
_The Knight of the Sun fights the Serpent_ " 366
_ILLUSTRATIONS IN TEXT._
PAGE
_The Emperor carries William away_ 5
_The Werwolf's Visit to the Cave_ 19
_Hauskuld's Pride in Hallgerda_ 29
_How Gunnar slew Thorgeir, Otkell's Son_ 63
_Sudden Departure of Una's Parents_ 94
_In Archimago's Cell: the Evil Dream_ 100
_The Two Cups_ 132
_Sir Amyle arrives in time to save the Ladies_ 139
_Don Quixote belabours the Muleteer_ 175
_Don Quixote's Battle with the Wine-skins_ 203
_Huon defeats the Giant Agrapart_ 227
_Havelok presents Goldborough to the English People_ 247
_Aphrodite brings Cupid to Psyche_ 252
_Joyfully the Eagle bore back the Urn_ 265
_Ogier the Dane meets Morgane le Fay at last_ 293
_Apuleius changes into an Ass_ 302
_HOW WILLIAM OF PALERMO WAS CARRIED OFF BY THE WERWOLF_
Many hundreds of years ago there lived in the beautiful city of Palermo
a little prince who was thought, not only by his parents but by everyone
who saw him, to be the handsomest child in the whole world. When he was
four years old, his mother, the queen, made up her mind that it was time
to take him away from his nurses, so she chose out two ladies of the
court who had been friends of her own youth, and to them she entrusted
her little son. He was to be taught to read and write, and to talk
Greek, the language of his mother's country, and Latin, which all
princes ought to know, while the Great Chamberlain would see that he
learned to ride and shoot, and, when he grew bigger, how to wield a
sword.
For a while everything went on as well as the king and queen could wish.
Prince William was quick, and, besides, he could not bear to be beaten
in anything he tried to do, whether it was making out the sense of a
roll of parchment written in strange black letters, which was his
reading-book, or mastering a pony which wanted to kick him off. And the
people of Palermo looked on, and whispered to each other:
'Ah! what a king he will make!'
But soon a terrible end came to all these hopes!
William's father, king Embrons, had a brother who would have been the
heir to the throne but for the little prince. He was a wicked man, and
hated his nephew, but when the boy was born he was away at the wars, and
did not return till five years later. Then he lost no time in making
friends with the two ladies who took care of William, and slowly managed
to gain their confidence. By-and-by he worked upon them with his
promises and gifts, till they became as wicked as he was, and even
agreed to kill not only the child, but the king his father.
Now adjoining the palace at Palermo was a large park, planted with
flowering trees and filled with wild beasts. The royal family loved to
roam about the park, and often held jousts and sports on the green
grass, while William played with his dogs or picked flowers.
One day--it was a festival--the whole court went into the park at noon,
after they had finished dining, and the queen and her ladies busied
themselves with embroidering a quilt for the royal bed, while the king
and his courtiers shot at a mark. Suddenly there leapt from a bush a
huge grey wolf with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. Before
anyone had time to recover from his surprise, the great beast had caught
up the child, and was bounding with him through the park, and over the
wall into the plain by the sea. When the courtiers had regained their
senses, both the wolf and boy were out of sight.
Oh! what weeping and wailing burst forth from the king and queen when
they understood that their little son was gone from them for ever, only,
as they supposed, to die a cruel death! For of course they did not know
that one far worse had awaited him at home.
After the first shock, William did not very much mind what was happening
to him. The wolf jerked him on to his back, and told him to hold fast by
his ears, and the boy sat comfortably among the thick hair, and did not
even get his feet wet as they swam across the Straits of Messina. On the
other side, not far from Rome, was a forest of tall trees, and as by
this time it was getting dark, the wolf placed William on a bed of soft
fern, and broke off a branch of delicious fruits, which he gave him for
supper. Then he scooped out a deep pit with his paws, and lined it
with moss and feathery grasses, and there they both lay down and slept
till morning; in spite of missing his mother, in all his life William
had never been so happy.
[Illustration: The Wer-Wolf carries Prince William away]
For eight days they stayed in the forest, and it seemed to the boy as if
he had never dwelt anywhere else. There was so much to see and to do,
and when he was tired of playing the wolf told him stories.
But one morning, before he was properly awake, he felt himself gently
shaken by a paw, and he sat up, and looked about him. 'Listen to me,'
said the wolf. 'I have to go right over to the other side of the wood,
on some business of a friend's, and I shall not be back till sunset. Be
careful not to stray out of sight of this pit, for you may easily lose
yourself. You will find plenty of fruit and nuts piled up under that
cherry tree.'
So the wolf went away, and the child curled himself up for another
sleep, and when the sun was high and its beams awakened him, he got up
and had his breakfast. While he was eating, birds with blue and green
feathers came and hopped on his shoulder and pecked at the fruit he was
putting into his mouth, and William made friends with them all, and they
suffered him to stroke their heads.
* * * * *
Now there dwelt in the forest an old cowherd, who happened that morning
to have work to do not far from the pit where William lived with the
wolf. He took with him a big dog, which helped him to collect the cows
when they wandered, and to keep off any strange beasts that threatened
to attack them. On this particular morning there were no cows, so the
dog ran hither and thither as he would, enjoying himself mightily, when
suddenly he set up a loud barking, as if he had found a prey, and the
noise caused the old man to hasten his steps.
When he reached the spot from which the noise came, the dog was standing
at the edge of a pit, out of which came a frightened cry. The old man
looked in, and there he saw a child clad in garments that shone like
gold, shrinking timidly into the farthest corner.
'Fear nothing, my boy,' said the cowherd; 'he will never hurt you, and
even if he wished I would not let him;' and as he spoke he held out his
hand. At this William took courage. He was not really a coward, but he
felt lonely and it seemed a long time since the wolf had gone away.
Would he _really_ ever come back? This old man looked kind, and there
could be no harm in speaking to him. So he took the outstretched hand
and scrambled out of the pit, and the cowherd gathered apples for him,
and other fruits that grew on the tops of trees too high for the wolf to
reach. And all the day they wandered on and on, till they came to the
cowherd's cottage, before which an old woman was standing.
'I have brought you a little boy,' he said, 'whom I found in the
forest.'
'Ah, a lucky star was shining when you got up to-day,' answered she.
'And what is your name, my little man? And will you stay and live with
me?'
'My name is William, and you look kind like my grandmother, and I will
stay with you,' said the boy; and the old people were very glad, and
they milked a cow, and gave him warm milk for his supper.
When the wolf returned--he was not a wolf at all, but the son of the
king of Spain, who had been enchanted by his stepmother--he was very
unhappy at finding the pit empty. Indeed, his first thought was that a
lion must have carried off the boy and eaten him, or that an eagle must
have pounced on him from the sky, and borne him away to his young ones
for supper. But after he had cried till he could cry no more, it
occurred to him that before he gave up the boy for dead it would be well
to make a search, as perchance there might be some sign of his
whereabouts. So he dried his eyes with his tail and jumped up quite
cheerfully.
[Illustration: The Emperor carries William away]
He began by looking to see if the bushes round about were broken and
torn as if some great beast had crashed through them. But they were all
just as he had left them in the morning, with the creepers still
knotting tree to tree. No, it was clear that no lion had been near the
spot. Then he examined the ground carefully for a bird's feather or a
shred of a child's dress; he did not find these either, but the marks
of a man's foot were quite plain, and these he followed.
The track turned and twisted for about two miles, and then stopped at a
little cottage with roses climbing up the walls. The wolf did not want
to show himself, so he crept quietly round to the back, where there was
a hole in the door just big enough for the cats to come in and out of.
The wolf peeped through this hole and saw William eating his supper, and
chattering away to the old woman as if he had known her all his life,
for he was a friendly little boy, and purred like a pussy-cat when he
was pleased. And when the wolf saw that all was well with the child, he
was glad and went his way.
'William will be safer with them than with me,' he said to himself.
Many years went by, and William had grown a big boy, and was very useful
to the cowherd and his wife. He could shoot now with his bow and arrow
in a manner which would have pleased his first teacher, and he and his
playfellows--the sons of charcoal-burners and woodmen--were wont to keep
the pots supplied at home with the game they found in the forest.
Besides this, he filled the pails full of water from the stream, and
chopped wood for the fire, and, sometimes, was even trusted to cook the
dinner. And when _this_ happened William was a very proud boy indeed.
One day the emperor planned a great hunt to take place in the forest,
and, while following a wild boar, he outstripped all his courtiers and
lost his way. Turning first down one path and then the other, he came
upon a boy gathering fruit, and so beautiful was he that the emperor
thought that he must be of a fairy race.
'What is your name, my child?' asked the emperor; 'and where do you
live?'
The boy looked round at the sound of his voice, and, taking off his cap,
bowed low.
'I am called William, noble sir,' he answered, 'and I live with a
cowherd, my father, in a cottage near by. Other kindred have I none that
ever I heard of;' for the gardens of Palermo and the life of the palace
had now faded into dreams in the memory of the child.
'Bid your father come hither and speak to me,' said the emperor, but
William did not move.
'I fear lest harm should befall him through me,' he answered, 'and that
shall never be.' But the emperor smiled as he heard him.
'Not harm, but good,' he said; and William took courage and hastened
down the path to the cottage.
'I am the emperor,' said the stranger, when the boy and the cowherd
returned together. 'Tell me truly, is this your son?'
Then the cowherd, trembling all over, told the whole story, and when he
had finished the emperor said quietly:
'You have done well, but from to-day the boy shall be mine, and shall
grow up with my daughter.'
The heart of the cowherd sank as he thought how sorely he and his wife
would miss William, but he kept silence. Not so William, who broke into
sobs and wails.
'I should have fared ill if this good man and his wife had not taken me
and nourished me. I know not whence I came or whither I shall go! None
can be so kind as they have been.'
'Cease weeping, fair child,' said the emperor, 'some day you shall be
able to reward the good that they have done you;' and then the cowherd
spoke and gave him wise counsel how to behave himself at court.
'Be no teller of tales, and let your words be few. Be true to your lord,
and fair of speech to all men; and seek to help the poor when you may.'
'Set him on my horse,' said the emperor, and, though William wept still
as he bade farewell to the cowherd, and sent a sorrowful greeting to his
wife and to his playfellows Hugonet, and Abelot, and Akarin, yet he was
pleased to be riding in such royal fashion, and soon dried his tears.
They reached the palace at last, and the emperor led William into the
hall, and sent a messenger for Melior, his daughter.
'I have brought home a present for you,' he cried, as she entered; 'and
be sure to treat him as you would your brother, for he has come of
goodly kindred, though now he does not know where he was born, or who
was his father.' And with that he told her the tale of how he had found
the boy in the wood.
'I shall care for him willingly,' answered Melior, and she took him
away, and saw that supper was set before him, and clothes provided for
him, and made him ready for his duties as page to the emperor.
So the boy and girl grew up together, and everyone loved William, who
was gentle and pleasant to all, and was skilled in what a gentleman
should know. Wise he was too, beyond his years, and the emperor kept him
ever at his side, and took counsel with him on many subjects touching
his honour and the welfare of his people.
And if the people loved him, how much more Melior, who saw him about the
court all day long, and knew the store her father set on him? Yet she
remembered with sadness certain whispers she had heard of a match
between herself and a foreign prince, and if her father had promised her
hand nought would make him break his word.
So she sighed and bewailed herself in secret, till her cousin
Alexandrine marked that something was amiss.
'Tell me all your sickness,' said Alexandrine one day, 'and what grieves
you so sorely. You know that you can trust me, for I have served you
truly, and perhaps I may be able to help you in this strait!'
[Illustration: The lovers meet by plan of Alexandrine]
Then Melior told her, and Alexandrine listened in amaze. From his
childhood William and the two girls had played together, and well
Alexandrine knew that the emperor had cast his eyes upon another
son-in-law. Still, she loved her cousin, and she loved William too, so
she said.
'Mourn no longer, madam; I am skilled in magic, and can heal you. So
weep no more.' And Melior took heart and was comforted.
That night Alexandrine caused William to dream a dream in which the
whole world vanished away, and only he and Melior were left. In a moment
he felt that as long as she was there the rest might go, and that she
was the princess that was waiting for every prince. But who was he that
he should dare to ask for the emperor's daughter? and what chance had he
amongst the noble suitors who now began to throng the palace? These
thoughts made him very sad, and he went about his duties with a face as
long as Melior's was now.
Alexandrine paid no heed to his gloomy looks. She was very wise, and for
some days left her magic to work. At last one morning she thought the
time had come to heal the wounds she had caused, and planned a meeting
between them. After this they had no more need of her, neither did
Melior weep any longer.
For a while they were content, and asked nothing more than to see each
other every day, as they had always done. But soon a fresh source of
grief came. A war broke out, in which William, now a knight, had to
follow the emperor, and more than once saved the life of his master. On
their return, when the enemy was put to flight, the expected ambassadors
from Greece arrived at court, to seek the hand of Melior, which was
readily granted by her father. This news made William sick almost unto
death, and Melior, who was resolved not to marry the stranger, hastened
to Alexandrine in order to implore her help.
But Alexandrine only shook her head.
'It is true,' said she, 'that, unless you manage to escape, you will be
forced to wed the prince; but how are you to get away when there are
guards before every door of the palace, except by the little gate, and
to reach that you will have first to pass by the sentries, who know
you?'
'O dear Alexandrine,' cried Melior, clasping her hands in despair. 'Do
try to think of some way to save us! I am sure you can; you are always
clever, and there is nobody else.'
And Alexandrine did think of a way, but what it was must be told in the
next chapter.
THE DISENCHANTMENT OF THE WERWOLF
(WILLIAM OF PALERMO)
Everybody will remember that William and Melior trusted to Alexandrine
to help them to escape from the palace, before Melior was forced into
marriage by her father with the prince of Greece. At first Alexandrine
declared that it was quite impossible to get them away unseen, but at
length she thought of something which might succeed, though, if it
failed, all three would pay a heavy penalty.
And this was her plan, and a very good one too.
She would borrow some boy's clothes, and put them on, hiding her hair
under one of those tight caps that kitchen varlets wore covering all
their heads; she would then go down into the big kitchens underneath the
palace, where the wild beasts shot by the emperor were skinned and made
into coats for the winter. Here she would have a chance of slipping out
unnoticed with the skins of two white bears, and in these she would sew
up William and Melior, and would let them through the little back gate,
from which they could easily escape into the forest.
'Oh, I knew you would find a way!' said Melior, throwing her arms
joyfully round her cousin's neck. 'I am quite sure it will all go right,
only let us make haste, for my father may find us out, or perhaps I may
lose my courage.'
'I will set about it at once,' said Alexandrine, 'and you and William
must be ready to-night.'
So she got her boy's clothes, which her maid stole for her out of the
room of one of the scullions, and dressed herself in them, smearing her
face and hands with walnut-juice, that their whiteness might not betray
her. She slipped down by some dark stairs into the kitchen, and joined a
company of men who were hard at work on a pile of dead animals. The sun
had set, and in the corner of the great hall where the flaying was going
on, there was very little light, but Alexandrine marked that close to an
open door was a heap of bearskins, and she took up her position as near
them as she could. But the girl was careful not to stand too long in one
place; she moved about from one group of men to another, lending a hand
here and there and passing a merry jest, and as she did so she gave the
topmost skins a little shove with her foot, getting them each time
closer to the open door, and always watching her chance to pick them up
and run off with them.
It came at last. The torch which lighted that end of the hall flared up
and went out, leaving the men in darkness. One of them rose to fetch
another, and, quick as thought, Alexandrine caught up the bearskins and
was outside in the garden. From that it was easy to make her way
upstairs unseen.
'See how I have sped!' she said, throwing the skins on the floor. 'But
night is coming on apace, and we have no time to lose; I must sew you up
in them at once.'
The skins were both so large that Melior and William wore all their own
clothes beneath, and did not feel at all hot, as they expected to do.
'Am I not a bold beast?' asked Melior in glee, as she caught sight of
herself in a polished shield on the wall. 'Methinks no handsomer bear
was ever seen!'
[Illustration: THE BEARSKINS: AM NOT I A BOLD BEAST?]
'Yes, verily, madam,' answered her maiden, 'you are indeed a grisly
ghost, and no man will dare to come near you. But now stand aside, for
it is William's turn.'
'How do you like me, sweetheart?' asked he, when the last stitches had
been put in.
'You have so fierce an air, and are so hideous a sight, that I fear to
look on you!' said she. And William laughed and begged Alexandrine to
guide them through the garden, as they were not yet used to going on all
fours, and might stumble.
As they passed through the bushes, galloping madly--for in spite of the
danger they felt as though they were children again--a Greek who was
walking up to the palace saw them afar, and, seized with dread, took
shelter in the nearest hut, where he told his tale. The men who heard it
paid but little heed at the time, though they remembered it after; but
bears were common in that country, and often came out of the forest at
night.
Not knowing what a narrow escape they had had, the two runaways
travelled till sunrise, when they hid themselves in a cave on the side
of a hill. They had nothing to eat, but were too tired to think of that
till they had had a good sleep, though when they woke up they began to
wonder how they should get any food.
'Oh, it will be all right!' said Melior; 'there are blackberries in
plenty and acorns and hazel-nuts, and there is a stream just below the
cave--do you not hear it? It will all be much nicer than anything in the
palace.'
But William did not seem to agree with her, and wished to seek out some
man who would give him something he liked better than nuts and acorns.
This, however, Melior would not hear of; they would certainly be
followed and betrayed, she said, and, to please her, William ate the
fruit and stayed in the cave, wondering what would happen on the morrow.
Luckily for themselves, they did not have to wait so long before they
got a good supper. Their friend the werwolf had spied them from afar,
and was ready to come to their rescue. During that day he had hidden
himself under a clump of bushes close to the highway, and by-and-by he
saw a man approaching, carrying a very fat wallet over his shoulder. The
wolf bounded out of his cover, growling fiercely, which so frightened
the man that he dropped the wallet and ran into the wood. Then the wolf
picked up the wallet, which contained a loaf of bread and some meat
ready cooked, and galloped away with it to William.
They felt quite strong and hearty again when they had finished their
supper, and quite ready to continue their journey. As it was night, and
the country was very lonely, they walked on two feet, but when morning
came, or they saw signs that men were about, they speedily dropped on
all fours. And all the way the werwolf followed them, and saw that they
never lacked for food.
Meanwhile the preparations for Melior's marriage to the prince of Greece
were going on blithely in the palace, and none thought of asking for the
bride. At last, when everything was finished, the emperor bade the high
chamberlain fetch the princess.
'She is not in her room, your Majesty,' said the chamberlain, when he
re-entered the hall; but the emperor only thought that his daughter was
timid, and answered that he would go and bring her himself.
Like the chamberlain, he found the outer room empty and passed on to the
door of the inner one, which was locked. He shook and thumped and yelled
with anger, till Alexandrine heard him from her distant turret, and,
terrified though she was, hastened to find out what was the matter.
'My daughter! Where is my daughter?' he cried, stammering with rage.
'Asleep, sire,' answered Alexandrine.
'Asleep still!' said the emperor; 'then wake her instantly, for the
bridegroom is ready and I am waiting to lead her to him.'
'Alas! sire, Melior has heard that in Greece royal brides pass their
lives shut in a tower, and she has sworn that she will never wed one of
that race. But, indeed, for my part, I think that is not her true
reason, and that she has pledged her faith to another, whom you also
know and love.'
[Illustration: The Werwolf's visit to the Cave]
'And who may that be?' asked the emperor.
'The man who saved your life in battle, William himself,' answered
Alexandrine boldly, though her limbs shook with fear.
At this news the emperor was half beside himself with grief and rage.
'Where is she?' he cried; 'speak, girl, or I will shut you up in the
tower.'
'Where is William?' asked Alexandrine. 'If Melior is not here, and
William is not here, then of a surety they have gone away together.'
The emperor looked at her in silence for a moment.
'The Greeks will make war on me for this insult,' he said; 'and, as for
William, a body of soldiers shall go in search of him this moment, and
when he is found I will have his head cut off, and stuck on my palace
gate as a warning to traitors.'
But the soldiers could not find him. Perhaps they did not look very
carefully, for, like everyone else, they loved William. Party after
party was sent out by the emperor, but they all returned without finding
a trace of the runaways. Then at last the Greek who had seen the two
white bears galloping through the garden came to the high chamberlain
and told his tale.
'Send to the kitchen at once and ask if any bearskins are missing,'
ordered the chamberlain; and the page returned with the tidings that the
skins of two white bears could not be found.
Now the werwolf had been lurking round the palace seeking for news, and
as soon as he heard that the emperor had ordered out his dogs to hunt
the white bears, he made a plan in his head to save William and Melior.
He hid in some bushes that lay in the path of the hounds, and let them
get quite near him. As soon as they were close, he sprang out in front
of their noses and they gave chase at once. And a fine dance he led
them!--over mountains and through swamps, under ferns that were thickly
matted together, and past wide lakes. And every step they took brought
them further away from the bears, who were lying snugly in their den.
* * * * *
At last even the patience of the emperor was exhausted. He gave up the
hunt, and bade his men call off the dogs and go home.
'They have escaped me this time,' said he, 'but I will have them
by-and-by. Let a reward be offered, and posted up on the gate of every
city. After all, that is the surest way of capturing them.'
And the emperor was right: the shepherds and goatherds were told that if
they could bring the two white bears to the gates of the palace they
would not need to work for the rest of their lives, and they kept a
sharp look-out as they followed their flocks. Once a man actually saw
them, and gave notice to one of the royal officials, who brought a
company of spearmen and surrounded the cave. Another moment, and they
would have been seized, had not the wolf again come to their rescue. He
leapt out from behind a rock, and snatched up the officer's son, who had
followed his father. The poor man shrieked in horror, and cried out to
save the boy, so they all turned and went after the wolf as before.
'We are safer now in our own clothes,' said William; and they hastily
stripped off the bearskins, and stole away, but they would not leave the
skins behind, for they had learnt to love them.
For a long while they wandered through the forest, the werwolf ever
watching over them, and bringing them food. At length the news spread
abroad, no one knew how, that William and Melior were running about as
bears no more, but in the garments they always wore. So men began to
look out for them, and once they were very nearly caught by some
charcoal-burners. Then the wolf killed a hart and a hind, and sewed them
in their skins and guided them across the Straits of Messina into the
kingdom of Sicily.
Very dimly, and one by one, little things that had happened in his
childhood began to come back to William; but he wondered greatly how he
seemed to know this land, where he had never been before. The king his
father had been long dead, but the queen (his mother) and his sister
were besieged in the city of Palermo by the king of Spain, who was full
of wrath because the princess had refused to marry his son. The queen
was in great straits, when one night she dreamed that a wolf and two
harts had come to help her, and one bore the face of her son, while both
had crowns on their heads.
She could sleep no more that night, so she rose and looked out of the
window on the park which lay below, and there, under the trees, were the
hart and the hind! Panting for joy, the queen summoned a priest, and
told him her dream, and, as she told it, behold the skins cracked, and
shining clothes appeared beneath.
'Your dream has been fulfilled,' said the priest. 'The hind is the
daughter of the emperor of Rome, who fled away with yonder knight
dressed in a hart skin!'
Joyfully the queen made herself ready, and she soon joined the animals,
who had wandered off to a part of the park that was full of rocks and
caves. She greeted them with fair words, and begged William to take
service under her, which he did gladly.
'Sweet sir, what token will you wear on your shield?' asked she; and
William answered, 'Good madam, I will have a werwolf on a shield of
gold, and let him be made hideous and huge.'
'That shall be done,' said she.
When the shield was painted, William prayed her to give him a horse, and
she led him into the stable, and bade him choose one for himself. And he
chose one that had been ridden by the late king his father. And the
horse knew him, though his mother did not, and it neighed from pure
delight. After that William called to the soldiers to rally round him,
and there was fought a great battle, and the Spaniards were put to
flight, and throughout Palermo the people rejoiced mightily.
When the enemy had retreated far away, and William returned to the
palace, where the queen and Melior were awaiting him; suddenly, from the
window, they beheld the werwolf go by, and as he passed he held up his
foot as if he craved mercy.
'What does he mean by that?' asked the queen.
'It betokens great good to us,' answered William.
'That is well,' said the queen; 'but the sight of that beast causes me
much sorrow. For my fair son was stolen away from me by such a one, when
he was four years old, and never more have I heard of him.' But in her
heart she felt, though she said nothing, that she had found him again.
By-and-by the king of Spain came back with another army, and there was
more fighting. In the end the Spanish king was forced to yield up his
sword to William, who carried him captor to his mother Felice. The queen
received him with great courtesy, and placed him next her at dinner, and
the peers who had likewise been taken prisoners sat down to feast.
The next day a council was held in the hall of the palace to consider
the terms of peace. The king of Spain and his son were present also, and
everyone said in turn what penalty the enemy should pay for having
besieged their city and laid waste their cornfields. In the midst of
this grave discussion a werwolf entered through the open door, and,
trotting up to the Spanish king, he kissed his feet. Then he bowed to
the queen and to William, and went away as he came.
The sight of his tail disappearing through the door restored to the
guards their courage, which had vanished in the presence of anything so
unexpected. They sprang up to pursue him, but like a flash of lightning
William flung himself in their path, crying, 'If any man dare to hurt
that beast, I will do him to death with my own hands;' and, as they all
knew that William meant what he said, they slunk back to their places.
'Tell me, gracious king,' asked William when they were all seated afresh
round the council table, 'why did the wolf bow to you more than to other
men?'
Then the king made answer that long ago his first wife had died, leaving
him with a son, and that in a little while he had married again, and
that his second wife had had a son also. One day when he came back from
the wars she told him that his eldest son had been drowned, but he found
out afterwards that she had changed him into a werwolf, so that her own
child might succeed to the crown.
'And I think,' he added, 'that this werwolf may be indeed the son I
lost.'
'It may right well be thus,' cried William, 'for he has the mind of a
man, and of a wise man too. Often has he succoured me in my great need,
and if your wife had skill to turn him into a werwolf her charms can
make him a man again. Therefore, sire, neither you nor your people shall
go hence out of prison till he has left his beast's shape behind him. So
bid your queen come hither, and if she says you nay I will fetch her
myself!'
Then the king called one of his great lords, and he bade him haste to
Spain and tell the queen what had befallen him, and to bring her with
all speed to Palermo. Little as she liked the summons, the Spanish queen
dared not refuse, and on her arrival she was led at once into the great
hall, which was filled with a vast company, both of Spaniards and
Sicilians. When all were assembled William fetched the werwolf from his
chamber, where he had lain for nights and days, waiting till his
stepmother should come.
Together they entered the hall, but at the sight of the wicked woman who
had done him such ill the wolf's bristles stood up on his back, and with
a snarl that chilled the blood of all that heard it he sprang towards
the dais. But, luckily, William was on the watch, and, flinging his arms
round the wolf's neck, he held him back, saying in a whisper:
[Illustration: THE FURY OF THE WER-WOLF]
'My dear, sweet beast, trust to me as truly as to your own brother. I
sent for her for your sake, and if she does not undo her evil spells
I will have her body burned to coals, and her ashes scattered to the
winds.'
The wicked queen knew well what doom awaited her, and that she could
resist no longer. Sinking on her knees before the wolf, she confessed
the ill she had wrought, and added:
'Sweet Alfonso, soon shall the people see your seemly face, and your
body as it would have been but for me!' At that she led the wolf into a
private chamber, and, drawing from her wallet a thread of red silk, she
bound it round a ring she wore, which no witchcraft could prevail
against. This ring she hung round the wolf's neck, and afterwards read
him some rhymes out of a book. Then the werwolf looked at his body, and,
behold, he was a man again!
There were great rejoicings at the court of Palermo when prince Alfonso
came among them once more. He forgave the queen for her wickedness, and
rebuked his father for having stirred up such a wanton and bloody war.
'Plague and famine would have preyed upon this land,' he said, 'had not
this knight, whose real name is unknown to you, come to your aid. He is
the rightful lord of this country, for he is the son of king Embrons and
queen Felice, and I am the werwolf who carried him away, to save him
from a cruel death that was planned for him by his own uncle!'
So the tale ends and everyone was made happy. The werwolf, now prince
Alfonso, married William's sister, and in due time ruled the kingdom of
Spain, and William and Melior lived at Palermo till the emperor her
father died, when the Romans offered him the crown in his stead.
And if you want to know any more about them, you must read the story for
yourselves.
(Old Romance of _William of Palermo_.)
THE SLAYING OF HALLGERDA'S HUSBANDS
If any traveller had visited Iceland nearly a thousand years ago, he
would have found the island full of busy, industrious people, who made
the most of their short summer, and tilled the ground so well that they
generally reaped a golden harvest. Many of the families were akin, and
had fled some sixty years earlier from Norway and the islands of the sea
because the king, Harald Fairhair, had introduced new laws, which
displeased them. They were soon joined, for one reason and another, by
dwellers in Orkney and Shetland and the Faroe Islands and the Hebrides,
and, being men of one race, they easily adopted the same customs and
obeyed the same laws.
Now the Northmen had many good qualities and many very troublesome ones.
The father of every household had absolute power over all his children;
he fixed the amount of money that should be paid in exchange for his
daughter at her marriage, and the sum that was due for the wounded slave
or 'thrall' as he was called, or even for his murdered son; or, if he
thought better, he could refuse to take any money at all as the price of
his injuries, and could then avenge blood by blood.
But once he had declared his purpose he was bound to abide by his word.
Fond though they were of fighting, the Northmen had their own notions of
fair dealing. If you had killed a man, you had to confess it; if you
slew him at night, or when he was sleeping, you were guilty of murder,
and if you refused to throw gravel or sand over his body, thus denying
your enemy the rights of burial, you were considered a dastard even by
your friends.
[Illustration: HAUSKULD'S PRIDE IN HALLGERDA]
Now in the valley or dale of the river Laxa dwelt two brothers, each in
his own house. One was named Hauskuld, and the other Hrut. This Hrut was
much younger than Hauskuld, and was handsome, brave, and, like so many
of the Northmen, very gentle when not engaged in war. Like many of them
also, the gift was given him of reading the future.
One day Hauskuld made a feast, and Hrut came with many of his kinsmen,
and took his place next his brother Hauskuld. They were all seated in
the great hall of the house and near the fire Hauskuld's little
daughter, Hallgerda, was playing with some other children. Fair and blue
eyed were they all, but Hallgerda was taller and more beautiful than
any, and her hair fell in long bright curls far below her waist. 'Come
hither,' said Hauskuld, holding out his hand, and, taking her by the
chin, he kissed her and bade her go back to her companions. Then,
turning to his brother he asked:
'Well, is she not fair to look upon?' but Hrut held his peace. Again
Hauskuld would know what was in the thoughts of Hrut concerning the
maiden, and this time Hrut made answer:
'Of a truth fair is the maid, and great will be the havoc wrought by her
among men. But one thing I would know, which of our race has given her
those thief's eyes?'
At that Hauskuld waxed wroth, and bade Hrut begone to his own house.
* * * * *
After this some years went by. Hrut left Iceland and spent some time at
the Court of Norway, and then he came back and married, and had much
trouble with his wife, Unna. But after they had parted and she had gone
back to her father, Hrut was a free man again, and he went to visit his
brother Hauskuld, whose daughter Hallgerda had now become a woman. Tall
and stately she was, and fair, but sly and greedy of gain, as in the
days of her childhood, and more she loved Thiostolf, whose wife had
brought her up, than Hauskuld her father, or Hrut her uncle.
When Hallgerda went back to Hauskuld her father, he saw that he must be
looking out for a husband for her, as the fame of her beauty would go
far. It was indeed not long before one came to her, Thorwald, son of
Oswif, who, besides the broad lands which he possessed on the island,
owned the Bear Isles out in the sea, where fish were to be had in
abundance.
Oswif, Thorwald's father, knew more about the maiden than did Thorwald,
who had been on a journey, and he tried to turn his son's thought to
some other damsel, but Thorwald only answered, 'Whatever you may say,
she is the only woman I will marry;' and Oswif made reply, 'Well, after
all, the risk is yours and not mine.'
So they two set out for Hauskuld's house and he bade them welcome
heartily. They wasted no time before telling him their business, and
Hauskuld answered that for his part he could desire no more honourable
match for his daughter, but he would not hide from them that her temper
was hard and cruel.
'That shall not stand between us,' said Thorwald, 'so tell me what I
shall pay for her.'
And the bargain was made, and Thorwald rode home with his father, but
Hallgerda was never asked if she wished to wed Thorwald or not.
When Hauskuld told his daughter that she was to be married to Thorwald,
she was not pleased, and said that if her father had loved her as much
as he pretended to do he would have consulted her in such a matter.
Besides, she did not think that the match was in any way worthy of her.
But, grumble as she might, there was no getting out of it, and, as
Hauskuld would listen to nothing, she sought for her foster-father,
Thiostolf, who never had been known to say her nay. When she had told
her story, he bade her be of good cheer, prophesying that Thorwald
should not be her only husband, and that if she was not happy she had
only to come to him and he would do her bidding, be it what it might,
save as regarded Hauskuld and Hrut.
Then Hallgerda was comforted, and went home to prepare the bridal feast,
to which all their friends and kinsfolk were bidden. And when the
marriage was over, she rode home with her husband Thorwald, and
Thiostolf her foster-father was ever at her side, and she talked more to
him than to Thorwald. And there he stayed all the winter.
Now, as time went on, Thorwald began to repent that he had not hearkened
to the words of his father. His wife paid him scant attention, and she
wasted his goods, and was noted among all the women of the dales for her
skill in driving a hard bargain. And, beyond all that, folk whispered
that she was not careful to ask whether the things she took were her own
or someone else's. This irked Thorwald sore; but worse was to follow.
The spring came late that year, and Hallgerda told Thorwald that the
storehouse was empty of meat and fish, and he must go out to the Bear
Isles and fetch some more. At this Thorwald reproached her, saying that
it was her fault if garners were not yet full, and on Hallgerda's
taunting him with being a miser, struck her such a blow in the face that
blood spouted, and when he left her to row with his men to the islands,
Hallgerda sat still, vowing vengeance.
It was not long in coming. Soon after, Thiostolf chanced to pass that
way, and, seeing the blood on her face, asked whence it sprang.
'From the hand of my husband Thorwald,' answered she, and reproached
Thiostolf for suffering such dealings.
[Illustration: HOW THORWALD WAS SLAIN BY THIOSTOLF]
'I knew not of it,' said Thiostolf, 'but I will avenge it speedily;' and
he went to the shore, and put off in a boat, taking nothing but a great
axe with him. He found Thorwald and his men on the beach of the biggest
island, loading his vessel with meat and fish from the storehouses. Then
he began to pick a quarrel with Thorwald and spoke words that vexed
him more and more, till Thorwald bent forward to seize a knife which lay
near him. This was the moment for which the other had been waiting. He
lifted his axe and gave a blow at Hallgerda's husband, and, though
Thorwald tried to defend himself, a second stroke clove his skull.
* * * * *
'Your axe is bloody,' said Hallgerda, who was standing outside the door.
'Yes; and _this_ time you can choose your own husband,' answered
Thiostolf; but Hallgerda only asked calmly:
'So Thorwald is dead?' and as Thiostolf nodded she went on: 'You must go
northward, to Swan my kinsman; he will hide you from your enemies.'
After that she unlocked her chests and dismissed her maidens with gifts;
then she mounted her horse and rode home to her father.
'Where is Thorwald?' asked Hrut, who had heard nothing.
'He is dead,' answered Hallgerda.
'By the hand of Thiostolf?' said her father.
'By his hand, and by that of no other;' and Hallgerda passed by them and
entered the house.
As soon as Oswif, Thorwald's father, had heard the tidings, he guessed
that Thiostolf must have gone northward to Swan, and calling his men
round him they all rode to the Bearfirth. But before they were in sight
Swan cried to Thiostolf, 'Oswif is coming, but we need fear nothing,
they will never see us,' and he took a goatskin and wrapped it round his
head, and said to it: 'Be thou darkness and fog, and fright and wonder,
to those who seek us.' And immediately a thick fog and black darkness
fell over all things, and Oswif and his men lost their way, and tumbled
off their horses and tripped over large stones, till Oswif resolved to
give up seeking Thiostolf and Swan, and to go himself to Hauskuld.
Now Hauskuld was abiding at home, and with him was Hrut his brother.
Oswif got off his horse, and, throwing its bridle over a stake driven
into the ground, he said to Hauskuld: 'I have come to ask atonement for
my son's life.'
'It was not I who slew your son,' answered Hauskuld; 'but as he is
slain, it is just that you should seek atonement from somebody.'
'You have much need to give him what he asks,' said Hrut, 'for it is not
well that evil tongues should be busy with your daughter's name.'
'Then give the judgment yourself,' replied Hauskuld.
'That will I do, in truth,' said Hrut; 'and be sure that I will not
spare you, as I know it was Hallgerda wrought his death;' so he offered
his hand to Oswif, as a token that his award would be accepted, and that
at the Great Council of the nation he would not summon Hauskuld for
Thorwald's murder. And Oswif took his hand, and Hauskuld's, and Hrut
bade his brother pay down two hundred pounds in silver to Oswif, while
he himself gave him a stout cloak. And Oswif went away well pleased with
the award.
For some time Hallgerda dwelt in her father's house, and she brought
with her a share of Thorwald's goods, and was very rich. But men kept
away from her, having heard tales of her evil ways. At length Glum, the
youngest son of Olaf the Lame, told his brother that he would go no more
trading in strange lands, but would remain at home, and meant to take to
himself a wife, if the one on whom he had set his heart would come to
him.
So one day a company of the men, with Glum and Thorarin his brother at
their head, rode into the Dales to the door of Hauskuld's dwelling.
Hauskuld greeted them heartily and begged them to stay all night,
sending secretly for Hrut, whose counsel he always asked when any matter
of importance was talked over.
'Do you know what they want?' said Hrut next morning, when his brother
met him on the road.
'No,' replied Hauskuld, 'they have not spoken to me of any business.'
'Then I will tell you,' answered Hrut. 'They have come to ask Hallgerda
in marriage.'
'And what shall I do?' said Hauskuld.
'Tell them you would like the match,' replied Hrut, 'but hide nothing.
Let them know all there is of good and evil concerning her.'
They reached the house as he spoke, and the guests came out, and
Thorarin opened his business by entreating Hauskuld to give his daughter
Hallgerda to Glum his brother. 'You know,' he added, 'that he is rich
and strong, and thought well of by all men.'
'Yes, I know that,' answered Hauskuld; 'but once before I chose a
husband for my daughter, and matters turned out ill for all of us.'
'That will be no hindrance,' replied Thorarin, 'for the lot of one man
is not the lot of all men. And things might have fared better had it not
been for the meddling of Thiostolf.'
'You speak truth,' said Hrut, who had listened to their talk in silence;
'and the marriage may yet turn out well if you will do as I tell you.
See that you suffer not Thiostolf to ride with her to Glum's house, and
that he never sleeps in the house for more than three nights running,
without Glum's leave, on pain of outlawry and death by Glum himself. And
if Glum will hearken to my counsel, leave to stay he will never give.
But it is time to let Hallgerda know of the matter, and she shall say
whether Glum is to her mind.'
And Thorarin agreed, and Hauskuld sent to summon his daughter.
* * * * *
Now, though nothing had been said to Hallgerda as to the business which
brought all these men to her father's house, perhaps she may have
guessed something, for when she appeared she was attended by her two
women, and clad in her festal garments. She wore a dress of scarlet,
girdled by a silver belt, and over it a mantle of soft dark blue, while
her thick yellow hair was unbound, and fell almost to her knees. She
smiled and spoke kindly to the visitors, then sat herself down between
her father and uncle. After that Glum spoke.
'Your father and Thorarin my brother have had talk about a marriage
betwixt you and me, Hallgerda. Is it your will, as it is theirs? Tell me
all that is in your heart. For, if you like me not, I will straightway
ride back again.'
'The match is to my liking,' answered Hallgerda, 'and better suited to
my condition than what my father made for me before. And you are to my
liking also, if our tempers do not fall out.'
'Let Hallgerda betroth herself,' said Hrut, when they had told her what
terms had been arranged, and that Glum should bring goods or money to an
equal value to Hallgerda's, and that they two should divide the whole.
After that the betrothal ceremony took place, and Glum went away, and
returned no more till his wedding.
* * * * *
There was a great company in Hauskuld's hall to witness Hallgerda's
marriage, and when the feast began Thiostolf might have been seen
stalking about holding his axe aloft; but, as the guests pretended not
to know he was there, no harm came of it.
For some time Glum and his wife lived happily together, though Hallgerda
proved herself the same greedy yet wasteful woman she had been before.
At the end of a year a daughter was born to her, whom she named
Thorgerda, and the child grew up to be as beautiful as her mother. But
by-and-by trouble came to them through Thiostolf, who had been driven
away by Hauskuld for beating one of his thralls. Thiostolf vowed
vengeance in his heart, and rode south to Glum's house.
Hallgerda was pleased to see him, but when she heard his tale she said
she could not give him shelter without the consent of Glum. So when her
husband came in she ran quickly to greet him, and, putting her arms
round his neck, she asked if he would agree to something she wished very
much.
'If it is anything I can do in honour,' answered Glum, 'do it I will of
a surety.'
Then she told him how her father had cast out Thiostolf, and that he had
come to her for shelter, and she wished him to remain, if it was Glum's
will. And Glum answered that, if she wished it greatly, Thiostolf should
remain, unless he betook himself to evil courses.
For a while Thiostolf went warily, and no fault did Glum find with him;
then he fell to marring everything, as he had done in Thorwald's time,
and to no one would he listen save to Hallgerda only. In vain Thorarin
warned Glum that things would have an ill ending, but Glum only smiled,
and let Hallgerda have her way.
When autumn came, and the days grew short and cold, the men went to
bring their flocks home from the pastures where they had been feeding
all the summer. It was hard work, for the sheep often strayed far, and,
besides, the flocks got mixed up, and needed to be separated one from
the other. One day, when the shepherds had brought tidings that many of
Glum's sheep were missing, Glum bade Thiostolf go into the hills and see
if he could find those that were lost.
But Thiostolf grew angry, and answered rudely:
'I am not your slave, and it is not my work to bring in sheep. If you
mean to go yourself, perhaps I will consent to go with you.'
At this Glum was greatly angered, and, seeking Hallgerda, he told her
what had happened, adding as he did so:
'I will not have Thiostolf here any longer.'
Then Hallgerda waxed very wrathful, and she upheld Thiostolf in his ill
doing.
At last the patience of Glum gave way, and he struck her a blow in the
face, and crying, 'Words are wasted on you,' went off to his own
business. Hallgerda, who loved him much in spite of her unruly tongue,
wept bitterly at the thought of what had happened, and, as evil fate
would have it, Thiostolf heard her, and saw the red mark across her
cheek.
'It shall not be there again,' he said, but Hallgerda answered:
'It is not for you to come between Glum and me.'
When he heard this, Thiostolf only smiled and said nothing, but got
ready to go with Glum and his men, to seek after the sheep. After long
searchings they found many of those that were missing, and he sent some
of his men one way and some another, till at length by chance he and
Thiostolf were left alone. They soon came upon a flock of wild sheep,
and tried to drive them down the steep side of a hill towards Glum's
house, but it was of no use, and as fast as the sheep were collected
together they all scattered again. Very soon, Glum and Thiostolf grew
tired and ill-tempered, and each told the other he was stupid and lazy.
At length, Glum taunted Thiostolf with being a thrall, and from that
blows quickly followed. Both men drew their axes, but Thiostolf struck
so hard at Glum that he rolled dead upon the ground.
At the sight of Glum lying dead at his feet, Thiostolf's wrath cooled
somewhat. He stooped and covered Glum's body with stones, and took a
gold ring from his finger. After that he took the road back to Varmalek,
and found Hallgerda sitting in front of the door. Her eyes fell
instantly on the bloody axe, and Thiostolf saw this and said hastily:
'Glum, your husband, is slain.'
[Illustration: THIOSTOLF DECIDES TO SLAY GLUM]
'Then it is by your hand,' she answered.
'Yes, it is,' said Thiostolf, and added after a moment's pause: 'What is
best to be done now?'
'Go to Hrut, and ask him,' replied Hallgerda, and Thiostolf went.
* * * * *
'Glum is slain' said Thiostolf to Hrut, who had come down to the door in
answer to Thiostolf's knock.
'Who slew him?' asked Hrut.
'I slew him,' answered Thiostolf.
'Why did you come here?' asked Hrut again.
'Because Hallgerda sent me,' answered Thiostolf.
'Then Hallgerda had no part in his slaying,' said Hrut, with a sound of
relief in his voice; but as he spoke he drew his sword, which Thiostolf
saw, and thrust at Hrut with his axe. Hrut, too, saw, and sprang quickly
aside, knocking up as he did so the handle of the axe, so that it fell
full on the ground. Turning himself swiftly, Hrut dealt Thiostolf a blow
which brought him to his knees, and a stab in the heart finished the
work.
After that Hrut's house-carles laid stones on Thiostolf's body, while he
himself rode away to tell Hauskuld all that had befallen. And soon after
Thorarin, Glum's brother, came there too, with eleven men at his back.
He asked Hauskuld what atonement he would make for Glum, but Hauskuld
answered that it was neither he nor his daughter who had slain Glum, and
that Hrut had avenged himself on Thiostolf. To this Thorarin said
nothing, but Hrut offered to give him gifts, and so peace lay between
them.
Now, Hrut's wife, Unna, was of kin to two brothers, Gunnar and Kolskegg.
Both were tall, brave men, but there was not Gunnar's like in all the
country round for beauty, and for skill in shooting, jumping, and
swimming. And, besides this, he was beautiful and gentle, faithful to
the friends he made, but not making them readily. His chief friend was
Njal, from whom he ever sought counsel, for Njal was a wise man and
could see far into the future.
Having a mind to see something of the world, Gunnar set sail for Norway,
where he stayed some time, and had many adventures. It was early in the
summer when he and Kolskegg sailed home to Iceland, where men were
assembling for the great Council, or Thing.
Gunnar's first act was to ride off to Njal's house, and Gunnar asked if
he would be present at the Thing. 'No, truly,' answered Njal; 'stay you
at home or bad will come of it.'
And Gunnar! What evil was likely to befall him, who wished to live at
peace with everyone? But Njal only shook his head and said slowly:
'I remain in my own house, and if I had my way you should do so also.'
But Gunnar would not listen, and rode straight off to the Thing.
What happened to him when he got there will be told in another story.
(_Saga_)
_THE DEATH OF GUNNAR_
Now of all the men gathered together at the Thing of the year 974, no
man was handsomer or more splendidly clad than Gunnar. He was arrayed in
the scarlet raiment given him by King Harald, and he bore on his arm a
gold ring, given him by Hacon the Earl, and the horse he rode had a
shining black skin.
A brave figure he made one morning as he left the Hill of Laws and
passed out beyond the tents of the men of Mossfell. And as he went there
came to meet him a woman whose dress was no less rich than his. She
stopped as he drew near, and told him that she was Hallgerda, Hauskuld's
daughter, and that she knew well that he was Gunnar the traveller, and
she wished to hear some of the wonders of the lands beyond the seas. So
he sat down, and they two talked together for long, and they agreed
well, and became friends. After a while he asked her if she had a
husband.
'No,' she replied; men feared her, for they held that she brought them
ill-luck; but at that Gunnar laughed, and said, 'What would you answer
if I asked you to marry me?'
'Are you jesting?' said Hallgerda.
'No, of a sooth,' replied Gunnar.
'Then go and see what my father has to say to it,' answered Hallgerda,
and Gunnar went.
Hauskuld was inside his booth when Gunnar arrived. Hrut was there
likewise, and bade him welcome. For a while the talk ran upon the
business of the Thing, and then Gunnar turned and asked what answer
Hauskuld would give if he offered to lay down money for Hallgerda.
'What do you say, Hrut?' inquired Hauskuld.
'It ought not to be,' replied Hrut. 'No man has aught but good to say of
you; no man has aught but ill to say of her. And this I must not hide
from you.'
'I thank you for your plain speech,' said Gunnar; 'but my soul is still
set on wedding Hallgerda. And we have spoken together, and are agreed in
this matter.'
But though Hrut knew that his words were vain, he told Gunnar all that
had happened in respect of Hallgerda and her two husbands. And Gunnar
weighed it for a while, and then he said, 'You know the saying,
"Forewarned is forearmed." Doubtless it is true, all that you have told
of Hallgerda, but I am strong, and have travelled far, and if we can
make a bargain, so shall it be.'
So a messenger was sent for Hallgerda, and she betrothed herself, as she
had done to Glum, and after that Gunnar rode over to Njal, and told him
what things had happened.
'Evil will come of it betwixt you and me,' said Njal sadly.
'No woman, or man either, shall ever work ill between us,' answered
Gunnar, who loved Njal more than his own father.
'She works ill wherever she goes,' replied Njal, 'and you will never
cease making atonements for her;' but he said no more, for he was a wise
man and wasted no words, and when Gunnar asked him to come to the
wedding feast he gave his promise that he would be there.
* * * * *
The winter after Gunnar's wedding, he and Hallgerda were bidden to a
great feast at Njal's house. Njal and his wife greeted them heartily,
and by-and-by Helgi, Njal's son, came, and with him Thorhalla his wife.
Then Bergthora, Njal's wife, went up to Hallgerda, and said, 'Give place
to Thorhalla,' but Hallgerda would not, and she fell to quarrelling with
Bergthora, and at last Bergthora taunted Hallgerda with having plotted
to do Thorwald her husband to death. At that Hallgerda turned and said
to Gunnar: 'It is nothing to be married to the strongest man in Iceland,
if you avenge not these insults, Gunnar.'
But Gunnar cried that he would take no part in women's quarrels, least
of all in Njal's house, and bade Hallgerda come home with him.
'We shall meet again, Bergthora,' said Hallgerda as she mounted the
sleigh. Then they rode back to Lithend and spent the rest of the winter
there.
When the spring came, Gunnar went to the Thing, bidding Hallgerda take
heed, and to give no cause of offence to his friends. But she would give
no promise, and he set forth with a heavy heart.
By ill-fortune, Njal and Gunnar owned a wood between them, and when Njal
and his sons departed to the Thing, Bergthora, Njal's wife, ordered
Swart her servant to cut her some branches for kindling fires from this
very forest. These tidings reached the ears of Hallgerda, and she
muttered with a grim face, 'It is the last time that Swart shall steal
my wood,' and bade Kol, her bailiff, start early next morning and seek
Swart.
'And when I find him?' asked Kol; but Hallgerda only turned away
angrily.
'You, the worst of men, ask that?' said she. 'Why, you shall kill him,
of course.'
So Kol took his axe, though he was ill at ease, for he knew that evil
would come of it, and he mounted one of Gunnar's horses and fared to the
wood.
He soon saw Swart and his men piling up bundles of firewood, so he left
his horse in a hollow, and crouched down behind some bushes, till he
heard Swart bid the men carry the wood to Njal's house, as he himself
had more work to do. He began to look about for a tall straight young
stem with which to make himself a bow, when Kol sprang out of the bushes
and dealt Swart such a stroke with his axe that he fell dead without a
word. After that Kol went back and told Hallgerda.
And Hallgerda spoke cheering words, and said he need have no fear, for
that she would protect him; but Kol's heart was heavy.
Now Hallgerda had forced Kol to slay Swart, to bring about a quarrel
between her husband and Njal, so she straightway sent a messenger to
seek Gunnar at the Thing, and tell him what had befallen Swart. Gunnar
listened in silence to the messenger's tale; then he called his men
around him, and they all went to Njal's tent, and begged him to come out
and speak to Gunnar.
'Swart, your house servant has been killed by Hallgerda and Kol her
man,' said Gunnar gravely when Njal stood before him; and he told the
tale as he had heard it from the messenger.
'It is for you, Njal, to fix the atonement,' he said at the end.
'You will have work to atone for all Hallgerda's misdoings,' answered
Njal, 'and it will take all our old friendship to keep us from
quarrelling now. But I have it in mind that at the last you shall win
through, but after hard fighting. As to the atonement, as you are my
friend and have no hand in this, I will fix it at twelve ounces of
silver. And if it should come to be your turn to settle an award, I
shall not expect to pay more than that.'
So Gunnar laid down the money and gave it to Bergthora his wife when he
came home with his sons from the Thing. And Bergthora was content, but
said to her husband that it should not be spent, as it would some day do
to make atonement for Kol.
Although Hallgerda met her husband bravely and answered him boldly, in
secret she trembled a little at his stern face and sharp words, as he
told her that she was to remember that whatever quarrels she might
choose to begin, the ending of them would always lie with him. But she
pretended not to care, and went out among her neighbours as usual,
telling all who would listen the tale of the killing of Swart. At length
this reached the ears of Bergthora, and she was sore angered, but bided
her time in silence.
When Njal and his sons went up to the pastures to see after the cattle,
and the thralls were busy working in the fields, Bergthora the mistress
was left alone in the house. On this day a man mounted on a black horse
and armed with a spear and a short sword rode up to the door and asked
her if she could find something for him to do. He was skilled in many
things, he said, but his temper was hot, and had oftentimes been his
bane.
'I will give you work,' answered Bergthora, 'but you must do whatever I
bid you, even though it should be to slay a man.'
'You have plenty of other men whom you can better trust on such
business,' replied the man, as if he repented of his bargain; but
Bergthora only told him that she expected her servants to do as they
were bid, and sent the man to put his horse in the stable.
During that summer another Thing was held and Njal and his sons went to
it, and likewise Gunnar. But Bergthora was left alone in the house with
her servants.
Then she called Atli, the new man, and bade him seek out Kol, that he
might slay him, so Atli took his horse and his sword and spear and
departed.
He found Kol in the place where some men had shown him, and he spoke to
Kol civilly, but only received rude tones in answer. So, without more
ado, Atli thrust at him, and Kol, though wounded, swung his axe above
his head; but his eyes had grown dim, and he could not see to aim, and
he fell to the ground and rolled over.
Atli left the body where it was, and rode on till he came to some of
Gunnar's men, and bade them go and tell Hallgerda that Kol was dead.
'Did you kill him?' asked the man.
'Well, I don't expect Hallgerda will think that he dealt his own
death-blow,' answered Atli; and with that he rode back to Bergthora, who
praised him for the swiftness with which he had done her bidding. But
Atli did not seem content, and at last he said:
'What will Njal think?'
'Oh, never fear him,' replied Bergthora, 'for he took with him the money
of the atonement for the slaying of Swart, and now he can pay it over
for Kol. But in spite of the atonement, beware of Hallgerda, who knows
nought of promises.'
When Hallgerda heard of Kol's slaying, she bade a messenger ride to
Gunnar at the Thing, and Gunnar sent to seek out Njal and Skarphedinn
his son. They came to his tent, and he greeted them, and then Njal said
that Bergthora his wife had done great wrong in breaking the atonement,
and that Gunnar must now fix the award for Kol.
'Let it be the same as that which I paid for Swart,' said Gunnar; and
Njal laid down the money and they parted, and no ill blood was between
them, though their wives were still resolved to do each other all the
ill they could.
Njal was too wise a man not to know that Hallgerda would seek revenge on
Atli for the slaying of Kol, and he begged Atli would take service far
away to the east, so that Hallgerda might not reach him. But Atli told
Njal that he would sooner be slain in his service than live free in the
service of another master, and he would gladly stay where he was if Njal
would grant him the atonement due to a free man.
This Njal granted, and Atli remained in his house.
Hallgerda soon came to know what had happened, and she sent messengers
both to Bergthora and to Gunnar at the Thing to tell them about it.
* * * * *
'Hallgerda my wife has caused Atli to be slain!' said Gunnar to Njal and
to Skarphedinn his son. 'What atonement must I make for him?'
'The atonement will be heavy, for he was no thrall, but a freeman, and I
fear it may cause strife between us,' replied Njal; but Gunnar stretched
out his hand and said that no woman should sow strife betwixt him and
Njal. Then Njal fixed a hundred ounces of silver, and Gunnar laid it
down before him.
'Hallgerda does not let our servants die of old age,' said Skarphedinn,
as they rode home from the Thing.
* * * * *
Now the words came true, that Gunnar had spoken, and 'blow for blow'
grew to be the rule between Hallgerda and Bergthora; but for all that
there was no quarrel between Njal and Gunnar.
So the years went by, and many Things had been held, and much
blood-money had been paid, when one spring there was a great dearth of
hay throughout all Iceland, and much cattle died. Gunnar, who was wise
as well as rich, had seen what was coming and had laid up stores of both
dried meat and of hay. As long as they lasted, he shared them with his
neighbours, but when his barns were empty he called Kolskegg his brother
and two of his friends, and they all fared to Kirkby, where dwelt Otkell
the son of Skarf.
This Otkell owned many flocks and herds and wide pastures, and Gunnar
hoped that his barns might yet be full.
'I have come to buy meat and hay, if there is any in your storehouses,
for mine are empty!' said Gunnar.
'I have yet many storehouses untouched,' answered Otkell, 'but I will
sell you nothing.'
'Will you give me them, then?' asked Gunnar, 'and I will pay you back
some time in what you will.'
'I will neither give nor sell,' said Otkell.
'Let us take what we want and leave the money,' said Thrain, who had
come with Gunnar, but Gunnar answered: 'I am no robber!' and was turning
to go when Otkell stopped him.
'Will you buy a thrall from me? He is a good thrall,' said Otkell, 'but
I have no need of him.'
And Gunnar bought the thrall, and they all went home to Lithend
together.
When Njal heard that Otkell would not sell to Gunnar, he was very wroth
and rode up into the hills with all his sons, and took meat from his
storehouses and bound it upon five horses, and hay from his barns and
bound it upon ten horses, and they drove them all to Lithend, which was
Gunnar's house.
'Never ask another man for aught when you can ask me,' said Njal, and
Gunnar answered:
'Your gifts are great, but truly your love is greater.'
In a few weeks the summer began, and, as was his custom, Gunnar rode to
the Thing, leaving Hallgerda in the house at Lithend.
The day after he had ridden away with his men Hallgerda sent for Malcolm
the thrall, and said to him:
'I have somewhat for you to do! Take with you two horses besides the one
you ride, and go to Kirkby and steal meat enough to load the two horses,
and butter and cheese as well. But take heed, when all is done, to set
the storehouses on fire, so that none can trace that the goods have
vanished.'
Malcolm the thrall lifted his head and looked at her.
'I have never been a thief, in spite of all my ill-deeds,' said he.
But Hallgerda only laughed and made sport of him.
'Do you think men have kept silent about your misdeeds?' she asked.
'Hie hence when I bid you, or you shall not see the new moon rise!'
And Malcolm the thrall knew that she spoke no jesting words, and he did
her bidding; and none would have known of the thing had he not dropped
his knife when he was trying to mend the thong of his shoe, and his belt
also.
A few days after that Gunnar and his men returned home, and many guests
with him. The table was set by Hallgerda herself, and besides meat there
were also great cheeses and jars of butter. Well Gunnar knew that Njal
had not sent these, and he asked Hallgerda whence they came.
'It beseems a man to eat what is before him and not to trouble himself
further,' answered Hallgerda; but Gunnar cried out:
'I will have no part in food that is ill come by,' and with that he gave
her a buffet on the cheek.
'I shall remember that,' said Hallgerda, and she got up and went out.
* * * * *
The next morning, Skamkell, Otkell's friend, was riding to bring in some
sheep, when he saw something bright on the side of the path. He got off
his horse to see what it was, and found the belt and knife which Malcolm
had dropped, and he took them straight to Kirkby.
'Did you ever see these things before?' asked Skamkell.
'Yes, often,' answered Otkell; 'they are the knife and belt of Malcolm
the thrall. And they asked many men the same question, and they all knew
them likewise. Then they went toward Mord the son of Valgard and took
counsel with him, how to charge Gunnar's thrall with the theft and the
burning; for they feared Gunnar, the mighty man of war. At last, for
three silver marks Mord agreed to give them his help, and bade them
follow out his plan.
It was this. That they should send women over the country with goods of
housekeeping use, and mark what was given them in exchange. 'Take heed
that you note carefully,' said Mord, 'because no man will keep in his
house the things that he has stolen, if he has a chance of getting rid
of them. Set therefore apart whatever you get from each house, and bring
it to me.'
And it was done exactly as Mord commanded, and in fourteen days the
women came back, all bearing large bundles.
'Who gave you the most?' asked Mord, and one woman answered:
'Hallgerda, the wife of Gunnar; she gave us a cheese cut into great
slices.'
'I will keep that cheese,' said Mord.
When the women had gone, Mord rode away to Otkell's farm, and bade him
fetch the cheese-mould of Thorgerda his wife. And when it was brought,
Mord took the slices and laid them in it, and they filled up the mould.
After this they all saw that Hallgerda had stolen the cheese, and, now
that Mord had found the thief, he went back to his own house.
The tidings soon spread far and wide, and reached the ears of Kolskegg,
who rode over to Lithend, so that he might speak with Gunnar.
'Know you that it is said by every man that it was Hallgerda who caused
the fire at Kirkby, that she might steal the cheese and butter?' asked
he.
'I have thought before that it must be so, but how can I set it right?'
answered Gunnar.
'You must make atonement to Otkell, and it is better there should be no
delay,' replied Kolskegg.
'I will do your bidding,' said Gunnar; and, mounting his horse, he took
eleven with him, beside Thrain and Lambi his friends, and they all fared
to Kirkby. There, Otkell came out to greet them, and with him were
Skamkell and two other men, Hallkell and Hallbjorm.
'I am here,' said Gunnar, 'to offer atonement for the misdeed of my wife
and the thrall you sold me, for it was they who caused the fire and
stole the cheeses. And, if it pleases you, let the award be fixed by the
best of the men round!'
'That sounds fairer than it is, Gunnar,' put in Skamkell, 'for you are a
man of many things, whereas Otkell has few.'
'Well,' said Gunnar, 'then I will offer atonement of twice the value of
all that Otkell lost;' but again it was Skamkell and not Otkell who
replied:
'Beware, Otkell, of giving him the right of making the award when it
belongs to you.'
And Otkell answered: 'I will fix the award myself, Gunnar.'
'Then fix it,' said Gunnar, who was waxing wroth at this delay; but once
more Otkell turned to Skamkell, and asked what he should answer.
'Let the award be made by Gizur the white and Geir the priest,' and this
saying pleased Otkell.
'Do you as you will,' replied Gunnar, 'but do not think that men will
speak well of your refusing the choices that I gave you.'
And after that he rode home with his men.
Then Hallbjorm spoke to Otkell, saying: 'Ill was it to refuse the offers
of Gunnar, which were good offers, as you know well. Can it be that you
think yourself a match for Gunnar in fight, when he has proved himself
better than any man in the island? But go and see Gizur the white and
Geir the priest at once, and see if the offers of Gunnar do not seem
good to them! For he is a just and gentle-hearted man, and perchance he
will still hearken to you, if you accept them.'
So Otkell, who ever listened to the last speaker, bade, them bring out
his horse and set forth, Skamkell walking by his side. In a little
while, when they had gone a mile or two, Skamkell said: 'You have much
to look to at Kirkby, and no one but yourself can see after the men. Get
home, therefore, and let me ride to Gizur the white and Geir the priest
instead of you.'
'Go, then,' answered Otkell, who was lazy and never took the trouble to
think for himself; 'but see you do not tell them lies, as you are wont
to do.'
'I will lie no more than I can help, master,' answered Skamkell, jumping
on Otkell's horse.
Otkell fared home and found Hallbjorm in front of the house.
'Has anything befallen you that you have returned on foot?' asked he;
and Otkell, who feared him, said hurriedly:
'I had many men to look over, and much work to do, so I sent Skamkell in
my stead,' But Hallbjorm held his peace and eyed him scornfully.
'He who makes a thrall his friend rues it ever more,' he answered at
last. 'And it is ill done when men's lives are at stake to send the
biggest liar in Iceland on such an errand.'
'If you are afraid now, what would you be if Gunnar's bill were
singing,' asked Otkell, who was always brave when there were none to
slay, and whose courage always waxed great when there were none to
fight.
Hallbjorm laughed as he heard him.
'Who can tell who will fear most at the sound of that singing? But this
you know well, that when the fight has begun Gunnar does not give his
bill much time to sing!'
Now when Skamkell reached Mossfell, he told truly to Gizur the white the
offers Gunnar had made.
'Why did not Otkell accept them?' asked Gizur, 'they were generous and
noble, as Gunnar's offers are.'
'Otkell wished to do you honour,' replied Skamkell; but Gizur for all
answer bade Geir the priest be sent for, and next morning, as soon as
he arrived, Gizur told him the story, and after he had finished he said:
'Let Skamkell tell it again, for I misdoubt him greatly.'
So Skamkell was called in, but he was wary, and he told his tale the
second time as he had done the first, and though Gizur still misdoubted
him he could find no fault.
'Mayhap you speak the truth,' he said; 'but I know the wickedness of
your deeds, and if you die in your bed your face belies you.'
And after a little more talking Skamkell rode home to Kirkby.
'Gizur and Geir greet you,' said Skamkell, 'and they wish that this
matter should have a peaceful ending. They will that Gunnar shall be
summoned as having received and eaten the goods, likewise Hallgerda for
stealing them!'
So Otkell followed this counsel, and five days before the opening of the
Althing he rode with his brother and Skamkell and a great following to
Lithend.
When Gunnar heard what errand they were on, he was very wroth, and after
Otkell had read the summons, and departed with his men, he went away to
seek Njal.
But Njal told him not to trouble, as before the Thing was over he should
be held in greater honour than before.
Gizur the white rode to the Thing also, and he spoke to Otkell, and
asked why he had summoned Gunnar to the Thing. Otkell listened in amaze
and then answered that he had done so because of the counsel that Gizur
himself and Geir the priest had told Skamkell.
'He lied, then,' replied Gizur; 'we gave no such counsel;' and Gunnar
and his friends were called, and Gizur stood forth and bade Gunnar make
his own award. At first Gunnar refused, but at length, after Gizur and
Geir the priest swore that what Skamkell had said was false, he agreed
to do it. And his award was this: that atonement in full should be made
for the burnt storehouses and for the stolen food. 'But for the thrall,'
said Gunnar, 'I will give nothing, for you knew what he was when you
sold him to me. Therefore I will restore him to you. On the other hand,
the ill-words which you have spoken of me, and the way in which you
sought to put me to shame, I count to be worth full as great an
atonement as the burning of a few sheds, of the stealing of a few
cheeses. So that for money we stand equal. One thing more I would say,
Beware lest you seek again to do me evil.'
So spake Gunnar, and no man said him nay. But after a little Gizur asked
that Gunnar might forgive the wrongs Otkell had done him, and hold him
his friend. At this Gunnar laughed out in scorn and answered:
'Let Skamkell be his friend. It is to him Otkell looks for counsel. They
are fitting mates. But one piece of counsel I will give him, and that is
to take shelter with his kinsfolk, for if he stays in this country his
end will be speedy.'
For a while Gunnar rested in peace at home and there was no more
quarrelling. He gathered in his harvest and tended his cattle, ploughed
his fields, and so the autumn and winter passed away and the spring
came.
One day when the sun was shining Gunnar took his small axe, and a bag of
corn, and set out to sow seed. And while he was stooping to do this,
Otkell galloped past, on a wild horse that carried him faster than he
would, and he did not see Gunnar. As ill-chance would have it, Gunnar
raised himself at that moment from stooping over the furrow, and
Otkell's spur tore his ear, and he was very wroth.
'You summon me first, and then you ride over me,' he said, and, as was
his wont, Skamkell made answer:
[Illustration: OTKELL AND GUNNAR IN THE FIELD]
'The wound might have been far sorer, but your anger was greater at
the Thing, when you judged the atonement and clenched your bill in your
fist.'
'When we next meet my bill shall have something to say to you,' said
Gunnar, and went on sowing his corn.
The corn was all sown, and Gunnar was beginning to think of other work,
when one morning his shepherd came riding fast.
'I passed eight men in Markfleet,' said he; 'their faces were set this
way, and Skamkell was with them. He ever speaks ill of you, and I have
heard him tell how you shed tears when Otkell rode over you.'
'It does not do to mind words,' answered Gunnar; 'but for the warning
you have given me you shall henceforth do the work that pleases you. Now
go to sleep.'
So the shepherd slept, and Gunnar took the saddle off his horse, and
laid his own saddle on it; he fetched his shield, and buckled on his
sword, and then he took his bill, and as his hand touched it it sang
loudly. Rannveig his mother heard the sound, and came out from the door
to the place where Gunnar was fastening on his helmet.
'Never have I seen you so full of wrath,' said she. But Gunnar answered
her nothing and rode quickly away.
Rannveig went back to the sitting-room, where many men were talking,
and, looking at them, she said:
'Loud is your talk, but the bill sang louder when Gunnar rode away.'
When Kolskegg heard that, he saddled his horse and hasted after Gunnar.
* * * * *
Gunnar's horse was swift and steady, and he never drew rein till he
reached the ford which he knew Otkell's men must pass. There he tied up
his horse, and awaited them on foot. When Otkell's men came up, they,
too, sprang to the ground, and Hallbjorm strode towards Gunnar.
'Keep back,' said Gunnar, 'I have no quarrel with brave men like you,'
but Hallbjorm answered:
'I cannot for shame stand by while you kill my brother;' and he smote
with his spear at Gunnar. While they were fighting, Skamkell struck at
Gunnar's back with his axe, but Gunnar turned round, and, with his bill
caught the axe from beneath, so that it fell out of Skamkell's hands. A
second thrust with the bill stretched Skamkell on the ground, and after
him Otkell and three others. They slew eight men in all, Kolskegg
aiding.
After that they rode home, and as they went Gunnar said: 'I wonder if I
am less base than others because I kill men less willingly than they.'
* * * * *
The first thing Gunnar did was to seek counsel of Njal, who bid him take
care never to break the peace which was made between him and his foes,
and never to slay more than one man of the same race, 'else your life
will be but short.'
'Do you know the death you yourself will die?' he asked.
'Yes, I know it,' answered Njal.
'And what is it?' asked Gunnar once more.
'One that none could guess,' replied Njal, and Gunnar went away.
Now at the next Thing there was great dispute over this suit, but in the
end it was settled to Gunnar's honour, and Gizur the white and Geir the
priest gave pledges that they would keep the peace. But there were other
men who thought they had been wronged by Gunnar, and laid plots to anger
him, so that he might be outlawed and forced to leave the country.
By ill-fortune the words which Njal had spoken when he bade Gunnar never
to slay more than one man of the same race were noised abroad, and his
enemies made a plan by which Gunnar should be forced to fight Thorgeir,
son of Otkell, so that his doom might come upon him.
[Illustration: How Gunnar slew Thorgeir, Otkell's son.]
Thus matters stood for a while, and then Gunnar rode down to the isles
to see what his thralls were doing, and his foes heard of it, and
resolved to lie in wait for him at the Rang river.
But when Gunnar returned he was not alone, as they expected he would be,
for Kolskegg his brother was at his side, and carried the short sword
which some of them knew well, while Gunnar was armed with his sword and
his bill.
The two were yet far from the Rang river when the bill which Gunnar bore
in his hand sweated with blood, and Kolskegg, who had not yet seen this
sight, grew cold with terror.
'This has some dreadful meaning,' said he; and Gunnar nodded.
'It only happens before a great fight,' he answered, 'and they are
called "wound drops" in other lands. So beware. Let us not be taken
unawares;' and they looked well about them, till they saw some men lying
hidden on the banks on the other side of the ford.
Long it were to tell of that fierce fight, and of the men that were
slain by Kolskegg and Gunnar. At last Thorgeir, Otkell's son, forced his
way to the front and swung his sword at Gunnar. The blow would have been
deadly had it fallen, but, leaping aside, he thrust his bill through
Thorgeir's body, and flung him far into the river.
At that the other men turned and fled away.
'Our money-chests will be emptied for atonement for these men,' said
Gunnar as they drew near Lithend, and when they told their mother,
Rannveig shook her head.
'I fear lest ill should come of it,' said she.
And ill _did_ come of it.
Njal's heart was sore when Gunnar told him of the fight by the Rang
river, for he said:
'You have gone against my counsel, and have slain two men of the same
race. So take heed, if you break the award, your life will pay forfeit.
But whatever befalls I am always your friend.'
Soon the Thing was held, and upon the Hill of Laws Gizur the white
summoned Gunnar, for manslaughter of Thorgeir, Otkell's son, and
demanded that his goods should be forfeited and his body outlawed, and
that no man should help or harbour him.
After this there was much talking, but at last the award was given by
twelve men.
And this was it.
Money was to be paid down for the men slain, and Gunnar and Kolskegg
were to depart from Iceland and not return for three winters. But if
Gunnar should break the settlement and stay at home, any man might slay
him as he would.
Gunnar promised to keep the award, but he did not hold it a just one.
Then Kolskegg began to inquire of the vessels that were sailing that
summer, and he settled that he would go on board the ship of Armfin of
the Bay, and Gunnar his brother would go with him.
They sent down to the shore those things that they might need in foreign
lands, and then Gunnar bade farewell to Njal and his men, and thanked
his friends for the help they had given him.
At the last he took leave of the thralls at Lithend, and of his mother,
and told them that, since his own country had outlawed him, he would
never return to it. Then he threw his arms round every man, and without
looking back sprang into the saddle.
As they rode along the Mark fleet, his horse stumbled, and Gunnar fell
to the ground. When he got up he did not mount at once, but stood and
looked round him for a while. Suddenly he turned and said to Kolskegg:
'Never has my home seemed to me so fair as now when the corn is ripe and
ready for cutting. Come what may, I will not leave it.'
'Do not let your foes triumph over you,' answered Kolskegg. 'For if you
should break your atonement, any man may deal with you as he will.'
'I will go no whither,' repeated Gunnar, 'and I would that you would stay
with me.'
'I cannot do this thing,' answered Kolskegg; 'but if you go back, tell
my mother and my kindred that I bid them farewell for ever, for you will
soon be dead, and I shall have naught to bind me to Iceland.'
Hallgerda's heart was filled with joy when Gunnar came under the
doorway, but Rannveig said nothing, for her heart was sad.
All that winter Gunnar sat fast at Lithend and would not be prevailed on
to leave it, and when the winter had gone and the Thing had met, Gizur
the white proclaimed Gunnar an outlaw for having broken his atonement.
Then he called together all his foes, and they planned together how that
they should ride to Lithend and slay him. But Njal heard what they had
been saying, and he warned Gunnar.
'You have always dealt truly and kindly with me,' said Gunnar, when Njal
had finished speaking, 'and if ill befall me, take heed, I pray you, of
my son and Hogni. As for Grani, he has an evil nature, and there is no
turning him from bad deeds.'
It was in the autumn that Mord, the son of Valgard, sent word to
Gunnar's foes that the time had come to make the attack upon Lithend, as
all his men had gone to the haymaking on the isles of the sea. So they
set forth secretly, but stopped first at the farm nearest to Lithend,
where they seized the farmer, and warned him that unless he came with
them and put to death the hound Sam which had guarded Gunnar ever since
Olaf the Peacock had bestowed him as a gift, his own life should be
forfeit. Thorkell the farmer was sore at heart when he heard what was
required of him, but he took his axe and went with the rest. It was easy
to entice Sam the hound into a hollow dell; but when he saw the crowd of
men behind Thorkell he knew that evil was afoot, and sprang on Thorkell
and tore open his throat. Then Aumond of Witchwood smote him on the head
with his axe, and Sam gave a howl which was not the utterance of any
mortal dog, and rolled over.
[Illustration: GUNNAR'S LAST FIGHT & HALLGERDA'S REVENGE]
Gunnar, who was sleeping in the narrow space above his great wooden
hall, heard the awful sound, and said to himself: 'So they have killed
thee, Sam, my fosterling. Well, I will follow thee soon;' and, taking
his bill in his hand, he went up into the roof of the hall, where among
the beams were little slits for windows. In the winter there were
shutters fastened over these little slits, but now they were left open.
From the beam on which he was crouching Gunnar saw a red tunic slipping
by the window, and he thrust swiftly out his bill. In a moment a man's
body fell upon the ground below.
'Well, is Gunnar at home?' said Gizur, and Thorgrim the Easterling
answered: 'Go and see for yourselves; but if Gunnar is not at home, his
bill is,' and those were his last words, for the thrust had been mortal.
It hardly seemed possible that one man could keep such a force at bay,
but wherever they went Gunnar's arrows followed them. Three times they
came on, and three times they fell back, and Gunnar's heart beat high,
for he thought that perchance their courage might fail, and that they
would return whither they had come.
'One of their own arrows sticks outside the window,' he said, laughing
loud in his glee; 'I will send it to kill its master.' But his mother
answered: 'It is ill to waken a sleeping dog, my son.'
Her words were wise, but Gunnar would not listen to them. He shot the
arrow into the midst of the men gathered beneath him, and knew not that
it had dealt a death-blow, or that Gizur the white had been watching its
course.
'The arm that drew in that shaft had a ring on it--a gold ring such as
Gunnar wears,' said he, 'and if they had not shot away their own arrows
they would not be needing ours;' and with that he urged them to make a
fresh attack.
'Let us set the house on fire,' said Mord, but Gizur answered him hotly,
and bade him find out some other plan.
Now Mord was a man of many thoughts, and great skill in planning, so he
looked about him to see if there was aught else he could do. Lying near
were some ropes, and as soon as he saw them he cried out, 'If we can
twist one end of the ropes round the beams, and the other round this
rock, we can twist them tight, and pull the roof off the hall.'
And this was done; and when the roof fell down they beheld Gunnar
standing on the beam, shooting arrows at his enemies.
At this Mord cried once more that the house should be burned, but the
rest called shame on him, and then Thorbrand crept up on one side and
cut Gunnar's bowstring with his axe. But before he could reach the
ground again Gunnar had seized his bill, and driven it through his body.
Then, without looking round, Gunnar said swiftly to Hallgerda his wife:
'Let you and my mother cut off two locks of hair from your heads, and
twist them into my bowstring, so that I may shoot at them once more.'
'Does aught depend on it?' she asked. 'My life,' he said; and Hallgerda
made answer: 'Do you remember that time when you struck me in the face?'
said she; 'well, now you shall die for it.'
* * * * *
For many a day men sang of the fight which Gunnar made for his life and
the numbers that he slew before he himself was struck down and slain.
'We have laid low a great chief,' said Gizur, 'and many hearts will be
sore because of his slaying. But, though his body is dead, his name
shall live for ever.'
(_Saga_)
NJAL'S BURNING
Now, Valgard the Cunning was dying. And he sent for his son Mord and
bade him stir up strife between Njal's sons and their brother Hauskuld
the priest, for he ever hated Njal, and longed to be avenged on him. So
Mord fared to Hauskuld, and told him tales of what his brothers had said
of him, but Hauskuld bade him begone, for he would listen to none of his
stories. Then Mord left Hauskuld the priest, and had ready a long tale,
how that Hauskuld had meant to burn them while they sat at a feast in
Whiteness, had not Hogni, Gunnar's son, come by. And as this plan had
failed, he set about gathering his men together to slay his brothers as
they rode home, but neither Grani, son of Gunnar, nor Gunnar, son of
Lambi, had the heart to do it.
At first, neither Njal's sons, nor Kari, who had married their sister,
would give ear to Mord's false words, but in spite of themselves
ill-feelings began to spring up in their breasts towards Hauskuld.
Thus things went on for many months, and whenever Mord met one of Njal's
sons, or Kari, who had married their sister, he had new stories to tell
them, till at length their hearts grew hot, and they determined that
they would slay Hauskuld, lest perchance he might first slay them.
Hauskuld was sowing his corn when his brothers, and with them Mord,
Valgard's son, came up to kill him. Skarphedinn, Njal's son, was their
leader, and had bidden the rest each to give Hauskuld a wound. But the
first blow dealt by Skarphedinn brought him on his knees, and he died
praying that they might be forgiven for the ill they had brought on him,
guiltless.
When he was dead they went home and told Njal what they had done.
'It had been well if two of you had died and Hauskuld had lived,' said
Njal after he had heard the tidings, 'for I know better than you what
will be the end of this.'
'And what will be the end?' asked Skarphedinn.
'My death, and yours, and your mother's,' answered Njal.
'Shall I die also?' he asked; but Njal shook his head.
'Good fortune will ever be with you!' he answered, and turned away and
wept.
* * * * *
Now all men knew that at the next Thing a suit would be brought for the
slaying of Hauskuld, and Njal and his sons made ready to fare to it, and
to hear the award which should be given. But first sundry of Njal's
friends came to see him and offered to stand by him, and to set up their
tents beside his, and among them were Gizur the white and Asgrim. And at
the Thing an award was made, but was made void by a quarrel between
Flosi, the friend of Hauskuld the slain, and Skarphedinn, and Njal and
his sons returned home, and Njal's heart was heavy.
'Are you riding back to your wife?' asked he of Kari, his son-in-law;
and Kari made answer, 'Whatever happens to you, happens to me!' and they
all stayed at Bergthorasknoll.
* * * * *
In the house dwelt an old, old woman, so old that she had nursed
Bergthora, Njal's wife, and she was wise and could see into the future.
Njal's sons laughed at her warnings, and took no heed to them, but for
all that they knew well that it was often the truth she told them. One
day Skarphedinn was standing outside the door, and the old woman came
out with a stick in her hand, and she passed silently by him, and
walked up the path to where a pile of dried shrubs lay above the house.
'May a curse be upon you!' she cried, shaking her stick over it; and
Skarphedinn, who had followed after her, asked wherefore she was wroth
with the pile.
'Because with the fire lighted from this pile there will be a great
burning,' said she. 'And Njal and his sons will be burnt, and Bergthora,
my foster-child. So carry it away and scatter it in the water, or else
set fire to it before your enemies can get here!'
'What is the use of doing anything?' answered Skarphedinn, 'for if it is
written that we should be burned, our foes will find some other fuel,
though I were to scatter this stack to the four winds;' and he went away
laughing.
All through the summer the old nurse was ever begging Njal to do away
with the stack of vetch, but the harvest was plentiful in the pastures
and the men never came home save to sleep.
'We can bring in that vetch stack any time,' they said.
* * * * *
The harvest was stored in the barns, and a good harvest it was. There
had been none such since the day that Gunnar had fared from Lithend with
Kolskegg, and had returned to his ruin. One day, when Grim and Helgi,
Njal's sons, had ridden away to Holar to see their children, who were at
nurse there, they heard strange tidings from some poor woman, that the
country side was stirring and that bands of men were gathering together,
and were seen riding along the same road.
At this news Grim and Helgi looked at each other.
'Let us go home to Bergthorasknoll,' said they.
Now they had told their mother they would sleep that night at Holar,
with their children, so she gave no thought to them; but in the evening,
when the hour had come to prepare supper, Bergthora bade every man
choose whatever dish he liked best, 'for,' said she, 'this is the last
food you will eat in this house!'
'Of a truth you must be ill to speak such words,' cried they.
'They are true words,' she said again; 'and that you may know them to be
true, I will give you a sign. Before the meat that is on the board
to-night is eaten, Grim and Helgi will be in the house!' and she held
her peace and went out.
When the food was prepared, Bergthora called to them, and all sat down
but Njal, who lingered in the doorway.
'What hinders you eating with the rest?' asked Bergthora; and Njal, as
he answered, put his hand before his eyes.
'A vision has come to me,' he said slowly--'the wall is thrown down, and
the board is wet with blood.'
At this the men's faces grew pale, and a strange look came into their
eyes, but Skarphedinn bade them be of good cheer, and to remember that,
whatever might befall, all men would look to them to bear themselves
bravely.
Then Grim and Helgi entered with their tidings, and every one had in his
mind what Bergthora had said, and knew that ill was in store.
'Let no man sleep to-night,' said Njal, 'but take heed to his arms.'
The band of Njal's foes, headed by Flosi, had ridden to a valley behind
the house, and had fastened their horses there. After that they walked
slowly up the path, to the front of the house, where Njal and his sons,
and Kari, his-son-in-law, and his thralls, thirty in all, stood up to
meet them.
Then both sides halted and spoke together. Flosi's counsel was to fall
on them where they stood, though he knew that few would there be left to
tell the tale to their children.
Njal, for his part, desired that his men might return inside the hall,
for the house was strong; 'and if Gunnar alone could keep them at bay
they will never prevail against us,' he said.
'Ah, but these chiefs are not of the kind that slew Gunnar,' answered
Skarphedinn, 'for they turned a deaf ear to Mord's evil counsel to set
fire to Lithend, so that Gunnar and his wife and mother should be burnt
up in it. But this band care nothing for what is fair and honourable, so
long as we leave our bones behind us.'
Then Helgi spoke:
'Let us do as our father wills. He knows best,' and Skarphedinn said:
'If he wishes us to enter the hall, and all to be burnt together, I am
ready to do it. I care little what death I shall die, and if the time of
my doom is come, it matters nothing that we try to escape.' And so
saying he turned to Kari, and bade him stand by his side.
* * * * *
'They are all mad,' cried Flosi, as he saw Njal and his sons and Kari,
his son-in-law, take their place on the inside of the door. 'Surely none
of them can escape us now;' and the fight began with a spear which was
thrown at Skarphedinn.
But victory was not so near as Flosi thought. Man after man fell back
wounded or dead, yet Skarphedinn and his brethren remained without a
wound.
'We shall never put them to flight with our spears,' said Flosi, 'and
there are only two ways open. Either we give up our vengeance, and await
the death that will surely befall us at their hands; or else we must set
fire to the house, and burn them in it. And I know not what else we can
do; yet that is a mean and cowardly deed, which will lie heavily on our
souls.'
So they gathered wood and made a great stack before the door, and
Skarphedinn laughed, and asked if they were turning cooks.
It was Grani, the son of Gunnar, whose soul was black like his mother
Hallgerda's, who answered him.
'You will not wish better cooking when _you_ are put on the spit;' but
he had better have left Skarphedinn alone, for the men around heard his
reply, and looked curiously on Grani.
'Your deeds become your mother's son,' said Skarphedinn. 'It was I who
avenged your father, therefore it is natural to one of your kind that
you should wish to slay me,' and he stepped back to pick up some fresh
arrows.
In spite of Grani's boastful words, the pile of wood was slow in
catching, for the women threw whey and water upon it from the little
windows in the roof, so that the flames were quenched as fast as they
sprang up. The men grew angry and impatient, and at last Kol,
Thorstein's son, said to Flosi:
'It avails nought to kindle the fire here; but there is a pile of dry
vetch at the back, just above the house, and we can light it, and put
the burning wood on the beams under the roof.'
So he crept round unseen, and did as he had said, and the other men
heaped up wood before the doors of the house, so that none could escape,
and those within the hall knew nothing that was doing, till a great
light filled the place, and they saw that the roof was burning.
Then horrible dread overwhelmed the souls of the women, and they broke
forth into weeping and wailing, till Njal spoke words of comfort to
them, and bade them keep up their hearts, for God would not suffer them
to burn both in this world and in the next. And when he had stilled
their fears he went near the door, and asked:
'Is Flosi nigh at hand?'
'Yes,' answered Flosi.
'Will you suffer my sons to atone?' asked Njal once more, 'or let them
leave the house?' but Flosi said:
'The women and children and thralls may go out, but, as for your sons,
the time for atonement is past, and I will not leave this spot as long
as one of them remains alive.'
When Njal heard that, he went back into the house and called the women
and children and thralls round him, and bade Thorhalla, the wife of
Helgi, go out first, for she was a brave woman. And Thorhalla went,
after bidding farewell to Helgi her husband.
But Astrid whispered softly to Helgi:
'I will tie a woman's kerchief about your head, and wrap you in a cloak,
and the women folk will stand about you, and none shall know that you
are not a woman also.'
Helgi did not like this plan, for he thought it shame to steal away in
his sister's garments; but they prayed him not to be stiff-necked, and
at length he suffered the cloak to be put round him.
Now the children of Njal were all tall, but Helgi was tallest of all,
except his brother Skarphedinn. And Flosi marked him, and said to his
men:
'I like not the height of the woman who went yonder, nor the breadth of
her shoulders. Seize her and hold her fast.'
As soon as Helgi heard that he threw his cloak aside and thrust at a man
with his sword, and cut off his leg. But Flosi was close behind, and
stretched Helgi dead in front of him.
After that he went back to the house, and offered Njal that he should
come outside, but Njal answered that he was too old to avenge his sons,
and that he would not outlive them, for that would be a shame and
disgrace to him.
'Come out, then, Bergthora,' said Flosi, 'for I will not suffer you to
burn inside.'
But Bergthora made answer:
'Long years from my youth have I lived with Njal, and I vowed on the day
of betrothal that his death should be mine;' and without more words
they went into the house.
'I am weary,' said Njal to his wife, 'let us lay down on our bed and
rest;' and Bergthora bowed her head, and spoke to the boy Thord, the son
of Kari:
'Come to the door with me and go forth with your kinsmen. I will not
have you stay here to burn.' But the boy shook off the hand she had laid
on his shoulder.
'You promised me when I was little, grandmother, that I should never go
from you till I wished it of myself. And I would rather die with you
than live after you.'
Bergthora was silent, but she led the boy to the bed, and he climbed in,
and laid himself down. Then Njal said to his head man:
'Bring hither the oxhide and put it on the bed, and watch how we lay
ourselves down, so that you may know where to find our bones. For not
one inch will we stir, whatever befall.'
And he laid himself down, and bade the boy lie between himself and
Bergthora.
So they waited.
* * * * *
At the doors and in the windows of the roof Skarphedinn and Grim were
casting away burning brands, and hurling spears as if they had had
twenty hands instead of two. At last Flosi called to his men to let be,
till the fire had its way, for many had been killed and wounded already.
And now a beam which held up the oak fell in, and then another and
another. 'Surely my father must be dead,' said Skarphedinn, 'that he
makes no sound,' and, followed by Grim and Kari, he went to the end of
the hall where a cross beam had fallen.
'The smoke is thick here,' said Kari, 'thick enough to hide a man; let
us leap out one by one, and we shall be away before they have seen us.
Skarphedinn, you jump first!'
[Illustration: HOW KARI ESCAPED FROM NJAL'S HOUSE]
'No!' answered Skarphedinn, 'you go first and I will follow; or, if I
follow not, you will avenge me.'
'I have a chance of my life,' said Kari, 'and I will take it. We must
each do as seems best to him, but I fear me that we see each other no
more;' and catching up a huge blazing beam, he threw it over the edge of
the roof, among the men who were gathered below.
They scattered at once like leaves in a storm, and at that instant Kari,
with his tunic and hair already burning, leaped from the roof and crept
away in the smoke. The man who stood nearest on the ground thought he
saw something dark moving, and he asked his neighbour:
'Think you that was one of them jumping from the beam?' but the man
answered: 'Nay, but it may have been Skarphedinn hurling a firebrand;'
and then they went to their own work, and paid no more heed to the
figure on the roof.
So Kari was left free to escape, and he put out the fire that was
burning him, and rested in a safe place till he could seek shelter with
his friends.
Thrice Skarphedinn tried to leap after Kari, and thrice the beam broke
under his weight, and he was forced to climb back again. Then part of
the wall fell in, and Skarphedinn fell down with it on to the floor of
the hall.
In a moment the face of Gunnar, son of Lambi, was seen on top of the
wall, and he cried out, 'Are those tears on your cheeks, Skarphedinn?'
and Skarphedinn made answer:
'Now am I finding out in truth how smoke can force tears from one's
eyes. But methinks I see laughter in yours, Gunnar.'
'Of a surety,' said Gunnar, 'never have I laughed so much since the day
you slew Thrain in Markfleet.'
'Here is a remembrance of that day for you,' said Skarphedinn, and he
took from his pouch Thrain's tooth, and flung it at Gunnar. And it
knocked out Gunnar's eye, and he fell from the roof.
Then Skarphedinn went to Grim, and hand in hand they two tried to stamp
out the burning beams, but before they had crossed the hall Grim dropped
dead, and the roof fell in, and shut Skarphedinn in a corner, so that he
could not move.
At daylight a man rode up who had met Kari, and had learned from him
that when he had jumped from the roof both Skarphedinn and Grim were
still alive, but that was many hours before, and both must long since be
dead.
Then Flosi and some of his men drew nearer and climbed up the gable, for
the fire had burned low, and only threw out a flame here and there. And
as they looked into the hall beneath them, which was a mass of charred
and fallen wood, there seemed to rise up from the red ashes a song of
triumph, and they held their breath and looked into each other's faces.
'Is it Skarphedinn's song?' asked Glum, 'and is it a token that he is
dead? or a sign that he is alive? Let us look for him.'
'That shall not be,' said Flosi quickly. 'Fool that you are, do you not
know that even now Kari is gathering together a band to avenge his
kinsmen? Therefore let every man take his horse and ride up to the
Three-corner Fell, and there we can hide and take counsel how we can
escape from our enemies.'
So it was done, and not a whit too soon, for a very great company
scattered over the country, seeking Flosi and his Band of Burners--for
by this ill name men knew them.
As for Kari himself, he begged Hjallti, Njal's cousin, to go with him to
Bergthorasknoll and find Njal's bones and bury them. And, as they went,
men joined them, till they numbered nigh on a hundred when they reached
Bergthorasknoll.
Kari entered the hall first and led them up to the spot where the bed
had stood, and where a great heap of ashes now covered it. The ashes
took long to clear away, and underneath was the oxhide, charred and
shrivelled. But when the oxhide was pulled away they saw the three
bodies fresh and whole, as they had laid them down. Only one finger of
the boy was burned, where he had thrust it outside the hide.
When they saw this a great joy fell on the hearts of all, and Hjallti
said:
'Never have I seen a dead man with a face as bright as this!' And the
other men said likewise.
* * * * *
After that they sought for Skarphedinn, and then found him, fastened by
the beam into the corner, and he had driven his axe into the wall of the
gable, so that it had to be broken out. And they sought the bones of
Grim, and found them lying in the middle of the hall, where he had
dropped down dead. And they sought the bones of other men, and found
them, and nine bodies in all were carried into the church and buried
there.
And that is Burnt Njal's story.
[The _Saga of Burnt Njal_.]
THE LADY OF SOLACE
There was once an emperor who had two things that he loved more than all
the world--his daughter and his garden. The finest linen and the richest
silks of India or China decked the princess from the moment she was old
enough to run alone, and the ships that brought them brought also the
fairest flowers and sweetest fruits that grew in distant lands. All the
time that he was not presiding over his council, or hearing the
petitions of his people, the emperor passed in his garden, watching the
flowers open and the fruits ripen, and by-and-by he planted trees and
shrubs and made walks and alleys, till altogether the garden was the
most beautiful as well as the largest that had ever been seen.
The years passed, and the princess reached the age of fourteen; quite
old enough to be married, thought the kings and princes who were looking
out for a bride for their sons. The emperor's heart sank when he heard
rumours of embassies that were coming to rob him of his daughter, and he
shut himself up in his room to try to invent a plan by which he might
keep the princess, without giving offence to the powerful monarchs who
had asked for her hand.
For a long while he sat with his head on his hands, thinking steadily,
but every scheme had some drawback. At length his face brightened and he
sprang up from his seat.
'Yes! that will do,' he cried, and went down to attend his council,
looking quite a different man from what he had been a few hours before.
The embassies and the princes continued to arrive, and they all got the
same answer. 'The emperor was proud of the honour done to himself and
his daughter, and would give her in marriage to any man who would pass
through the garden and bring him a branch of the tree which stood at the
further end.' Nothing could surely be more easy, and every prince in
turn as he heard the conditions felt that the fairest damsel on the
whole earth was already his wife.
But though each man went gaily in, none ever came out, nor was it ever
known what had befallen them. At last so many had entered that fatal
gate that it seemed as if there could be no more princes or nobles left,
and the emperor began to breathe again at the thought that he would be
able after all to keep his daughter.
But one day a knight of great renown, named Tirius, arrived from beyond
the seas and knocked at the gate of the castle. Like the others, he was
welcomed and feasted, and when the feast was ended he craved that the
emperor would grant him the hand of the princess on whatever condition
he might choose.
'Right willingly,' answered the emperor; 'there is only one condition I
have laid down, and that is an easy one, though for some strange reason
no one as yet has been able to fulfil it. You have merely to walk
through the garden that you see below, and bring me back a branch from a
tree bearing golden fruit, which stands on the opposite side. If fame
speaks true, this is child's play to the adventures in which you have
borne so noble a part.'
'In good sooth,' said the knight, who saw clearly that there was more in
the matter than appeared--'in good sooth your condition likes me well.
Still, as fortune is ever inconstant, and may be tired of dealing me
favours, I would first ask as a boon a sight of your fair daughter and
leave to hearken to her voice. After that I will delay no longer, but
proceed on my quest.'
'I will take you to her myself,' answered the emperor, who thought that
he might show this small mercy to a man who was going to his death, and
he led his guest down long passages and through lofty halls, till they
reached the princess's apartments.
'In five minutes my chamberlain shall come for you, and he shall show
you the way to the garden,' said the emperor, 'and meanwhile I bid you
farewell;' and, leaving Tirius to enter alone, he went to seek his
ministers.
It would be hard to say whether the knight or the princess was most
amazed as they stood gazing at each other--he at her beauty and she at
his boldness, for never before had any man crossed her threshold. For a
moment both were silent; then the knight, remembering how short a time
was allowed him, aroused himself from his dream and spoke:
'Gentle damsel, help me now in my need, for I have been drawn hither by
love. Full well I know that many have had this adventure before me, and
have entered that garden and never returned from it. Without your aid my
fate will be such as theirs, and therefore, I pray you, tell me what I
should do so that I may win through without harm.'
Now the knight was a goodly man and tall, and perhaps the princess may
have bewailed in secret the noble youths who had fallen victims to her
father's pleasure. But, however that might be, she smiled and made
reply:
'I am ready to marry any man on whom my father wishes to bestow me, and
you say you have come hither for love of me. Still, you have asked of me
a hard thing, for it beseems not a daughter to betray her father's
confidence. Yet, as I am loth that any more fair youths should lose
their lives for my sake, I will give you this counsel. You must first
pass through a forest, which is the home of a lady who is known to
all as the "Lady of Solace." Go to her, and she will give you the help
you need to journey safely through the garden.'
[Illustration: The Lady of Solace]
The princess had scarcely finished these words when the voice of the
chamberlain was heard without, bidding him withdraw, and, glancing
gratefully at her, the knight bowed low and took his leave.
In the great hall the chamberlain quitted him, telling him to take his
ease and rest till the emperor should return, but instead the knight
waited till he was alone and then plunged straight into the forest.
He walked on for a little way till he reached a green space, and there
he stopped and cried, 'Where is the Lady of Solace?' Then he sat down on
a stone and waited. In a short time he saw coming towards him two
ladies, one bearing a basin and the other a cloth.
'We give you greeting, sir,' they said; 'the Lady of Solace has sent us
to you, and she bids you first wash your feet in this basin, and then go
with us to her palace.' So the knight washed his feet, and dried them in
the white cloth, and rose up and went with the ladies to the palace,
which was built of blue marble, and the fairest that ever he saw. The
Lady of Solace was fair likewise and of a marvellous sweet countenance,
and her voice was soft like the voice of a thrush as she asked him what
he wanted with her. At that the knight told his errand, and how the
princess had bade him come to her, for she alone could help him to win
through the enchanted garden.
'I am called the Lady of Solace,' said she, with a smile which seemed
made up of all the beautiful things in the world, 'and I give succour to
all those who need it. Here is a ball of thread; take it and bind it
round the post of the gate of the garden, and hold fast the thread in
your hand, unwinding it as you go. For if you lose the clue, you will
perish like those before you. And more. A lion dwells in the garden, who
will spring out and devour you, as he has devoured the rest. Therefore,
arm yourself with armour, and see that the armour be anointed thickly
with ointment. When the lion sees you, he will take your arm or your leg
into his mouth, and his teeth shall stick fast in the ointment, and when
you sunder yourself from him his teeth shall be drawn out, and you shall
kill him easily. But during the fight beware lest you let go the clue.
'And after the lion shall come four men, who will set on you and seek to
turn you from their path; but beware of them also, and if you are in
peril call to me, and I will succour you. And now return to the palace
and put on your armour, and so, farewell.'
When the knight heard this he was right glad, and stole back to the
palace, where he found that the emperor was still sitting at his
council. He sat down in the great hall to await him, but the time seemed
very long before his host entered.
'How have you sped?' asked he.
'My lord, now that through your goodness I have seen the princess,' said
the knight, 'there can be but one ending to my journey. I go at once in
quest of the tree, and I am content whatever fate may befall me.'
'May fortune be with you!' answered the emperor, who never failed to
give good wishes to his daughter's suitors, as he felt quite sure that
they would be of no use.
So the knight bowed low and left the hall, going straight to the
gatekeeper's house, where he had put off his armour on arriving. On
pretence of sharpening his sword, he borrowed a pot of ointment from the
man, and, unseen by him, rubbed the paste thickly over his armour. After
this he looked about to see that no one was watching him, and took the
path that led to the garden.
[Illustration: THE LADY OF SOLACE HELPS THE FALLEN KNIGHT]
A large iron gate supported by two posts stood at the entrance, and
round one of these he firmly bound one end of the thread which the Lady
of Solace had given him. Holding the other end in his hand, he
advanced for a long while without seeing or hearing any strange thing,
till a roar close to him caused him to start. The knight had just time
to draw his sword and hold up his shield before the lion was upon him;
but, as he had been forewarned, the great beast dashed aside the shield,
and fastened his teeth in the arm that held it. The pain was such that
the knight leaped backwards, but the lion's teeth were fixed fast in the
ointment, and they all came out of his mouth, so that he could bite no
more. And when he rushed at his enemy with his claws they stuck also, so
that the knight with a blow of his sword was able to kill him with ease.
Mightily he rejoiced at seeing his foe dead before him, and by ill
fortune he forgot that, had it not been for the counsel of the Lady of
Solace, it was _he_ who would have been slain, and not the lion. He
swelled with pride and conceit at the ease with which he had won the
victory, and never noted that the clue of thread was no longer in his
hands.
'Ah, lovely princess, I come to seek my reward,' cried he to himself,
and turned his face towards the palace. But a little way on he spied
seven trees, very fair to view, all covered with fruit that shone
temptingly in the sun. He gathered a cluster that hung just above his
head, and when he had eaten that, he thought that it tasted so delicious
he really must have another, and another also.
He was still eating when three men passed by, and asked him what he was
doing there. The knight was so puffed up that he did not answer them
civilly after his manner, but gave them rude words, for which in return
he received buffets. In the end, the men dragged him away from the tree
and flung him into a ditch that was full of water, and his armour
weighed him down, so that he could not get out. Then at last he
remembered his clue, and felt for it, but it was not there, and his
pride broke down, and he saw that he had brought his ruin on himself.
And in despair he lifted up his voice and cried, 'O Lady of Solace, help
me, I beseech you, in my great need, for I am nigh dead.' He shut his
eyes for very misery, but opened them again in a moment, for a lady
stood by him, and she said:
'Did not I tell you that if you lost the clue you could never more find
your way out of the garden? I will lift you out of the ditch, but, for
the clue, you must seek for it yourself till you find it.' And with that
she vanished.
* * * * *
Not that day did the knight find the clue, nor the next, nor the next.
Faint and weary was he, but he dared not eat of the fruit that was
around him, some hanging from the boughs of trees and some growing on
the ground. At length he wandered back to the spot where he had fought
with the lion, and there, covered with blood, lay the clue he had so
long sought. By its help he was led to the tree with the golden fruit,
which stood at the far end of the garden, and plucking one of the boughs
he turned to retrace his steps, wondering, now that he held the thread,
at the shortness of the way.
'Here is the branch, O Emperor! and now give me the princess,' he said,
kneeling and laying the bough down on the steps of the throne. And the
emperor could not gainsay him, but bade his officers fetch his daughter,
and after they had been married she went with her husband into his own
country, where they lived happily till they died.
[From the _Gesta Romanorum_.]
UNA AND THE LION
Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who had only one child, a
little girl, whom they named Una, and they all lived happily at home for
many years till Una had grown into a woman.
* * * * *
It seemed as if they were some of the fortunate people to whom nothing
ever happens, when suddenly, just as everything appeared going well and
peacefully with them, a fearful dragon, larger and more horrible than
any dragon which had yet been heard of, arrived one night, seized the
king and queen as they were walking in the garden after the heat of the
day, and carried them prisoners to a strong castle. Luckily, Una was at
that moment sitting among her maidens on the top of a high tower
embroidering a kirtle, or she would have shared the same fate.
When the princess learnt what had befallen her parents, she was struck
dumb with grief, but she had been taught that no misfortune was ever
mended by tears, so she soon dried her eyes, and began to think what was
best to do, and to whom she could turn for help. She ran quickly over in
her mind the knights who thronged her father's court, but there was not
one amongst them to whose hands their rescue could be entrusted. One
spent his days in writing pretty verses to the ladies who were about the
queen, another passed his time in putting on suits more brilliant than
any worn by his friends, a third loved hawking, but did not welcome the
rough life and hard living of real warfare; no, she must seek a champion
out of her own country if her parents were to be delivered out of the
power of the dragon. Then all at once she remembered a certain Red Cross
Knight whose fame had spread even to her distant land, and, ordering her
white ass to be saddled, she set forth in quest of him.
It were long to tell the adventures Una met with on the way, but at last
she found the knight resting after a hard-won fight, and told him her
tale.
[Illustration: Sudden DEPARTURE of UNA'S PARENTS]
'Right willingly will I help you, princess,' said he, 'only you must
ride with me and guide me to the castle, for I know nothing of the
countries that lie beyond the sea;' and Una heard his words with joy,
and called softly to her ass, who was cropping the short green grass
beside her.
'Let us go forth at once,' she cried gaily, and sprang into her saddle.
The knight hastily fastened on his armour, and, placing a blood-red
cross upon his breast, swung himself on to his horse's back. And so
they rode over the plain, a trusty dwarf following far behind, and a
snow-white lamb, held by a golden cord, trotting by Una's side.
* * * * *
After some hours they left the plain and entered a forest, where the
trees and bushes grew so thick that no path could they see. At first, in
their eagerness to escape the storm which was sweeping up the plain
behind them, they hardly took heed where they were going; and besides,
the beauty of the flowers and the sweet scent of the fruit caused them
to forget the trouble they would have to find the road again. But when
the sound of the thunder ceased, and the lightning no longer darted
through the leaves, they were startled to perceive they had wandered
they knew not whither. No sun could they see to show them which was east
and which west, neither was there any man to tell them what they fain
would know. At length they stopped, for before them lay a cave
stretching far away into the darkness.
'We can rest there this night,' said the Red Cross Knight, leaping to
the ground, and handing his spear to the dwarf; 'and first, you, lady,
shall remain, here, while I enter and make sure that no fierce or
loathsome beasts lurk in the corners.' But Una turned pale as she
listened.
'The perils of this place I better know than you,' she answered gravely.
'In this den dwells a vile monster, hated by God and man.' And the voice
of the dwarf cried also, 'Fly, fly! this is no place for living men.'
They might have spared their warnings; when did youth ever heed them?
The knight looked into the cave, and
Forth into the darksome hole he went.
His glistening armour made a little glooming light,
By which he saw the ugly monster plain,
Half like a serpent horribly displayed,
The other half did woman's shape retain.
It was too late to turn back, even had he wished it; but indeed it was
the monster who looked round, as if to find a way to flee. Before her
stood the knight, his sword drawn, waiting for a fair chance to plunge
it into her throat. Escape there was none, and she prepared for battle.
The knight fought valiantly, but never had he met a foe like this. The
monster was so large and so scaly that he could not get round her, while
his sword glanced, blunted, from off her skin. Blow after blow he
struck, but they only served to increase her fury, till, gathering all
her strength together, she wound her great tail about his body, pressing
him close against her horny bosom.
'Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee,' cried Una, who had
been watching the combat as well as the darkness would let her; and the
knight heard, and seized the monster by the throat, till she was forced
to let go her hold on him. Then, grasping his sword, he cut her head
clean from her body.
* * * * *
Fain would they now leave the dreadful wood which had been the nurse of
such an evil creature, and by following a track where the leaves grew
less thickly, they at last found themselves on the other side of the
plain, just as the sun was sinking to rest. They pushed on fast, hoping
to find a shelter for the night, but none could they spy. The plain
seemed bare, save for one old man in the guise of a hermit who was
approaching them.
Him the Red Cross Knight stopped and asked if he knew of any adventures
which might await him in that place. The old man, who was in truth the
magician Archimago, the professor of lore which could read the secrets
of men's hearts, answered that the hour was late for the undertaking of
such things, and bade them rest for the night in his cell hard by. So
saying, he led them into a little dell amidst a group of trees, in
which stood a chapel and the dwelling of the hermit.
[Illustration: THE RED CROSS KNIGHT ENTERS THE MONSTER'S CAVE]
It was but a short space before both knight and lady were sleeping
soundly on the beds of fern which the hermit told them he had always at
hand for the entertainment of guests. But, for himself, he crept unseen
to a little cave inside a rock, and taking out his magic books he sought
therein for mighty charms to trouble sleepy minds!
He soon found what he wanted, and repeated some strange words aloud. In
an instant there fluttered round him a crowd of little sprites awaiting
his bidding, but he motioned all aside except two--one of whom he kept
with him and the other he sent on a message to the house of Morpheus,
the god of sleep.
'I come from Archimago the wizard,' said the sprite when he reached his
journey's end. 'Give me, I pray you, as swiftly as may be, a bad dream,
that I may carry it back to him.'
Slowly the god rose up, and, going to his storehouse, where lay dreams
of all sorts--dreams to make people happy, dreams to make people
miserable, dreams to stir people to good, and dreams to move them to
every kind of wickedness--he took from the shelf a small but very black
little dream, which the sprite tied round his neck, and hurried to the
cave of Archimago.
The wizard took the dream in silence, and, going into the den where the
knight was sleeping, laid it softly on his forehead. In a moment his
face clouded over; evil thoughts of Una sprang into his mind, till at
length, unable to bear any longer the grief of mistrusting her he so
loved and honoured, the knight called to the dwarf to bring him his
horse, and together they rode away. But when Una woke and found both of
her companions departed she wept sorely. Then, mounting her milk-white
ass, she set out to follow them.
Meanwhile the Red Cross Knight was wandering he knew not whither, so
deep were the wounds in his heart. He rode on with his bridle hanging
loosely on his horse's neck, till a bend in the path brought him face to
face with a mighty Saracen, bearing on his arm a shield with the words
'Sans foy' written across it. By his side, mounted on a palfrey hung
with golden bells, was a lady clad in scarlet robes embroidered with
jewels, who chattered merrily as they passed along.
[Illustration: IN ARCHIMAGO'S CELL. The evil dream.]
It was she who first perceived the approach of an enemy, and, turning to
Sansfoy, bade him begin the attack. He, nothing loth, dashed forward to
meet the knight, who had barely time to steady himself to receive the
blow, which caused him to reel in his saddle. The blow was indeed so
hard that it would have pierced the knight's armour had it not been for
the cross upon his breast; which, when the Saracen saw, he cursed the
power of the holy emblem, and prepared himself for a fresh attack.
But either the Christian knight was the more skilful swordsman, or the
cross lent new strength to his arm, for the fight was not a long one.
Only a few strokes had passed between them, when the boastful Sansfoy
fell from his horse, and rolled heavily to the ground. The lady hardly
waited for the issue of the combat, and galloped off lest she too should
be in danger. But the knight did not wage war on ladies, and, calling to
the dwarf to bring the Saracen's shield as a trophy, he spurred quickly
after her.
He did not take long to come up with her for, in truth, she intended to
be overtaken, and turned a woeful countenance to the young knight, who
listened, believing, to the false tale she told. Pitying her from his
heart, he assured her of his care and protection, and while they are
faring through the woods together, let us see what had become of Una.
The maiden was herself wandering distraught, seated on her 'unhastie
beast,' when with a fearful roar a lion rushed out from a thicket with
eyes glaring and teeth gleaming, seeking to devour his prey. But at the
sight of Una's tender beauty he stopped suddenly, and, stooping down, he
kissed her feet and licked her hands.
At this kindness on the part of the great creature, Una bent her head
and wept grievously. 'He, my lion and my noble lord, how does he find it
in his cruel heart to hate her that him loved?' she moaned sadly, and
the lion again looked pityingly at her, and at last the maiden checked
her sobs and bade her ass go on, the lion walking by her side during the
day, and sleeping at her feet by night.
They had travelled far and for many days, through a wilderness untrodden
by either man or beast, when at the foot of a mountain they spied a
damsel bearing on her shoulder a pot of water. At sight of the lion she
flung down the pitcher, and ran to the hut where she dwelt, without once
looking behind her. In the cottage sat her blind mother, not knowing
what could be the meaning of the shrieks and cries uttered by her
daughter, who shut the door quickly after her, and caught trembling hold
of her mother's hands.
It was the first lion the girl had ever seen, or she would have known
that if he was determined to enter, it was not a wicket-gate that would
prevent him. As neither mother nor daughter replied to Una's gentle
prayer for a night's lodging, her 'unruly page' put his paw on the
little door, which opened with a crash. The maiden then stepped softly
over the threshold, begging afresh that she might pass the night in one
corner, and receiving no answer--for the women were still too terrified
to speak--she curled herself up on the earthen floor with the lion
beside her.
About midnight there arrived at the door, which Una had refastened, a
thief laden with spoils of churches, and whatever else he had managed to
pick up by stealth. To spend the night in thieving was his custom, and
hither he brought his spoils, as he thought none would suspect a blind
woman and her daughter of harbouring stolen goods.
Many times he called, but the two women were in grievous dread of the
lion, and durst not move from the corner where they were crouching; at
last the man grew angry, and burst the door asunder, as the lion had
done before him. He entered the hut, and straightway beheld the dreadful
beast, with glaring eyes and gleaming teeth, as Una had first beheld
him. But Kirkrapine (such was his name) had neither beauty nor goodness
to still the lion's rage, and in another moment his body was rent in
a thousand pieces.
[Illustration: At the sight of the Lion, she flung down the pitcher]
The sun had scarce sent his first beams above the horizon when Una left
the hut, mounted on her ass, and, followed by the lion, again began her
quest of the Red Cross Knight. But, alas! though she found him not, she
met her ancient foe, the magician Archimago, who had taken on himself
the form of him whom she sought. Too true and unsuspecting was she, to
dream of guile in others, and the welcome she gave him was from her
whole heart. In the guise of the knight, Archimago greeted her fondly,
and bade her tell him the story of her woes, and how came she to take
the lion for her companion. And so they journeyed, the flowers seeming
sweeter and the skies brighter to Una, as they went, when suddenly they
beheld
One pricking towards them with hasty heat;
Full strongly armed, and on a courser free.
On his shield the words 'Sans loy' could be read, written in letters of
blood.
Now, though Archimago had clad himself in the outward shape of the Red
Cross Knight, he lacked his courage and his skill in war; and his heart
was faint from fear, when the Saracen reined back his horse and prepared
for battle. In the shock of the rush the wizard was borne backwards, and
the blood from his side dyed the ground.
'The life that from Sansfoy thou tookest, Sansloy shall from thee take,'
cried the Paynim, and was unlacing the vizor of the fallen man to deal
him his death-stroke when a cry from Una stayed his hand for a moment,
though it was not her prayers for mercy that would have kept him from
drawing his sword, but the sight of the hoary head beneath the helmet,
which startled him.
'Archimago!' he stammered, 'what mishap is this?' And still Archimago
lay on the ground stunned, and answered nothing.
For a moment Una gazed in amazement at the strange sight before her, and
wondered what was the meaning of these things. Then she turned to fly,
but, quick as thought, the Saracen plucked at her robe to stop her.
Now when the lion, her fierce servant, saw that Paynim knight lay hands
on his sovereign lady, he sprang on him with gaping jaws, and almost
tore the shield from his arm. But the knight leapt swiftly back, and
swinging his sword plunged it into the heart of the faithful creature,
who rolled over and died amidst the tears of his mistress.
After which the knight set Una on his steed before him and bore her
away.
[Spenser's _Faerie Queene_.]
HOW THE RED CROSS KNIGHT SLEW THE DRAGON
While Una was riding through forest and over plains, with her faithful
lion for her guard, the knight whom she sought had given himself over
into the care of Duessa (for such was the name of Sansfoy's companion),
by whom he was led to the gates of a splendid palace. The broad road up
to it was worn by the feet of hosts of travellers; but though many
peeped through the doors few returned. As the knight stood aside and
watched, all manner of strange people passed before him, though none
spoke. At length a man, but newly issued from the palace, and bearing a
shield with the words 'Sans joy' written across it, stopped suddenly in
front of the knight's page, then snatched from his arm a shield like his
own, bearing the name 'Sansfoy.' The page, overcome by the quickness of
the action, did not resist, but a blow on the helmet from the Red Cross
Knight made Sansjoy stagger where he stood.
The fight was fierce, and no one could tell with whom the victory lay
till the queen of that place came by, and bade them cease their
brawling, for on the morrow they should meet in the lists.
But the battle next day went against the Paynim, in spite of the
presence of the queen and the counsel of the false Duessa. Short would
have been his shrift had not thick darkness fallen about him, and when
the Red Cross Knight cried to him to begin the fray afresh, only silence
answered him.
Then the false Duessa, ever wont to take the side of him who wins,
hurried up to him, and whispered, as she had whispered to Sansjoy, 'The
conquest yours, I yours, the shield and glory yours;' but the knight did
not heed her, for his eye was ever bent on the wall of thick darkness
which shut in his foe. Indeed, so busy were his thoughts that he never
knew that blood was streaming from his wounds, till the queen ordered
him to be carried into the palace, and ointments to be laid on his body.
As was her custom, Duessa talked much and loudly of the care she would
give him, and of his speedy cure under her hands; but when night fell
she stole forth and came to the spot where Sansjoy lay, still covered
with the enchanted cloud. Then, in an iron chariot, borrowed from the
Queen of Darkness, she drove him down to the underworld, and across the
river which divides the kingdom of the living from that of the dead.
Here giving him into the hands of the oldest and greatest of physicians,
she went her way to the bedside of the Red Cross Knight.
But for all that concerned that knight she might well have stayed in the
kingdom of darkness; for in her absence the dwarf, wandering through the
palace, had come upon a dungeon full of wretched captives, who filled
the air with their wailings.
Filled with fear, the dwarf hastened back to his master and prayed him
to flee that place before the sun rose. Which the young knight gladly
did, creeping away through a secret postern, though it was hard to find
a footing amidst the corpses piled up on all sides, which had come to a
bad end by reason of their own folly.
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNA SAVED BY THE WOOD-FOLK]
And what had become of Una when she had fallen into the power of
Sansloy? Well, trembling she had followed him into the midst of a
forest, where, to her wonder, from every bush sprang a host of fauns and
people of the wood, and ran towards her. When the Saracen beheld
them, he was so distraught with fear that he galloped right away,
leaving Una behind him. But she, not knowing what to fear the most,
stood shaking with dread, till the wood folk pressed around her, and,
kneeling on the ground stroked lovingly her hands and feet. Then she
understood that she was safe amongst them, and let them lead her where
they would, and smiled at their songs and merry dances. If she could not
be with the Red Cross Knight, then it mattered little where she was, and
it gave her a feeling of rest and safety to lie hidden among the woods,
with a people who would let nothing harmful come near her.
So she stayed with them long, and taught them many things, while they in
their turn showed her how to play on their pipes and to dance the
prettiest and most graceful of their dances.
Time passed in this wise, when one day it chanced that a noble knight,
Satyrane by name, came to seek his kindred among the woodfolk. He
wondered greatly to find so lovely a maid among them, and still more to
see how eagerly they listened to her teachings, and henceforth he formed
part of the throng that sat at her feet when the heat of the day was
over.
In this manner Una and the knight Satyrane soon became friends, and at
length one day she poured out all her sad tale, and besought his help in
her search for the Red Cross Knight. It was not easy to escape from the
kind people who always thronged about her, and her heart was sore at the
thought of leaving them, but she felt that for her captive parents'
sake, as well as for the knight's, she could delay no longer.
Therefore one morning, when the wood folk had gone to hold a feast in
the forest, she rode away in company with Satyrane, and issuing from the
forest soon reached the open plain. Towards evening they met a weary
pilgrim, whose clothes were worn and soiled, and so true a pilgrim did
he look, that Una did not know him to be the wizard Archimago. The
knight instantly drew rein, and asked what tidings he could impart, and
Una begged with faltering voice that he would tell her aught concerning
a knight whose armour bore a red cross.
'Alas! dear dame,' answered he slowly, 'these eyes did see that knight,
both living and eke dead;' and with that he told her all his story.
When he had finished, it was Satyrane who spoke.
'Where is that Paynim's son, that him of life, and us of joy hath reft?'
And the pilgrim made answer that he was hard by, washing his wounds at a
fountain.
Satyrane wasted no more words, but went right straight to the fountain,
where he found Sansloy, whom he challenged instantly to fight. Sansloy
hastily buckled on his armour, and cried that, though he had not slain
the Red Cross Knight, he hoped to lay his champion in the dust. Then,
both combatants being ready, the battle began.
The sight was too dreadful for Una to bear, and she galloped away, not
knowing that her deadliest foe, the wizard Archimago, was following her.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Duessa had left the splendid palace, and was riding over the
country in pursuit of the Red Cross Knight, for it was bitter to her to
see any escape, who had ever been under her thrall. Her good fortune,
which never seemed to forsake her, before long led her to his side,
where he lay resting on the banks of a stream, and he greeted her
gladly.
The sun was hot, and the water rippling clear over the stones seemed
inviting. The knight was tired, and leaned down to drink, never knowing
that the stream was enchanted. But in a moment his strength seemed to
fail, and his arms grew weak as a child's, though he felt nothing till a
horrible bellowing sounded in the wood. At the dreadful sound he started
up and looked around for his armour, but before he could reach it a
hideous giant was upon him.
The fight did not take long, and in a short while the Red Cross Knight
was a prisoner in the hands of the giant, who, accompanied by the false
Duessa, carried his captive to a dungeon of his castle. After the door
was safely locked and barred, the two then retired into the large hall,
where they ate and made merry.
From that day the giant brought forth his choicest treasures with which
to deck Duessa. Her robes were purple, and a triple crown of gold was on
her head, and, what she liked not so well, he gave her a seven-headed
serpent to ride on.
Now the faithful dwarf had watched the fate of his master, and when he
saw him borne away senseless by the giant, he took up the armour which
had been lain aside in the hour of need, and set out he knew not
whither.
He had gone but a little distance when he met Una, who read at a glance
the evil tidings he had brought. She fell off her ass in a deadly swoon,
and the dwarf, whose heart was nigh as sore, rubbed her temples with
water and strove to bring her back to life. But when she heard the tale
of all that had befallen the Red Cross Knight since last she had parted
from him, she would fain have died, till the thought sprang suddenly
into her mind that perhaps she might still rescue him. So with fresh
hope she took the road to the giant's castle, but the way was far, and
she was woefully tired before even its towers were in sight. Brave
though she was, the maiden's courage failed her at last, and she began
to weep afresh, when her eyes happened to light upon a good knight
riding to meet her. He was clad in armour that shone more than any
man's, and well it might, as it had been welded by the great enchanter
Merlin. On the crest of his helmet a golden dragon spread his wings: and
in the centre of his breast-plate a precious stone shone forth amidst a
circle of smaller ones, 'like Hesperus among the lesser lights.'
As he drew near, and saw before him a lady in distress, he reined in his
horse, and with gentle words drew from her all her trouble.
'Be of good cheer,' he said, when the tale was ended, 'and take comfort;
for never will I forsake you till I have freed your captive knight.'
And, though she knew him not, at his promise Una took heart of grace,
and bade the dwarf lead them to the giant's castle.
* * * * *
Conducted by the dwarf and followed by the squire, the knight and lady
soon reached the castle. Bidding Una to await him outside, and calling
to his squire to come with him, they both walked up to the gates, which
were fast shut, though no man was guarding them.
'Blow your horn,' said the knight, and the squire blew a blast. At the
sound, the gates flew open, and the giant came foaming from his chamber
to see what insolent thief had dared disturb his peace.
And the giant did not come alone. Close after him rode Duessa, 'high
mounted on her many-headed beast'; and at this sight the knight raised
his shield and eagerly began the attack.
But, horrible though the serpent was, he was not the sole foe that the
knight had to fight with. The giant's only weapon was his club, but that
was as thick as a man's body, and studded with iron points besides.
Luckily for the knight, this was not the first giant to whom he had
given battle, and ere the mighty blow could fall he sprang lightly to
one side, and the club lay buried so deep in the ground that before the
giant could draw it out again, his left arm was smitten off by the
knight's sword.
[Illustration: ARTHUR FIGHTS THE SEVEN-HEADED SERPENT]
The giant's roars of pain might have been heard in the uttermost parts
of the kingdom, and Duessa quickly guided her baleful beast to the help
of her wounded friend. But her way was barred by the squire, who, sword
in hand, 'stood like a bulwark' between his lord and the serpent.
Duessa, full of wrath at being foiled, turned the serpent on him, but
not one foot would the squire move till, beside herself with anger, the
witch drew out her cup and sprinkled him with the poisonous water. Then
the strength went out of his arms and the courage from his heart, and he
sank helpless on the ground before the snake, who fain would have
trampled the life out of him, and it would have fared ill with him had
not the knight rushed swiftly to his rescue, and dealt the snake such a
wound that the garments of Duessa were all soaked in blood. She shrieked
to the giant that she would be lost if he did not come to her aid, and
the giant, whose one arm seemed to have gained the strength of two,
struck the knight such a blow on the helmet that he sank heavily on the
ground.
The giant raised a shout of joy, but he triumphed too soon. The knight,
in falling, caught the covering of his shield upon his spear, and rent
it from top to toe. The brilliance that flowed from it burnt into the
eyes of the giant, so that he was 'blinded by excess of light,' and sank
sightless on the ground. At a fresh cry from Duessa he struggled to his
feet, but all in vain. He had no power to hurt nor to defend, and fell
back so heavily that the very earth shook beneath him, and was an easy
prey for his foe, who smote his head from his body.
Duessa, as we know, never stayed with those with whom the world went
ill, and she was stealing away quietly, when once more the squire
stopped her.
'You are captive to my lord,' he said, and, holding her firmly, led her
back.
Then Una came running full of grateful words, but when she saw Duessa a
cloud of fierce wrath passed over her face.
'Beware lest that wicked woman escape,' cried she, 'for she it is who
has worked all this ill, and thrown my dearest lord into the dungeon.
Oh, hear how piteously he calls to you for aid!'
'I give her into your keeping,' answered the knight, turning to the
squire, 'and beware of her wiles, for they are many;' and, leaving the
rest behind him, he strode into the castle, meeting no man as he went.
At last there crept forth from one corner an old, old man with a huge
bunch of rusty keys hanging from his arm. The knight asked him in gentle
speech whence had gone all the people who dwelt in the castle, but he
answered only that he could not tell, till the knight waxed impatient,
and took the keys from him.
The doors of all the rooms opened easily enough, and inside he found the
strangest medley. Everywhere blood lay thick upon the floors, while the
walls were covered with cloth of gold and splendid tapestry. No signs
were there of any living creature, yet he knew that in some hiding-place
in the castle the captive lay concealed.
The knight had come to the last door of all. It was of iron, and no key
on the bunch would open it. On one side was a little grating, and
through it he called loudly, lest perchance any man might hear his
voice.
At that there answered him a hollow empty sound, and for a while he
could not make out any words. Then from out the wailing in the darkness
something spoke:
'Oh, who is that which brings me happy choice of death? Three moons have
waxed and waned since I beheld the face of heaven? Oh, welcome, welcome
art thou who hast come to end my weary life!'
The moaning sound of the voice thrilled the brave champion with horror.
Putting his shoulder to the iron door, he gave a mighty heave, and the
hinges gave way. Nothing could he see, for the darkness was terrible,
and his foot, which he stretched cautiously inward, touched no floor.
And, besides, the foul smells rushed out, poisoning him with their
fumes.
But when he had grown in some measure used to the darkness and the
odours, he began to think how he could best deliver the Red Cross Knight
from the pit into which he had fallen. To this end he sought through the
castle till he found some lengths of rope, which he carried back with
him, as he did not know how deep the pit might be. He knotted three or
four together and let the rope down, but even when a faint cry from the
captive told him that it had reached the bottom, his labours were not
ended yet. Twice the knots gave way, by good fortune, before the man was
more than a foot or two from the ground, and other pieces of rope had to
be fetched. Then, when all was made fast, the prisoner had grown so weak
that he could scarce draw himself up; and again the knight feared
greatly lest he himself should not have strength to hold fast the rope.
But at length his courage and patience prevailed, and the Red Cross
Knight, hollow-eyed, and thin as a skeleton, looked once more upon the
sun.
His parents might have gazed on him and not known him for their child,
but Una's heart leapt when the unknown knight brought him to her.
'Welcome,' she said, 'welcome in weal or woe. Your presence I have
lacked for many a day,' and fain would she have heard the tale of his
sufferings, had not the knight, who knew that men love not to speak of
their sorrows, begged her to tend the captive carefully, so that his
forces might come to him again. Further, he bade them remember that they
had in their power the woman who had been the cause of all their grief,
and the time had come to give sentence on her.
'I cannot slay her, now she is mine to slay,' answered Una, 'but strip
her robe of scarlet from off her, and let her go whither she will.'
With her robes and her jewels went all the magic arts that gave her
youth and beauty. Instead of the dazzling maiden who had wrought so much
havoc in the world, there stood before them an old bald-headed shaking
crone, that seemed as ancient as the earth itself. Silently they gazed,
then turned away in horror, while Duessa wandered into paths of which
she alone knew the ending.
* * * * *
It was not until they had rested themselves awhile in the castle that
the stranger knight told who he was and why he came there. He was, he
said, Arthur, the ward of Merlin, and had ridden far and long in quest
of the Faerie Queen. And having fulfilled his vow to Una, in delivering
the Red Cross Knight out of the power of the giant, he bade both
farewell, leaving behind him, as a remembrance of their friendship a
diamond box containing a precious ointment, which would cure any wound,
however deep or poisonous.
* * * * *
So they parted, but not yet was the Red Cross Knight able to face the
monstrous dragon who held captive Una's royal parents. For some weeks
therefore he rested in the castle till his strength came back, then once
more he and Una rode forth side by side.
They had not gone far when they beheld an armed knight galloping fast
towards them, and as he went ever glancing over his shoulder as if
fearful of some dread thing behind. His matted hair streamed in the wind
and the fingers which grasped the reins were like the claws of an eagle.
Stranger than all, round his neck was tied a hempen rope. 'He seems to
be afraid of himself,' thought the Red Cross Knight as he checked his
horse to offer help to the flying man before him.
At first it seemed as if his words fell on dumb ears, but patiently he
repeated them over and over again, and at length an answer came from
the shaking figure:
'For God's sake, Sir Knight, do not, I pray you, stay me, for look, HE
comes, HE comes fast after me;' and as he spoke he urged on his horse
afresh. But the Red Cross Knight caught his bridle and bade him fear
nothing, as he was safe with him, and to tell him why such awful fear
possessed his soul.
At last the stricken man poured forth his tale, and the Red Cross Knight
learned that once he was happy and free, like other men, till on an
ill-starred day he and a friend had fallen in with a cursed wight who
called himself 'Despair,' who had plucked all hope from their breasts,
and bade them seek death, the one with a rope, the other with a knife.
His friend, whose love had been disdained by a proud lady, fell an easy
prey to the persuasions of the giant, and it was the sight of his corpse
lying weltering in his blood that drove this man to ride away while yet
the rope hung loose. 'O sir,' he added when the sad tale was told--'O
sir, be warned by me, and never let yourself stray into his presence!
His subtle tongue, like dropping honey, melts into the heart, and ere
one be aware, his power is gone and weakness doth remain.'
But the Red Cross Knight made answer that he would never rest till he
had seen with his own eyes that baleful being, and begged the stranger,
whose name was Trevisan, to guide him hither.
'I will ride back with you, as you ask it of me,' said Sir Trevisan
unwillingly, 'but not for all the gold in the world will I stay with you
when you reach his cave, for sooner would I die than see his deadly
face!'
'Ride on, then, and I will follow,' answered the Red Cross Knight.
The cave lay in the side of a cliff, and was dark and gloomy as a tomb.
The only sounds they heard were the hooting of an owl and the wails and
howls of wandering ghosts; the only sights were the corpses of men
hanging on trees or lying stark upon the ground. Sir Trevisan turned
his horse's head and would fain have fled, but the Red Cross Knight
stopped him.
'You are safe with me,' he said confidently, and the other, who was ever
weak of will, waited.
They entered the cave, and found the doer of all that evil seated on the
floor, his eyes as the eyes of a dead man, and his body well nigh as
much a skeleton as any of his victims. On the grass beneath him lay a
body that was still warm, and in its bleeding wound a rusty knife still
stood. The sight stirred the blood in the knight's veins, and he
challenged the murderer to fight where he stood.
'Are you distraught, you foolish man,' was all his answer, 'that you
should talk in this wild way? It was his own guilt which drove him to
his end. He loathed his life, why should he then prolong it? Is it not
the part of a friend to free his feet when they stick fast in the mud,
and to point to the door that leads to rest, even if some little pain
must be suffered in the passage? Is not short pain well borne that
brings long ease--sleep after toil, port after stormy seas?'
The Red Cross Knight listened wonderingly. Then he answered:
'The soldier may not cease to watch nor leave his stand until his
captain bid.'
But the cursed wight replied boldly, 'The longer life, I wot, the
greater sin. The greater sin, the greater punishment. Therefore, I pray
you go no further, but lie down and betake you to your rest. A longer
life means old age and sickness, and every kind of sorrow. So lay it
down while things are yet well with you.'
[Illustration: IN THE CAVE OF DESPAIR]
In spite of Sir Trevisan's warning, the fair-sounding words found an
echo in the heart of the Red Cross Knight, as they had done in the
hearts of many men before him. The miscreant saw that his courage was
wavering, and forthwith he brought forth a store of swords, ropes,
poisons, and a brazier of fire, and bade him choose what manner of
death he would prefer. The knight gazed at them all, like one who walks
in sleep, but touched none of them, and the miscreant, beholding this,
chose out a dagger bright and new, and thrust it in his shaking hand.
The young man looked at it, his face reddened and then grew pale again,
and slowly, as if against his will, he lifted the dagger.
A shriek from Una, who had only just reached the cave, caused him to
drop his arm again, and in an instant she had snatched it from his limp
fingers, and had flung it on the ground.
'Come away, come away,' she cried, 'let no vain words bewitch you! What
have you to do with despair, after all the brave deeds you have done?
Arise, Sir knight, arise and leave this cursed place. Have you forgotten
that other work awaits you?'
The voice of Una broke the spell which had possessed him. Once more his
eye grew bright and his arm strong. He mounted his horse and rode away
by Una's side without ever looking behind him. If he had, he would have
seen that the miscreant had placed a rope round his own neck, and hanged
himself on a tree. But even so he could not die; the death to which he
drove others remained far from him.
* * * * *
The ease with which the Red Cross Knight had been mastered by the wily
talk of the gloomy miscreant in the cave showed Una that his mind, if
not his body, was still weak from his long imprisonment in the dungeon.
She saw that before he could fight the dragon who had carried off her
parents he needed yet more repose, and luckily she knew of a house not
far off where they would be made welcome for as long as they chose to
stay. Hither they fared, and for many weeks the knight's armour was laid
away, and the ladies who dwelt in that place gave him all the strength
and counsel that they could think of. Then, when at last he had become
what he had been of yore, Una bade farewell to her hosts with great
thanks, and set out for the royal castle. After three days the walls of
a high tower might be seen dimly across the plain.
'It is there that my parents are kept imprisoned by the dragon,' said
Una, pointing to it with her hand, 'and I see the watchman watching for
good tidings, if haply such there be. Ah, he has waited long!'
As she spoke, a roaring hideous sound was heard that seemed to shake the
ground and to fill all the air with terror. Turning their heads, they
beheld on their right a huge dragon, lying stretched upon the sunny side
of a great hill, himself like a great hill. But no sooner did he see the
shining armour of the knight than he roused himself and made ready for
battle.
Hastily the Red Cross Knight bade Una withdraw herself to another hill,
from which she could see the fight without herself being in danger.
Crouching behind a rock, she watched the dreadful beast approaching,
half flying and half walking as he went. Run he could not, his size was
too vast.
Her heart sank as she looked, for how could mortal man get the better of
such a creature! Besides the brazen scales which thickly covered his
body, his wings were like two sails, and at the tip of each huge feather
was a many-pronged claw; while his back was hidden with the folds of his
tail, which lay doubled in a hundred coils, and in his mouth were three
rows of sharp-pointed teeth. Una could look no more; she shut her eyes
and waited.
The knight felt that if he was to win the victory at all it must be by
means of his lightness of foot, as the monster was so large he could not
turn himself about quickly. So, getting a little behind his head, he
tried to pierce his neck between the scaly plates, but the spear glanced
off harmlessly, and a stroke from the tip of the tail laid both him and
his horse on the ground.
[Illustration: THE END OF THE DRAGON]
They rose again instantly, and returned to the charge, but a second blow
met with no better fate. Then the dragon in wrath spread wide his sails
and rose heavily above the earth, till, suddenly and swiftly darting
down his head, he snatched both horse and man off the ground. But here
the knight had the advantage, for with his spear he stung the beast so
sore that the monster speedily set his captives again on the earth.
Not giving the dragon time to gather himself up, the knight dealt him a
blow under the left wing. With a roar of agony, the beast snapped the
spear asunder with his claws, and pulled out the head. At that a sea of
blood gushed from the wound which would have turned a water-mill, and in
his pain and rage flames of fire gushed from his mouth.
Unwinding his tail from his back, he coiled it like lightning about the
legs of the horse, which fell to the ground with his rider. But in an
instant the knight was on his feet, and by the mere force of his blows
forced his enemy to reel, though the brazen scales were still unpierced.
Though his courage was as great as ever, the young man began to lose
patience, when of a sudden he noticed that the monster could no longer
rise into the air by reason of his wounded wing. That sight gave him
heart, and he drew near once more, only to be scorched by the deadly
fire from the dragon's jaws. Half blinded and suffocated, he staggered,
which the dragon seeing, he dealt the knight such a blow that he fell
backwards into a well that lay behind.
* * * * *
'So that is the end of him,' said the dragon to himself; but, if he had
only known, it was the beginning, for the well into which the knight had
fallen was the well of life, which could cure all hurts and heal all
wounds.
All night Una watched at her post, for darkness had come before the
knight received his final blow. In the morning, before the sun had risen
above the plain, she was looking for the knight, who was lying she knew
not where. Her eyes dropping by chance on the well, she was sore amazed
to see him rise out of it fairer and mightier than before. With a rush
he fell upon the dragon, who had gone to sleep, safe in the knowledge of
his victory, and, taking his sword in both hands, he drove right through
the brazen scales, and wounded him deep in his skull. In vain did the
monster roar and struggle; the blows rained thick and fast, and most of
his tail was cut from his body.
Again and again the knight was overthrown, and again and again he rose
to his feet, and laid about him as valiantly as ever. But while the
fight was still hanging in the balance, the dragon thrust his head
forward with wide-open jaws, thinking to swallow his enemy and make an
end of him. Quick as thought the knight sprang aside, and, thrusting his
sword in the yawning gulf up to the hilt, gave the dragon his
death-blow.
Down he fell, fire and smoke gushing from his nostrils--down he fell,
and men thought some mighty mountain must have cast up rocks on the
earth.
The victor himself trembled, and it was long ere Una dared draw near,
dreading lest the direful fiend should stir. But when at last she knew
him dead, she came joyfully forth, and, bursting into happy tears,
faltered her gratitude for the good he had wrought her.
There is little more to be told of Una and the Red Cross knight.
The watchman on the wall, who had seen the dreadful battle, was the
first to tell the king and queen that the dragon was dead and that they
were free. Then the king commanded the trumpets to sound and the people
to assemble, so that fitting rejoicings might be made at the destruction
of their foe.
This being done, a mighty procession came down, headed by the king and
queen, to lay laurel boughs at the feet of the victor, and to set a
garland of bay on the head of the maiden. Once more Duessa and
Archimago sought to prevent the betrothal of the Red Cross Knight and
Una by a plot to send the wizard in the guise of a messenger,
proclaiming the knight to have been already bound to the daughter of the
emperor, but the false tale was easily seen through, and Archimago
thrown into a dungeon.
After that the king himself performed the marriage rite, and a solemn
feast was held through the land, but the wedded pair were not long left
together. A vow the knight had made when he received his spurs to do the
Faerie Queen six years of service called him from Una's side, and, sad
though the parting might be, both held their word too high ever to break
it.
[From _The Faerie Queene_.]
_AMYS AND AMYLE_
Some time in the Middle Ages there lived in the Duchy of Lombardy,
which, as everybody knows, is part of Italy, two knights, who loved each
other like brothers. And, what is more to be wondered at, their wives
were the best friends in the world. To complete the happiness of the two
couples, two little boys were born to them on the same day, and they
were given the names of Amys and Amyle.
* * * * *
Now it generally happens that when parents are very anxious for their
children to be friends, because they are the same age, or neighbours, or
for some equally good reason, the young people make up their minds to
hate each other. However, Amys and Amyle did not disappoint their
fathers and mothers in this way. From the moment they could walk they
were never seen apart; if they ever _did_ quarrel no one ever heard of
it; and by the time they were twelve years old they had grown so like
each other that even their parents could hardly tell the difference
between them. Indeed, the likeness between them is supposed to have
given rise to the proverb, 'A miss is as good as a mile.'
It was in that year that the duke, their liege lord, bade all his
vassals to a great festival to be held in his castle, and many of them
took their sons with them, to show them some of the customs of chivalry.
Amys and Amyle went with the rest, and endless were the mistakes made
about them. The boys themselves, who were merry little fellows,
delighted in increasing the confusion, and played so many pranks that
the duke declared that they must remain at the court with him, as his
life would be too dull without them.
Perhaps the knights thought that their homes would be dull too, but, if
so, they did not dare say so; only their wives noticed, as they entered
the castle gates, that their heads were bowed, as if some ill had
befallen them.
At first the boys felt unhappy and lonely in this strange new world, and
clung to each other more closely than ever, but, after a little, they
got used to the change, and learned eagerly how to shoot at a mark and
tilt at a ring, or to sing sweet love-songs to the sound of a lute.
So the years passed away till Amys and Amyle were eighteen years old,
and thought themselves men, and were ready to cross lances with the
bravest. The first step they took towards proving to the world that no
tie of blood could bind them closer than the love they bore one to
another, was to swear the oaths which made them brothers in arms, and
obliged them to fight in each other's quarrels, avenge each other's
wrongs--even to sacrifice what the other held most dear in the service
of his friend. Marriage itself was not more sacred.
All this time the duke had been too busy with his own affairs to have
the youths much in his company, though he took care that they had the
best chances of learning everything that they ought to know. When,
however, he heard that Amys and Amyle had sworn the solemn oaths that
made them brothers in arms, he ordered a tournament to be held in their
honour, and, when it was over, knighted them on the field. He further
declared that henceforth Sir Amys should be his chief butler and Sir
Amyle his head steward over his household, thus the steward whom Amyle
displaced became their deadly enemy.
Although the young men knew a great deal about hunting, and wrestling,
and other such sports, they had no idea what the duties of a butler and
a steward might be. But what they _did_ know was that they would have to
be very careful, for the eyes of the old steward were watching eagerly
to report any mistakes to the duke their master. Luckily for them, they
were favourites with everyone, and if now and then they forgot their
work, or slipped away for a day's hunting, well! the task was done by
somebody, and not even the old steward could find out by whom.
Everything seemed going smoothly, and the new-made knights were in
danger of being spoilt by the favour of the ladies of the court, when a
sudden stop was put to all their pleasures. One day a man-at-arms riding
a jaded horse appeared at the palace gateway, and demanded to be led
into the presence of the good knight Sir Amyle.
'Oh, my lord,' said he, and knew not that it was Amys before whom he was
kneeling, 'it is grievous news that I bear unto you. Your father and
mother, that noble knight and his lady, died of a pestilence but seven
days agone, and none save you can take their place. Therefore am I sent
unto you.'
'_My_ father and mother?' cried Amys, staggering back.
'Yes, my lord, yours,' answered the man. 'At least----' he stammered, as
Sir Amyle came and stood by his friend, 'I know not if indeed it may be
yours. It is long years since I have seen you, and this knight and you
have but one face. But it is Sir Amyle with whom I would speak.'
Then Amys laid his hand on his brother's shoulder.
'Be comforted,' he said softly. 'Am I not with thee? and, though I
cannot go with thee now, I will follow thee shortly unless thou quickly
return to me.'
Early next morning Amyle started with a heavy heart for the home which
he had left six years before; but before his departure he had caused to
be made two cups of gold, delicately wrought with figures of birds and
beasts, such as he and Amys had often chased in the forests and lakes of
Lombardy. The cups were no more to be told from each other than were
Amys and Amyle themselves, and Amyle placed them in the pockets of his
saddle till the moment came for him to part from Sir Amys, who had
ridden with him as far as he might. Then, drawing out one of the cups,
Amyle placed it in his friend's hands.
'Farewell, my brother,' he said. 'Be true to me as I will be true to
you, according to the oath which we sware, that as long as we both shall
live nothing and nobody shall stand between me and thee.'
And Sir Amys repeated the words of his oath, then slowly turned his
horse's head towards the castle.
Seven days' hard riding brought Sir Amyle back to his native place, and
for many months he had much to do in setting aside the pretenders who
had sprung up to claim his father's lands. When at last peace was
restored and the false traitors had been thrown into prison, a petition
on the part of his vassals to take a wife and settle down amongst them,
turned his thoughts in other directions.
It was the custom of the country that the ruler of those lands should
choose his wife from the most beautiful maidens in the Duchy of
Lombardy, no matter what might be their degree. So a herald was sent
forth to proclaim that any damsel who wished to fill this high place was
to present herself in the courtyard of the palace on the morning
following the next new moon, where the chamberlain would receive her.
Oh, what a fluttering of hearts there was in the towns and villages, as
the herald, with his silver trumpet and his satin coat of red and
yellow, covered with figures of strange beasts, passed up and down the
streets! How the girls all ran to their mirrors, and turned themselves
this way and that to see if there could possibly be a chance for them!
Perhaps it was the fault of the headdress they wore that their faces
seemed so long and their noses so big, or surely something was wrong
with the glass that their cheeks looked so yellow! But even when it was
proved beyond a doubt that neither headdress nor mirror was to blame in
the matter, there were enough lovely maidens and to spare in the
courtyard of the castle on the day following the new moon.
[Illustration: THE TWO CUPS]
'He is certain to choose _you_,' said one, who in her secret heart
thought it was impossible that _she_ should be passed over.
'Oh no; fair men's eyes alway rest upon dark women,' answered the girl,
whose locks were brighter than the sun, though while she spoke she was
really thinking that no one could bear comparison with her. And then all
grew silent, for there was heard a blast of trumpets announcing that Sir
Amyle was at hand.
The young knight had donned for this occasion a close-fitting coat of
silver cloth, while a short blue velvet mantle hung from his shoulders.
He walked slowly down the ranks of the maidens, watching each carefully,
and noting the way in which she received his gaze. Some looked down and
blushed; some looked up and smiled, but one there was who did neither,
only stood calm and pale as the young man drew near.
She was a tall girl with dark hair and soft grey eyes, and the
chamberlain had doubted long, before he told her father that she might
take her stand with the rest. None would have chosen her as Queen of a
Tourney, or bidden her preside over a Court of Love, yet there was that
in her face which had caused Amyle to pause before her and to hold out
his hand.
So they were married, and by the side of his wife Sir Amyle for a while
forgot his brother.
Meanwhile Sir Amys dwelt sorrowfully at the court, defending himself as
best he might against the wiles of the black-hearted steward, who now
received him with smiles and fair words. Nay, he even desired that they
should become brothers at arms, but to this Sir Amys replied that,
having made oath to one brother at arms, the rules of chivalry did not
allow him to take another.
At these words the steward threw off the mask with which he had sought
to beguile Sir Amys.
'You will have cause to rue this day,' roared he, nearly choking in his
wrath; 'you dog, you white-livered cur!' but Amys only smiled, and bade
him do his worst.
By this time the duke's only daughter, Belisante, had reached the age of
fifteen, and on her birthday her father proclaimed a great tournament,
which was to last for fourteen days. Knights from far and near flocked
to break a lance in honour of the fair damsel, but, though many doughty
deeds were done, the prize fell to Sir Amys. When he came up to receive
the golden circlet from the hands of the duchess--for the duke held his
daughter to be of too tender years to be queen of the tourney--Belisante
looked earnestly at the knight whose praises had rung in her ears ever
since her childhood. It was almost the first time her eyes had beheld
him, for she had lived in one of her father's distant castles, and had
seldom visited the court.
Now we all know full well that whenever we form to ourselves the picture
of a man or woman of whom great things are said, woeful is in general
the disappointment. But even in that assembly Sir Amys was taller and
stronger and fairer to look upon than the rest.
'He shall be my knight,' said Belisante to herself, never dreaming that
any man alive could pass her by. But Sir Amys' thoughts dwelt not upon
women, and he hardly so much as marked her where she sat.
This slight was more than the spoiled damsel could bear. She fell sick
with love and anger, and for many days lay in bed, pondering how she
should win the love of Sir Amys.
A full week went by, and still she had never had speech of him--nor had
even so much as caught sight of him as he followed her father to the
chase. But one morning her lady brought her word--for indeed she had
guessed something of her mistress's heart--that Sir Amys had so wearied
himself in pursuit of a boar the previous evening that he had let his
lord ride forth alone. So Belisante bade her maiden bring her kirtle of
green silk, and clasp it with her golden belt set with precious
stones, and place a veil of shining white upon her hair; then seeking
her mother they went down into the garden together.
[Illustration: Softly she rose to her feet and stole out of the wood]
It was not long before her quick-glancing eyes beheld Sir Amys lying
under a tree by the side of a stream, but in her guile she took no heed
of him, but turned away and entered a little wood.
'I can sleep now,' she said, stretching herself on a bank of soft moss.
'Listen to the birds, how sweetly they sing! Methinks I hear the voice
of the nightingale, for the trees make such darkness that he knows not
night from day.'
'Let us leave her,' answered her mother, and signing to her ladies they
all returned to the castle.
For a moment Belisante lay still, feigning to sleep; then she raised
herself on her arm and looked about her. Nothing was to be seen save the
green darkness about her, nothing was to be heard save the songs of the
birds. Softly she rose to her feet, and stole out of the wood to the
orchard where Sir Amys was resting, thinking, though she guessed it not,
of his brother in arms Amyle.
He sprang to his feet in surprise as Belisante the Fair drew near him;
but she begged him to sit beside her, and told him how that she had been
sick of love, and besought him of his grace not to withhold this good
gift from her. Sir Amys hearkened to her words, not knowing if he had
heard aright, but, calling his wits to his aid, he answered that she was
the daughter of a great prince while he was only the son of a poor
knight, and that marriage between them might never be. This speech so
wrought upon Belisante that she broke out in such tears and entreaties
that Sir Amys, to gain time to ponder what best to do, replied that if
in eight days her mind was still set on him, he would ask her hand in
marriage.
By ill-luck for both the knight and the maiden, the steward, who had
been seeking a chance of doing Sir Amys an ill turn, had seen Belisante
leave the wood and go in search of Sir Amys. Creeping stealthily up to
them, he hid himself behind a clump of bushes and heard all that was
said. Cunningly he made his plan, and on the eighth day he waylaid the
duke and told him that Sir Amys was about to repay all the kindness
shown him by a secret marriage with the duke's daughter.
Sir Amys was keeping guard that day in the hall of the palace, when,
sword in hand, his liege lord stood before him charging him with
beguiling his daughter. In another moment Amys would have fallen dead,
but behind him was a little room, and into this he stepped, shutting the
door, so that the sword stuck in the hard wood as it came against it.
This mischance somewhat cooled the duke's anger, and, bidding Sir Amys
come out and speak with him, he again accused him of having sought to
steal away his daughter, whom he wished to betrothe to the emperor's
son.
Sir Amys was in sore straits. If he could have borne the penalty alone,
he would have suffered gladly whatever sentence the duke might have
passed on him; but this could not be. So, to save Belisante from her
father's wrath, he swore a great oath that there was no truth in that
tale, and, flinging down his glove, offered to fight any man whom the
duke should appoint, and prove his innocence on his body. Then the king
bade his steward pick up Sir Amys' glove, and fixed a morning, fourteen
days hence, when the two should meet in single combat.
Still it was not enough that Sir Amys and the steward should agree to
fight; it was needful also that sureties should be found, and such was
the steward's power at court that all men feared to come forward on
behalf of Sir Amys. The young man would have fared badly, and indeed
would at once have been thrown into prison, had not both Belisante and
her mother offered themselves as sureties for his presence when the day
arrived.
But not all the wiles of the fair Belisante could chase the gloom from
the face of Sir Amys. He never forgot that he had sworn a false oath,
and it was to no purpose that Belisante reminded him of all the ill
deeds done by the steward to him and others. 'This time,' he said sadly,
'_I_ have the wrong and _he_ the right, therefore I am afraid to fight,'
and no other answer could she wring from him.
Way out of the tangle there seemed none. Fight Sir Amys could not, with
the weight of a false oath on his soul, yet to run away were to confess
all, and leave Belisante to bear her father's anger alone. Turn his
thoughts which side he would, escape seemed barred, till the image of
Sir Amyle flashed across him. 'Fool, why had he not remembered him
earlier? Luckily there was yet time, and he could ride with full speed
to his brother's castle, and bid him return to take the battle on
himself.' With a gladder face than he had known for long, he sought out
the duchess and her daughter, and told them his plan.
Before the sun rose Sir Amys was in the saddle, and so busy was he with
all that had befallen him that he pushed on and never drew rein till his
horse dropped dead under him from sheer weariness. As there was no town
or house where he might find another, he was forced to proceed on foot.
But by-and-by he too fell from lack of sleep, and when Sir Amyle was
returning home through the forest after a day's hunting, he discovered
his brother stretched across the path in the shade of a tree.
Joy at meeting gave new life to Sir Amys, and, sitting up, he told his
friend all his woes, and how he dare not fight with a false oath on his
conscience.
'Oh! that is easily to be managed,' cried Sir Amyle, with a great laugh.
'Go home to my castle,' said he, 'and tell my wife that you have sent
the horse to Sir Amys, at court, as you heard he had sore need of one.
None will know you from me, no more than they did of old, and, as to my
wife, it was but now I told her that business called me to the most
distant parts of my lands, so this very night you can bid her farewell.'
Sir Amys did as his brother bade him, and Sir Amyle hastened with all
speed to the duke's palace.
He was only just in time. The hour for the fight had come, and the
steward had entered the lists, and, looking round in triumph, proclaimed
to all whom it might concern that his adversary knew himself to be a
traitor to his lord, and had fled. Therefore, according to all the rules
of chivalry, a fire should be made, and his sureties burned before all
the people.
At these dreadful words, the hearts of the king and his wife and
daughter trembled within them. For the steward had spoken truly, and the
order for the execution must be given. It was in vain that the men
worked right slowly; linger as they might, the pile was ready at last,
and with one despairing glance round, the duchess and her daughter were
bravely walking up to it, when Sir Amyle hastily pushed his way to the
duke and demanded that the captives should be instantly set free. Then,
followed by the duchess and Belisante, he entered the palace to gird
himself with the armour of Sir Amys.
When his helmet and sword were buckled on him, he prayed them to leave
him, as he would fain be alone for a short space before he mounted his
horse. So the two ladies embraced him and left him, wishing him
God-speed. As the door closed upon them, Sir Amyle held up his sword and
muttered a prayer before it.
'Come weal or woe, I will help my brother,' he said softly; then
mounting his horse he rode into the lists, and, kneeling, took the oath
that he was guiltless of wrong and would prove his innocence on the body
of his foe.
[Illustration: SIR AMYLE ARRIVES IN TIME TO SAVE THE LADIES]
The fight lasted but a short time; the steward's sword was keen, and he
knew how to use it, and it was not long before he had given Sir Amyle a
sharp thrust through the shoulder, and the young knight reeled in his
saddle. The steward uttered a cry of fierce joy, and raised his arm to
deal a second blow, when Sir Amyle suddenly spurred his horse to one
side and pierced his enemy to the heart. Then, all bleeding as he was,
the false Amys cut off the head of the traitor, and gave it to the
duke, proving to him and to all the court that the right had conquered.
But hardly had he done so when, faint from loss of blood, he fell
senseless on the ground, and was carried into the palace, where the
duke's best leeches were called in to attend him. In a few days the
fever left him, and he was able to receive a visit from the duke
himself.
'O Amys, my friend, how I have misjudged you!' cried the duke, falling
on his knees weeping; 'but I will let my people know that you were
always true, and you shall marry my daughter as soon as you can stand
upon your feet, and I will hold a feast, and proclaim you heir to my
duchy.'
And the wounded man gave him thanks and grace, but sent off a messenger
in all haste to Sir Amys, bidding him be by a spring in the forest, nine
days hence, which message Sir Amys obeyed, wondering what had passed.
Then the two knights changed their clothes once more, and Sir Amyle
returned to his wife and Sir Amys to his bride, and they lived happily
to the end of their lives.
[Adapted and shortened from _Early English Metrical Romances_.]
_THE TALE OF THE CID_
In the year 1025, when Canute the Dane was sitting on the throne of
England, there was born in the ancient Spanish city of Burgos a baby, to
whom was given the name of Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar. He came of noble blood
on both sides of the House, and his forefathers had borne some of the
highest offices of the land, and from his childhood the boy had been
taught that it was his duty never to fall one whit behind them in
courage and in honour. As he grew older, he burned more and more for a
chance to show the metal of which he was made, and longed to join the
companies of knights that were ever going forth to fight the Arabs, who
for nearly four hundred years had reigned over the fairest provinces of
Spain. But to all his prayers, his father, Don Diego Lainez, turned a
deaf ear.
* * * * *
'Wait, wait, my son!' he would say; 'the little shoot must first grow
into a tree. Go now and practise that sword-thrust in which you failed
yesterday.'
It was when he was sixteen that the longed-for opportunity came.
Don Diego Lainez, now old and weak, had gone to do his homage to King
Fernando, who had managed to unite the small kingdoms of Northern Spain
under his banner. Some dispute arose between him and the powerful count,
Don Lozano Gomez, probably as to which had the right to pass first into
the presence of their king, and in the presence of the whole court Don
Lozano spoke words of deadly insult to the old man, and even gave him a
buffet on the cheek. The courtiers all cried shame, and Don Diego's hand
clutched the pommel of his sword, but his rage had deprived him of the
little strength that remained, and he was powerless to draw it. At this
the count laughed scornfully, and, bowing mockingly to the king, who
held it best that men should settle their own quarrels, rode away to his
castle. Then, without another word, Don Diego turned and mounted his
horse and set out homewards.
A broken man and older by ten years was he when he entered his hall, but
many days passed before any could guess what had wrought this change in
him. All night he lay awake staring into the darkness, and when food was
brought him it was carried away untasted, and his wife whispered to her
ladies, 'If we rouse him not he will surely die! Would that I knew what
has stricken him like this?'
Fifteen days went by in this manner, and none thought to see him leave
his bed again, when one morning he strode into the hall with some of the
fire of his former years, and called his sons to him. One by one he
signed to each to draw near, and taking their soft hands in his palms,
pressed so hard that the boys cried to him to loosen his grasp, or they
would die of the pain. But when he came to Rodrigo, he heard no prayers
of mercy from _him_, only threats and hot words uttered with blazing
eyes and cheeks burning with anger. And the old man wept for joy, and
cried:
'Thou art indeed my true son; your rage calms me, your fury heals me. It
is you who will redeem my honour, which I held lost.' And then he told
the youth the tale of what had passed at court.
'Take my blessing,' were his last words, 'and take this sword also,
which shall deal the count his death-blow. After that, you shall do
greater deeds still.'
[Illustration: RODRIGO BRINGS HOME THE HEAD OF GOMEZ]
Young though he was, Rodrigo had heard enough of war to know Lozano
Gomez would not prove an easy prey; but, easy or not, he meant to
fight him. So, vowing to his sword that should he ever bring dishonour
on the weapon that had done his House good service, he would sheathe it
in his breast, he mounted his horse and rode to meet his foe.
'Is it a knightly or a brave deed, think you, to smite an old man who
cannot defend himself?' asked he. 'But when you dealt that blow you may
have thought that his sons were yet in their cradles, and that there was
none to avenge him. Well, traitor, you are wrong. _I_ am his son, and
his honour is mine, so look to yourself, lest I take your head home with
me.'
And Gomez laughed to hear him, and bade him cease crowing like a young
cock, but a furious onslaught from Rodrigo cut his words short, and
hardly did he escape being unhorsed. Before he had steadied himself in
the saddle Rodrigo had charged again, and this time his enemy was borne
to the ground.
'So may all dastards die!' cried the victor, as he cut off his head.
* * * * *
Don Diego Lainez was sitting at the table in his great hall, the tears
rolling down his cheeks as the shameful scene of his dishonour rose up
before him. Suddenly a clatter of hoofs was heard in the courtyard, and
the doors swung open. The men-at-arms gathered round the board rose to
their feet as Rodrigo entered, carrying the head of Count Gomez by the
long front lock. Taking Don Diego by the arm, he shook him roughly:
'Open your eyes wide, my father, and raise your head, and let your heart
be merry, for I have cut down the poisonous weed; I have stamped out the
plague-spot; the robe of your honour is stainless as of yore.'
For a moment the old man kept silence, and then he looked up, his face
shining.
'Son of my heart,' he said, 'it is enough. From henceforth the seat of
honour is yours, and you shall take my place as the head of my House.'
From that day the young knights vied with each other in gaining leave to
ride in the train of Rodrigo Diaz, or 'the Cid' as he was afterwards
called, and to this name was later added the proud title of 'Campeador.'
Three hundred youths in splendid attire followed him to the court of
Fernando, when he went in his turn to do the king homage, and stood by
his side as he challenged anyone of the blood of Count Lozano to fight
and avenge his death; but no one came. Then his father and his noble
company left their horses to kiss the hand of the king, but Rodrigo
remained in his saddle.
'Get down, get down, Rodrigo!' cried his father, fearing lest the king
should resent his rudeness. 'Swear fealty to thy lord, and kiss his
hand, as a loyal subject should do.'
Now, ever since he had fought with Count Gomez, Rodrigo had felt himself
to be a man, and, more than that, to be much greater than other men, and
he was not pleased to be scolded by his father in the presence of so
many people. Still, he was wise enough to know that it would do him no
good in the eyes of the nobles gathered round, to disobey his father,
and slowly he got down from his horse to do homage with the rest. But so
clumsy was he that, as he knelt, his sword nearly fell out of its
sheath, and the king, thinking Rodrigo meant to kill him, started back,
exclaiming:
'Away, away! you devil! If you have the form of a man, your deeds are
those of a lion.'
'It is base to kiss the hand of such a craven,' answered Rodrigo in
anger, 'and I hold that my father has heaped disgrace on his family by
humbling himself in such a fashion!' And so saying, he rode away, with
his followers behind him.
A few centuries later a man might have lost his head for such words, but
in those days people were accustomed to speak their minds even to
kings, and little harm came of it. Six weeks later, Rodrigo had
forgotten all about it, and, what was more to the purpose, so had the
king, at any rate he pretended to do so, and when Don Diego sent his son
to do his business with Fernando, who was at Burgos, the young man went
willingly. The morning after he reached the city he was dining in the
hall of the palace with the king and his nobles, when word was brought
to the royal table that Ximena, the daughter of Count Gomez, and her
train stood at the gates, and demanded an audience of the king. Fernando
rose from his seat, and, signing to his nobles to follow him, he went to
meet Ximena.
A figure of woe was she, clothed all in black, even her face hidden by a
black veil. Throwing herself on her knees, she implored that justice
might be done on the murderer of her father, for not till then would the
stain be wiped out which had killed her mother and was killing her. 'He
rides to and fro under my lattice,' said she, 'and the hawk on his wrist
slays my doves, and my mantle is sprinkled with their blood. If you do
not do me right, O king, you are not fit to reign, or to call yourself a
knight.'
Thus spake Ximena, and the king sat silent and pondered her words. 'I
cannot punish Don Rodrigo, either by imprisonment or death,' he said to
himself, 'for my nobles would not suffer it; I must find some other way
to satisfy Ximena.' Then turning to her, he bade her go home, and added
that no damsel should have cause to complain that wrong had been done
them at his hands.
Then Ximena rode away, and by-and-by Rodrigo departed also.
* * * * *
Six months later King Fernando was seated in the great hall of his
palace of Burgos, dispensing justice to high and low, when there entered
once more Ximena, followed by thirty esquires and pages.
'I come, though I know it is in vain,' she cried, when she had made her
way to the foot of the throne. 'Five times I have appeared to demand my
rights, and no longer will I be put off with empty words. No king are
you, who are swayed this way and that by every man that passes, and dare
not even avenge your friends, for fear of what may come of it.'
'Not so,' answered the king; 'but is there no other way by which your
quarrel may be appeased? Has Rodrigo on his side suffered no insult? You
have heard of the fame he has lately won, when he took captive the five
Moorish kings who broke suddenly into the land and ravaged it with fire
and sword. And to prove that it was fame and not gold he wanted he set
them all free, with only a promise of homage from them. Ah, if there
were but a few more like him, Spain would soon be rid of the Moors.
Happy is the woman he shall choose for his wife; she will live all her
days in safety and in honour.'
Then the king paused, and watched to see how Ximena took his words.
She was silent for some moments, but the king could not see her face, as
she had pulled her veil over it. Suddenly she raised her head, and cast
the veil back over her shoulders.
'It is true, O king, what you speak, and I will forego my vengeance.
Nay, I think my father himself would have it so. Give me Don Rodrigo for
my husband; all my days I will be a loyal wife to him, and his honour
shall be mine.'
Perhaps the king was not so surprised as some of his courtiers as they
listened to Ximena's request. If he smiled, his beard was thick enough
to hide it, and he answered gravely:
'You say well, my daughter, and I will to-day send a messenger bidding
Don Rodrigo meet me at Palencia, and I will give him lands and riches,
so that in wealth as in birth he may be equal to you.'
When the messengers reached Don Rodrigo, with the offer of Ximena's
hand, his heart was glad, and, calling his friends to dress themselves
in their most splendid cloaks and brightest armour, he rode at their
head towards the city of Palencia. Ximena with her train was already in
the royal palace, and in the presence of the king the two plighted their
troth. But Rodrigo swore by the cross on his sword that the marriage
rite should not be fulfilled till he had beaten five foes in the field,
and, leaving Ximena under the care of his mother, he bade her farewell,
and set forth to accomplish his vow.
However, he was not destined to be absent very long, for in those days
enemies were not far to seek, and in less than two months the wedding
preparations began. His brothers took pride in arraying him themselves,
and buttoning on the doublet of black satin which his father had worn in
many of his battles, while over this he wore a jacket of stout leather
and a loose cloak lined with plush.
At the last he girded on his sword Tizona, the Dread of the World, then,
surrounded by his friends and his family, the bridegroom walked to the
court, where the king, the bishop, and all the nobles were awaiting him.
Soon the noise of trumpets was heard, and there entered Ximena dressed
in a robe of fine white cloth, brought from London across the seas, with
a border of silver embroidered on it. On her head was a close hood of
the same stuff, and high shoes of red leather were on her feet. Round
her neck was a necklace made of eight round medals, with a little figure
of St. Michael hanging from them.
Don Rodrigo went forward to lift Ximena from her horse, and kissed her,
whispering as he did so:
'It is true, O my lady, that I killed your father, but I did it in fair
fight, as man to man. And in his stead you shall have a husband that
will care for you and protect you to the end of your life.'
Now, although Don Rodrigo was married, he did not stay at home much more
than he had done in other days, and his sword was ever unsheathed in the
service of his king. He was the champion chosen by Fernando to meet in
single combat Martino Gonzalez, the stoutest knight in Spain, and decide
a quarrel between Castile and Aragon. The victory lay with Rodrigo, and
no sooner was the duel over than he rode off to fight the Moors in the
North of Spain. At length the patience of Ximena was worn out, and she
wrote a letter to Fernando in which she told him plainly all that was in
her mind.
'What was the use,' she asked, 'of her marrying Rodrigo if the king kept
him for ever engaged in his service, and away from her?' She had no
father, and might as well have no husband, and she implored his master
to think upon her loneliness, and to let Rodrigo return to her side.
But the king would make no promises, and by-and-by Ximena had a little
girl to comfort her, to whom Fernando stood godfather.
It seems strange that after these great deeds King Fernando never
thought of making Don Rodrigo a knight, but so it was. Not till the long
siege of the city of Coimbra was ended, and the Moorish mosque turned
into a Christian church, was the order of knighthood conferred on Don
Rodrigo in return for the mighty works that he had done. But Don Rodrigo
knew well that his sword-thrusts would have availed him nothing had it
not been for the aid of a Greek bishop who dreamed when at the shrine of
St. James that the gates of the city would only fall when a successor of
the Apostle should appear before them. So the bishop arose and clad
himself in armour and rode into the Christian hosts, and as he drew
near, the walls fell down like Jericho of old, and the army entered in
triumph.
After this the Cid, as men now called him, from a Moorish word which
meant a man of great valour and fame, went home for a short space to see
his wife and his little daughter, who by this time was seven years old
and had never beheld her father. Rest was sweet to Don Rodrigo, but
before it could grow irksome to him he was summoned to court by the
death of Fernando, who left all his children under the wardship of the
Cid. Unluckily, the old man's will had not been a wise one, and bitter
quarrels soon raged between the new king Sancho and his brothers and
sisters. In vain Don Rodrigo tried to heal the feuds, but war soon broke
out, and by his oath of allegiance he was forced, sorely against his
wish, to fight under the king's banner. By his aid Sancho despoiled his
two brothers and one of his sisters of the lands which were theirs by
right, but when the king demanded that he should go as envoy and bid the
princess Doña Urraca yield up her town of Zamora in exchange for much
gold, the Cid prayed him to send someone else, for he could not take
arms against the princess whom he had known when they were children
together. His words, however, were useless. The king would listen to
nothing, and the Cid rode forth to Zamora with a heavy heart. Silently
he bore the reproaches of Doña Urraca, and returned in five days to tell
Fernando that the citizens of Zamora had sworn in his presence, that the
city would never be given up till they all lay dead upon her walls. This
answer so infuriated Don Sancho that he falsely accused the Cid of
having put the words into the mouths of his enemies, and bade him begone
out of the kingdom.
But a man like the Cid could not lightly be dismissed, and very soon the
king was forced to humble himself, and send messengers to beg his
forgiveness. The Campeador was too generous to bear malice, and rode
joyfully back, to find Sancho besieging Zamora. And an ill day it was
for the king when he resolved to wrest his sister's possessions from
her; for one of her citizens, spurred by love to his lady, gained
admittance into the royal camp and offered to betray the city. A
councillor of the princess, the old Arias Gonzalo, cried to the king
from the walls to lend no ear unto the man's words, for he was a
traitor; but Dolfos had a wily tongue, and easily persuaded Sancho to
come with him to see the small door across the trench by which the army
might enter. They were hardly outside the camp when Dolfos struck him
between the shoulders with his spear, and the king rolled in his death
agony on the ground. The sight was seen by Don Rodrigo, who had watched
eagerly and anxiously the movements of Dolfos, and now sprang towards
the traitor with his drawn sword. But Dolfos was too quick for him, and
the postern was flung open by some of the men of Zamora, before the Cid
could get across the trench.
'Oh, fool was I not to have fastened on my spurs, and then I should have
caught him!' cried Don Rodrigo shaking with rage, as he turned sadly
back to stand by the bedside of his dying master, waiting for the
vengeance which the future would bring.
* * * * *
Now directly she heard that King Sancho was dead, Doña Urraca, his
sister, the lady of Zamora, sent the tidings to her brother, Don
Alfonso, in exile at Toledo.
'We have been sent to summon you, King Alfonso,' said the messengers
when they found him, falling on their knees as they spoke. 'Don Sancho
was foully stabbed by Bellido el Dolfos, and the men of Castile and Leon
call on you to take his place. Don Rodrigo only hangs back, and swears
he will never take the oath of fealty till you have proved that you had
no part in the murder of your brother.'
Don Alfonso felt glad at their words. He had received nothing but ill at
the hands of his brother, and he hurried to place himself at the head of
the army of Castile. But the Arab ruler was not willing to let him go,
and many days passed before he was able to escape at night, climbing
silently with a few followers down the walls of Toledo; then, turning
the shoes on the feet of their horses, so that the track should point
south instead of north, they made the best of their way to Zamora.
The nobles received the king with joy, and, kneeling to kiss his hand,
vowed to be true to him. The Cid alone held aloof.
'You are heir to the throne, Don Alfonso,' said he, 'but before I bend
the knee to you I demand that you and twelve of your vassals shall swear
that you are innocent, in deed or in word, of the blood of your
brother.'
'I will swear it,' answered Alfonso, 'when and where you please, and
twelve men of Leon shall swear it likewise.'
'You shall swear to me in the holy cathedral of Santa Gadea in Burgos,'
said the Cid; and thither they all rode silently and solemnly, while Don
Rodrigo, standing at the altar, held out the crucifix to the kneeling
king. But though the oath was taken freely, both by Alfonso and his
vassals, deep in the heart of the Cid lay a doubt of his truth.
'You shall swear it thrice,' he said, and Alfonso, devoured as he was
with rage, knew the Cid's power too well to disobey, though his face
grew pale with wrath.
'You shall answer for this,' he cried as he rose to his feet, and from
that day the king never ceased to seek for an excuse to compass Don
Rodrigo's banishment. At last he found one.
The Moorish king of Toledo laid a complaint against the Cid that, in
spite of his alliance with Alfonso of Castile, his lands had been
ravaged and his people made captive. Well Alfonso knew that it was the
Moors themselves who had broken faith with him, and had wasted the
Spanish territories which lay along their borders, but he eagerly
snatched at the plea, and bade the Cid go, an exile, from Castile, while
his possessions were declared forfeit.
With every insult heaped on him that the king could invent, the Cid left
the city and rode to his castle of Bivar, only to find that his enemies
had been before him and had stripped it bare, while his wife and
children had sought refuge in the convent of San Pedro de Cardeña.
It was on his way thither that the Cid in his dire distress did the one
mean deed recorded of him, which he never ceased to bewail during his
life, and afterwards on his deathbed. He had reckoned on finding money
for his needs at Bivar, and there was none, and he knew not what to do.
In this strait he invited two rich Jews to his tent under the walls of
Burgos, and, pointing to two large chests which stood on the ground, he
told the Jews that they were filled with silver plate, and begged that
they would take them, and give him a thousand crowns in exchange. The
Jews, used though they were to being cheated and despoiled by
Christians, yet trusted to the honour of the Cid, and counted out the
money. Then, placing the coffers on the backs of two stout mules, they
returned with them into Burgos, first promising that they would not open
them till a year had passed. At the time appointed they lifted the lid,
and, behold, the coffers were full of sand!'
But except in this matter, for which his repentance was bitter, the Cid
never ceased in his exile to be true to his knighthood, and in all the
wars which he and his followers made on the Moors he always sent part of
the spoils to Alfonso. At length the king found that he could not do
without him. Young knights there were in plenty, but neither in battle
nor in the council chamber could they vie with Don Rodrigo; so after
many years, when the Cid had captured strong cities and great towns
from the Moors, Alfonso sent messengers to say that he was willing to
pardon him. And the Cid vowed anew to serve him, but his heart was heavy
for the death of his only son in the siege of Consuegra.
[Illustration: DON DIEGO AND DON FERNAN SHOW THAT THEY ARE COWARDS]
From time to time the king's jealousy broke out afresh, and more than
once Don Rodrigo was banished, but in the end the Cid always returned to
Castile, for in truth, as we have said, the land prospered but little in
his absence. After conquering the Moors in Valencia and elsewhere, his
fame and wealth grew greater than ever, and two of the proudest nobles
in Castile, the counts of Carrion, prayed Alfonso to use his rights as
liege lord, and to grant them the Cid's daughters in marriage. Now, the
proposal pleased Don Rodrigo but little, and his wife even less. He knew
something of the two young men who wished to be his sons-in-law, and he
felt that it was his wealth, and not his daughters, that was wooed.
Besides, he liked not the boastfulness of the two brothers, and feared
that beneath their proud and haughty ways the hearts of cowards might be
hidden. But outwardly all was fair-seeming, and when the king in a
meeting on the banks of the Tagus bade the Cid consider well the matter,
Don Rodrigo could only reply that, in his view, his daughters were as
yet too young to be wedded, but that they and all that belonged to him
were in the hands of the king, to be dealt with as he thought best. To
which the king answered that he knew the maidens to be wise beyond their
years, and, summoning the counts of Carrion to his presence, he informed
them that he had resolved to grant their desire, and bade them kneel and
kiss the Cid's hand, which they did with joy. So the next day they all
rode back to Valencia, and the Cid made a feast for fifteen days, and
the marriage rite was performed by the Bishop Geronymo, mighty in
battle.
It was not long after the wedding that the counts showed of what metal
they were made, and that the Cid had read them truly. One evening they
and Don Bermudo, nephew of the Cid, were sitting laughing and jesting in
the hall of the castle, when a cry arose from without, 'Beware of the
lion; he has broken from his den'; and in an instant the huge beast had
sprung through the door. Don Bermudo sat still, waiting to see what the
lion would do, but Don Diego, the elder count, took refuge in a closet,
while Don Fernan, his brother, hid himself under the bed on which the
Cid was stretched sleeping. The noise awoke Don Rodrigo, who sprang up,
when the lion at once lay down on the ground and began to lick his feet.
The Cid stooped and stroked its head, then calling to the beast to
follow, he led it back to its den, which it entered quietly, for it knew
its master well.
'Where are my sons-in-law?' asked he as he entered. 'Methought I heard
their voices but a moment agone.'
'Here,' cried one of his nephews, and 'here' cried another, and the
counts were dragged forth, their fine clothes disordered and their faces
pale with fear.
The Cid looked at them silently, till they grew red with shame and
anger.
'Are these your wedding garments?' said he at last. 'Truly I should
scarce have guessed it'; and he passed on, leaving hate and a longing
for revenge in the young men's hearts.
* * * * *
The matter of the lion did not dwell long in the mind of the Cid, for
news was speedily brought him that the Moorish king of Morocco was
advancing with an army to besiege the fair city of Valencia. He quickly
gathered together a host large enough to give battle in the plain
outside the walls, but while mounting his horse Babieca he counselled
his sons-in-law to remain in safety behind the walls of the town. This
they would gladly have done, but dared not set at naught the mocking
eyes of the knights around them, so, clad in shining armour, they rode
forth with the rest. Hardly had the fight begun, when a Moor attacked
the younger brother, who turned and fled. Another instant and he would
have sunk to the ground, pierced by the enemy's lance, when Don Bermudo
suddenly appeared, and engaged the Moor in deadly combat. After a hard
struggle the infidel was overborne and slain, and the victor turned to
Don Fernan Gonzalez:
'Take his horse and his armour,' he said, 'and tell the Cid it was you
who killed him; I will not gainsay you.' And, as cowards are generally
liars also, Don Fernan gladly snatched at the crown of glory that
belonged to another.
Don Bermudo was rewarded for his generous deed when he saw the joy of
the Cid. Perhaps he had condemned them wrongly, thought Don Rodrigo, and
that the souls of men were at last awaking in them. So he praised them
for their valour, and if there were those present who could have told a
different tale, they held their peace.
* * * * *
But whether they were, perforce, following the Cid in the field, or
basking in the wealth and pleasures of Valencia, the counts of Carrion
never forgot or forgave the scorn they had read in the eyes of the Cid
on the day when they had hidden from the lion. Together they plotted to
take vengeance on them, and it was a vengeance as mean as their souls.
One morning they entered the great hall of Valencia, where the Cid was
sitting, and prayed him to give them their wives, and let them depart
forthwith to their lands. Their words were fair, yet the Cid felt
troubled; why, he knew not.
'I gave you my daughters to wife, at my king's bidding,' answered he at
last, 'and I cannot withhold them from you if indeed you desire to take
them unto your own lands. But see that they are treated as beseems
them; if not, woe to you.'
And the counts of Carrion, with treason in their hearts, promised that
all honour should await their brides.
Eight days hence, the procession passed out of the city gates, and the
Cid went first, with Doña Elvira on his right hand, and Doña Sol on his
left. For the space of a league he rode, and then he reined up his
horse. Calling his nephew Don Ordoño to his side, he bade him follow
unperceived, and bring back news of what befell his daughters.
And so they parted.
For many miles the procession went slowly on, and was received with
kindness and hospitality by the great Moslem lords through whose country
the road lay, a kindness repaid whenever possible by theft and cruelty
by the counts of Carrion. Then, when they had reached a wood which was
neither in the lordship of the Cid nor of the Moors, they felt that the
time for which they had so long waited was come. Ordering the guards and
attendants to ride forward to the Castle of Carrion and prepare for
their reception, the counts scarcely delayed until they were out of
their sight before they dragged their wives from their mules, and
stripped their bodies bare. Next, seizing them by their hair, they flung
them to the ground, and dug their spurs into them till their bodies were
covered with blood.
'Farewell, beautiful damsels,' they cried mockingly, bowing low, 'you
were never fit mates for the counts of Carrion, and, besides, it was
needful to avenge the affront that the Cid your father put on us in the
matter of the fierce beast who would have slain us.' And, stooping low
from their horses, the base knights rode away.
From a distant hill Don Ordoño had seen and heard all that had passed,
and he now came forth to help and comfort his cousins. 'Take heart,' he
said, 'I will bring you your lost garments, and if you have lost your
husbands, who deserve nothing better than the fate of traitors, remember
that you have yet a father, without a peer throughout the world.'
None can tell the wrath of the Cid when his daughters came home. Little
he said, for he was ever a man of few words, but he sent forthwith
messengers to the king, telling him of the base deeds of the counts of
Carrion, and begging for leave to plead his cause before the Parliament
at Toledo. This permission Alfonso granted gladly, and bade the counts
of Carrion to be present also and answer the Cid.
Many days they waited ere Don Rodrigo, accompanied by his wife and
daughters, and followed by a train of nobles, rode through the gates.
The king was sitting surrounded by the Cortes or Parliament, but he
desired that the Cid should be brought to him at once, and then
commanded him to set forth his wrongs.
'It is you, O king, and not I, who gave my daughters in marriage to
these base men, therefore it is you, and not I, who must answer for
this. I ask you that you will force them to restore my swords Colada and
Tizona that I girded on them when they bore my children from Valencia.'
And the hearts of the counts were glad when they heard his words, and
they hasted to place the gold-pommelled swords in the hands of the Cid.
Next, Don Rodrigo demanded that the dowries of his daughters should be
given back to him, and this also the king adjudged to be his right.
Last, he set forth the treatment his daughters had suffered from the
counts of Carrion, and challenged them and also their uncle, who had
ever given them evil counsel, to fight with three of his knights that
day.
Before the combat could take place a sound as of armed men was heard in
the courtyard, and in rode two youths covered with golden armour and
tall plumed helmets, and one was Don Ramiro of Navarre, and the other
Don Sancho of Aragon.
'It has reached our ears,' said they, 'that the marriages between the
counts of Carrion and the daughters of the Cid are about to be set
aside, and we have come to pray that the ladies may be given to us to
wife.'
And the king answered: 'If it pleases the Cid, it pleases me also, but
the Cortes here present must grant its consent.'
So the Cid kissed the hand of the king in token of the honour done him,
and the Cortes cried with one voice that the man who allied himself with
Don Rodrigo de Bivar was honoured above all. Therefore, the weddings
were celebrated without delay, the counts of Carrion having been
pronounced outlaws and their former marriages null and void.
This matter being settled, the king directed that there should be no
more delay in arranging the fight between the champions of the Cid and
the counts of Carrion, which at the request of the counts was to be held
three weeks later in their own castle. Don Rodrigo himself did not mean
to fight. His honour was, he knew, safe in the hands of Don Bermudo and
his other nephews, and he rode blithely home to Valencia. But Alfonso
declared that he would be present to see that the combat was fairly
fought, and it was well that he went, for the counts, thinking
themselves safe on their own lands, had planned treachery. However, the
king, mistrusting them, made a proclamation that in case of false
dealing the traitor should be slain upon the field, and his possessions
be forfeit. Baulked in this direction, the counts then entreated the
king to forbid their foes to use the swords Tizona and Colada which they
had been forced to give up, but Alfonso answered that it was now too
late to make conditions, and they must get to the fight with stout
hearts. This they could not do, for they had not got them, but, finding
there was no help for it, they mounted their horses and put their lances
in rest.
Between such adversaries the combat lasted but a short while. Fernan
Gonzalez was soon unhorsed by Don Bermudo; Don Diego and his uncle
confessed themselves vanquished. Their lands were declared forfeit by
the judges, though their lives were granted them; but the tale of their
cowardice spread far and wide, and none would speak to them or have
dealings with them.
Thus was the Cid avenged.
For five years the Cid lived on in Valencia wearied of wars, and turning
his thoughts to repenting him of his sins, and chief among them the
wrong he had done many years before to the two Jews of Burgos. His
strength grew daily less, till at length he could rise from his bed no
more, neither could he eat food. While he lay in this manner, tidings
were brought him that the Moors were preparing to besiege Valencia. This
news roused the dying man, and for a moment it seemed as if he might be
well again. Clearly he gave his orders how best to resist the attack,
and bade his followers fight under the banner of Bishop Geronymo. 'As
for me,' he said, 'you shall take my body and fill it with sweet spices,
and shall set me once more on Babieca, and place Tizona in my hand. With
cords shall you fasten me to the saddle, and so you shall lead me forth
to my last fight with the Moors. Ximena my wife will care for Babieca,
and when he is dead she will bury him where no Moorish dogs may root up
his grave. And let no women be hired to make mourning for me. I want no
tears to be shed over me but the tears of Ximena my wife. But for the
Christians in this city, well know I that they are too few men to
conquer the Moors, therefore let them prepare their goods, and steal
forth by night, and take refuge in Castile. So farewell to you all, and
pray that God may have mercy on my soul.'
Thus the Cid died, and all was done as he had said, and the king put
rich garments on him, and set Tizona in his hand, and seated him in a
carved chair by the altar of San Pedro de Cardeña.
[_El Romanzo del Cid._]
THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL COUNTENANCE
Everybody knows that in the old times, when Arthur was king or Charles
the Great emperor, no gentleman ever rested content until he had
received the honour of knighthood. When once he was made a knight, he
left his home and the court, and rode off in search of adventures,
seeking to help people in distress who had no one else to help them.
After a while, however, the knights grew selfish and lazy. They liked
better to hunt the deer through the forest than wicked robbers who had
carried off beautiful ladies. 'It was the king's business,' they said,
'to take care of his subjects, not theirs,' so they dwelt in their own
castles, and many of them became great lords almost as powerful as the
king himself.
But though the knights no longer went in search of noble adventures, as
knights of earlier days had been wont to do, there were plenty of books
in which they could read if they chose of the wonderful deeds of their
forefathers. Lancelot and Roland, Bernardo del Carpio, the Cid, Amadis
de Gaule, and many more, were as well known to them as their own
brothers, and if we will only take the trouble they may be known to us
too.
Now, several hundreds of years after Lancelot and Roland and all the
rest had been laid in their graves, a baby belonging to the family of
Quixada was born in that part of Spain called La Mancha. We are not told
anything of his boyhood, or even of his manhood till he reached the age
of fifty, but we know that he was poor; that he lived with a housekeeper
and a niece to take care of him, and that he passed all his days in
company with these old books until the courts and forests which were the
scenes of the adventures of those knights of bygone years were more real
to him than any of his own doings.
'I wish all those books could be burned,' said the noble gentleman's
housekeeper one day to his niece. 'My poor master's wits are surely
going, for he never understands one word you say to him. Indeed, if you
speak, he hardly seems to see you, much less to hear you!'
What the housekeeper said was true. The things that belonged to her
master's every-day life vanished completely bit by bit. If his niece
related to him some scrap of news which a neighbour had run in to tell
her, he would answer her with a story of the giant Morgante, who alone
among his ill-bred race had manners that befitted a Spanish knight. If
the housekeeper lamented that the flour in her storehouse would not last
out the winter, he turned a deaf ear to all her complaints, and declared
that he would give her and his niece into the bargain for the pleasure
of bestowing one kick on Ganelon the traitor.
At last one day things came to a climax. When the hour of dinner came
round, Don Quixada was nowhere to be found. His niece sought him in his
bedroom, in the little tower where his books were kept, and even in the
stable, where lay the old horse who had served him for more years than
one could count. He was in none of these; but just as she was leaving
the stable a strange noise seemed to come from over the girl's head, and
on looking up she beheld her uncle rubbing a rusty sword that had lain
there long before anybody could remember, while by his side were a steel
cap and other pieces of armour.
[Illustration: Don Quixada declared that he would give his housekeeper
and his niece into the bargain for the pleasure of bestowing one kick on
Ganelon the traitor.]
From that moment Don Quixada became deaf and blind to the things of
this world. He was in despair because the steel cap was not a proper
helmet, but only a morion without a vizor to let down. Perhaps a smith
might have made him what he wanted, but the Don was too proud to ask
him, and, getting some cardboard, cut and painted it like a vizor, and
then fastened it to the morion. Nothing could look--at a little
distance--more like the helmet the Cid might have worn, but Don Quixada
knew well that no knight ever went forth in search of adventures without
first proving the goodness of his armour, so, fixing the helmet against
the wall, he made a slash at it with his sword. He only dealt two
strokes, whereas his enemy might give him twenty, but those two swept
clean through the vizor, and destroyed in three minutes a whole week's
work. So there was nothing for it but to begin over again, and this time
the Don took the precaution of lining the vizor with iron.
'It looks beautiful,' he cried when it was finished; but he took care
not to try his blade upon it.
His next act was to go into the stable and rub down his horse's coat,
and to give it a feed of corn, vainly hoping that in a few days its ribs
might become less plainly visible.
'It is not right,' he said to himself, one morning, as he stood watching
the animal that was greedily eating out of its manger--'it is not right
that a knight's good horse should go forth without a name. Even the
heathen Alexander bestowed a high-sounding title on his own steed; and
so, likewise, did those Christian warriors, Roland and the Cid!' But,
try as he might, no name would come to him except such as were unworthy
of the horse and his rider, and for four nights and days he pondered the
question.
Suddenly, at the moment he had least expected it, when he was eating the
plain broth his housekeeper had set before him, the inspiration came.
'Rozinante!' he cried triumphantly, laying down his spoon--'Rozinante!
Neither the Cid's horse nor Roland's bore a finer name than that!'
* * * * *
This weighty matter being settled, the Don now began to think of
himself, and, not being satisfied with the name his fathers had handed
down to him, resolved to take one that was more noble, and better suited
to a knight who was destined to do deeds that would keep him alive in
the memory of men. For eight days he took heed of nothing save this one
thing, and on the ninth he found what he had sought.
'The world shall know me as Don Quixote,' he said; 'and as the noble
Amadis himself was not content to bear this sole title, but added to it
the name of his own country, so I, in like manner, will add the name of
mine, and henceforth will appear to all, as the good knight Don Quixote
de la Mancha!'
Now Don Quixote de la Mancha had read far too many books about the
customs of chivalry not to be aware that every knight worshipped some
lady of whose beauty he boasted upon all occasions and whose token he
wore upon his helmet in battle. It was not very easy for Don Quixote to
find such a lady, for all his life long, the company which he met in his
books had been dearer to him than that which he could have had outside
his home.
'A knight without a liege lady is a tree without fruit, a body without
soul,' he thought. 'Of what use will it be if I meet with some giant
such as always crosses the path of a wandering knight, and disarm him in
our first encounter, unless I have a lady at whose feet he can kneel?'
So without losing more time he began to search the neighbouring villages
for such a damsel, whose token he might wear, and at length found one
with enough beauty for him to fall in love with, whose humble name of
Aldonza he changed for that of Dulcinea del Toboso.
The sun had hardly risen on the following morning when Don Quixote
laced on his helmet, braced on his shield, took his lance in hand, and
mounted Rozinante.
Never during his fifty years had he felt his heart so light, and he rode
forth into the wide plain, expecting to find a giant or a distressed
lady behind every bush. But his joy was short-lived, for suddenly it
came to his mind that in the days of chivalry it never was known that
any man went in quest of adventures without being first made a knight,
and that no such good fortune had happened to him. This thought was so
terrible that he reeled in his saddle, and was near turning the head of
Rozinante towards his own stable; but Don Quixote was a man of good
courage, and in a short while he remembered on how many knights Sir
Lancelot had conferred the honour of knighthood, and he determined to
claim his spurs from the first that he managed to conquer in fight. Till
then, he must, as soon as might be, make his armour white, in token that
as yet he had had no adventures. In this manner he took heart again.
All that day he rode, without either bite or sup, and, of the two,
Rozinante fared the better, for he at least found a tuft of coarse grass
to eat. At nightfall a light as big as a faint star was seen gleaming in
the distance, and both master and horse plucked up courage once more.
They hastened towards it, and discovered that the light came from a
small inn, which Don Quixote's fancy instantly changed into a castle
with four towers and pinnacles of shining silver, surrounded by a moat.
He paused a moment, expecting a dwarf to appear on the battlements and
announce by the blasts of his trumpet that a knight was approaching,
but, as no dwarf could be seen, he dismounted at the door, where he was
received with courtesy by the landlord or the governor of the castle, as
Don Quixote took him to be.
At the sight of this strange figure, which looked as if it had gone to
sleep a thousand years ago, and had only just woke up again, the
landlord had as much ado to keep from laughter as the muleteers and
some women who were standing before the door. But being a civil man, and
somewhat puzzled, he held the stirrup for Don Quixote to alight,
offering to give him everything that would make him comfortable except a
bed, which was not to be had. The Don made little of this, as became a
good knight, and bade the landlord look well after Rozinante, for no
better horse would ever stand in his stable. The man, who had seen many
beasts in his day, did not rate him quite so highly, but said nothing,
and after placing the horse in the stable returned to the house to see
after the master.
As it happened, it was easier to provide for the wants of Rozinante than
for those of Don Quixote, for the muleteers had eaten up everything in
the kitchen, and nothing was left save a little dried fish and black
bread. Don Quixote, however, was quite content; indeed, he imagined it
the most splendid supper in the world, and when he had finished he fell
on his knees before the landlord.
'Never will I rise again, noble sir,' said he, 'until you grant my
prayer, which shall be an occasion of glory to you and of gain to all
men.'
The landlord, not being used to such conduct on the part of his guests,
tried to lift Don Quixote on to his feet, but the knight vowed that he
would not move till his prayer was granted.
'The gift I would ask of you,' continued the Don, now rising to his
feet, 'is that to-night I may watch my arms in the chapel of your
castle, and at sunrise I shall kneel before you to be made a knight.
Then I shall bid you farewell, and set forth on my journey through the
world, righting wrongs and helping the oppressed, after the manner of
the knights of old.'
'I am honoured indeed,' replied the landlord, who by this time saw very
clearly that the poor gentleman was weak in his wits, and had a mind to
divert himself. 'As a youth, I myself wandered through the land, and my
name, the champion of all who needed it, was known to every court in
Spain, till a deadly thrust in my side, from a false knight, forced me
to lay down my arms, and to return to this my castle, giving shelter and
welcome to any knights that ask it. But as to the chapel, it is but a
week since it was made level with the ground, being but a poor place,
and in no way worthy of the service of noble knights; but keep your
watch in the courtyard of my castle, as your books will have told you
that others have done in case of need. Afterwards, I will admit you into
the Order of Chivalry, but before you take up your vigil tell me, I pray
you, what money you have brought with you?'
This question surprised the Don very much.
'I have brought none,' he answered presently, 'for never did I hear that
either Roland or Percival or any of the great knight-errants whose
example I fain would follow, carried any money with them.'
'That is because they thought it no more needful to say that they
carried money or clean shirts than that they carried a sword or a box of
ointment to cure the wounds of themselves or their foes, in case no
maiden or enchanter with a flask of water was on the spot,' replied the
landlord; and he spoke so long and so earnestly on the subject that the
Don promised never again to start on a quest without money and a box of
ointment, besides at least three clean shirts.
It was now high time for his watch to begin, and the landlord led the
way to a great yard at the side of the inn. Here the Don took his arms,
and piled them on a trough of stone that stood near a well. Then bearing
his lance he walked up and down beside his trough.
For an hour or two he paced the yard, watched, though he knew it not, by
many eyes from the inn windows, which, with the aid of a bright moon,
could see all that happened as clearly as if it were day. At length a
muleteer who had a long journey before him drove up his team to the
trough, which was fed by the neighbouring well, and in order to let his
cattle drink, stretched out his arms to remove the sword and helmet
which lay there. The Don perceived his aim, and cried in a voice of
thunder:
'What man are you, ignorant of the laws of chivalry, who dares to touch
the arms of the bravest knight who ever wore a sword? Take heed lest you
lay a finger upon them, for if you do your life shall pay the forfeit.'
It might have been as well for the muleteer if he had listened, and had
led his cattle to water elsewhere, but, looking at the Don's tall lean
figure and his own stout fists, he only laughed rudely, and, seizing
both sword and helmet, threw them across the yard. The Don paused a
moment, wondering if he saw aright; then raising his eyes to heaven he
exclaimed:
'O Lady Dulcinea, peerless in thy beauty, help me to avenge this insult
that has been put upon me'; and, lifting high his lance, he brought it
down with such a force on the head of the man that he fell to the ground
without a word, and the Don began his walk afresh.
He had not been pacing the yard above half an hour when another man, not
knowing what had befallen his friend, drove his beasts up to the trough,
and was stooping to move the Don's arms, so that the cattle could get at
the water, when a mighty blow fell on _his_ head, splitting it nearly
into pieces.
At this noise the people from the inn ran out, and seeing the two
muleteers stretched wounded on the ground picked up stones wherewith to
stone the knight. The Don, however, fronted them with such courage that
they did not dare to venture near him, and the landlord, making use of
their fears, called on them to leave him alone, for that he was a
madman, and the law would not touch him, even though he should kill them
all. Then, wishing to be done with the business and with his guest, he
made excuses for the rude fellows, who had only got what they deserved,
and said that, as there was no chapel to his castle, he could dub him
knight where he stood, for, the watch of arms having been completed, all
that was needful was a slap on the neck with a palm of the hand and the
touch of the sword on the shoulder.
[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE BELABOURS THE MULETEER]
So Don Quixada was turned into Don Quixote de la Mancha, and, mounting
Rozinante, he left the inn, and with a joyful heart started to seek his
first adventure.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES WHO TURNED OUT TO BE FLOCKS OF SHEEP
The first adventure of the new knight did not turn out at all to his
liking, nor answered his expectations, for in all the books of chivalry
which he had read, never had he heard of a good knight being sorely
wounded by a mere pack of common fellows, as happened to himself shortly
after leaving the inn; though indeed he comforted his soul by thinking
that, had not Rozinante stumbled over a stone and fallen, it would have
fared ill with his foes.
He lay upon the ground for some time, aching in every bone, and
repeating in a weak voice some lines out of his favourite romance of the
'Marquis of Mantua,' when a labourer from his own village came by and
went to see if the man stretched on his back across the road was dead or
only wounded.
'What ails you, master?' asked he; but as the vizor over the Don's face
prevented his answer being understood, the labourer pulled it off with
some trouble, and then stood, staring with surprise.
'Master Quixada!' cried he, wiping off the blood as he spoke, 'what
villain has served you like this?' but, as Don Quixote only replied to
his questions with long stories of the heroes of romance, the man gave
it up, and after gathering up the stray bits of armour, and even the
broken lance, helped the Don on to his own ass and took Rozinante by the
bridle.
In this manner Don Quixote returned home.
When the knight dismounted and entered the house he found his
housekeeper and niece filled with dismay, and bewailing his loss to the
priest and the barber, who were wont to spend many an hour in company
with the Don, listening to the strange tales that were always on his
tongue. The joy with which they heard his well-known knock, in the
middle of their discourses, was somewhat spoilt when they saw the
condition he was in, and he stopped them quickly when they flew to
embrace him.
'Let no one touch me,' cried he, 'for by the falling of my horse I am
sore wounded. Carry me to bed, and summon the wise woman Urganda to heal
me with her enchanted water.'
'Oh, never fear, your worship, we can cure you without her,' answered
the housekeeper; 'and right glad we are to see you back, wounded or
not.'
So between them all they bore him up the narrow stairs and laid him on
his bed. And when he was undressed they sought his wounds, but found
none, only a black bruise so they told him.
'Is it so?' he answered. 'Then the deeds that I did were yet more
valorous than I thought. It was while I was fighting with ten giants,
the biggest and strongest who ever gave battle to any Christian knight,
that Rozinante fell, and I with him.'
'Oh! so there are giants in the dance now,' whispered the priest to the
barber. 'I will not close my eyes this night till the books which have
brought this evil are safely in the fire.' And, so saying, they left Don
Quixote to sleep.
* * * * *
He was still sleeping next morning, when the priest came to ask for the
keys of the little room where Don Quixote kept the old books he so much
loved. They were handed to him with joy by the girl, who held books to
be the enemy of all mankind, and when they all four entered they found
more than a hundred volumes large and small, which was a great number
for so poor a gentleman. One by one the priest examined them, and
condemned them to the flames, unless by chance there was any doubt about
their wickedness; that is, unless they had been written by a friend of
the priest. In these cases, after the barber had been consulted, the
books escaped the doom of the rest.
For fifteen days Don Quixote stayed at home and seemed content to stay
there, passing the evenings in talk with the priest and the barber.
Nothing was needed, he said, to put right the wrongs of the world, save
a new order of knighthood, of which he had set the example. After much
of this talk he suddenly remembered that a knight ever had a squire
riding behind him, and that before he rode forth on his next quest he
must needs provide himself with such an one. This was almost as hard a
matter as finding a liege lady, but at length he bethought him of a poor
peasant living in the same village, who possessed a wife and children,
and not much else. This man he sent for, and promised him such great
things and such noble rewards that Sancho Panza, for such was his name,
readily agreed to serve him. 'Who knows,' said Don Quixote, 'what island
I may conquer, and it would then fall to you to be the governor, or if
you disdain the island, and would prefer to follow my fortune, I can
make you Count at least! But, remember, my business admits of no delay,
and next week we go forth to seek adventures. Meanwhile, I will give you
money wherewith to provide all that is needful for our journeying, and
take heed that you bring wallets with you.'
'Worshipful knight,' answered Sancho Panza, 'I will do all that you bid
me, but, by your leave, I will bring my ass also, for she is a good ass,
and never did I walk when a beast was at hand.'
'I know not,' replied Don Quixote, 'if any knight was ever yet followed
by a squire mounted on an ass's back. Yet, bring the beast, for it will
doubtless not be long before I meet some discourteous knight, whom I
will speedily overcome, and his horse shall be yours.'
When all was ready, Sancho Panza bade his wife and children farewell,
and, joining his master, they rode for some hours across a wide plain
without seeing anything which would enable them to prove their valour.
At length Don Quixote reined up Rozinante with a jerk, and turning to
his squire he said:
'Fortune is on our side, friend Sancho. Look there, what huge giants are
standing in a row! thirty of them at the least! It is a glorious chance
for a new-made knight to give battle to these giants, and to rid the
country of this wretched horde.'
'What giants?' asked Sancho, staring about him. 'I see none.'
'Those drawn up over there,' replied the Don. 'Never did I behold such
arms! Those nearest us must be two miles long.'
'Go not within reach of them, good master,' answered Sancho anxiously,
'for they are no giants, but windmills, and what you take for arms are
the sails, by which the wind turns the mill-stones.'
'How little do you know, friend Sancho, of these sorts of adventures!'
replied Don Quixote. 'I tell you, those are no windmills, but giants.
Know, however, that I will have no man with me who shivers with fear at
the sight of a foe, so if you are afraid you had better fall to praying,
and I will fight them alone.'
[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE DETERMINES TO ATTACK THE WINDMILLS]
And with that he put spurs to Rozinante and galloped towards the
windmills, heedless of the shouts of Sancho Panza, which indeed he never
heard. Bending his body and holding his lance in rest, like all the
pictures of knights when charging, he rushed on, crying as he went, 'Do
not fly from me, cowards that you are! It is but a single knight with
whom you must do battle!' And, calling on the Lady Dulcinea to come
to his aid, he thrust his lance through the sail of the nearest
windmill, which happened to be turned by a sharp gust of wind. The sail
struck Rozinante so violently on the side that he and his master rolled
over together, while the lance broke into small pieces.
When Sancho Panza saw what had befallen the Don--though indeed it was no
more than he had expected--he rode up hastily to give him help. Both man
and horse were half stunned with the blow; but, though Don Quixote's
body was bruised, his spirit was unconquered, and to Sancho's complaint
that no one could have doubted that the windmills were giants save those
who had other windmills in their brains, he only answered:
'Be silent, my friend, and do not talk of things of which you know
nothing. For of this I am sure, that the enchanter Friston, who robbed
me of my books, has changed these knights into windmills to rob me of my
glory also. But in the end, his black arts will have little power
against my keen blade!'
'I pray that it may be so,' said Sancho, as he still held the stirrup
for his master, when he struggled, not without pain, to mount Rozinante.
'Sit straighter in your saddle,' went on the worthy man; 'you lean too
much on one side, but that doubtless comes from the fall you have had.'
'You speak truly,' replied Don Quixote; 'and if I do not complain of my
hurt, it is because it was never heard that any knight complained of a
wound, however sore!'
'If that is so, I am thankful that I am only a squire,' answered Sancho;
'for this I can say, that I shall cry as loud as I please for any pain,
however little it may be--unless squires are forbidden to cry out as
well as knights-errant.'
At this Don Quixote laughed, in spite of his hurts, and bade him
complain whenever he pleased, for squires might lawfully do what was
forbidden to knighthood. And with that the conversation ended, as
Sancho declared it was their hour for dinner.
Towards three o'clock they returned to the road, which Don Quixote had
left on catching sight of the windmills. But before entering it the
knight thought well to give a warning to his squire.
'I would have you know, brother Sancho,' said he, 'that in whatsoever
danger you may see me you shall stand aside, and never seek to defend
me, unless those who set on me should come of base forefathers, and not
be people of gentle birth. For if those who attack me are knights, it is
forbidden by the laws of chivalry that a knight be attacked by any man
that has himself not received the honour of knighthood.'
'Your lordship shall be obeyed in all that you say,' answered Sancho,
'and the more readily that I am a man of peace, and like not brawls.
But, see, who are these that approach us?'
The question was natural, for the procession advancing along the road
was a strange one, even at that day. First came two monks of the Order
of St. Benedict, mounted on mules so large that Don Quixote, with some
reason, took them to be dromedaries. The better to conceal their faces
they had masks, and carried parasols. After them came a coach which had
for a guard four or five mounted men and two muleteers, and inside the
coach was seated a lady on her way to join her husband in the city of
Seville. In reality the monks were strangers to her, and had nothing to
do with her party, but this Don Quixote did not know, and, being ever on
the watch to give help to any who needed it, he said:
'Either my eyes deceive me, or this is the most wonderful adventure that
ever fell to the lot of a knight. For those black shapeless monsters
that you see yonder are magicians carrying off some princess, and I must
undo this wrong with all the strength I have.'
'Look you, master,' answered Sancho hastily, 'if you take up with this
adventure, you will fare worse than you did with the windmills. Those
are no magicians but monks of St. Benedict, while the others are
travellers, journeying for business or pleasure. Think, I pray you, lest
it be a snare of the Evil One.'
'I have often told you, Sancho, that, being what you are, you can know
nothing of adventures,' replied Don Quixote; 'but what I have said, I
do, as you will see'; and as he spoke he planted himself in the middle
of the road, and awaited the approach of the friars.
As soon as they drew near enough for his voice to reach their ears, Don
Quixote cried loudly:
'Fiends and scum of all the wicked, set free on this instant the captive
princess whom you hold imprisoned in that coach, or else prepare for
death, which is the just punishment of all your crimes.'
The monks reined in their mules and stared at Don Quixote, whose figure,
to say truth, was no less startling than his words. At first they were
very angry, then gentler counsels prevailed, and they answered:
'Fair sir, we are neither fiends nor scum, but only two friars of St.
Benedict, who are riding peacefully along the king's highway, and know
nothing of any captive princess.'
'Miscreants that you are, do you think I am a man to be deceived by
false speeches?' cried the Don, now beside himself with fury, and,
dashing with his lance in rest at the friar next him, he would indeed
have given him his last shrift had not the monk slipped cleverly from
the other side of his saddle, so that the lance passed over his head.
His companion, fearing that like treatment was in store for him,
galloped away with all his might.
As for the squire, directly he saw the man fall to the ground he ran up
and began to strip off his clothes, till he was stopped in this
proceeding by a blow on his head from one of the attendants of the two
monks. The friar, left to himself, jumped on his mule, and rode off
pale and trembling to rejoin his companion, while Don Quixote busied
himself with conversing with the lady in the coach, and assuring her of
his protection.
* * * * *
It were long indeed to tell of the many battles delivered by Don
Quixote, who troubled himself little about the sore wounds he received
on his own body as long as he could give aid to those in distress. What
grieved him far more than mere sword-thrusts or bruises was the loss of
his helmet.
But, come what might, his spirit was never daunted, though he could not
deny that, as Sancho Panza truly said, never had they gained any battle,
unless they counted one which was doubtful, and even at that the knight
had come off the poorer by half an ear and half a helmet.
'From the first day we set out,' went on the good squire, 'until this
moment, we have received nothing but blows and more blows, beatings and
more beatings, over and above the tossing I once got in a blanket. And
you tell me that the fellows who maltreat me so are enchanted, and would
not feel my blows if I had a chance of returning them. In truth, my eyes
are too dull to see where lies the pleasure of conquering one's foes, of
which your worship is always telling me.'
'Ah, Sancho, that is just what grieves me,' answered Don Quixote sadly;
'but henceforth I will seek to gird myself always with a sword that
shall be enchanted in such a manner that it will defend me from any
spells they may try to throw over me. Maybe that Fortune will send me
that of Amadis, one of the keenest blades in the world, and the best
sword that ever knight had. But look, do you see that cloud of dust
rising out there? That tells us that a large army, made up of men and
nations without number, are marching towards us.'
'By that way of reckoning,' answered the squire, 'another army must be
advancing to meet them, for behind us the cloud is just as thick.'
Filled with joy at the thought of fighting two armies, Don Quixote
turned to look, and his heart beat high. The dust was so thick that
neither he nor Sancho could perceive that the clouds of dust were caused
by two immense flocks of sheep. To the mind of the knight they _could_
be nothing but vast armies, and this he declared so positively that at
length Sancho Panza came to believe it also. The squire, however, looked
on the fact with very different feelings to his master, and asked
anxiously:
'Noble sir, what are we to do?'
'What _can_ we do,' replied the knight, 'except fly to the help of those
who need it? For you must know, friend Sancho, that the army in front of
us is led by the Emperor Alifanfaron, while the other, which is marching
to meet him, is Pentapolin of the Uplifted Arm, so called because he
rides into battle with his right arm bare.'
'And what is their quarrel?' asked Sancho.
'Alifanfaron is a Moslem, yet desires to marry the daughter of
Pentapolin,' replied Don Quixote, 'but her father will not give her to
him till he ceases to be an unbeliever.'
'By my beard,' cried Sancho, 'if I see this Pentapolin driven back I
will strike a blow for him with all my might.'
'And you will do well,' replied Don Quixote, 'for in such battles it is
not necessary to be a knight.'
'But what shall I do with my ass?' inquired the squire anxiously, 'for I
suppose that until this day no man has ever yet ridden into combat on an
ass.'
'Let him loose,' said Don Quixote, 'and think no more of him, for after
we have vanquished our enemies we shall have such choice of horses that
I may light upon one even better than Rozinante! But let us stand on
yonder little hill, for I would fain describe to you the names and arms
of the noble knights that are approaching.'
For a long while he spoke, telling his squire of the countries from
which those leaders of the armies had come. And truly it was wonderful
to listen to him, seeing that they were all children of his own brain.
From time to time Sancho Panza stared hard at the dust, trying to see as
much as his master, and at last he cried:
'If there is a knight or a giant there, they must be enchanted like the
rest; for, look as I may, I cannot see them.'
'How can you speak such words?' answered Don Quixote reproachfully. 'Do
you not hear the horses neighing, the drums beating, the trumpets
sounding?'
'No, I hear nothing of all that,' replied Sancho stoutly; 'all _I_ hear
is the bleating of sheep and of ewes.' And as he spoke the dust was
lifted by the wind, and he saw the two flocks in front of them.
'It is the deadly fear which has overtaken you,' answered Don Quixote,
'which has clouded your eyes and ears, and made everything seem
different from what it is. If you are afraid, stand aside then, for my
arm alone carries victory with it'; and, so saying, he touched Rozinante
with his spurs, and with his lance in rest galloped down the hill,
unheeding the cries of Sancho, who shrieked out that it was only a flock
of sheep that he saw, and that there were neither giants nor knights to
fight with.
He might have spared his voice, for Don Quixote, if he heard him, which
is doubtful, rode on without turning his head, shouting defiance at the
Moslem leader, and spearing the sheep which could not get out of his
way, as if they were indeed the soldiers he took them for.
When the shepherds had recovered from this unexpected onslaught, they
shouted with all their might to Don Quixote to leave off spearing their
sheep, but, as he paid no heed to their warnings, they took out the
slings they carried with them, and whirling them round their heads let
fly large stones. Don Quixote, however, cared no more for the stones
than he had done for the cries, and galloped up and down wildly, calling
as he went:
'Proud Alifanfaron, where can I find you? I, a solitary knight,
challenge you to meet me in single combat, that I may avenge the wrongs
that you have done to the noble Pentapolin!' Doubtless the knight would
have said still more had not a stone hit him on his side at that very
moment, breaking two of his ribs. At first he thought he was dead, but,
recollecting the balsam which he kept in his wallet, he drank a draught
of it, although it was only intended to be laid on the outside of wounds
and bruises.
He was still in the act of swallowing it when another missile struck him
full on the face, and knocked out some of his teeth. He reeled in his
saddle from the blow, and then fell heavily to the ground.
The shepherds, frightened at what they had done, ran up to look at him,
and seeing him lying there senseless, drove quickly off the rest of
their flock, leaving the seven that Don Quixote had speared stretched
beside him.
Directly the shepherds had departed, Sancho Panza came down to look
after his master, and finding him bruised and bleeding, but not stunned,
he fell to reproaching him for his folly. But the knight only answered
that if the enemies around him seemed to bear the likeness of sheep, it
was only because they had been enchanted, and that their fellows now
marching along the road would soon regain their proper shape, and become
straight men and tall again.
Then, with Sancho's help, he mounted Rozinante, and the two rode slowly
along the road, hoping that they might shortly discover an inn, where
they could get food and rest.
_THE ADVENTURE OF THE BOBBING LIGHTS_
Both Rozinante and his master had fared so ill at the hands of the
shepherds that they journeyed but slowly, and darkness fell without
their having reached an inn, or even caught sight of one. This grieved
sorely both knight and squire, for not only did all Don Quixote's bones
ache from the stoning he had undergone, but somehow or other their
wallets had been also lost, and it was many hours since they had broken
their fast.
In this plight they travelled, man and beast hanging their heads with
fatigue, when they saw on the road, coming towards them, a great
multitude of lights, bobbing up and down, as if all the stars of heaven
were shifting their places. Neither Don Quixote nor Sancho felt much at
their ease at this strange spectacle, and both pulled up their beasts,
and waited trembling. Even Don Quixote feared he knew not what, and the
hair stood up on his head, in spite of his valour, as he said to Sancho:
'There lies before me, Sancho, a great and perilous adventure, and one
in which I must bear a stout heart.'
'It seems to be an adventure of phantoms,' whispered Sancho fearfully,
'which never was to my liking.'
'Whatever phantoms they be,' answered the knight, 'they shall not touch
a hair of your head,' replied Don Quixote soothingly. 'If they mocked at
you in the inn, it was for reason that I could not leap the fence. But
here, where the ground is open, I can lay about me as I will.'
'And what if they bewitch you, as they did that other time?' asked the
squire. 'How much will the open ground profit you then'?
'Trust to me,' replied Don Quixote, 'for my experience is greater than
yours'; and Sancho said no more.
They stood a little on one side watching the lights approaching, and
soon they saw a host of men clad in white riding along the road. The
squire's teeth chattered at the sight of them, and his terror increased
when he was able to make out that the moving stars were flaming torches
which men in white shirts carried in their hands, and that behind them
followed a litter draped in black. After the litter came six other men
dressed in black and mounted on mules. And Sancho had no doubt that he
saw before him shadows from the next world.
Though Don Quixote's heart quailed for a moment at the strangeness of
the vision, he soon recalled his valour. In an instant his fancy had
changed the litter into a bier, and the occupant into a knight who had
been done to death by foul means, and whom he was bound in honour to
avenge. So he moved forward to the middle of the road, and cried in a
loud voice:
'Proud knights, whoever you may be, stand and give me account of
yourselves, and tell me who it is that lies in that bier. For either you
have done an ill deed to some man, or else a wrong has been done to
you.'
'Pardon me, fair sir,' answered the foremost of the white-shirted men,
'but we are in haste, and the inn is far. We have no time for
parleying.'
This reply only confirmed Don Quixote's worst suspicions.
'Stop, or you are a dead man,' cried he in tones of thunder. 'Tell me
who you are and whither you are going, or else I will fight you all';
and with that he seized the mule by the bridle. The mule, not being used
to such rough treatment, reared herself up on her hind legs, so that her
rider slipped off her back. At this sight one of the other men ran to
his aid, calling the knight all the ill names he could think of, which
so inflamed the anger of Don Quixote that he laid about him with his
spear on every side. Even Rozinante seemed to have gotten a new spirit
as well as a new body, for he turned him about so nimbly that soon the
plain was covered with flying white men, still holding the bobbing
torches. The mourners who rode behind did not escape so easily, for
their long skirts and cloaks hindered them from moving, and Don Quixote
struck and beat them just as he would, till they took him to be a giant
or enchanter rather than a man.
Sancho, as was his custom, bore no part in the fray, but stood by and
said to himself: 'Had ever any man such a master!'
When Don Quixote's rage was somewhat abated, he paused and gazed about
him. Then, seeing a burning torch lying on the ground, and a figure near
it, he went up, and perceived by the light that it was the man whom he
had first attacked.
'Yield, or I will slay you!' he shouted, and the man answered grimly:
'I seem to have "yielded" as much as can be required of me, as my leg is
broken. If you are indeed a Christian knight, I pray you of your
nobility to spare my life, as I am a member of the Holy Church.'
'Who brought you here, then?' asked Don Quixote.
'Who? My ill fortune,' replied he. 'I and the eleven priests who have
fled with the torches set forth as escort to the body of the gentleman
that lies in the litter, bearing it to its tomb in the city of Segovia,
where he was born.'
'And who killed him?' said Don Quixote, who never imagined that any man
could die naturally.
'He died by reason of a most pestilent fever,' answered the wounded man.
'Then,' replied Don Quixote, 'I am delivered from the duty of avenging
his death, which would otherwise have fallen to me. For in case you are
ignorant, I would have you know that I am the knight Don Quixote de la
Mancha, and it is my place to wander through the world, helping those
that suffer wrongs and punishing those who inflict them.'
'As to helping those who suffer wrongs,' replied the churchman, 'for my
part I can see nothing but that it is you and no other who have
inflicted the wrong upon me. For whereas I was whole before, you have
given me a thrust which has broken my leg, and I shall remain injured
for ever.'
'You and your friends the priests,' answered Don Quixote, in no wise
abashed by this remark, 'have wrought the evil yourselves by coming in
such wise, and by night, that no man could think but that you were ill
creatures from another world.'
'Then, if you repent you of the wrong that you have done me,' said the
man, 'I pray you, worshipful knight, to deliver my leg from the bondage
of this ass, who has my leg fastened between the stirrup and the
saddle.'
The kind heart of Don Quixote was shocked at his thoughtlessness, and he
answered quickly:
'You should have told me of your pain before, or I might have talked on
till to-morrow'; and he called to Sancho Panza, who was busily robbing
the mule that carried the provisions. Hearing his master's voice, Sancho
left off with an ill grace, and, placing the bag of food on his own
donkey, went to see what his master wanted.
Between them both they set the mule on its feet, and the man on its
saddle. Don Quixote then put the torch in his hand and bade him ride
after his companions, and not to forget to ask their pardon in his name
for the wrong he had unconsciously done them.
'And,' added the squire, 'if your friends should ask the name of this
gentleman, who now craves their forgiveness, tell them that it is the
famous Don Quixote, the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance!'
_THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO_
The morning after the last adventure Don Quixote and his squire were
riding along the road, when the knight saw in front of him a man on
horseback, with something on his head which looked as if it were made of
gold.
'If my eyes do not deceive me,' he said, turning to Sancho Panza, 'here
comes one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino.'
'If I had your worship's leave to speak,' answered Sancho, who was by
this time beginning to learn a little wisdom, 'I could give many reasons
to show that you are mistaken.'
'How _can_ I be mistaken?' cried Don Quixote angrily. 'Do not you see
for yourself that a knight is coming towards us, mounted on a grey horse
and with a golden helmet on his head?'
'All that _I_ can see,' replied the squire, 'is that the man is mounted
on a grey donkey like my own, and he has on his head something that
glitters.'
'What you see,' answered Don Quixote solemnly, 'is the helmet of
Mambrino.[194-1] Go, stand aside and let _me_ deal with him, for without
even speaking to him I will get possession of his helmet, for which my
soul has always longed.'
[194-1] Mambrino was one of the Moorish kings, to whom the helmet
belonged. He who wore it could not be wounded in battle.
Truth to tell, the real story of the helmet, for so Don Quixote took it
to be, was very simple. A rich man who lived in a village only a few
miles away had sent for the nearest barber to shave and bleed him. The
man started, taking with him a brass basin, which he was accustomed to
use, and, as a shower of rain soon came on, he put the basin on his head
to save his hat, which was a new one. The ass, as Sancho Panza rightly
said, was very like his own.
The good man was jogging comfortably along, thinking what he would like
for supper, when suddenly he saw Don Quixote galloping towards him, head
bent and lance in rest. As he drew near he cried loudly:
'Defend yourself, or give me up the helmet, to which you have no right.'
The barber was so taken by surprise that for a moment he did nothing;
then he had only just time to escape the lance thrust by sliding off his
ass and running so swiftly over the plain that even the wind could
scarcely overtake him. In his flight the basin fell from his head, to
the great pleasure of Don Quixote, who bade his squire bring it to him.
'The Unbeliever who wore this helmet first must have had indeed a large
head,' cried he, turning it over in his hands, seeking the vizor; 'yet,
even so, half of it is wanting.'
At this Sancho began to laugh, and his master asked him what he found to
divert him so much.
'I cannot but laugh when I think how large was the head of the
Unbeliever,' replied Sancho gravely, knowing that the knight did not
love the mirth of other men. 'But, to my mind, the helmet looks exactly
like a barber's basin.'
'Listen to me,' answered Don Quixote, 'and I will tell you what has
happened. By a strange accident this famous helmet must have fallen to
the lot of someone who did not know the value of his prize. But, seeing
it was pure gold, he melted half of it for his own uses, and the rest he
made into a barber's basin. Be sure that in the first village where I
can meet with a skilled workman I will have it restored to its own
shape again, and meanwhile I will wear it as it is, for half a helmet is
better than none.'
'And what,' inquired Sancho, 'shall we do with the grey horse that looks
so like an ass? The beast is a good beast.'
'Leave the ass or horse, whichever it pleases you to call it,' replied
the Don, 'for no knight ever takes the steed of his foe, unless it is
won in fair fight. And perchance, when we have ridden out of sight, its
master will come back and seek for it.'
Sancho, however, was not overmuch pleased by this speech.
'Truly the laws of chivalry are strict,' he grumbled, 'if they will not
let a man change one donkey for another! And is it forbidden to change
the pack-saddle also?'
'Of that I am in doubt,' replied Don Quixote; 'and until I have certain
information on this point, if your need is great, you may take what you
need.'
Sancho hardly expected such good fortune to befall him, and stripping
the ass of his harness he speedily put it upon his own beast, and then
laid out the dinner he had stolen from the sumpter mule for himself and
his master.
Not long after this event, as Don Quixote and his squire were riding
along the road, discoursing as they went of matters of chivalry, they
saw approaching them from a distance a dozen men or more, with iron
chains round their necks, stringing them together like beads on a
rosary, and bearing iron fetters on their hands. By their side were two
men on horseback carrying firelocks, and two on foot with swords and
spears.
'Look!' cried Sancho Panza, 'here come a gang of slaves, sent to the
galleys by the king.'
'What is that you say--_sent_?' asked Don Quixote. 'Can any king _send_
his subjects where they have no mind to go?'
'They are men who have been guilty of many crimes,' replied the squire,
'and to punish them they are being led by force to the galleys.'
'They go,' inquired Don Quixote, 'by force and not willingly?'
'You speak truly,' answered Sancho Panza.
'Then if that is so,' said the knight, 'it is my duty to set them free.'
'But think a moment, your worship,' cried Sancho, terrified at the
consequences of this new idea; 'they are bad men, and deserve punishment
for the crimes they have committed.'
Don Quixote was silent. In fact, he had heard nothing of what his squire
had said. Instead he rode up to the galley-slaves, who by this time were
quite near, and politely begged one of the soldiers who had charge of
them to tell him of his courtesy where these people were going, and why
they were chained in such a manner.
The guard, who had never read any of the romances of chivalry, and was
quite ignorant of the speech of knights, answered roughly that they were
felons going to the galleys, and that was all that mattered to anybody.
But Don Quixote was not to be put aside like this.
'By your leave,' he said, 'I would speak with them, and ask of every man
the reason of his misfortune.'
Now this civility of the knight made the soldiers feel ashamed of their
own rudeness, so one of them replied more gently than before:
'We have here set down the crimes of every man singly, but if your
worship pleases you may inquire of the prisoners yourself. And be sure
you will hear all about their tricks, and more too, for it is a mighty
pleasure to them to tell their tales.'
The soldier spoke truly; and wonderful were the stories which Don
Quixote listened to and believed, until the knight, smitten by
compassion, turned to the guards and implored them to set free the poor
fellows, whose sins would be punished elsewhere.
'I ask you to do this as a favour,' he ended, 'for I would willingly owe
you this grace. But, if you deny me, my arm and my sword will teach you
to do it by force.'
'That is a merry jest indeed,' cried the soldier. 'So we are to let go
the king's prisoners just because you tell us to do it. You had better
mind your own business, fair sir, and set that pot straight on your
head, and do not waste your time in looking for five feet in a cat.'
Don Quixote was so furious at the man's words that he felled him to the
earth with a blow from his sword, while for a moment the other guards
stood mute from surprise. Then seizing their weapons they rushed at Don
Quixote, who sat firm in his saddle as became a knight, awaiting their
onslaught. But for all his valour it would have gone hard with him had
not the attention of the soldiers been hastily called off by the
galley-slaves, who were taking advantage of the tumult to break their
fetters. The chief among them had snatched the sword and firelock of the
man whom Don Quixote had overthrown, and by merely pointing it at the
other guards he so frightened them that they fled in all directions,
followed by a shower of stones from the rest of the captives.
'Let us depart from here,' whispered Sancho Panza, knowing better than
his master in what a sorry plight they might presently find themselves.
'If we once reach those hills, none can overtake us.'
'It is well,' replied the knight; 'but first I must settle this matter,'
and, calling together the prisoners, he bade them go with all speed and
present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and say that
they had come by the command of the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance,
and further to relate the doughty deeds by which they had been set free.
[Illustration: HOW THE GALLEY SLAVES REPAID DON QUIXOTE]
At this the convicts only laughed, and replied that if they were to
fulfil his desires and travel together in a body they would soon be
taken captive by their enemies, and would be no better off than before,
but that in gratitude for his services they would be willing to pray for
him, which they could do at their leisure.
This discourse enraged Don Quixote nearly as much as the words of the
guard had done, and he answered the fellow in terms so abusive that the
convict's patience, which was never very great, gave way altogether, and
he and his comrades, picking up what stones lay about, flung them with
such hearty goodwill at the knight and Rozinante, that at length they
knocked him right out of the saddle. The man then dragged the basin from
his head, and after dealing him some mighty blows with it dashed it to
the ground, where it broke in pieces. They next took the coat which he
wore over his armour, and stripped the squire of all but his shirt.
Having done this, they went their ways, fearing lest they might be
overtaken.
_HOW DON QUIXOTE WAS ENCHANTED WHILE GUARDING THE CASTLE_
In the course of their adventures Don Quixote and his squire found
themselves at the door of an inn which they had already visited, where
they met with many friends. The hours were passed in pleasant discourse,
and in the telling and reading of strange stories; the company parted at
night well satisfied with their entertainment.
Don Quixote, however, did not share in these joys, for he was sorely
cast down by reason of wounds he had received a few days previously in
seeking to right a wrong. So, leaving the remainder of the guests to
each other's society, he threw himself on the bed that had been made for
him, and soon fell fast asleep.
The guests below had forgotten all about him, so absorbed were they in
the interest of a tale of woeful ending, when the voice of Sancho Panza
burst upon their ears.
'Hasten! hasten! good sirs; hasten and help my master in the hardest
battle I have ever seen him fight. By my faith, he has dealt such a blow
to the giant that his head he has cut clean off.'
'What is that you say?' asked the priest, who was reading out the tale.
'Are you out of your senses, Sancho?' But his question was lost in a
furious noise from above, in which Don Quixote might be heard crying:
'Rogue, thief, villain! I have you fast, and little will your sword
avail you'; then followed loud blows against the wall.
[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE'S BATTLE WITH THE WINE-SKINS]
'Quick, quick! don't stand there listening, but fly to the aid of my
master. Though, indeed, by this time there can be little need, for the
giant must be dead already, and will trouble the world no more. For I
saw his blood spurt and run all over the floor, and his head is cut off
and fallen to one side.'
'As I am alive,' exclaimed the innkeeper, 'I fear that Don Quixote has
been fighting with one of the wine-skins that I put to hang near the
bed, and it is wine not blood that is spilt on the ground.' And he ran
into the room, followed by the rest, to see what had really happened.
They all stopped short at the sight of Don Quixote, who did, in truth,
present a most strange figure. The only garments he had on were a shirt
and a little red cap; his legs were bare, and round his left arm was
rolled the bed covering, while in the right he held a sword, with which
he was cutting and thrusting at everything about him, uttering cries all
the while, as if in truth he were engaged in deadly combat with a giant.
Yet his eyes were tight shut, and it was clear to all that he was fast
asleep; but in his dream he had slashed at so many of the skins that the
whole room was full of wine. When the innkeeper perceived this, the loss
of his wine so enraged him that he in his turn flew at the knight, and
struck him such hard blows with his fists that, had not the priest and
another man pulled him off, the war with the giant would soon have
ended.
Still, curious to say, it was not until a pannikin of cold water had
been poured over him by the barber that Don Quixote awoke, and even then
he did not understand what he had been doing, and why he stood there in
such a dress.
Now the priest had caught hold of Don Quixote's hands, so that he should
not beat those who were pouring the water over him, and the knight,
having only partly come to his senses, took him for the princess, for
whose sake he had made war on the giant.
'Fair and gracious lady,' he said, falling on his knees, 'may your life
henceforth be freed from the terror of this ill-born creature!'
'Well, did I not speak truly?' asked Sancho Panza proudly. 'Has not my
master properly salted the giant? I have got my earldom safe at last.'
For Sancho never ceased to believe in the knight's promises.
Everyone was driven to laugh at the strange foolery of both master and
man, except the innkeeper, whose mind was still sore at the loss of his
wine-skins. The priest and the barber first busied themselves in getting
Don Quixote, now quite worn out with his adventure, safely into bed, and
then went to administer the best consolation they could to the poor man.
Many days passed before Don Quixote was well enough to leave the inn,
but at length he seemed to be cured of the fatigue he had undergone
during his previous adventures, and had bidden his squire get all things
ready for his departure. Maritornes, the servant at the inn, and the
innkeeper's daughter, having overheard the plans of Don Quixote,
resolved that he should not leave them before they had played him some
merry tricks.
That night, when everyone else had gone to bed, and Don Quixote, armed,
and mounted on Rozinante, was keeping guard in front of the inn, the two
girls crept up to a loft. Nowhere in the inn was there such a thing as a
proper window, but in the loft was a hole through which the knight could
be seen, leaning on his lance uttering deep sighs and broken words about
the Lady Dulcinea.
The innkeeper's daughter, falling in with his humour, advanced to the
hole, and invited him to draw a little nearer. Nothing more was needed
than for Don Quixote to imagine that the damsel was sick of love for
him, and he told her straightway that any service he could do her short
of proclaiming her his liege lady she might command. Upon this,
Maritornes informed him that her mistress would be content were she
permitted to kiss his hand, which Don Quixote answered might be done
without wrong to the Lady Dulcinea. So, without more ado, he passed it
through the hole, when it was instantly seized by Maritornes, who
slipped a noose of rope over his wrist, and tied the other end of it
tightly to the door of the loft.
After that they both ran off, overflowing with laughter, leaving the
knight to reproach them for their ill-usage.
There the poor knight remained, mounted on Rozinante, his arm in the
hole and his hand fastened to the door, fearing lest Rozinante should
move and he should be left hanging. But in this he did wrong to his
horse, who was happy enough to stand still.
Then Don Quixote, seeing himself bound, instead of seeking to unloose
himself as many others would have tried to do, sat quietly in his
saddle, and dreamed dreams of the enchantment which had befallen him.
And thus he stayed till the day dawned.
His dreams were rudely broken into when there drew up at the inn door
four men well armed and mounted. As no one answered their knock, they
repeated it more loudly, when Don Quixote cried to them:
'Knights or squires, or whoever you may be, it is not for you to knock
at the gates of this castle; for sure, any man might tell that those
within are asleep, or else it is their custom not to open until the sun
touches the whole floor. You must wait until it is broad day, and then
it will be seen whether you can be admitted within the gates.'
'What sort of castle is this, which receives no guests without such
ceremonies?' mocked one of the men. 'If you are the innkeeper, bid your
servants open to us without delay. We are neither knights nor squires,
but honest travellers, who need corn for our horses, and that without
delay.'
'Have I the air of an innkeeper?' asked Don Quixote loftily.
'I do not know of what you have the air,' answered the man, 'but this I
_do_ know, and that is that you are jesting when you call this inn a
castle.'
'But it _is_ a castle,' replied Don Quixote, 'and one of the finest in
the whole country! And within are those who carry crowns on their heads
and sceptres in their hands.'
'It may well be that inside are players with crowns and sceptres both,'
answered the traveller, 'for in so small an inn no real kings and their
trains would find a place'; and, being weary of talking, he knocked at
the door with more violence than before.
Meanwhile, one of the horses had drawn near to Rozinante, wondering what
the strange creature could be, of a form like unto his own, but to all
outward seeming formed of wood. Rozinante, cheered by the presence of
one of his own kind, moved his body a little, which caused Don Quixote
to slip from his saddle, and to remain hanging by his arm, though his
feet almost touched the ground. The pain of thus being suspended from
his arm was so great that, knight though he was, he shrieked in agony,
till the people in the inn ran to the doors to see what was the matter.
Maritornes alone, fearing punishment, slipped round another way, and
unfastened the cord which bound Don Quixote, who dropped to the ground
as the travellers came up, and in answer to their questions mounted
Rozinante, and, after riding round the field, reined up suddenly in
front of them, crying:
'Whoever shall proclaim that I have suffered enchantment I give him the
lie, and challenge him to meet me in single combat.'
But instead of answering his defiance the guests merely stood and stared
at him, till the innkeeper whispered that he was a noble gentleman, a
little touched in his wits, so they took no further notice of his words.
This so enraged Don Quixote that he was only withheld from fighting them
all by remembering that nowhere in the records of chivalry was it
lawful to undertake a second adventure before the first had drawn to a
good end.
Meanwhile a new strife had begun in the inn, for two of the travellers
who had lodged there during the night were found trying to leave the inn
without paying their reckoning. But it happened that the landlord
detected their purpose and held them fast, upon which the two fellows
set on him with blows, till his daughter ran to Don Quixote and implored
his help.
'Beautiful damsel,' replied the knight slowly, 'just now I cannot listen
to your prayer, for the laws of chivalry forbid my engaging in a fresh
adventure. But tell your father to keep his assailants at bay, while I
ride to the Princess Micomicona, in whose service I already am, and ask
her leave to aid him in his trouble.'
'And long before your return,' cried Maritornes, 'my poor master will be
in another world'; but Don Quixote, not heeding her, turned his back,
and, falling on his knees before a lady present, begged that she would
grant him permission to rescue the lord of the castle.
This being given, the knight braced on his shield and drew his sword,
and hastened to the inn door, where the two men were still beating the
landlord. But the moment he reached the combatants he stopped and drew
back, in spite of the entreaties of Maritornes and of the innkeeper's
wife.
'It has come into my mind,' he said, 'that it is not lawful for me to
give battle to any except belted knights. Now there are no knights here,
and the task belongs to my squire Sancho, who I will bid to undertake it
in my stead.'
So the fight still raged, till at length the men's arms grew tired,
which, Don Quixote seeing, he persuaded them to make peace, and the two
guests to pay the sum which they rightly owed the landlord.
_DON QUIXOTE'S HOME-COMING_
By this time the company of friends who had been passing their days so
pleasantly at the inn, were called away by other business, but, not
liking to leave Don Quixote to himself, they contrived a plan by which
the priest and barber were to carry him home, where they hoped his wits
might come back to him.
So they set about making secretly a large cage of poles, having the
sides latticed, so that Don Quixote should receive both air and light,
and this cage was to be placed on a bullock-cart which happened to be
going in the same direction. The rest of the company put on masks and
disguised themselves in various manners, so that the knight might not
know them again.
These preparations being finished, they stole softly into his room at
the dead of night and tied his hands and feet firmly together. He woke
with a start, and, seeing the array of strange figures about him, took
them to be the phantoms which hovered about the enchanted castle, and
believed without doubt that he himself was enchanted likewise, for he
could neither move nor fight.
This reasoning pleased the priest greatly, as in just such a manner he
had reckoned that the knight would behave. Sancho alone had been left in
the garments that he commonly wore, and he was not deceived by the
ghosts who passed before him. But he looked on and said nothing till he
should see how the matter turned out.
When all was ready, Don Quixote was picked up and carried to the cage,
where they laid him at full length, but taking good care to nail the
door, so that it could not be opened. Then a voice was heard from behind
to utter a prophecy, which Don Quixote understood to mean that he was
setting forth on his wedding journey, and that he was to be bound in
marriage to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, whose name he had always
upheld in battle.
The knight responded joyfully to the words he heard, beseeching the
mighty enchanter in whose power he was not to leave him in his prison
till these glorious promises had been fulfilled, and appealing to Sancho
never to part from him either in good or ill fortune. Sancho bowed in
answer and kissed his master's hand; then the ghosts took up the cage
and placed it on a waggon.
Don Quixote beguiled the way after his usual fashion, recalling the
stories of enchantments he had read, yet never finding a knight who had
been enchanted after his fashion.
'No knight that ever _I_ heard,' said he, 'was drawn by such heavy and
sluggish animals. Strange it is indeed to be carried to adventures in an
ox-cart, instead of flying through the air on a griffin or a cloud! Yet,
mayhap, the new chivalry, of which I am the first knight, may have new
ways'; and with that he contented himself, and discoursed to Sancho
about the ghosts, while Rozinante and the ass were saddled. Then Sancho
mounted his ass and took Rozinante's rein, the priest meanwhile giving
the troopers a few pence a day to ride by the ox-cart as far as Don
Quixote's native village.
After allowing Don Quixote to bid farewell to the good people gathered
at the inn door, the priest, still masked, gave the signal to the
driver, and the cart drawn by the oxen started at a foot's pace. The
troopers rode on each side to guard it, and behind them came Sancho
riding on his ass, leading Rozinante, while the priest and the barber,
mounted on a pair of fine mules, brought up the rear.
They journeyed in silence for some time, till the driver of the ox-cart,
who was a lazy fellow, called a halt as he himself wished to rest, and
the grass was rich and green for the oxen. Soon they were joined by a
company of well-dressed men on horseback, who stopped in surprise on
seeing such a strange sight as that of a man in a cage. The leader of
the party, who made himself known to them as a canon of Toledo, entered
into conversation with the captive knight. Don Quixote informed him that
he was enchanted by reason of envy of his glorious deeds, which was
denied by Sancho Panza, who declared that when he was at liberty his
master ate, drank, and slept like other people, and if no one hindered
him would talk more than thirty lawyers.
The canon and his friends rode on with the priest for some distance, as
he desired greatly to hear the tale of Don Quixote's adventures, for
never before had he met with such a strange man. In the heat of the day
they again rested in a shady spot, and here, at the petition of the
squire, Don Quixote was unloosed from his bonds and set at liberty.
For a while he was content to pass the hours of his journey in hearing
and telling of matters of chivalry, rejoicing to find himself once more
on the back of Rozinante. But unfortunately the sight of a procession of
men in white approaching him stirred up all his anger, for, as was his
custom, he instantly divined that they were assembled for some unlawful
purpose, though in sooth they were a body of penitents praying that rain
might fall upon their thirsty land. He dashed up to battle, followed by
Sancho on foot, who arrived just at the moment that his master fell to
the ground stunned by a tremendous blow. The penitents who formed the
procession, seeing so many men running up, received them with fists and
candlesticks, but when one of them cast his eyes on the priest who was
journeying with Don Quixote he found that he had known him formerly,
and begged him to tell what all this might mean.
By the time the story was told Don Quixote's wits began to return to
him, and he called to Sancho to put him back into the cage, as he had
been nigh dead, and could not hold himself on Rozinante.
'With all my heart,' answered Sancho, thankful that the adventure had
ended no worse; 'and if these gentlemen will do us the honour to go with
us, we will return home and there make plans for adventures that will
bring us more profit and glory.'
* * * * *
The villagers were all gathered together in the great square, when at
the end of six days a cage containing a man passed through their midst.
The people pressed close to see who the captive might be, and when they
saw it was Don Quixote, they sent a boy to tell his housekeeper and his
niece that the knight had come back looking pale and lean from his
wanderings.
Loud were the cries raised by the good women when they saw him in so
sorry a plight, and they undressed him and put him to bed with what
speed they were able.
'Keep him there as long as you may,' said the priest who had brought
him; but it is whispered that this period of rest and repose did not
last, and that soon Don Quixote might have been seen again mounted on
Rozinante and seeking adventures.
[_Don Quixote._]
_THE MEETING OF HUON AND OBERON, KING OF THE FAIRIES_
In the days of the emperor Charles the Great there lived two young men
named Huon and Gerard, sons of the duke of Bordeaux and heirs of his
lands. Now by all the rules of chivalry they were bound to hasten to
Paris as soon as their father died and do homage to the emperor as their
liege lord; but, like many other youths, they were careless of their
duties, and put off the long and tedious journey from day to day.
This conduct was particularly foolish, because there was present at the
emperor's court the famous earl Amaury, who, rich though he was, coveted
the estates of the duke of Bordeaux, and whispered in the ear of his
master that the young men were rebels and traitors. By this time Charles
was old, and his mind, as well as his body, had waxed feeble; the crown
was too heavy for him, and he was thinking of resigning it to his son
Charlot. So Amaury cunningly represented to him that he must summon the
young men to his court without delay, and then himself plotted with
Charlot to waylay and kill them. But, though they made their plans with
great care, fortune was on the side of Huon and Gerard, for they
defended themselves so bravely that, though they were taken by surprise,
Gerard only received a slight wound, while Charlot was slain by Huon.
When Amaury returned to Paris with these dreadful tidings, the emperor
was beside himself with anger, and ordered Amaury to fight a duel with
Huon, who was the elder of the two, and bid him take heed not to spare
him. As Huon was young and slight, and Amaury one of the strongest men
at the court, neither the emperor nor the earl ever had a moment's doubt
with whom the victory would lie; but if Amaury was more powerful, Huon
was quicker on his feet, and before long he had stretched his enemy dead
upon the ground.
The emperor was watching the fight from a window of his palace, and his
anger at the triumph of Huon was so great that it very near killed him.
Still, as the duel had been fairly fought, he dared not punish Huon, and
he was forced to content himself with sending him on a mission to the
king of Babylon, knowing well the perils which would beset him on the
way.
The small vessel in which Huon sailed for Jerusalem met with so many
dangers that oftentimes the young duke thought that he would be dead
long before he had touched the shores of Palestine. Thrice they were
attacked by pirates, who were hardly beaten off; twice such terrible
storms arose that they were almost driven on the rocks, and once they
had much ado to avoid being drawn into a whirlpool. But somehow or other
they escaped everything, and Huon was safely landed on the holy soil
with his uncle Garyn and a few followers.
* * * * *
He was at first so thankful to be on dry land again that he felt as if
his journey was already over, but he soon found that the worst part was
yet to come. Leaving Jerusalem behind them, the little band entered a
desert, dreary and boundless as far as they could see. Hunger and thirst
they suffered, and death felt very near them, when at last they reached
a tiny hut, before which an old man was sitting. At the sight of Huon,
thin and wasted as he had grown, the old man broke into sobs, crying
that his face was like unto the face of the duke of Bordeaux, whom he
had known when he was young.
'Thirty years have I dwelt in these deserts,' said he, 'and never have
my eyes lighted on the face of a Christian man.'
Then Huon answered that he was indeed the son of the duke of Bordeaux
whom he had known in his youth, and while they rested each man told his
tale.
'It is indeed good fortune that guided you here,' said Gerames when Huon
had ended his story, 'for without me and my counsel never would you have
reached the kingdom of Babylon. There are two roads which lead to that
great city; one will take you forty days, and the other fifteen days,
but if you will be ruled by me you will travel by the longer.'
'And wherefore?' asked Huon, whose body was still sore from the
hardships he had suffered, and whose ears had been tickled with the
tidings of the soft couches and lovely gardens of Babylon the Great.
'The short way leads through a wood which is the home of fairies and
other strange creatures,' answered Gerames, 'and in it dwells Oberon,
the king of them all, in stature no higher than a child of three years
old, but with a face more beautiful than any worn by mortal man. His
voice is softer and his words more sweet than we are wont to use; but
beware of listening to them, for should you speak to him one word, you
will fall into his power for ever. But if you hold your peace think not
to escape that way, for he will be so wroth with you that he will cause
all manner of tempests to spring up, and a great and black river to rise
before you. Fear not to pass this river, black and swift though it be,
for it is but a fantasy, and will not even wet the feet of your horse.
And now that I have told you the ills that lie in that wood, I pray you
hearken to my counsel, and ride by the way that is longer.'
Huon paused before he answered. In sooth, Gerames' words had not
awakened dread in his soul. Instead, he desired greatly to meet that
dwarf, and to try whose will should prove strongest. So he answered that
it would ill become a knight, and the son of his father, to shun a
meeting with anyone, be he man or fairy, and it might be well for him to
take the short road, for many adventures might befall him by the longer.
'Sir,' said Gerames, 'be it as you will; whichever way you take I will
go with you.'
Then Huon and Gerames rode at the rear of their company, and entered the
wood where Oberon, king of the Fairies, abode. For two days they had
neither food nor drink, and Huon repented him of his journey and wished
that he had hearkened to Gerames, as perchance the other road might have
been easier.
'Let us all alight and seek for food,' said he; but at that moment,
Oberon, richly dressed, and covered with precious stones, appeared
before them. A magic bow was in his hand, whose arrows never failed to
hit the beast he aimed at, while round his neck was slung a horn. Now
this horn was unlike any other in the whole world, for one blast of it
could cure a man's sickness, even if he was nigh to death, or make him
feel satisfied if he lacked meat, or joyful though he was poor, or
summon whomsoever he wanted, if he was distant a hundred days' journey.
Seeing the doleful plight of the little company, Oberon blew the third
blast, and, behold! Huon and his companions began to sing and dance, as
if good fortune had come to them.
'Ah, what strange thing has come to pass!' cried the young knight. 'But
now I was like to fall from my horse from hunger, but in an instant I am
filled and wish for nothing.'
'Sir,' said Gerames, 'it is Oberon who has wrought this; but do not
suffer yourself to be drawn into speech with him, or you will rue it.'
'Have no fears for me,' answered Huon, 'I will be steadfast.'
[Illustration: The Meeting of Huon and Oberon]
He held his head very high when Oberon the dwarf came up, and begged
the knight to speak to him; but Huon only leaped on his horse and signed
to his men to do likewise. At that the dwarf waxed angry, and bade a
tempest arise, and with it came such a rain and hail that they were sore
affrighted. Many times Gerames prayed them to take courage, for these
were devices of the fairy king, and would not really hurt them, and as
long as they spoke no words they would be safe.
'Have no doubt of me,' answered Huon.
For a while they lost sight of the dwarf, and Huon vainly hoped that
they had beaten him off, and that they were rid of him. But in a little
time they reached a bridge which spanned a great river, and on the
bridge was Oberon himself. Fain would they have slipped past him, but
the bridge was narrow, and Oberon stood in the middle. Once more he
spoke soft words to Huon, and offered to do him service, but Huon held
his peace. Again Oberon was angered sorely, and blew a blast which
hindered the company from riding onwards, while four hundred knights of
his own came galloping up.
'Slay these men at once,' he cried, shaking with wrath, but their leader
implored him to spare them for a space.
'It will be time enough to kill them if they still keep silence,' said
he; and Oberon agreed that he would give them yet another chance, and
Huon and his companions rode hastily onwards.
* * * * *
'We have left him full five miles behind us,' said Huon, drawing rein;
'and now that he is not here to trouble us I will say that never in my
life did I see so fair a creature. Nor do I think he can do us any ill.
If he should come again, I fain would speak to him, and I pray you,
Gerames, not to be displeased with me thereat.'
Gerames' heart was heavy at these words, but he knew well the wilfulness
of young men, and he answered nothing. For fifteen days they rode on,
and Gerames began to hope that Oberon had given up their pursuit, when
suddenly he again appeared.
'Noble sir,' he said to Huon, 'have you resolved in good sooth not to
speak to me? I know all your past life, and the task set you by the
emperor, and without my help never will you come to the end of that
business. Therefore, be warned by me, and go no further.'
'You are welcome, sir,' answered Huon at last, and Oberon laughed for
very joy.
'Never did you give a greeting so profitable as this one,' he said, and
they rode on together.
_HOW OBERON SAVED HUON_
Oberon was so rejoiced that Huon had at last made friends with him, that
he did everything that he could think of to give pleasure to the knight
and his friends.
'There is nothing in the world that I cannot have by wishing for it,'
said he, 'and all I possess is yours. And to prove that my words are not
vain I will set before you the richest feast that ever you ate. After
you have finished, you shall go whithersoever you will.'
So they ate and drank to their hearts' content, but, before they
departed, Oberon bade one of his fairy knights to bring him his golden
cup, which he showed to Huon.
'Behold,' he said, 'this cup is empty, and will so remain, if any man
who has done a deadly sin should seek to drink of it. But he who has led
a goodly life, the moment that he takes it in his hands it will become
full of wine. Make proof of it yourself, and if you are found worthy the
cup shall be yours.'
'Alas, sir,' answered Huon, 'I fear very greatly that I have sinned too
deeply for that cup to have any virtue for me, but yet I have repented,
and desire from henceforth to wrong no one.' Then he lifted the cup, and
the wine brimmed over.
Oberon was right glad when he saw this sight, and gave the cup into his
keeping.
'As long as you are true and faithful, you shall never lack drink in
it,' said he, 'but if you do falsely to any man, it will lose all its
virtue and my help will go from you also. I have likewise another gift
for you: take this horn of ivory, and when you are in great straits,
and will blow it, however far I may be, I will come to you, and will
bring with me a great company to lend you aid. But beware, as you set
store by my friendship and by your life, that you do not blow the horn
lightly.'
'I give you great thanks for your kindness, and will hearken to your
words,' said Huon; 'and now, I pray, let me depart hence to do the
emperor's bidding.'
So the knight and the fairy king took leave of each other, and they
fared on their way, and in the evening they sat and rested in a green
meadow, and ate and drank of the food that Oberon had given them. Now
Huon was uplifted by the gifts the king had given him, and thought that
he himself must be in some way better than other men, to be singled out
for such honour, and, as young men will, he began to boast and talk
idly, making pretence that he doubted the magic qualities of the horn
and the cup, so that he might prove them at once before his company.
'It was a fair adventure for me when I spoke to Oberon,' said he, 'and
that I did not listen to the counsel of Gerames. When I fulfil my
mission and return unto the court of the emperor, I will present him
with the cup, the like of which he has not got in all his treasury. But
as for the horn, how do I know if Oberon spoke the truth concerning it?'
'Oh, sir, be not rash, I entreat you!' cried Gerames, 'for he charged
you straitly not to blow the horn save in your direst need.'
'Ay, surely,' answered Huon, 'but for all that I will try what power it
has,' and, raising it to his mouth, he blew a loud blast.
At that all the company rose up, and sang and danced joyfully, and
Garyn, Huon's uncle, begged him to blow the horn once more.
Oberon heard it, though he was full many miles away.
'What man is so bold as to seek to do him ill whom I love best in all
the world?' said Oberon. 'I wish myself and a hundred good men in his
company'; and in an instant Huon and his friends beheld the horses'
skins flashing in the bushes. Then Huon's soul smote him, and he bowed
his head before Oberon, saying:
'Sir, I have done ill; tell me quickly if death must be my punishment?'
'Where are those that would work you evil?' asked Oberon sternly; but in
spite of his wrath Huon took heart of grace, and, confessing his folly,
prayed for pardon, which Oberon granted him for very pity, knowing, he
said, that Huon would have much to suffer, some things through the
wicked ways of others, but more from his own pride and self-will. Then,
bidding the young man farewell afresh, the fairy king rode back to the
wood.
All befell just as the fairy king had foretold. Giants and mortals alike
barred his way; small would have been his chance of ever reaching
Babylon had not Oberon himself watched over him, and sent him help when
he knew it not. Only one thing he asked of Huon in return--to keep
himself from ill-doing and lies, so that he might be worthy to drink
from the golden cup.
And thus it came to pass that after many perils Huon knocked at the
first of the four gates of the city.
No sound was heard in answer to his knock, so he seized the great bell
that hung there, and rang it loudly. At this a porter opened a little
lattice, and asked what great lord it might be who demanded admittance
in so rude a fashion, to which Huon answered hotly that he was an envoy
from the emperor Charles, and that if the porter refused him entrance he
would have to answer for it to his own master.
At that the porter said that if the stranger was an infidel like
themselves, the gates should be thrown open at once, but that, should he
allow any Christian to enter, he would pay for it with his head.
'But I am as much a Saracen as yourself,' said Huon, who only thought of
getting into Babylon and paid no heed to the lie he was telling, or to
the dishonour of his words. Then the gates were opened wide, and he
entered.
It was not till he was crossing the bridge which stood before the second
gate that the wickedness of what he had done came upon him, and then he
felt ashamed, and sorry, and frightened altogether. And how should he
pass through the other three gates without again denying his faith and
steeping himself in dishonour? He was about to turn back in despair,
when he remembered the two good gifts of a giant whom he had overcome--a
suit of armour which no sword could pierce, and a ring which would throw
open all doors. So he showed the ring to the porters that guarded all
the other three doors, and soon found himself in the garden of the
palace.
Even the groves of palms, and the trees of delicious fruits, could not
make him forget the lie he had uttered. Indeed, if he had wished to do
so, he could not, for presently he came to a fountain beside which was
written that no traitor should drink thereof on pain of being destroyed
by the serpent that dwelt therein. At this Huon suddenly felt himself
forsaken of all, and he sat down and wept bitterly.
'O noble King Oberon, listen to me once more,' he cried, and tremblingly
blew his horn.
'I help no liars,' said the fairy king when the blast echoed through the
forest, and, though Huon could not hear his answer, the silence soon
told him what it was.
'If he slays me, at least it will be soon over,' he thought to himself,
and, putting forth all his strength, he blew a fresh blast.
This time it was so loud that it reached the ears of the lord of
Babylon, who was sitting at a feast in the Hall of Moonbeams. And he
rose up, together with his nobles and their squires and their wives and
daughters, and every one in the palace from the least to the greatest,
and began to dance and sing. They sang and danced as long as the horn
kept on blowing, and when it had ceased the ruler of Babylon called to
his lords and bade them follow him into the garden, as of a surety some
great enchanter must have strayed therein.
'Seek him and bring him to me, wherever I be,' commanded the emir; but
the gardens were so large, and it took so long to find Huon, that the
emir went back into the palace and laid himself down on a pile of soft
cushions at the end of the hall.
By his side on a great carved chair was the king of a neighbouring
country, who arrived hither only a few days before to beg for the hand
of the emir's fair daughter, the princess Esclaramonde, who was said to
be the loveliest maiden in the whole world. To be sure, it was whispered
among the courtiers that the princess did not look on him with a
favourable eye, when she had watched his arrival from behind her
lattice, and that more than once she had protested that she was too ill
to leave her room when sent for by her father; but of course, if
marriage was resolved upon, it would have to be.
Huon had heard talk of these things between his guards when they were
marching through the gardens that were almost as big as a town, and up
the long flight of marble steps that led to the palace. He said nothing;
perhaps by this time he had learnt a little wisdom, but he knew who the
man was whose dress was so rich and his air so proud, and before anyone
even saw him lift his arm the king's head was rolling in the dust.
For a moment all remained still, too astonished to speak. Then the emir
recovered his wits, and ordered Huon to be carried off to a dungeon, and
not to be let go or the guards lives would be forfeit. But quick as
thought Huon held out his hand with the ring on it.
'Do you know this?' he said, and the king started back at the sight of
it, and cried to the soldiers to let the prisoner go, for in that place
he might do whatsoever he would. At this permission Huon turned to where
the princess Esclaramonde was sitting by her father, and kissed her
thrice.
The emir was not altogether pleased at this fashion of Huon's, but he
said nothing, and in a moment the knight told him how the emperor had
sent him to pray the emir to become a Christian, otherwise he should
proceed against him with a mighty host.
The emir laughed in scorn as he listened to Huon's vain boast.
'Fifteen envoys has he despatched on a like errand,' answered he, 'and
all fifteen have I hanged. Right willingly should you make the sixteenth
but for the ring which you wear. Tell me, I pray you, whence you got
it?'
But when Huon confessed that it had been given him by the giant, the
emir waxed more wroth than before, and ordered his guards to seize him
and cast him into prison, which in the end they did, though he resisted
them well by reason of the harness that was on him.
For a long space Huon lingered in that dark prison, and sad indeed would
have been his lot had it not been for the secret visits of the princess
Esclaramonde, who, the better to preserve his life, assured her father
of his death.
At length, when the emir was sore beset by the army of the giant
Agrapart, she deemed it a favourable time to betray to her father that
Huon was still alive in his prison, and was ready to do battle with the
giant if, as was usual in that country, the princess's hand should be
given to the victor. Both the emir and the giant agreed that their
quarrel should stand or fall by single combat, and so the fight began.
[Illustration: HUON DEFEATS THE GIANT AGRAPART]
Huon felt in his heart that there was more at stake than even the hand
of the princess. He stood forth as the champion of Christendom amidst a
host of pagans, and it behoved him to strike with all his strength. In
the end the victory was his, and the giant Agrapart was overcome, but
his life was spared on condition that he would serve the emir faithfully
all his days, which solemn oath he took gladly. After that, Huon drew
out the cup the fairy king had given him, and, having made the sign of
the cross over it, it was filled with wine, and he drank of it. For he
had long since repented of the lie he had told, and was clean again.
Then the emir tried to drink also, but no wine would come.
'You must forsake your false gods, and be a Christian such as I am,'
said Huon, 'and if you like not fair words you shall see how an armed
host pleases you;' but, as was natural, the ruler of Babylon was not the
man to be moved by such persuasions. He angrily bade Huon cease, and to
speak to him no more on the matter or all the hosts of Charlemagne
himself should not avail to save his head.
'You will repent you too late,' said Huon, and blew his horn.
At first the emir and his courtiers began to dance and sing wildly, they
knew not wherefore, while in the wood far away Oberon heard the sound.
'Huon, my friend, has great need of me,' he thought to himself, 'and his
ill-doings have been punished enough, so I will pardon him, for there is
not in all the world so noble a man. Therefore I wish myself at his
side, with a thousand men behind me.' And in another moment, no man
could tell how, Oberon and his men were within the walls of Babylon. The
guards of the palace fell before them on every hand, till at last they
reached the emir himself.
'He is yours to spare or to slay,' said Oberon, and once more the knight
gave the Paynim his choice.
'Be a Christian or you die,' said Huon, and the emir made answer:
'I will never forsake my own.' They were the last words he spoke, for
his head rolled upon the floor. After that Huon cut off the emir's beard
and pulled out four of his teeth, and hid them in the beard of his old
friend Gerames, who had lately returned to Babylon.
'Now I must leave you,' said Oberon, when these things were over. 'See
that in all ways you behave yourself as a good and true knight should
do, and have no share in ill-doings. I bid you take ship and carry the
princess Esclaramonde, your bride, into France, and guard her from all
ills on the way. And if you do not that which I bid you, great evil
shall happen unto you.'
But, alas! no sooner was the ship out of sight of land than the good
counsels of Oberon faded out of Huon's mind, and he fell into many sins.
The cup would not fill with wine, and Oberon was deaf to the blast of
the horn. Then an awful tempest arose; the ship struck on a rock and was
rent in pieces, and all were drowned save Huon and the princess, who
were washed on an island. But even here they were not safe, for Huon was
bound and tortured, and left under a tree, while Esclaramonde was
carried away by the pirates who were dwellers on the isle.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, the knowledge of Huon's plight had reached Oberon, and, angry
though he was, he began to think how best to send help to him, when a
monster of the sea, called Mallebron, who had before given him aid on
his journey to Babylon, begged to be allowed to deliver him once more.
'It pleases me well,' answered Oberon, 'that this caitiff Huon should
suffer pain for the evil that he has wrought, but if you love him so
much that for his sake you shall endure to wear the shape of a fish for
twenty years longer I will grant you your wish on two conditions. Carry
him away from the island and place him on the mainland, only never more
let mine eyes light on him. Be careful also to bring back to me my
golden cup, my horn, and my fairy armour, for it is long since he has
shown himself unworthy of them.'
So Mallebron swam straightway to the island, and, finding Huon fast
bound, as Oberon had said, he loosed him, and he stood on his feet. But
when Huon heard the message of Oberon he was sore angered, and,
forgetting his own misdeeds, complained bitterly of Oberon's hardness
of heart in commanding that the gifts he had given him should be yielded
up again. But, wail as he might, he could not move Mallebron, who bade
him farewell, and departed with Oberon's treasures.
It were long to tell of Huon's adventures after he had left the island.
At one time he took service with a minstrel and was his varlet. At
another time he was forced to play chess for the hand of a king's
daughter, but refused to marry her when he had won the game.
Unknowingly, he once fought with Gerames, and only found out who he was
in the course of the battle. He afterwards entered the city with him,
and visited Esclaramonde, who was a captive in the palace, and right
glad were they to meet. After that he and some French knights who had
joined him were besieged in the castle by the Paynims, and were rescued
by a French ship, which carried Huon and Esclaramonde and all the
company on their way to Wana, together with much treasure which they had
found in the castle.
But, happy though Huon felt on the road home again, he heard with wrath
that Gerard, his brother, had persuaded the emperor that by now Huon
must be dead, and that _he_ was rightful heir to the duchy. It was so
long since any tidings had been received of Huon--for none had fared
that way--that some thought Gerard spoke reasonably, and upheld his
suit, which in the end was granted by Charles. And no sooner was the new
duke invested with the lands than he began to oppress all his subjects,
till the duchess his mother died of grief at the misery of her people.
'He shall pay me for that,' muttered Huon grimly.
There was one thing, however, that could not be delayed a moment more
than was needed, and this was the marriage between Huon and
Esclaramonde, for the princess had promised to become a Christian and to
receive baptism at the hands of the pope. So they bade the captain put
into the port nearest to Rome, and, taking horse, rode thither as fast
as they might.
The pope was seated on his throne with his threefold crown on his head,
holding counsel with his cardinals, when Huon and his company entered
the hall two by two, and saluted humbly. At the sight of Huon leading
Esclaramonde by the hand, the pope, who had once visited the court of
the duke of Bordeaux, and remembered the face of Huon, rose up to greet
him, kissed him on both cheeks, and bade him tell his adventures, and
how he had fared.
'Ill enough, good sir, and these others also,' answered Huon; 'but I
have by grace won through it all, and I have brought the daughter of the
great emir of the Paynims, whom I desire you should make my wife, after
she has been baptized by your hands.'
'Huon,' said the pope, 'all this pleases me right well to do, and it is
my will that you tarry with me here this night.'
So they tarried; and the next day the wedding feast was held, and there
were great rejoicings in the pope's palace. And early the next morning,
Huon and his wife and his friends took ship for Bordeaux.
But not yet were Huon's trials ended. Gerard, his brother, had no mind
to give up his lands and honours lightly, and many were the plots that
he laid against Huon. Indeed, he not only contrived to throw the
new-comers into prison, but prevailed on the emperor to journey himself
to Bordeaux, to the intent that Huon should be put to death, which would
have happened had it not been for the timely help of Oberon.
It was thus it came about.
The fairy king was seated at dinner in his palace in the wood, when the
knowledge came to him that the emperor Charles had taken an oath to hang
Huon ere he slept, and at the thought thereof he broke into weeping.
'I have sore punished the sins he has committed,' said he, 'and great
has been my wrath. But now it is time that I help him, or he will be
gone from me. So I wish my table and all that is on it near to the
emperor's table, only about two feet higher. And I will that on my table
be set my cup and horn and armour. And I wish that with me shall go a
hundred thousand men, such as I am wont to have in battle.'
Great was the marvel of the emperor when this table appeared beside him,
and he took it for an enchantment of duke Names; but Huon and Gerames
and Esclaramonde, who were present at the feast with fetters on their
wrists, knew that Oberon had come to their deliverance.
Soon the clank of swords was heard throughout the streets, and you could
not see the stones for the armed men who stood on them.
'See that none leave the gates,' said Oberon, 'and when you hear the
blast of my ivory horn, come to me in the palace, and slay everyone you
shall meet on the way'; and so saying he entered the hall, and many of
his lords with him. Their dresses were the richest that had ever been
seen, and on their necks they wore collars of precious stones. As the
king passed by Charles, he knocked against him, so that his hat fell
upon the ground.
'Who is this dwarf who so rudely has shouldered me?' asked the emperor,
'and whence comes he? I will see what he will do, for, small as he is,
he is the fairest creature that ever I saw.'
Leaving the emperor behind him, the fairy king came to the spot where
Huon and the captives were standing, and he wished that the fetters
might fall off their feet, and that they might be free men. Then
silently he led them before Charles, and caused them to sit down at his
own table, and bade the lords of the court drink out of the magic cup
after Huon and Esclaramonde and Gerames had drunk out of it. But only
for duke Names would the wine bubble up.
Afterwards Oberon ordered Gerard to confess his sins and his plots that
he had plotted, which out of very shame he was constrained to do, and
then Oberon prayed the emperor to command Gerard and those who had
helped him to work ill to be hanged on the gallows which had been reared
for Huon, and this was done also; and the emperor Charles and Huon, duke
of Bordeaux, made reconciliation together.
* * * * *
'Come to me in my city of Mommur four years from now, Huon,' said
Oberon, 'and I will give you my realm and my dignity, for I know in
truth I shall not long abide in this world. But beware, as you love your
life, that you fail not to be with me at the day I have appointed, else
I shall cause you to die an ill-death.'
When he heard, Huon stooped down and kissed his feet, and said:
'Sir, for this great boon I thank you.'
[From _Huon of Bordeaux_.]
_HAVELOK AND GOLDBOROUGH_
Once upon a time there lived in England a king called Athelwold, who
ruled the land so well that everyone was rich and happy: or, if they
were not, it was their own fault. His people all loved him dearly, and
would do anything for him, and when he went to war there was no
sovereign that could count on a larger following of stout brave men. He
was quite a youth when he came to the throne, and at first all sorts of
traitors and robbers from other countries took refuge in his kingdom,
but Athelwold sought them out so carefully and punished them so severely
that they soon betook themselves and their crimes elsewhere.
Now one thing grieved the king sorely. He had no son to sit on his
throne after he was dead, to protect the poor and put down the lawless.
And how was his little daughter, who was not yet fourteen, to keep
order, or to uphold the laws?
'If she were a woman grown, it might be different,' he thought to
himself, 'for Goldborough sees clearly and acts promptly. But as yet she
has little knowledge, and her ways are those of a child. And full well I
know that my death is nigh at hand, and there is none to watch over
her.'
Long the king pondered in his mind what he could best do for his
daughter's safety and the welfare of his people, and in the end he sent
messengers with letters to all his earls and barons from Roxborough to
Dover, bidding them come to his castle of Winchester as swiftly as they
might, for he could no more mount his horse, neither could he swallow
meat or pasties.
Sadly his vassals received the summons, for each loved him as his own
father, and not one lurked behind. The king gave them a glad welcome,
but they could not forbear shedding tears when they saw his weakness and
heard his feeble voice. Athelwold let them have their way a little
while, and then he said:
'I am dying, as you see, and I have sent for you hither, to ask you all
to tell me which of you will best guard my daughter when I am dead, till
she has come to years when she can guard herself.'
And they answered as one man:
'Earl Godrich of Cornwall.'
Then the king bade the priest bring the holy vessels, and earl Godrich
swore on them that he would be faithful and true in peace and in war to
Goldborough; and, further, that he would seek out a man who was better
and fairer and stronger than all others to be her husband, so that the
land might have peace, as in the days of Athelwold.
After the earl had sworn to fulfil what the king required of him,
Athelwold made his will, and gave England into the keeping of Godrich.
This done, he lay back in his bed, and that same morning he died in the
arms of his daughter.
But bad indeed was the choice which king Athelwold's vassals had made
when they proclaimed earl Godrich as the fittest guardian for the young
princess. In the beginning, indeed, while Goldborough was still a child,
everything went smoothly. The earl appointed justices and sheriffs to
carry out the laws, and, though he took more heed to gather riches for
himself than to protect his people, yet on the whole he governed well.
Thus six years passed away, and Goldborough was twenty years old. She
had lived far away from the castle of Winchester, and had never seen her
guardian since the day that her father had been buried, and, for his
part, he had hardly remembered her, he was so busy making laws and
amassing treasures. Still, other people recollected Goldborough, if he
did not, and one Eastertide, when the princess's twentieth birthday was
at hand, an old pilgrim chanced to stop at Winchester on his way to
Canterbury. He had but lately passed through the town where Goldborough
was living, and had many tales to tell of her fair and gracious ways.
Godrich let him talk, but his face was gloomy and he answered nought.
But, though his tongue was silent, his heart was base and his thoughts
were evil.
'Have I toiled all these years for nothing?' he said to himself, 'and
shall England be ruled by a fool, a maiden? I have a son, a full fair
knave; he shall have England and be king.'
So Goldborough was brought from her woods and gardens, and shut up in
the castle of Dover, where none might visit her. And no company had she
but her foster-sister, and an old woman who had been her nurse.
* * * * *
At the time when Athelwold ruled England there reigned in Denmark a king
called Birkabeyn, who had three children, two girls named Swanborough
and Helfled and a boy called Havelok. Birkabeyn was strong and healthy,
and thought to live many years, when a wound in battle proved his
death-blow. Like Goldborough, the children were all young, and he was
forced to choose someone to protect them till they were of full age. The
man on whom Birkabeyn's choice fell was his own close friend, who had
served him all his life, and who, he thought, loved his children well.
And so perhaps the earl would have done had not such power been given
into his hands, but this he was not proof against. No sooner had the
king died than he caused the three children to be cast into prison,
where he murdered the two girls himself.
[Illustration: ROUND THE BAG WHICH HELD THE BOY A BRILLIANT LIGHT WAS
SHINING]
At the dreadful fate of his sisters, Havelok, who was the youngest, fell
on his knees and implored the wicked earl to spare him.
'If it is Denmark you want, it shall be yours,' cried the boy, 'and
never will I seek to take it from you. Nay, give me a ship, and to-day I
will leave the country for ever.'
Even the earl's heart was for a moment softened by the child's tears and
prayers, and at first he thought that he would let him go, as it would
be many years before he would be old enough to be an enemy. But then he
remembered that, if Havelok died unwedded, he and his sons would be
heirs to the crown, for he was the king's cousin. However, he pretended
to grant the child's prayer, and bade him follow him down to the shore,
where dwelt an old fisherman. Havelok wandered down to the water, and
wondered which of the ships drawn up on the beach he should set sail in,
and where he would go. He was still terrified at the death of sisters,
and shook with fear as long as their murderer was in sight.
Meanwhile the earl was speaking to the fisherman, who stood at the door
of his cottage, which was built just out of reach of the waves.
'Grim,' he said, 'to-day you are my thrall, but to-morrow you shall be a
free man if you will do my bidding. Take the boy that stands there, and
throw him into the sea, that he drown. Fear nothing: the penalty will be
mine, not yours.'
'Your bidding shall be done,' answered the fisherman, 'though the deed
is but little to my liking.'
'So be it,' said the earl, and went home to hold counsel with his family
how best to take possession of the crown.
Grim took down a cord from a hook in the roof, and went out to the
child, who screamed with terror as he drew near, but there was no one to
help him, and Grim thrust a cloth in his mouth to stifle his cries,
while he bound his hands behind his back with a cord. When this was
done, he put the boy in a black bag, and carried him to his wife, who
flung him on the floor, where he lay for many hours, thinking every
moment that he would be thrown down a well or stabbed by a dagger.
* * * * *
At midnight, when all was still, and the men in the ships were sleeping
soundly, Grim arose, and told his wife to kindle a fire and to light a
candle.
'Why, there is a light in the room already,' said she, 'and it seems to
come from the farthest corner, and to shine as brightly as if it were
the sun itself'; and with that she sprang out of bed and ran over the
floor, calling to Grim to follow her.
And in truth it was as she had said, for round the bag which held the
boy a brilliant light was shining.
'If we touch him we shall rue it all our lives,' she whispered to her
husband; then, stooping, she cut the knots which held the bag, and drew
out Havelok, who was well-nigh dead with fright and suffocation. Next
she stripped him of his clothes, and on his shoulder she found the mark
of a tiny cross, from which the light came.
'He is born to be king,' said Grim softly, 'and surely it is he and no
other who is the son of Birkabeyn, and who some day shall come to his
own. It is easy to see that he will grow into a man, tall and strong,
who shall come back from over the sea where I shall send him, and avenge
himself on the traitor.' Then Grim fell on his knees before Havelok and
prayed his forgiveness.
'You shall stay here awhile,' he said, 'till I can fit out a ship, and
in it we will all set sail, you, and I, and my wife and my three sons,
but it must be done in secret, lest the earl should come to know of it.'
So they gave Havelok bread to eat and milk to drink, and laid him in a
bed in a dark corner, where no man could see him, and the next day Grim
set out for the traitor's castle to ask for the reward that had been
promised him.
'Your bidding is done, and I have come to claim my freedom,' said Grim
when he stood in the presence of the traitor. But the earl made answer:
'Who is there to know what lies betwixt us? Go home, and be my thrall,
as you have ever been.'
Full of rage though he was, Grim dared say no more, lest his head should
pay forfeit; but the earl's words had filled him with fear, and he
hastened to get ready a ship and to fill it during the night with food
enough to last them for three weeks. By that time, he thought, they
would reach the shores of England.
When all was finished, Grim and his wife, his three sons and two
daughters and little Havelok, stole away very early one morning before
the sun was up, and set sail southwards. A north wind soon sprang up and
drove him, in ten days, to the mouth of a great river called the Humber.
Here he steered his ship on to the beach, and then they all got out and
set up a tent, till they could look about for a little and see what best
to do.
It was a wild place where they landed, and for many miles there was not
even a hut to be seen, but Grim liked it well, and he built houses for
himself and his family, and by-and-by more people came thither also, and
a town was built and was called Grimsby, after Grim. But that happened
afterwards.
Fish were plentiful at the mouth of the river--lampreys and sturgeon and
turbot and great cod--and Grim and his sons were good fishers, both with
net and line, and Havelok soon learned to fish too, and was as happy as
any boy could be. Sometimes he stayed at home with the women while the
others carried fish round the country in baskets.
Twelve years passed in this manner, during which Grim had prospered
greatly, but he began to get old, and the long journeys with heavy
panniers on his back tried him sorely. This Havelok perceived, and one
day he spoke:
'I am a man grown, and shall I sit at home idle mending nets while my
father travels over the whole country-side carrying weights too heavy
for him to bear? Not so! To-morrow I go forth, and my father shall take
his seat by the fire, and shall mend the nets.'
Whatever Havelok said he did, and early the next morning he took the
panniers on his shoulders, and started for the houses where Grim was
wont to sell his fish. But soon, none could tell why, a bad time came,
and there was no corn in the land, and no fish in the sea. And Grim felt
pity in his heart for Havelok, who was young and strong, and needed more
meat than other men. So one day Grim spoke:
'Havelok, dear son, you have come upon evil days, and must stay with us
no longer. Go to the city of Lincoln. It is a rich town, and there you
may find work for all you need. But, woe is me! no clothes can I give
you, save this old sail, which the women shall fashion into doublet and
hose for you.'
The sail was soon cut and fashioned by Grim's wife and daughters, but
there was nothing to make into shoes, and Havelok walked into Lincoln
barefoot, and he fasted from meat for two or three days; at length the
earl's cook took him into his service as porter, and his chief duty was
to carry the earl's fish into the castle. But the cook had many porters
besides Havelok, and when the cry of 'barmen' was heard they all tried
one to outdo the other in obtaining the pot in which lay the hot fish.
However, Havelok was taller and stronger than the rest, and generally
was able to thrust the others on one side.
Besides bearing the cauldron of fish, Havelok had many things to do. He
had to fill a huge tub in the kitchen with water, and to cut wood for
the fire, and to do anything the cook told him. And, whatever happened,
he was full of mirth, and would jest and play with the children who ran
about the back of the castle.
At last his clothes, which had been fashioned out of the old sail, fell
into holes, and the cook, out of pity and liking, bought him some new
ones, and when he put them on there was no man, be he who he might, that
was fairer to see. Then folk began to notice that he was taller than any
man in the castle, and that he was very strong. Very soon a chance came
to him to prove his strength.
Godrich the earl--or the king, as he called himself--now held his court
at Lincoln, and summoned a parliament to be held there to settle the
affairs of the nation. They came in great companies, and everyone had a
following, and so many were they that they were forced to dwell in tents
outside the city walls. It was not long before they fell to wrestling
and such sports.
* * * * *
For a while Havelok looked on, and bided his time. He took no part in
the wrestling, though there was not a champion on the ground that he
could not easily have overcome.
When they were tired of throwing each other, someone proposed that they
should put the stone, and a large smooth piece of rock was chosen. Man
after man came forward, but hardly one could raise it from the ground,
far less cast it any distance from him. At this moment the cook strolled
up and saw his scullion standing there.
'It is your turn,' he said to Havelok; 'show them what you can do, for
the honour of Lincoln,' and Havelok obeyed him. He lifted the mighty
stone to the height of his shoulder, and sent it spinning through the
air.
'Measure the cast,' said the cook proudly; and when it was measured it
was found to be twelve feet beyond the cast of any other man.
Little was talked of that day but the wonderful throw of the young
scullion, and soon it reached the ears of the knights at court, and in
time, Godrich himself. As he listened to the tale, there flashed across
his memory the words of the dying Athelwold: 'Find out the man who is
better and fairer and stronger than any man in the world, and give him
to be husband to my daughter.' Was there any man living stronger than
this Havelok? and could he himself be ill-spoken of if he should carry
out Athelwold's dying wish? So thought Godrich; but far back in his
heart he knew that once Goldborough was wedded to a scullion there would
be small chance of her becoming queen.
Next morning a knight mounted on a big bay horse, and attended by two
men-at-arms, might have been seen riding southwards through the fair
county of Lincoln, and in twenty days' time he returned, bringing with
him the princess. Godrich greeted her with tokens of great joy, and told
her that, as her father had bidden him, he had found at last the fairest
and strongest man in the world, and he should be her husband.
Goldborough listened quietly to his words, and when he had ended she
looked at him.
'Let him be as strong and fair as he may,' she said, 'but if he is not a
king or a king's son he is no husband for me.'
At this Godrich waxed wrath, and his whole body trembled with anger.
'Your father bade me swear to him when he was dying that you should
marry the strongest man in the world, and none other,' cried he, 'and,
by the Rood, it is he you seek to disobey, and not me. The man who is to
be your husband is the servant of my cook, and to-morrow we will have
the wedding.'
The heart of Goldborough was filled with horror when she heard the fate
that was in store for her, and she fell weeping on her knees before the
earl to implore him the rather to let her enter a convent; but Godrich
answered her nothing, and strode out of the hall.
The bells were ringing next day when Havelok woke, and before he was
dressed a message came ordering him to go at once to the earl's
presence. He wondered for what cause he was wanted, for never yet had he
had speech of the earl, and still more surprised was he to find Godrich
clad in his most splendid robes, as if for a festival. But if Havelok
was astonished at all this, he was nearly struck dumb by the words which
he heard.
'Master, will you take a wife?' and the young man gazed at him in
silence; for why should the ruler of all England take heed whether his
scullion was wedded or not?
'Will you take a wife?' asked Godrich again, in tones of impatience;
then Havelok found his voice.
'No, by heaven I will not,' he cried; 'what should I do with a wife? I
could neither feed, nor clothe, nor shoe her! For myself, I should have
no clothes either, had it not been for the bounty of your cook.'
In his rage Godrich seized a thick staff and laid it across his
scullion's shoulder.
'Promise me that you will wed her within an hour, or I will hang you on
the nearest tree,' he cried; and Havelok, who had no liking for death,
consented.
His purpose thus gained with Havelok, the earl now summoned Goldborough,
whom he threatened to burn if she withstood him. All night the princess
had wept and pondered how to escape so dreadful a doom, but at last she
took comfort in the thought that in accepting this husband, however
lowly born he might be, she would be fulfilling her father's wishes. So
as soon as Godrich gave her a chance to speak she said she would resist
him no longer.
Then Godrich for the first time in six years felt that he was indeed
King of England.
'You are a wise maiden,' cried he, his face glowing with joy; 'and, to
show you how well I love you, I will give you much gold, and you shall
have an archbishop to bless your marriage.' And so it was done.
Both Havelok and his wife felt that they could stay in Lincoln no
longer, and the next day they bought two horses and set forth for
Grimsby. To Havelok's great grief he found that the fisherman had died
just before, after a few days' illness, but his sons and daughters gave
them a glad greeting, and bade them stay in their house, promising that
they themselves would be their servants.
Weary with travel, Havelok soon went to bed, but Goldborough knelt
praying before the window, when suddenly a bright light filled the room.
She turned to see what it might be, and beheld it issuing from a cross
on Havelok's shoulder. While she gazed wondering, she heard a voice
saying, 'Goldborough, let sorrow depart from you, for your husband is no
scullion, but the son of a king, and he shall rule over England and
Denmark.' At that her heart grew light again, and she kissed Havelok and
woke him, and told him what the voice had said.
'Let us sail at once,' added she, 'for who knows when Godrich the
traitor may change his mind? And bid the sons of Grim sail with us.'
Goldborough's counsel seemed good to Havelok, and he rose in haste and
sought Grim's sons, whom he found setting forth to fish. He begged them
to wait, and to listen to his story, which Grim had always hidden from
them, and when they heard it, they said that they would go with him, and
help him to slay the murderer of his sisters and the robber of his
crown.
'You shall be rich men the day he dies,' vowed Havelok; and the boat was
made ready for sea.
A fair wind blew them to Denmark, and Havelok left his wife with his
three foster-brothers, and betook himself to the house of Ubbe the earl,
whom his father had loved dearly. He said no word as to his birth, but
asked him leave to trade on his lands, offering a ring as
earnest-money.
[Illustration: HAVELOK PRESENTS GOLDBOROUGH TO THE ENGLISH PEOPLE.]
Ubbe looked at the ring, and then at the young man who gave it.
'You look fitter to do a knight's work than to buy and sell,' he said,
and Havelok answered:
'That will come, fair sir, but I must first go softly. Meanwhile I have
left my wife Goldborough under the care of her foster-brothers, and can
tarry here no longer.'
'Bring her hither,' said Ubbe, 'and dwell with her in this castle, and
if no man has dubbed you knight I will take that upon me.'
And so it was done, and the heart of Goldborough rejoiced, for by this
time she loved her husband dearly.
That same midnight Ubbe was wakened by a great light, which seemed to
fill the castle. He rose from his bed, and went from room to room, and
all were bright as day, though he could not tell why. Then he came to
the room where Havelok and Goldborough lay asleep, and out of Havelok's
mouth came a flame like that of a hundred and ninety-seven candles. And
on his shoulder was the cross of kingship, and that was shining too.
When Ubbe saw that, he knew that Havelok was indeed the son of
Birkabeyn, his friend, and the rightful king of Denmark; and, waking the
sleeping man, he bade him sit up and receive his homage. After that he
sent for his lords, and commanded that they should swear fealty to their
king. And when the lords had sworn, Ubbe summoned the people, and told
them, what many had known before, that the earl had betrayed his trust,
and that now he should pay forfeit of his wickedness.
Blithe were Havelok and Goldborough that day as they moved amidst the
groups of men who shared in the sports which the people of Denmark ever
loved, and once more Havelok cast the stone further than any one there
could throw it. His first act, after he had been proclaimed king, was to
make Grim's three faithful sons barons with fair lands. Then he bid them
go and seek the earl, and bring him back with them.
This was not done without a hard fight, for the earl and his men
defended themselves stoutly; but at length he was bound and placed upon
an old horse and carried before Havelok, who was waiting in the castle
with his lords about him.
'What judgment will ye pass on him, fair lords?' asked the king.
'That he may be hanged as beseems a murderer and a traitor, and that his
head be planted over the chief gate of the town as a warning to all,'
they said with one voice, and this was done also.
* * * * *
For a while Havelok stayed in Denmark to see to the affairs of the
kingdom, and then, leaving Ubbe to rule, he set sail for England with
Goldborough his wife, and a large army, in many ships with high carved
prows. Once again he landed at the mouth of the Humber, and his first
act was to found a church in memory of Grim. Next, he placed his army in
order of battle, and awaited the attack of his enemy. Godrich the earl
had heard that he had come, and had hastily collected a great host, with
which he marched upon Lincoln. The attack was begun by the English, and
fierce was the fight. Many were killed, both of English and Danes. At
last, just as the English were being beaten slowly back, Havelok and
Godrich came face to face with each other. Bitterly the earl then rued
the day when he had married Goldborough to the strongest man in the
world, scullion though he were! Many times Havelok might have slain him,
but such was not his purpose, and, taking a cord from his waist, he
bound the traitor's arms, and bade one of his knights ride and fetch
Goldborough, whom he had left under a guard at a little distance.
When she drew near, Havelok commanded that a flag of truce should be
waved, so that the fighting might cease. Then, taking his wife by the
hand, he led her forward, and told her story to them all, and how
Godrich the earl had wronged her. And the English fell on their faces
and did obeisance, and vowed to serve her faithfully all the days of
their lives.
'And what is the law of England respecting a traitor?' asked Havelok,
when Goldborough had been proclaimed queen with trumpets and shouting.
'That he be laid on an ass and burned at the stake,' cried they. And
this was done also.
After this, Havelok gave his two foster-sisters in marriage to great
lords, and made the cook to whom he had owed his good fortune earl of
Cornwall in place of the wicked Godrich. He left Ubbe to rule in
Denmark, while he and Goldborough remained in England, but every two
years he sailed across the sea to be sure that all went well in the
country of his birth.
And for sixty years Havelok and Goldborough lived happily together and
had many children, and wherever Havelok went, Goldborough went too.
[_The Lay of Havelok the Dane._ Early English Text Society.]
_CUPID AND PSYCHE_
Once upon a time there lived a king who had three daughters. The two
elder girls were very fair, and many were their suitors, but the
youngest was so beautiful that it was whispered in the city that the
goddess Aphrodite was not her equal in loveliness, and as she walked
through the streets men touched their foreheads, and bowed low to the
ground, as if Aphrodite herself had passed by.
Now it was not long since the shepherd Paris had given the goddess the
golden apple, in token that neither on the earth nor even on Olympus was
a woman to be found as fair as she. And when she heard of the honours
paid to Psyche, she rose up in her wrath and sent a winged messenger for
Cupid, her son.
'Come with me,' she said, when Cupid appeared before her, 'I have
somewhat to show you'; and without further speech the two flew through
the air together, till they reached the palace where Psyche was
sleeping.
'That is the maiden to whom men pay the homage due to me alone,' she
whispered, while her grey eyes darted gleams like fire. 'I have brought
you hither that you may avenge me by pricking her with an arrow that
will fill her heart with love for one of the basest of mortals. And now
I must depart in haste, for Oceanos awaits me.'
Aphrodite vanished, but Cupid remained where he was, gazing on the
sleeping maiden and confessing in his heart that those who paid her the
honours due to his mother were not much to blame.
'Never will I do you such wrong,' he murmured, 'as to mate you with some
base wretch, who has no thought beyond the wine-cup. From me and my
darts you are safe. But am I safe from yours?' Then, fearing to stay any
longer, lest his mother should wax wroth with him, he also took his way
to the palace of Oceanos.
[Illustration: APHRODITE BRINGS CUPID TO PSYCHE]
If Aphrodite had not been a goddess, and had known a little more about
the hearts of men, she might not have envied Psyche so bitterly; for,
though all men bowed down before her and worshipped her beauty, each
felt that she was too far above him to woo for his bride. So that, while
her sisters had homes and children of their own, Psyche remained unasked
and unsought in her father's palace.
At length the king grew frightened as months and years slipped by, and
Psyche was past the age when Greek maidens left the hearth where they
had grown into girlhood. He summoned some wise men to give him counsel,
but they shook their heads, and bade him consult the oracle of his
fathers. It was a three days' journey to his shrine, and then no man
knew when the oracle would speak, so the king took with him sheep and
oxen, and skins of wine for himself and his followers.
Ten days later he returned to the city with bowed head and white face.
The queen, with anxious heart, had been watching his arrival from the
roof of the palace, and awaited him at the door of the women's
apartments.
'What has happened?' she said, as she greeted him; but he drew her on
one side, where none might hear them.
'The oracle has spoken,' answered he, 'and decrees that Psyche shall be
left upon a barren rock till a hideous monster shall come and devour
her. And it is for this that men have paid her honours which were the
portion only of the gods! Far better had she been born with the hair of
Medusa and the hump of Hephæstos.'
At these dreadful tidings the queen and her maidens broke into weeping,
and when the news spread through the city no sounds but those of wailing
were heard. Only the voice of Psyche was silent among them. She moved
about as one that was sleeping, and indeed she felt as if the boat, with
its grim ferryman, had already borne her across the Styx. So the days
passed on, and one evening a white-clad priest arrived from the shrine
to bid the king tarry no longer.
That night a sad procession left the gates of the city, and in the midst
was Psyche, clad in garments of black, and led by her father, while her
mother followed weeping behind. Singers wailed out a dirge, which was
scarcely heard above the sobs of the mourners, and the torches burned
dimly and soon went out.
The sun was rising when they reached the bare rock on top of a high
mountain where the oracle had directed that Psyche should be left to
perish. She made no sign when her father and mother took her in their
arms for the last time, and, though they cried bitterly, she never shed
a tear. What was the use? It was the will of the gods, and so it had to
be!
Not daring to look back, the king and queen took their way home to their
desolate palace, and Psyche leaned against the rock trembling with fear
lest every moment the monster should appear in sight. She was very
tired, for the road to the mountain had been long and stony, and she was
likewise exhausted by her grief, so that slowly a deep sleep crept over
her, and for a while her sorrows were forgotten.
While she thus slumbered, Cupid, unknown to herself, had been watching
over her, and at his bidding Zephyr approached and played round her
garments and among her hair. Then, lifting her gently up, he carried her
down the mountain side, and laid her upon a bed of lilies in the valley.
While she slept, pleasant dreams floated through her mind, and her
terrors and grief were forgotten. She awoke feeling happy, though she
could not have told why, for she was in a strange place and alone. In
the distance, through some trees, the spray of a fountain glimmered
white, and she rose and walked slowly towards it. By the fountain was a
palace, finer by far than the one in which Psyche had lived, for that
was built of stone, while this was all of ivory and gold. Vast it was,
and full of precious things, as Psyche saw for herself when, filled with
wonder mixed with a little fear, she stepped across the threshold.
[Illustration: ZEPHYR CARRIES PSYCHE DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN]
'This palace is as large as a city,' the maiden said aloud, as she
passed from room to room without coming to an end of the marvels; 'but
how strange to find that there is no one here to enjoy these treasures,
or to guard them!' She started, as out of the silence a voice answered
her:
'The palace with all it contains is yours, lady. Therefore, bathe
yourself, if you will, or rest your limbs upon silken cushions, till the
feast is prepared, and we your handmaids clothe you in fine raiment. You
have only to command, and we obey you.'
By this time all fear had departed from Psyche, and with gladness she
bathed herself and slept. When she opened her eyes she beheld in front
of her a table covered with dishes of every kind, and with wines of
purple and amber hues. As before, she could see no one, though she heard
the sound of voices, and when she had finished, and lay back on her
cushions, unseen fingers struck a lyre, and sang the songs that she
loved.
So the hours flew by, and the sun was sinking, when suddenly a veil of
golden tissue was placed on her head, and at the same time a voice that
she had not heard spoke thus:
'Dip your hands in this sacred water'; and Psyche obeyed, and, as her
fingers sank into the basin she felt a light touch, as if other fingers
were there also.
'Break this cake and eat half,' said the voice again; and Psyche did so,
and she saw that the rest of the cake vanished bit by bit, as if someone
else were eating it also.
'Now you are my wife, Psyche,' whispered the voice softly; 'but take
heed to what I say, if you would not bring ruin on yourself, and cause
me to leave you for ever. Your sisters, I well know, will soon seek you
out, for they think they love you, though their love is of the kind that
quickly turns to hate. Even now they are with your parents weeping over
your fate, but a few days hence they will go to the rock, hoping to
gather tidings of your last moments. It may chance that at last they may
wander to this enchanted place, but as you value your happiness and your
life do not answer their questions, or lift your eyes towards them.'
Psyche promised she would do her unseen husband's bidding, and the weeks
slipped swiftly by, but one morning she felt suddenly lonely and broke
into wailing that she might never look on her sisters' faces again, or
even tell them that she was alive. All the long bright hours she sat in
her palace weeping, and when darkness fell, and she heard her husband's
voice, she put out her arms and drew him to her.
'What is it?' he asked gently, and she felt soft fingers stroking her
hair.
Then Psyche poured out all her woe. How could she be happy, even in this
lovely place, when her sisters were grieving for her loss? If she might
only see them once, if she might only tell them that she was safe, then
she would ask for nothing more. If not--why, it was a pity the monster
had not devoured her.
There was a silence after Psyche had poured forth her entreaties, and
then the bridegroom spoke, but his voice seemed somehow changed from
what it had been before.
'You shall do as you wish,' he said, 'though I fear that ill will come
of it. Send for your sisters if you please, and give them anything that
the palace contains. But once again let me beseech you to answer nothing
to their questions, or we shall be parted for ever.'
'Never, never, shall that be,' cried Psyche, embracing her husband with
delight. And, whoever and whatever you may be, I would not give you up,
even for the god Cupid. I will tell them nothing, but bid, I pray you,
Zephyr, your servant, to carry them hither to-morrow, as he carried
me.'
Next morning Zephyr found the two sisters seated on the rock, tearing
their hair and beating their breasts with sorrow. 'Psyche! Psyche,' they
cried, and the mountains echoed 'Psyche! Psyche,' but no other sound
answered them. Suddenly they felt themselves gently lifted from the
earth, and wafted through the air to the door of the palace, where stood
Psyche herself.
'Psyche! Psyche!' they cried again, but this time with joy and wonder,
and for a while they forgot everything else in the world. Then Psyche
bade them tell her of her father and mother, and how the days had passed
since she had left them, and she pictured to herself their gladness when
they heard how different had been her fate from that which the oracle
had foretold.
After her sisters had made known to her everything they had to tell,
Psyche invited them to see the palace, and, calling to the voices,
ordered them to prepare baths with sweet-smelling spices, and to set
forth a banquet for her guests. At these tokens of riches and splendour,
envy began to arise in their hearts, and curiosity also. They looked at
each other, and the glances of their eyes promised no good to Psyche.
'But where is your husband?' asked the eldest. 'Are we not to see him
also?'
'Yes,' said the other, 'you have not even told us what he is like, and
our mother will assuredly wish to know that.'
Their questions recalled to Psyche's mind the danger against which she
had been warned, and she answered hastily:
'Oh, he is young and very handsome--the handsomest man in all the world,
I think. But he spends much of his time in hunting, and has now gone far
into the mountains to chase the boar. It was thus that, feeling myself
lonely, I sent a messenger for you. And now, come and choose what you
will out of the treasure-chamber, for the hour of your departure draws
nigh!'
The sight of gold and precious stones heaped up in the treasure-chamber
only made the sisters more jealous than before; but their jealousy did
not prevent their carrying off the most splendid necklaces they could
find before Psyche summoned Zephyr to bear them unseen back to their own
homes.
'Why has Fortune treated her so differently from us?' cried the eldest,
before they were out of sight of the palace. 'Why should _she_ have
boundless riches, and be married to a man who is young and handsome, and
own slaves who fly through the air as if they were birds? Far indeed are
the days when she sat in our father's house, and no suitor came to woo!
But, though she was lonely and forlorn enough in the city, here she is
treated as if she were a goddess, while I am linked to a husband whose
head is bald, and whose back is a hump!'
'My plight is worse than yours,' groaned the other sister, 'for I have
to spend my time nursing a man who is always ill and rarely suffers me
to leave his side. But do not let us flatter her pride by telling our
father and mother of the honours Fate has heaped on her. Rather let us
consider how best to humble her and bring her low.'
Meanwhile night had fallen, and Psyche's husband came to her side.
'Did you take heed to my warnings,' asked he, 'and refuse to answer the
questions of your sisters?'
'Oh yes,' cried Psyche; 'I told them nothing that they wished to know. I
said that you were young and handsome, and gave me the most beautiful
things in the world, but that they could not see you to-day, for you
were hunting in the mountains.'
'So far it is well, then,' sighed he; 'but remember that even at this
moment they are plotting how they may destroy you, by filling your heart
with their own evil curiosity, so that one day you may ask to see my
face. But recollect, the moment you do this I vanish for ever.'
'Ah, you do not trust me,' sobbed Psyche; 'yet I have shown you that I
can be silent! Let me prove it again by suffering Zephyr to bring my
sisters once more, and then never, never will I crave another boon from
you.'
For long her husband refused to grant her what she asked, but at last,
wearied by her tears and prayers, he told her that this once she might
bid Zephyr bring her sisters to her. Eagerly they ran through the garden
into the palace, and greeted Psyche with warm embraces and gentle words,
while she on her part did everything she could think of to give them
pleasure. As before, she bade them choose whatever they most desired,
and when they had returned from the treasure-chamber and were eating
fruit under the trees by the fountain the elder sister spoke:
'How it grieves me to see you the victim of such deceit, and how I long
to be able to ward off the danger!'
'What do you mean by such words?' asked Psyche, turning pale. 'No one is
deceiving me, and no goddess could be happier than I.'
'Ah! you do not know--I dare not tell you,' gasped the other in broken
accents. 'Sister, you try; I cannot shape the words.'
'It is hard, but my duty demands it of me,' said the second sister. It
is--oh, how shall I tell it?--your husband is not such as you think, but
a huge serpent whose neck swells with venom, and whose tongue darts
poison. The men who work in the fields have watched him swimming across
the river as darkness falls, at the moment that he goes to seek you!'
Their groans and sobs, no less than their words, convinced Psyche, who
fell straightway into the pit they had digged for her.
'It is true,' she said with a trembling voice, 'that never yet have I
beheld my husband's face, and that many times he has warned me that the
moment my eyes light upon him he will abandon me for ever. His words
were always sweet and gentle, and his touch hardly resembles the skin of
a serpent. It is not easy to believe; but yet, if you know, I pray you,
of your love for me, to come to my aid in this deadly peril.'
'Ah, hapless one, it is for that we are here,' answered the elder; 'and
this is what you must do. This very night, fill a lamp full of oil, and
cover it with a dark cloth, so that not a ray of light can be seen; then
take a sharp knife and hide it in your bosom. After the serpent is sound
asleep, steal softly across the room, and snatch the cloth from the
lamp, so that you may see where to strike home, for if he should wake
before you have cut off his head your life will be forfeit.'
Having said this, they both hurriedly embraced their sister, and were
wafted home on the wings of Zephyr.
Left alone, Psyche flung herself on the ground, and for many hours lay
trying to subdue her misery. At one moment she thought that she could
not do it--that her sisters might be wrong after all. But her faith in
them was strong, and as night approached she rose up to do their
bidding.
So well did she feign happiness that her husband heard no change in her
voice as she bade him welcome, and, having travelled far that day, he
soon laid himself down on the couch and fell sound asleep. Then Psyche
seized the lamp and snatched off the covering, but by its light she saw
stretched on the cushions, not a huge and hideous serpent, but the most
beautiful of all the gods, Cupid himself.
At this sight her knees knocked together with surprise, and she gave a
step backwards, and the lamp, trembling in her hand, let fall a drop of
burning oil on Cupid's shoulder. He sprang to his feet, and with one
reproachful look he turned, and would have flown away had not Psyche
grasped his leg, and was borne up with him into the air, till at length
her strength gave way and she fell to the ground, where for some time
she remained unconscious.
When her senses came back, she was so miserable that she sought eternal
forgetfulness in a neighbouring stream, but the river, in pity, carried
her gently along and placed her on a bank of flowers. Finding that even
the river would have none of her, she rose up, and resolved to wander
night and day through the world till she should find her husband.
* * * * *
The first spot at which she halted was a temple on the top of a high
mountain, where, to her surprise, she saw blades of wheat, ears of
barley, sheaves of oats, scythes and ploughs, all scattered about in
wild confusion. Never before had she seen such disorder about a temple,
and, stooping down, she began to separate one thing from another and to
place them in heaps.
While she was busy with this, a voice cried to her from afar:
'Unhappy girl, my heart bleeds for you! Yet even while you are pursued
by the wrath of Aphrodite, you can labour in my service. May you find
some day the rest that you deserve! But now, quit this temple, lest you
draw down on me the anger of the goddess.'
With despair in her soul, Psyche wandered from one place to another, not
knowing and not caring whither her feet might lead her. At length she
was tracked and seized by one of Aphrodite's attendants, who dragged her
by the hair into the presence of the goddess herself. Here she was
beaten and scourged, both by whips and by cruel words, and, when every
kind of suffering had been heaped on her, Aphrodite took a number of
bags containing wheat, barley, millet, and many other seeds, and,
tumbling them all into one heap, bade her separate and place them each
in its own bag by the evening.
Psyche stood staring where Aphrodite had left her, not even trying to
begin a task that she knew to be hopeless.
She would certainly be killed, thought she, but, after all, death would
be welcome; and she laid her weary body on the floor and sought sleep.
At that moment a tiny ant, which had been passing through the storehouse
on his way to the fields, and saw her terrible straits, went and fetched
all his brothers, and bade them take pity on the damsel, and do the work
that had been given to her.
By sunset every grain was sorted and placed in its own bag, but Psyche
waited with trembling the return of Aphrodite, as she felt that nothing
she could do would content her.
And so it happened, when Aphrodite entered, and thirsting for vengeance,
cried with glee, 'Well, where are my seeds?' Psyche pointed silently to
the row of bags against the wall, each with its mouth open, so that at
the first glance it could be seen what kind of seed it contained. The
goddess grew white with rage, and screamed loudly, 'Wretched creature,
it is not your hands that have done this! you will not escape my anger
so easily'; and, tossing her a piece of bread, went away, locking the
door behind her.
Next morning the goddess bade one of her slaves bring Psyche before her.
'In yonder grove,' she said, on the banks of a river, feed sheep whose
wool is soft as silk and as bright as gold. Before night I shall expect
you to return with as much of this wool as will make me a robe. And I do
not think that you will find any one to perform your task this time!'
So Psyche went towards the river, which looked so clear and cool that
she stepped down to the brink, meaning to lay herself to rest in its
waters. But a reed sang to her, and its song said:
[Illustration: APHRODITE FINDS PSYCHE'S TASK ACCOMPLISHED]
'O Psyche, do my bidding and fear nothing! Hide yourself till evening,
for the sheep are driven mad by the heat of the sun, and rush wildly
through the bushes and thickets. But when the air grows fresh they sink
exhausted to sleep, and you can gather all the wool you want from the
branches.'
[Illustration: JOYFULLY THE EAGLE BORE BACK THE URN]
Then Psyche thanked the reed for its counsel and brought the wool safely
back to the goddess; but she was received as before with scornful looks
and words, and ordered to go to the top of a lofty mountain and fill a
crystal urn from a fountain of black water which spouted from between
walls of smooth rock. And Psyche went willingly, thinking that this time
surely she must die.
But an eagle which was hovering over this dark and awful place came to
her aid, and taking the urn from her he bore it in his beak to the
fountain, which was guarded by two horrible dragons. It needed all his
strength and skill to pass by them, and indeed it was only when he told
them that Aphrodite needed it to give fresh lustre to her beauty that
they ceased to snap at him with their long fangs.
Joyfully the eagle bore back the urn to Psyche, who carried it back
carefully in her breast. But Aphrodite was still unsatisfied. Again and
again she found new errands for Psyche, and hoped that each one might
lead her to her death, though every time birds or beasts had pity on
her.
If Cupid had only known his mother's wicked schemes, he would have
contrived to stop them and to deliver Psyche. But the wound on his
shoulder where the burning oil had fallen took long to heal, and for
some time he was in ignorance of all that Psyche was suffering. At last,
however, the pain ceased, and his first thought was to visit Psyche,
who, nearly fainting with joy at the sound of his voice, poured forth
all that had happened since that dreadful night which had destroyed her
happiness.
'Your punishment has been sore,' said he, 'and I have no power to save
you from the task my mother has set you. But while you fulfil this I
will fly to Olympus, and beseech the gods to grant you forgiveness, and,
more, a place among the immortals.'
And so the envy and malice of Aphrodite and the wicked sisters were
brought to nought, and Psyche left the earth, to sit enthroned on
Olympus.
[_Apuleius._]
_SIR BEVIS THE STRONG_
Many hundreds of years ago there lived in the South of England an earl
of Southampton, whose name was Guy. He spent most of his life in
defending his country from all sorts of invaders who sailed from beyond
the seas, and it was not until he was getting old that he had time to
think of a wife. Then he made a very foolish choice, for he asked in
marriage the daughter of the king of Scotland, who had already plighted
her troth to the young and handsome Sir Murdour.
But though Sir Murdour was brother to the emperor, the Scottish king
preferred to wed the princess to the stout earl of Southampton, whom he
had known of old, and his word was law to all his court. So the bride
journeyed with a great following to the south of England, where the
marriage took place, and the next year a baby was born that was called
Bevis.
Now, though her husband was good and kind, and gave her the most
beautiful dresses and horse-trappings in the whole kingdom, the princess
hated him with a deadly hatred, just because he was not Sir Murdour. And
when her son Bevis was seven years old she determined to seek the help
of her old lover, and entice the earl to his death.
* * * * *
To this end she made use of her charms and beauty to gain over to her
side some of her husband's most trusted lords, and when this was done
she chose out a faithful messenger to ride north to Sir Murdour.
'Bid him,' she said, 'to come without fail on the first of May to the
great forest that lies by the sea. Thither will I take care that my lord
shall fare, with but a small company, and--the rest Sir Murdour can
grasp. Only, I should like to see a bleeding head, in proof that all has
gone as I wish.'
Sir Murdour did not delay when he heard this message, but called
together a troop of armed knights, and set sail with them for the forest
on the water over against Southampton. They landed late one night, and
Sir Murdour bade his foster-brother go secretly to the palace, and let
the countess know that he was close at hand. After that he posted his
men in deep dells and behind trees, and awaited his enemy.
The sun was scarcely up before the countess roused her husband, who was
sleeping heavily after a day's hunting.
'Awake,' she cried, shaking his shoulder, 'I am feeling like unto death,
and I have dreamed that this day I shall surely die if I eat not of the
flesh of a wild boar of the forest.'
At these woeful tidings the earl sprang from his bed, and in a short
while he was riding with a pack of hounds and a few attendants towards
the part of the forest where the wild boars were most plentiful. The
dogs were soon racing down a track, having scented a boar, and the earl
was preparing to follow when Sir Murdour and his men leapt out from
their hiding-places and suddenly surrounded him.
'I am here at your lady's bidding,' said the knight; 'she has begged me
to send her your head, and I mean to do it.'
[Illustration: LITTLE BEVIS AVENGES HIS FATHER]
The earl's face grew pale at these dreadful words. He did not fear any
man alive, but the thought of his wife's baseness took the strength from
his arm and the courage from his heart. Still, for the honour of his
name and knighthood, it behoved him to fight his best, though his only
weapon was a boar spear. The battle lasted long, but at length the
earl's horse was killed under him, and he fell to the ground. In another
moment Sir Murdour struck his head from his shoulders, and, placing it
on a spear, he ordered his squire to bear it to the castle.
Bevis, who was standing on the battlements, saw this terrible sight, and
seeking out his mother he vowed vengeance against the murderer. Though
he was only seven years old, his strength was so great that the countess
felt that her life would not be safe if once he discovered the truth, so
she ordered his uncle Saber to take the boy to some distant place and
there to slay him. Saber did not dare to disobey. He took Bevis with him
to a small hut near the forest, and, killing a pig, sprinkled the
child's garments with the blood and sent them to his mother. Afterwards
he dressed Bevis in the clothes of a peasant, and, putting a stout staff
in his hands, set him to watch a flock of sheep.
The boy did what he was told without a word, but the sheep wandered far
that day, and by-and-by he found himself in sight of his father's
castle. Then a sudden fury filled his soul, and, leaving the sheep to go
whither they would, he ran swiftly down the hill, and never stopped till
he reached the castle gate. Here the porter, to whom the countess had
given much gold, tried to stop him, but Bevis only knocked him down with
his cudgel, and on into the hall he went, and there he beheld his mother
and Sir Murdour feasting at the high table.
'Traitors and murderers!' cried he, and lifting his staff, he dealt
three fierce blows at the head of Sir Murdour, which felled him to the
ground, where he lay unconscious. Then the boy turned and walked out of
the hall, none daring to stop him.
He told his uncle what had happened, but Saber was never ready of
counsel, and before he had time to think what was best the countess
entered the hut attended by two knights, whom she ordered to seize
Bevis, and sell him as a slave to any captain in the port of
Southampton who might be sailing that night for the lands of the
Infidel.
The captain of the ship was a kind man and took a liking to the boy
whose fate was so hard, and when a fair wind blew them into the harbour
of Heathenesse he bade the child bear him company to the palace. The
king, whose name was Ermyn, thought he had never seen any boy of his age
so tall and beautiful, and asked him many things as to his past life.
These Bevis answered with so much truth and spirit that Ermyn was
persuaded that he would grow into a man much above the common, and
declared that he would make him heir to his throne and wed him in due
course to his daughter Josyan, if he would only give up Christianity and
become a convert to the faith of Heathenesse. But this Bevis swore he
would never do.
The good captain feared greatly that the king might be angered by
Bevis's refusal, but instead Ermyn seemed to think that the boy, who
would not break his vows lightly, was fain to turn out a true and loyal
man. So he smiled, and told Bevis that he would make him his
chamberlain, and when he was of age to be a knight, he should be his
banneret.
Eight years passed by, spent by Bevis in learning all the feats with the
sword and spear for which the knights of Heathenesse had long been
famous. His life was smooth and pleasant, and it was only when he had
counted fifteen summers that he had his first adventure.
It was Christmas Day, and Bevis was riding with a large company of
Paynim knights through the great plain that surrounded the city. The
talk ran upon the many lion chases they had held in that very place,
when suddenly one of the knights who had journeyed both to Rome and
Jerusalem turned to Bevis, who happened to be next him, and asked if he
knew what day it was.
'No,' answered Bevis; 'why should I? Is it different from any other
day?' and the knight laughed and told him he was but a poor Christian.
This angered Bevis, who said that, as he had lived among heathens since
he was seven years old, it was not likely he should have learnt anything
about his faith, but that in defence of it he was ready to tilt with the
knights one after the other and hoped that in so good a cause he might
prevail.
'Listen to the crowing of this young cock' cried one of the party,
highly wroth at the answer of Bevis; and indeed so furious were they
that they set upon him at once and dealt him many wounds before the boy
was able to defend himself. Then he snatched a sword from the man
nearest him, and laid about him so hardly that in a short time they were
all stretched dead upon the ground, while their horses galloped back to
their stalls. Bevis himself, suffering great pain, went quietly back to
his room in the palace and waited to see what would come next.
When king Ermyn heard the news, and how so many of his best knights had
been put to death by his page, he was beside himself with fury, and gave
orders that Bevis should be instantly beheaded. But Josyan, his
daughter, pleaded so hard for the young page that the king agreed to
hear his story, and when he had heard it he not only forgave the youth,
but told Josyan, who was skilled in leechcraft, to heal his wounds. And
in a little while Bevis was raised to higher favour than ever by slaying
a boar which had carried away and eaten several children on the
outskirts of the city.
By this time the fame of the princess's beauty had spread far and wide,
and the king of Damascus sent an embassy to the court of king Ermyn,
praying that she should be given him to wife.
'But,' added he, 'in case you do not well consider my suit, I would have
you know that I will gather together a great army, and lay waste your
land with fire and sword. So think well before you refuse me.'
King Ermyn was little used to language of this sort, and for all answer
collected twenty thousand men, whom he commanded to be in readiness.
Next, at the request of his daughter, he dubbed Bevis a knight, and the
princess herself clad him in a richly inlaid helmet, and buckled on him
the good sword Morglay. As a parting gift she bestowed on him a swift
white horse called Arundel, and very proud was Bevis as he rode away at
the head of the army beside the commander.
* * * * *
It were too long to tell of all the deeds wrought by Sir Bevis during
the fight with the king of Damascus, whose standard-bearer, the giant
Radyson, he slew at the very outset of the battle. In the end, and owing
in a great measure to the valour of the young knight, the Damascenes
owned themselves beaten, and their king remained a captive in the hands
of Sir Bevis.
'I will spare your life on one condition only,' said the victor, 'and
that is that you shall swear fealty on my sword to king Ermyn, and
acknowledge yourself to be his vassal.'
The king's heart was sore when he heard what was demanded of him, for
never before had he been vanquished in war. Still, he saw that there was
no help for it, and he took the oath that Bevis required of him, after
which he was suffered to depart into his own country.
King Ermyn could not do enough honour to Sir Bevis when he came back to
the palace, and, as was the custom, he bade his daughter rid him of his
heavy armour, to put on him gorgeous robes, and to wait on him when he
sat down to table. Sir Bevis was half glad and half ashamed to receive
these services at the hands of the princess, but Josyan heard her
father's orders right willingly, and led him away to fulfil them at
once.
The first thing she did was to order her slaves to prepare a bath for
him, and to make it soft with all manner of sweet-smelling spices. Then
she summoned him to her chamber, where she had prepared food and wine,
and, like a wise woman, spoke nothing till he had eaten and drunk as
much as he would. When he had satisfied his hunger, he flung himself to
rest on a pile of cushions, and Josyan seated herself near him. Taking
one of his hands in hers, she said softly:
'Oh, Bevis, little do you know what I have suffered these many months
from the love I bear you! Indeed, so grievous have been my pains that I
marvel that I am alive this day. But if you return not my love, of a
surety I am a dead woman.'
Now Bevis had long loved the princess in secret; but his heart was
proud, and, besides, he feared to seem that he had betrayed the king's
trust. So he answered:
'Fair Josyan, I thank you for your gentle words, but it would ill become
me to take advantage of them. There is no prince in all the world, be he
who he may, who would not crown you queen, and hold himself honoured.
For me, I am but a poor knight, and one from a strange land, to whom
your father has shown more favour than I deserve. It is not thus I
should repay his kindness.'
These words struck a chill through Josyan. All her life she had never
known what it was to be denied anything she asked for, and she fell to
weeping.
'I would sooner have you, poor as you are, than the greatest king
alive,' sobbed she; but when Bevis sat still and kept silence her grief
turned to wrath.
'Am I, who might reign over any of the kingdoms of the earth, to be
flouted by you, a mere churl? Out of my chamber this instant, and betake
yourself to working in the fields, for they are fitter setting for one
of your birth than a lady's bower!'
'Damsel,' said Bevis, 'you wrong me. No churl am I, but the son of an
earl, and a knight withal. And now farewell, for I shall depart into my
own country.'
For a short time Josyan's anger held sway in her heart, and even the
death of Bevis would hardly have moved her, but when she heard that
Bevis was actually preparing to leave the city her pride broke down,
and she sent a messenger to implore his forgiveness. But she had to
learn that Bevis was no less proud than she, and he dismissed the
messenger with a ring that the king had given him, merely saying that he
had already bid good-bye to the princess Josyan.
Then Josyan saw that if she would keep Bevis at her side she must humble
herself to the dust, so she went herself to the chamber of Bevis, and
implored him to forget her hasty words, and not to forsake her. Nay, she
would even promise to give up her own faith and to become a Christian.
At this proof of her devotion, Sir Bevis's resolve gave way, and he told
her that he had loved her always, but feared that her father would never
accept him as a son-in-law. Josyan made light of this obstacle, and
declared that her father would never refuse her anything she had set her
heart upon; but Bevis was not so hopeful, and soon events proved that he
was right.
Two knights whom Bevis had rescued from captivity and had brought to the
palace overheard the vows exchanged between him and Josyan, and her
offer of being baptized. Hating and envying the good fortune of Bevis,
they sought out the king, and told him that his daughter was about to
give up the faith of Mahomet, and to fly from the country with a
Christian knight.
These tidings were grievous to king Ermyn. He could not forgive his
daughter, and yet, after all the deeds he had done, the people of the
city would not suffer Bevis to be punished. What was he to do? The more
he thought of it the more bewildered he felt; and all the while the two
traitors stood patiently by, knowing well what was passing through the
king's mind.
At length he turned, as they were sure he would, and asked their
counsel, which was quite ready.
'Let your Majesty write a letter to King Bradmond, as from liege lord to
vassal, and let Sir Bevis be the bearer of it, and bid the king put the
knight to instant death.' So said the traitors, and, though the device
was neither new nor honourable, it would serve. Bevis was summoned to
the king's presence, and listened carefully to all he was told. Joyful
was he at being chosen for this mission, which he thought betokened
special favour, though his spirits were somewhat damped by the assurance
that he must leave his sword Morglay and Arundel, his swift horse,
behind him.
'It were an insult to the king to approach him on a war-horse, and
brandishing the sword that has slain so many of his men,' said Ermyn.
'You shall ride the ambling palfrey on which I make my progress through
the city; and, as for weapons, you will have no need of them.' So
Arundel remained quietly in his stable, while Bevis unwillingly jogged
along at the slow pace of the palfrey. But in one thing he disobeyed
king Ermyn, for under his tunic was hidden a short sword.
On the way he fell in with a pilgrim, whose offer to share his dinner
Bevis accepted gladly. They soon began to tell each other their
adventures, and, to his surprise, Bevis found that the pilgrim was his
own cousin, the son of his uncle Saber, and that he had come so far with
no other purpose than to seek out the young knight and to inform him of
all that had happened during the years that had passed since his
father's death.
The vassals of the old earl, said the pilgrim, had been so ground down
by the wicked Sir Murdour and his wife, that they had risen up as one
man, and, headed by Saber, had defended the Isle of Wight against the
usurper. But it was greatly to be desired that the young earl should
return home as fast as possible, and attack Murdour in his castle of
Southampton, and for this reason had he set forth to seek him.
Bevis's heart and his blood waxed hot with the listening, but he did not
wish that the pilgrim should learn just then who he was, so he answered
that the young earl was his friend and brother, and that on his part he
would promise speedy help to the faithful vassals fighting in his cause.
With this they parted, and Bevis pursued his way to Damascus.
On entering the gates of the city he found himself in the midst of a
large crowd, who were making ready a sacrifice to a wooden idol, which
was carried in a golden car. This roused the wrath of the young man,
and, forcing his way through the multitude, he seized the idol and flung
it into the mud, calling loudly on the people to go and help their god,
since he could not help them. In an instant a thousand arms were raised
against the stranger who had dared to insult the majesty of their idol,
and, though Bevis drew his short sword and defended himself bravely, he
could not have held out against such numbers had not the palace gates
been close behind. Still fighting, Bevis entered the gates, and drawing
the letter from his tunic ordered the guards to take him at once into
the presence of the king.
Bradmond read the letter with joy, as he felt that his enemy was
delivered into his hands, and the tidings of the attack on the idol
hardened his heart still more. Without further delay he bade the guards
take Bevis and carry him off to a deep dungeon under the palace where
lived two huge dragons, who would be fain to eat him forthwith.
'And I do this,' said Bradmond, 'not to avenge my own wrongs, but to
perform my oath of duty unto my sovereign lord king Ermyn. For this is
the service he requires of me, in the letter that you yourself have
brought.'
[Illustration: STRONG SIR BEVIS KEEPS THE TWO DRAGONS AT BAY]
Ropes were tied under Bevis's arms, and he was lowered down, down, down,
till he could see nothing but four fiery eyes which glared furiously up
at him. Soon after his hands knocked against something hard and rough,
which moved under his touch. At the same moment his feet touched the
bottom, and he found himself standing in a large cave with a feeble ray
of light coming from the far end. By this he dimly perceived two
horrible dragons, but for a moment they were still, and did not move to
attack him.
Bevis made use of the short time allowed him to feel about if perchance
he could find some weapon with which to defend himself instead of the
short sword which had been taken from him, and he came upon a stout
staff, thrown into one corner, and by the aid of this he held those two
monsters at bay for a whole night and day. By this time the dragons, who
had been weakened by a slothful life and the flesh of many prisoners,
were too weak to resist any longer, and fell an easy prey to the strong
arm of Bevis.
Of course it was not long before the men who had charge of the dungeon
discovered that the dragons were dead, but they were so filled with
admiration of Bevis's courage that they kept his counsel, and let down
into his prison daily a good portion of wheat cake, so that he managed
to keep himself alive. Bradmond the king very soon forgot all about him,
so that the soldiers did as they pleased.
Thus some years passed away.
At the end of that time one of the gaolers died, and the other was sent
to a distant city. The two men who took their places knew nothing of
Bevis, save that he was a captive in the dungeon, and that as long as he
was alive it was part of their duty to feed him every day. 'Let us
murder him,' said one man to another; 'it is small use to feed a man in
a dungeon who is forgotten by himself and all the world'; so one of them
fastened a ladder of ropes to the side and climbed down it, in the hope
of finding an easy victim lying on the ground. Instead there was a man
as strong as ten other men, who leapt swiftly aside to avoid the blow of
his sword, and struck him dead to the ground with a blow of his fist.
The other gaoler, hearing no noise from below, crept down the ladder to
see what had taken place; but as soon as he was on the floor of the
dungeon Bevis gave a mighty spring which snapped the chain that had
bound him to the rock, and thrust him through with the sword he had
taken from his fellow. Then, when, as far as he could reckon, the night
was nearly gone, he climbed up the ladder, and stood once more a free
man.
At the first gleam of dawn, Sir Bevis stole out to the stables, where
the king's horses were being groomed. Peeping through a hole, he
discovered a room hung round with suits of armour, and, getting in
through the roof, he took down a coat of mail, a helmet, and a shield,
while he chose out a good sword from a pile standing in a corner. Then
entering the stable, he cut off the heads of several of the men, while
the rest fled out of reach of the strange being with the long hair and
strong arm. When they were all gone Bevis brought out the best horse in
the stable, and rode out across the drawbridge into the world again.
Of course, directly he was missed, king Ermyn sent his best knights in
pursuit of him, but in one way or another Sir Bevis got the better of
them all, and made his way to Jerusalem, where, for the first time since
he was seven years old, he entered a Christian church. But so anxious
was he to hear some tidings of Josyan, that he remained only a short
time in the city, and soon rode on again along the road to her father's
court.
On the way he met with a young knight who had once been his squire, and
who told him a sad tale. Josyan, he said, had been asked in marriage by
the most powerful and fierce of all the kings of Heathenesse, but she
steadily refused to wed any man who was not a Christian like herself.
This so enraged her father that he gave leave to her suitor to do with
her as he would; so king Inor, for so was he named, carried her off to
his own kingdom, and shut her up in a tower till she should come to a
better mind, and be ready to return to her old faith.
'In her tower she is still,' continued the knight; 'but if you would
have speech with her it is first needful to persuade the king to go on
some distant mission. And first you must put on a disguise, for at any
moment those may come by who knew you well at the royal palace.'
This advice Bevis followed; he hid himself with his friend behind a
clump of bushes till a pilgrim passed on the way to Jerusalem. The young
knight then left his hiding-place, and prayed the pilgrim for the sake
of charity and a dole of money to be given in alms that he would
exchange clothes with Sir Bevis. To this the pilgrim readily agreed, and
soon Bevis was arrayed in a long mantle, carrying a staff in his hand.
'Now go and stand about the door of the palace, and when the king comes
from hunting he will see you, and will ask you where you come from, and
what news is stirring in the world. And you must say to him that you
have lately journeyed from Syria, from the kingdom of his brother, and
that the land has been overrun by strange armies, and that the country
is in a great strait. When he hears that he will of a surety hasten to
his aid, and then you will be able to escape with Josyan without danger
of losing your head.'
Now Inor the king had placed Josyan under the charge of Boniface, the
chamberlain, who had been long in the service of her father, and in
order the better to help her had pretended to approve of the evil way in
which she was treated. Directly he heard of the plot he began to play
his part towards its fulfilment, and in the evening of the day on which
the king had departed he managed to give the steward, who had been left
to rule the city, such a powerful sleeping draught that he did not wake
for twenty-four hours. Meanwhile Sir Bevis chose out the best suit of
armour in the king's armoury and the fastest horse in his stable; and
when night fell Josyan stole softly down from her tower, and, mounting
Arundel, whom she had brought with her from her old home, rode out of
the gates by the side of Bevis. Boniface followed close after them. He
did not dare to stay behind, as he knew that his head was forfeit.
But as things happened he might as well have remained where he was, for
the very next day, when Bevis was hunting, two lions came up to the cave
where Josyan and her chamberlain lay concealed. Without an instant's
pause they devoured Boniface and his horse, which was tethered outside,
though Josyan's beauty so overawed them that they bent their heads
humbly in her presence.
The next adventure that befell Sir Bevis was a battle with a giant
thirty feet high, who had been sent by the steward to catch the two
runaways. During the fight he was sore wounded, and in the end owned
Bevis to be his master, and begged to be allowed to take service with
him. Sir Bevis agreed, though somewhat doubtfully, but soon found reason
to rejoice in his new page, for by his help he was able to turn some
Saracens out of a ship which bore them all with a fair wind to the city
of Cologne.
Here he found his uncle, the bishop; who was brother to his father and
to Sir Saber, and, leaving Josyan in safety under his care, he set sail
with a hundred knights for Southampton. Before landing he sent one of
his most trusty squires for tidings as to how fared Sir Murdour, and
received for answer that the quarrel still raged betwixt him and Sir
Saber. Then Bevis went on shore with all his knights, and bade one of
them tell Sir Murdour that they had sailed from France in quest of
service, and that if he so willed they would fight under his banner,
but, if not, they would offer themselves to his foe.
Sir Murdour was overjoyed at the sight of the strangers, and asked the
name of their leader.
'Sir Jarrard,' said Bevis, who did not wish to make himself known, and
inquired further what were the causes of the war with Sir Saber, and how
long it had lasted. To this Sir Murdour made reply that Sir Saber had
been seeking for many years past to wrest from him the heritage which
was his by purchase from the spendthrift heir Bevis, who had afterwards
quitted the country, but that with the help of the strangers an end
would speedily be put to the quarrel.
While Bevis stood listening to Sir Murdour, his fingers unconsciously
crept to the handle of his sword, but he forced back his wrath and
answered that, had they brought their horses with them, the dispute
might have been settled that very night. Still, much might be done if
Sir Murdour would give them a ship in which to sail to the Isle of
Wight, and would provide them with horses.
Sir Murdour did not need to be asked twice; he gave to Sir Bevis his
finest horses and his best armour, and before many hours Bevis was
standing on the Isle of Wight by the side of his uncle Saber.
'Take yonder fishing-boat,' said he to one of his knights, 'and return
to Southampton and enter the castle. Then tell Sir Murdour that the man
to whom he has given his arms and his horses is no knight of France, but
Sir Bevis earl of Southampton, who has come to take vengeance for the
death of his father.'
* * * * *
The battle which decided the strife was fought upon the island, and
never for a moment did Bevis lose sight of his enemy. In vain did
Murdour ride from one part of the field to the other; Bevis was always
there, though it was long before he was close enough to thrust at him.
At last he managed to hurl him to the ground, but Murdour's followers
pressed hard on him, and Bevis could not, by his own self, take him
captive.
'To me! To me!' he cried at last, and Ascapard strode up, cleaving the
heads of all that stood in his way.
'What shall be done with him?' asked he, picking up the fallen knight
and holding him tightly.
'Put him in the cauldron that is boiling outside the camp,' said Bevis.
'For that is the death for traitors.'
So Sir Bevis got his own again, and he sent to Cologne for Josyan, and
was wedded to her by his uncle the bishop in his good town of
Southampton.
[From the _Early English Metrical Romances_.]
_OGIER THE DANE_
Long, long ago, a baby lay asleep in a cot in a palace. It was a royal
baby, therefore it was never left alone for a moment, but always had two
or three ladies watching it, by day and by night, so that no serpent
should crawl into its cradle and bite it, nor any evil beast run off
with it, as sometimes happened in other countries.
But one evening, after a very hot day, all the ladies in waiting felt
strangely drowsy, and, though they tried their best to keep awake, one
by one they gradually dropped off to sleep in the high carved chairs on
which they sat. Then a gentle rustle might have been heard outside on
the staircase, and when the door opened a brilliant light streamed in,
though the ladies slept too soundly to be awakened by it. Wrapped round
by the light were six fairies, more beautiful than any fairies that ever
were seen, who glided noiselessly to the cradle of the baby.
'How fair he is!' whispered one; 'the true son of a king.'
'And how strong he is!' answered another; 'look at his arms and legs,'
and the whole six bent forward and looked at him.
'The world shall ring with his fame,' said the first, whose name was
Gloriande, 'and I will give him the best gift I have. He shall never
fear death, and no word of shame shall ever touch him.'
Then the second fairy leaned forward and lifted the baby out of his
cradle. She was tall, and on her head was a ruby crown, while a plate of
gold covered her breast.
'Through all your life,' she murmured, 'wherever war and strife may be,
you shall be found in the midst of it, even as your forefathers.'
'Yes,' said a third; 'but my gift is better than hers, for you shall
never be worsted in any fight, and every one shall add to your honour.'
'And though you are the first of knights,' exclaimed the fourth, 'you
shall win fame for your courtesy and gentlehood, no less than for your
valour.'
'The hearts of all women shall turn to you, and they shall love you,'
said the fifth, who was clad in a robe of transparent green; 'but beware
how you give them back their love, for this love of mortals needs
proving'; and with that she slipped away from the cradle.
The sixth fairy looked silently at the child for a few moments, though
her thoughts seemed to be with something far away.
At length she spoke, and these were her words:
'When you are weary of travel and of strife and have won all the glory
and honour that may fall to men, then you shall come to me in my palace
of Avallon, and rest in the joys of fairyland with Morgane le Fay.'
After that the light began to fade, and the six fairies vanished none
could tell how or whither.
By-and-by the baby's attendants woke up, and never knew that during
their sleep the child's fate had been fixed as surely as if he had been
bitten by a serpent or carried off by a wolf. Everything _seemed_ the
same as it had done before, and so they took it for granted that it
_was_.
Time passed on, and Ogier, for that was the name they gave him, was ten
years old. He was tall and strong and could send his arrows farther than
most boys many years older. He could handle a spear too, and his thrusts
went straight at the mark; while he could sing a song, or touch the lute
as delicately as a maiden. His father was proud of him, and it went sore
with him when Charlemagne the emperor, who had had a bitter quarrel
with the king of Denmark, demanded that Ogier should be sent as a
hostage to his court of Paris.
[Illustration: HOW THE FAIRIES CAME TO SEE OGIER THE DANE]
For four years the boy lived happily in Paris, daily making new friends,
and learning to be a skilled swordsman; but at the end of that time the
Danish king sank some of Charlemagne's ships, and the emperor vowed that
Ogier should pay for his father's deed. His life was spared, but the
youth was banished to St. Omer, a little town on the coast. Here he
spent some years, which would have been dull and very wearisome but for
the kindness of the governor, who not only allowed him to fish and hunt
on receiving his word that he would not try to escape, but gave him his
daughter, the fair Belissande, as his companion, and even consented to a
marriage between them. For, kind though he was, he did not forget that
the captive youth was after all heir to the Danish throne.
Ogier would have been quite content to stay where he was, when suddenly
the emperor summoned him to come to Paris and take part in a war which
had broken out between him and the Saracens, who had landed in Italy.
Unwilling though he was, of course Ogier was forced to obey, and he
speedily won such fame that in a little while Charlemagne declared that
from henceforth he should have in battle the place of honour on the
right hand of the emperor himself. This favour so excited the jealousy
of Charlot, the emperor's son, that he laid many snares for Ogier's
life, but, owing to the gift of the fairy Gloriande, the young man
contrived to escape them all.
On his return to France with the army, after the war was over and the
Saracens had been beaten, he found two pieces of news awaiting him. One
was that his father was dead, and that he was king of Denmark, and the
other was that during his absence a son had been born to him.
Taking leave of the emperor, he chose the swiftest horse he could find
in the stables and rode straight to St. Omer. The boy was by this time
three years old, and promised to be tall and strong like his father.
Already he could mount a pony and use a tiny bow and arrows that had
been made for him, and even could tell the names of some of the battles
his father had won.
But Ogier could not tarry long in the castle of St. Omer. Taking his
wife and son with him, he set out at once for Denmark, and spent several
years in the kingdom making laws and teaching his people many things
that he had learnt in his travels.
After ten years, however, he became weary of this peaceful life, and,
after Belissande died, he felt he could bear it no longer. So, leaving
the crown to his uncle, he returned to France with his son and fought
once more by the side of Charlemagne. This was the life he loved, and it
seemed as if it might have gone on for ever had it not been for the
prince Charlot, who, unhappily, only grew more quarrelsome and foolish
the older he got.
Charlot was one day playing chess with the son of Ogier, and, as he was
hasty and impatient, the game went against him. Like many others, he had
never learned how to take a beating like a man, and, raising his hand,
he struck the youth a blow on the temple which killed him. Charlemagne,
grieved though he really was, refused to punish Charlot, and after
saying bitter words Ogier left Paris, and took service with the king of
Lombardy, but was soon captured, while asleep, by Archbishop Turpin.
By this time Charlemagne had felt the loss of Ogier so greatly, and had
besides suffered so much from further ill-doings on the part of his son,
that he lent a ready ear to Ogier's offer of reconciliation, provided he
were allowed to avenge himself on the murderer. But just as Ogier was
about to strike off Charlot's head, and rid the world of a man who never
did any good in it, he was stopped by a mysterious voice which bade him
to spare the son of Charlemagne. So Charlot was left to work more
mischief throughout the land.
A second time a crown fell to Ogier in right of his wife, the princess
Claria of England, who had been delivered by Ogier out of the hands of
the Saracens. But the princess died not many months after, and the
fetters of the throne were no more to Ogier's taste in England than in
Denmark. So he assembled all his barons, and bade them choose themselves
a king from among them. This done, he set sail across the sea for the
life of adventure that he loved.
For some time Ogier fought in Palestine, where he gained great fame, for
no army and no city could stand before him. But his heart always turned
to France, and directly peace was made he said farewell to his
companions and took ship for Marseilles. At first the breeze was fair,
but when they had made half the voyage a tempest arose and the vessel
was driven on a rock, while all the crew except Ogier himself were
drowned. This happened early in the morning, but as soon as darkness
fell and Ogier was fearing that he might die of hunger, as no living
thing could be seen on the island, he suddenly beheld facing him a
castle of adamant. He rubbed his eyes and gazed at it in amazement,
thinking it was a vision, for he knew not that this castle was
enchanted, and, though unseen by day, shone by night from light of its
own. However, he did not hesitate at the strangeness of his adventure,
but taking his sword in his teeth he swam ashore, and mounted the flight
of steps that led to the open door.
Rich and beautiful things lay scattered everywhere, but not a sign was
there of any one to enjoy them. Room after room was empty, and Ogier was
fast losing hope and wondering whether he was to die of starvation in
the midst of all this splendour. He had searched every chamber of the
castle except one which lay before him at the end of a long gallery. He
would go into that too, but if it should prove as barren as the rest
then his case was indeed perilous.
With a beating heart he drew back the bolts and lifted the latch of the
great carved door. Before him a long table was spread with fruits and
food of the rarest sort, while in a large chair at the further end a
horse was seated enjoying a huge pasty. At the sight of Ogier he rose
politely and bowed, after which he presented him with a golden bowl full
of water and returned to his chair.
During his travels Ogier had beheld many strange things, but never
before had a horse been his host, and he was so startled that, hungry
though he was, he hardly touched the food which the horse heaped on his
plate, expecting every moment that a magician might appear or the whole
castle crumble away.
Quiet though Ogier was, the horse, who had been taught manners in the
court of the sultan of Babylon himself, took no notice of his guest's
behaviour but finished his own supper, which was a very hearty one. When
it was done he rose again, bowed a second time to Ogier, who had risen
also, and, signing with his fore hoof towards a curtain on one side of
the hall, passed through, followed by his guest. In the centre of a
magnificent chamber stood a soft bed, at which Ogier gazed longingly.
The horse saw the direction of his eyes, and with another bow he
withdrew.
In the morning Ogier awoke early and passed through the door into a
meadow bright with flowers. He looked round him, and saw a group of
ladies sitting under a tree plucking fruit from its branches, and
filling golden cups from a clear stream that ran at their feet. Not
having eaten since his scanty supper of the night before, he approached
the ladies, one of whom arose and spoke to him, saying:
'Welcome, Ogier of Denmark! I have waited for you long. A hundred years
have passed since I stood by your cradle--a hundred years of war and of
fighting. But you have tired of them at last and have come back to me!
And now you shall rest in the palace of Avallon. I am Morgane le Fay.'
[Illustration: OGIER THE DANE MEETS MORGANE LE FAY AT LAST]
She held out her hand, and Ogier placed his within it, and thus they
entered the castle. Then she went to her closet and drew a casket from
it, and from the casket she took a ring, which she slipped on Ogier's
finger. Afterwards she placed on his head a wreath of golden laurels
intertwined with bays, and his white hair became once more like
sunshine, and the wrinkles faded from his brow. And with the wrinkles
faded also the recollection of the battles he had fought, and of
Charlemagne himself, and even of Belissande, whom he had loved so well.
Soft sounds of singing floated through the palace, and fairies trailing
flowers glided in and out in the dance. While Ogier stood entranced and
dumb, there entered King Arthur, to whom spoke Morgane le Fay:
'Draw near, Arthur, my lord and brother, come and salute the flower of
chivalry, the boast of the court of France, he in whom courtesy,
loyalty, and all virtue are united.'
And Arthur drew near, and they embraced each other.
* * * * *
Two hundred years passed as a single day, till one morning when Ogier
was lying on a bank listening to the birds which sang like no birds
which mortal ears have ever heard, he took for an instant the crown from
off his head. In a moment the memories of his old life flashed across
him, and, starting up, he sought Morgane le Fay, and bade her give him
his sword, for he was going to fight for fair France again. In vain the
fairy besought him not to forsake her, but he would hear nothing, and
she was fain to do as he wished. So by her magic she conjured up a
little boat which bore Ogier to Marseilles, whence he hastened to the
war, which was being carried on in Normandy.
* * * * *
Great was the surprise of the warriors and ladies of the court at the
sight of the new-comer, whose face was as young and fresh as their own,
but whose arms and whose speech were of a time long gone by. At first
some were inclined to try him with jests, but they speedily found that,
strange though his manners might seem, it were wiser to accept them.
Indeed, it was not long before Ogier's presence had caused itself to be
so felt throughout the camp that he was given command of an army that
was about to march against the enemy who were invading France and
utterly routed them. In gratitude the king begged him to counsel him in
all things, and in a few months some of Ogier's strength and wisdom had
passed into the people.
Now night and day Ogier wore the ring which Morgane le Fay had placed on
his finger, and as long as it was there no youth about the court was
fairer and more splendid than he. The gift with which he had been
endowed in his cradle had lost none of its power, and as he passed
through the crowd, towering full a head over other men, the hearts of
the ladies went out towards him. _He_ could not help it, and _they_
could not help it. It had been so ordained by the fairy. Even age could
not preserve them; nay, it seemed to render them an easier prey.
Amongst the noble ladies whose pulses beat faster at the sight of
Ogier's golden hair was the Countess of Senlis. Old was she, and
withered of face, but she had never ceased to think that she was young,
and she mistook the kindliness and courtesy of Ogier's manner for the
love that man bears to woman.
One morning, in crossing the garden to attend upon her mistress the
queen, the countess came upon Ogier lying asleep under the trees. She
stopped and looked upon him tenderly; then her eyes fell upon the ring
on his finger, whose stone, of a strange green hue, was graven with
devices.
'If I could see them close, perchance I might guess who he is and whence
he came,' said she to herself, and, stooping, she drew lightly the ring
from his hand, not knowing that the queen had crept up and stood behind
her. But what an awful change came over him all at once! His limbs grew
shrivelled, his hair white, his eyes so shrunken that they seemed hardly
more than points; but when the queen turned with horror to ask her lady
what it meant, the change in her was hardly less wondrous, for, though
the old countess was ignorant of it, fifty years had been swept from
her, and she was straight and winsome as of yore.
They were still standing, dumb with surprise, when Ogier awoke and
glanced about him with feeble, uncertain gaze. Catching sight of the
ring, which the countess was still holding, he stretched his shaking
hand towards it. The action was more than the queen could bear.
'Give it back to him,' she said; and, unwilling though she was to part
with such a treasure, the countess was forced to obey.
Tremblingly Ogier restored the ring to its place, and in an instant his
youth and beauty returned to him.
Soon after this the king of France died, and when the time of mourning
was over the queen made known to Ogier that she wished to take him for
her second husband. Gentle was she and fair, and easy it was for Ogier
to love her, and his heart beat high at the thought of sitting on the
throne where Charlemagne had once sat. The people rejoiced greatly when
they heard of the marriage, for with Ogier for their king they were
safe, they thought, from invaders.
The wedding day had come, and scarce a man or woman in Paris had closed
their eyes the night before. Magnificent indeed would the procession be
that was to end in the new cathedral; gorgeous would be the trappings of
the horses, dazzling the dresses of the ladies that would ride, some in
litters and some on horses, through the streets that bordered the river.
Early was the queen astir, to be tired by her maidens, and if Ogier's
slumbers lasted longer--well, it was not the first time that he had been
crowned a king.
At length he was awakened by the sound of a voice calling his name:
'Ogier, Ogier!' and at the sound the present was forgotten, and the past
rushed back. 'Ogier, Ogier!' whispered the voice again, and, looking, he
saw standing by his bed not the queen, but Morgane le Fay.
'Rise quickly,' she said, 'and put on your wedding garments. Clothe
yourself in the mantle Charlemagne wore, and the crown that was placed
upon his brow. Set on your feet his shoes of gold, and let me see you
once as France would have seen you.'
He did her bidding, and she gazed at him awhile, then slowly drawing
nigh she lifted the crown from his hair, and in its stead she put on him
the wreath of laurel which brought peace and forgetfulness.
'Now come with me,' she said, holding out her hand, and together they
left the palace unseen, and entered a barge that was waiting in the
river, and in the sunrise they sailed away to the castle of Avallon.
[Adapted from Dunlop's _History of Prose Fiction_, and Morris's _Ogier
the Dane_.]
_HOW THE ASS BECAME A MAN AGAIN_
Once upon a time there lived a young man who would do nothing from
morning till night but amuse himself. His parents were dead and had left
him plenty of money, but this was fast vanishing, and his friends shook
their heads sadly, for when the money was gone they did not see where
more was to come from. It was not that Apuleius (for that was the name
of the youth) was stupid. He might have been a good soldier, or a
scholar, or a worker in gold, if so it had pleased him, but from a child
he had refused to do anything useful, and roamed about the city all day
long in search of adventures. The only kind of learning to which he paid
any heed was magic, and when he was in the house he would spend hours
poring over great books of spells.
Fond though he was of sorcery, he was too lazy to leave the town and its
pleasures--the chariot-racing, the theatre, and the wrestling, and to
travel in search of the wizards who were renowned for their skill in the
art. However, the time came when, very unwillingly, he was forced to
take a journey into Thessaly, to see to the proper working of some
silver mines in which he had a share, and Thessaly, as everybody knows,
is the home of all magic. So when Apuleius arrived at the town of
Hypata, where dwelt the man Milo, overseer of his mines, he was prepared
to believe that all he saw was enchanted.
Now, if Thessaly is the country of magic, it is also the country of
robbers, and Apuleius soon noticed that everybody he met was in fear of
them. Indeed, they made this fear the excuse for all sorts of mean and
foolish ways. For instance, Milo, who loved money and could not bear to
spend a farthing, refused to have any seats in his house that could be
removed, and in consequence there was nothing to sit upon except two
marble chairs fixed to the wall. As there was only room in these for one
person, the wife of Milo had to retire to her own chamber when the young
man entered.
'It was no use,' explained Milo, 'in laying out money on moveable seats,
with robbers about. They would be sure to hear of it and to break into
the house.'
Unlike his guest, Milo was always occupied in adding to his wealth in
one form or another. Sometimes he sent down a train of mules to the sea,
and bought merchandise which the ships had carried from Babylon or
Egypt, to sell it again at a high price. Then he dealt in sheep and
cattle, and when he thought he might do so with safety made false
returns of the silver that was dug up from the mines, and kept the
difference for himself. But most often he lent large sums at high
interest to the young men of the neighbourhood, and so cunning was he
that, whoever else might be ruined, Milo managed to make large profits.
Apuleius knew very well that his steward was in his way as great a
robber as any in Thessaly, but, as usual, he found it too much trouble
to look into the matter. So he laughed and jested with the miser, and
next morning went out to the public baths and then took a stroll through
the city. It was full of statues of the famous men to whom Hypata had
given birth; but as Apuleius had made up his mind that nothing in
Thessaly _could_ be what it seemed, he supposed that they were living
people who had fallen under enchantment, and that the oxen whom he met
driven through the streets had once been men and women.
One evening he was returning as usual from a walk when he saw from afar
three figures before Milo's house, who he at once guessed were trying to
force an entrance. 'Here is an adventure at last,' thought he, and,
keeping in the shadow, he stole softly up behind them, and drawing his
short sword he stabbed each one to the heart. Then, without waiting to
see what more would befall, he left them where they were and entered the
house by a door at the back.
He said nothing of what had happened to Milo his host, but the next day,
before he had left his bed, a summons was brought him by one of the
slaves to appear before the court at noon on a charge of murder. As has
been seen, Apuleius was a brave man and did not fear to face three times
his number, but his heart quailed at the thought of a public trial.
Still, he was wise enough to know that there was no help for it, and at
the hour appointed he was in his place.
The first witnesses against him were two women with black veils covering
them from head to foot. At the sound of the herald's trumpet, one of the
two stepped forward and accused him of compassing the death of her
husband. When she had ended her plaint the herald blew another blast,
and another veiled woman came forward and charged him with her son's
murder. Then the herald inquired if there was not yet a third victim,
but was answered that his wound was slight, and that he was able to roam
through the city.
After the witnesses had been called, the judge pronounced sentence.
Apuleius the murderer was condemned to death, but he must first of all
be tortured, so that he might reveal the names of the men who had
abetted him. By order of the court, horrible instruments were brought
forward which chilled the blood of Apuleius in his veins. But to his
surprise, when he looked round to see if none would be his friend, he
noticed that every one, from the judge to the herald, was shaking with
laughter. His amazement was increased when with a trembling voice one of
the women demanded that the bodies should be produced, so that the judge
might be induced to feel more pity and to order more tortures. The
judge assented to this, and two bodies were carried into court shrouded
in wrappings, and the order was given that Apuleius himself should
remove the wrappings.
The face of the young man grew white as he heard the words of the judge,
for even a hardened criminal cares but little to touch the corpse of a
man whom he has murdered. But he dared not disobey, and walked slowly to
the place where the dead bodies lay. He shrank for a moment as he took
the cloth in his hand, but his guards were behind him, and calling up
all his courage he withdrew it. A shout of laughter pealed out behind
him, and to his amazement he saw that his victims of the previous night
had been three huge leather bottles and not men at all!
As soon as Apuleius found out the trick that had been played on him he
was no less amused than the rest, but in the midst of his mirth a sudden
thought struck him.
'How was it you managed to make them alive?' asked he, 'for alive they
were, and battering themselves against the door of the house.'
'Oh, that is simple enough when one has a sorceress for a mistress,'
answered a damsel, who was standing by. 'She burned the hairs of some
goats and wove spells over them, so that the animals to whom the hairs
and skins had once belonged became endowed with life and tried to enter
their former dwelling.'
'They may well say that Thessaly is the home of wonders,' cried the
young man. 'But do you think that your mistress would let me see her at
work? I would pay her well--and you also,' he added.
'It might be managed perhaps, without her knowledge,' answered Fotis,
for such was the girl's name; 'but you must hold yourself in readiness
after nightfall, for I cannot tell what evening she may choose to cast
off her own shape.'
Apuleius promised readily that he would not stir out after sunset, and
the damsel went her way.
That very evening, Hesperus had scarcely risen from his bed when Fotis
knocked at the door of the house.
[Illustration: APULEIUS CHANGES INTO AN ASS]
'Come hither, and quickly,' she said; and without stopping to question
her Apuleius hastened by her side to the dwelling of the witch Pamphile.
Entering softly, they crept along a dark passage, where they could peep
through a crack in the wall and see Pamphile at work. She was in the act
of rubbing her body with essences from a long row of bottles which
stood in a cupboard in the wall, chanting to herself spells as she did
so. Slowly, feathers began to sprout from her head to her feet. Her arms
vanished, her nails became claws, her eyes grew round and her nose
hooked, and a little brown owl flew out of the window.
'Well, are you satisfied?' asked Fotis; but Apuleius shook his head.
'Not yet,' he answered. 'I want to know how she transforms herself into
a woman again.'
'That is quite easy, you may be sure,' replied Fotis. 'My mistress never
runs any risks. A cup of water from a spring, with some laurel leaves
and anise floating in it, is all that she needs. I have seen her do it a
thousand times.'
'Turn me into a nightingale, then, and I will give you five hundred
sesterces,' cried Apuleius eagerly; and Fotis, tempted by the thought of
so much money, agreed to do what he wished.
But either Fotis was not so skilful as she thought herself, or in her
hurry she neglected to observe that the bird bottles were all on one
shelf, and the beast bottles on another, for when she had rubbed the
ointment over the young man's chest something fearful happened. Instead
of his arms disappearing, they stretched downwards; his back became
bent, his face long and narrow, while a browny-grey fur covered his
body. Apuleius had been changed, not into a nightingale, but into an
ass!
* * * * *
A loud scream broke from Fotis when she saw what she had done, and
Apuleius, glancing at a polished mirror from Corinth which hung on the
walls, beheld with horror the fate that had overtaken him.
'Quick, quick! fetch the water, and I will seek for the laurels and
anise,' he cried. 'I do not want to be an ass at all; my arms and back
are aching already, and if I am not swiftly restored to my own shape I
shall not be able to overthrow the champion in the wrestling match
to-morrow.'
So Fotis ran out to draw the water from the spring, while Apuleius
opened some boxes with his teeth, and soon found the anise and laurels.
But alas! Fotis had deceived herself. The charm which was meant for a
bird would not work with a beast, and, what was worse, when Apuleius
tried to speak to her and beg her to try something else, he found he
could only bray!
In despair the girl took down the book of spells, and began to turn over
the pages; while the ass, who was still a man in all but his outward
form, glanced eagerly down them also. At length he gave a loud bray of
satisfaction, and rubbed his nose on a part of the long scroll.
'Of course, I remember now,' cried Fotis with delight. 'What a comfort
that nothing more is needed to restore you to your proper shape than a
handful of rose leaves!
The mind of Apuleius was now quite easy, but his spirits fell again when
Fotis reminded him that he could no longer expect to be received by his
friends, but must lie in the stable of Milo, with his own horse, and be
tended, if he was tended at all, by his own servant.
'However, it will not be for long,' she added consolingly. 'In the
corner of the stable is a little shrine to the goddess of horses, and
every day fresh roses are placed before it. Before the sun sets
to-morrow you will be yourself again.'
Slowly and shyly Apuleius slunk along lonely paths till he came to the
stable of Milo. The door was open, but, as he entered, his horse, who
was fastened with a sliding cord, kicked wildly at him, and caught him
right on the shoulder. But before the horse could deal another blow
Apuleius had sprung hastily on one side, and had hidden himself in a
dark corner, where he slept soundly.
The moon was shining brightly when he awoke, and looking round he saw,
as Fotis had told him, the shrine of Hippone, with a branch of
sweet-smelling pink roses lying before it. It was rather high up, he
thought, but, when he reared himself on his hind legs, he would surely
be tall enough to reach it. So up he got, and trod softly over the
straw, till he drew near the shrine, when with a violent effort he threw
up his forelegs into the air. Yes! it was all right, his nose was quite
near the roses; but just as he opened his mouth his balance gave way,
and his front feet came heavily on the floor.
The noise brought the man, who was sleeping in another part of the
stable.
'Oh, I see what you are at, you ugly beast,' cried he; 'would you eat
roses that I put there for the goddess? I don't know who may be your
master, or how you got here, but I will take care that you do no more
mischief.' So saying, he struck the ass several times with his fists,
and then, putting a rope round his neck, tied him up in another part of
the stable.
Now it happened that an hour or two later some of the most desperate
robbers in all Thessaly broke into the house of Milo, and, unheard by
anyone, took all the bags of money that the miser had concealed under
some loose stones in his cellar. It was clear that they could not carry
away such heavy plunder without risk of the crime being discovered, but
they managed to get it quietly as far as the stable, where they gave the
horse some apples to put it in a good temper, while they thrust a turnip
into the mouth of Apuleius, who did not like it at all. Then they led
out both the animals, and placed the sacks of money on their backs,
after which they all set out for the robbers' cave in the side of the
mountain. As this, however, was some distance off, it took them many
hours to reach it, and on the way they passed through a large deserted
garden, where rose bushes of all sorts grew like weeds. The pulse of
Apuleius bounded at the sight, and he had already stretched out his nose
towards them, when he suddenly remembered that if he should turn into a
man in his present company he would probably be murdered by the robbers.
With a great effort, he left the roses alone, and tramped steadily on
his way.
It were long indeed to tell the adventures of Apuleius and the number of
masters whom he served. After some time he was captured by a soldier,
and by him sold to two brothers, one a cook and the other a maker of
pastry, who were attached to the service of a rich man who lived in the
country. This man did not allow any of his slaves to dwell in his house,
except those who attended on him personally, and these two brothers
lived in a tent on the other side of the garden, and the ass was given
to them to send to and fro with savoury dishes in his panniers.
The cook and his brother were both careful men, and always had a great
store of pastry and sweet things on their shelves, so that none might be
lacking if their lord should command them. When they had done their work
they placed water and food for their donkey in a little shed which
opened on to the tent, then, fastening the door so that no one could
enter, they went out to enjoy the evening air.
On their return, it struck them that the tent looked unusually bare, and
at length they perceived that this was because every morsel of pastry
and sweets on the shelves had disappeared, and nothing was left of them,
not so much as a crumb. There was no room for a thief to hide, so the
two brothers supposed that, impossible though it seemed, he must not
only have got _in_ but _out_ by the door, and, as their master might
send for a tray of cakes at any moment, there was no help for it but to
make a fresh supply. And so they did, and it took them more than half
the night to do it.
The next evening the same thing happened again; and the next, and the
next, and the next.
Then, by accident, the cook went into the shed where the ass lay, and
discovered a heap of corn and hay that reached nearly to the roof.
'Ah, you rascal!' he exclaimed, bursting out laughing as he spoke. 'So
it is you who have cost us our sleep! Well, well, I dare say I should
have done the same myself, for cakes and sweets are certainly nicer than
corn and hay.' And the donkey brayed in answer, and winked an eye at
him, and, more amused than before, the man went away to tell his
brother.
Of course it was not long before the story reached the ears of their
master, who instantly sent to buy the donkey, and bade one of his
servants, who had a taste for such things, teach him fresh tricks. This
the man was ready enough to do, for the fame of this wonderful creature
soon spread far and wide, and the citizens of the town thronged the
doors of his stable. And while the servant reaped much gold by making
the ass display his accomplishments, the master gained many friends
among the people, and was soon made chief ruler.
For five years Apuleius stayed in the house of Thyasus, and ate as many
sweet cakes as he chose; and if he wanted more than were given him he
wandered down to the tent of his old masters, and swept the shelves bare
as of yore. At the end of the five years Thyasus proclaimed that a great
feast would be held in his garden, after which plays would be acted, and
in one of them his donkey should appear.
Now, though Apuleius loved eating and drinking, he was not at all fond
of doing tricks in public, and as the day drew near he grew more and
more resolved that he would take no part in the entertainment. So one
warm moonlight night he stole out of his stable, and galloped as fast as
he could for ten miles, when he reached the sea. He was hot and tired
with his long run, and the sea looked cool and pleasant.
'It is years since I have had a bath,' thought he, 'or wetted anything
but my feet. I will take one now; it will make me feel like a man
again'; and into the water he went, and splashed about with joy, which
would much have surprised anyone who had seen him, for asses do not in
general care about washing.
When he came back to dry land once more, he shook himself all over, and
held his head first on one side and then on the other, so that the water
might run out of his long ears. After that he felt quite comfortable,
and lay down to sleep under a tree.
He was awakened some hours later by the sound of voices singing a hymn,
and, raising his head, he saw a vast crowd of people trooping down to
the shore to hold the festival of their goddess, and in their midst
walked the high priest crowned with a wreath of roses.
At this sight hope was born afresh in the heart of Apuleius. It was long
indeed since he had beheld any roses, for Thyasus fancied they made him
ill, and would not suffer anyone to grow them in the city. So he drew
near to the priest as he passed by, and gazed at him so wistfully that,
moved by some sudden impulse, the pontiff lifted the wreath from his
head, and held it out to him, while the people drew on one side, feeling
that something was happening which they did not understand.
Scarcely had Apuleius swallowed one of the roses, when the ass's skin
fell from him, his back straightened itself, and his face once more
became fair and rosy. Then he turned and joined in the hymn, and there
was not a man among them all with a sweeter voice or more thankful
spirit than that of Apuleius.
[Apuleius, _The Golden Ass_.]
_GUY OF WARWICK_
Everyone knows about the famous knight Sir Guy, the slayer of the great
Dun Cow which had laid waste the whole county of Warwick. But besides
slaying the cow, he did many other noble deeds of which you may like to
hear, so we had better begin at the beginning and learn who Sir Guy
really was.
The father of Guy, Segard the Wise, was one of the most trusty
councillors of the powerful earl of Warwick and Oxford, who was feared
as well as loved by all, as a man who would suffer no wrong through the
lands which he governed.
Now the earl had long noted the beauty and strength of Segard's young
son, and had enrolled him amongst his pages and taught him all manner of
knightly exercises. He even was versed in the art of chess-playing, and
thus whiled away many a wet and gloomy day for his master, and for his
daughter the fair Felice, learned in astronomy, geometry, and music, and
in all else that professors from the schools of Toulouse and Spain could
teach a maiden.
It happened one Pentecost that the earl of Warwick ordered a great
feast, followed by a tourney, to be held in the open space near the
castle, and tents to be set up for dancing and players on the lute and
harp. At these tourneys it was the custom of every knight to choose out
his lady and to wear her token or colours on his helmet, as Sir Lancelot
did the red sleeve of Elaine, and oftentimes, when Pentecost and the
sports were over, marriages would be blessed by the priest.
At this feast of Pentecost in particular, Guy stood behind the chair of
his master the earl, as was his duty, when he was bidden by the
chamberlain of the castle to hasten to the chamber of the Lady Felice,
and to attend upon her and her maidens, as it was not thought seemly for
them to be present at the great feast.
Although, as we have said, the page had more than once been called upon
to amuse the young damsel with a bout of chess, she had ever been
strictly guarded by her nurse and never suffered to exchange a word with
the youth whose place was so much below hers. On this evening, however,
with none to hinder her, she chattered and laughed and teased her
ladies, till Guy's heart was stolen from him and he quite forgot the
duties he was sent to fulfil, and when he left her presence he sought
his room, staggering like one blind.
Young though he was, Guy knew--none better--how wide was the gulf that
lay between him and the daughter of his liege lord. If the earl, in
spite of all his favour, was but to know of the passion that had so
suddenly been born in him, instant death would be the portion of the
over-bold youth. But, well though he knew this, Guy cared little, and
vowed to himself that, come what might, as soon as the feast was over he
would open his heart to Felice, and abide by her answer.
It was not easy to get a chance of speaking to her, so surrounded was
she by all the princes and noble knights who had taken part in the
tourney; but, as everything comes to him who waits, he one day found her
sitting alone in the garden, and at once poured forth all his love and
hopes.
'Are you mad to think that _I_ should marry _you_?' was all she said,
and Guy turned away so full of unhappiness that he grew sick with
misery. The news of his illness much distressed his master, who bade all
his most learned leeches go and heal his best-beloved page, but, as he
answered nothing to all they asked him, they returned and told the earl
that the young man had not many days to live.
But, as some of our neighbours say, 'What shall be, shall be'; and that
very night Felice dreamed that an angel appeared to her and chided her
for her pride, and bade her return a soft answer if Guy again told her
of his love. She arose from her bed full of doubts and fears, and
hurried to a rose bower in her own garden, where, dismissing her ladies,
she tried to set her mind in order and find out what she really felt.
Felice was not very successful, because when she began to look into her
heart there was one little door which always kept bursting open, though
as often as it did so her pride shut it and bolted it again. She became
so tired of telling herself that it was impossible that the daughter of
a powerful noble could ever wed the simple son of a knight, that she was
about to call to her maidens to cheer her with their songs and stories,
when a hand pushed aside the roses and Guy himself stood before her.
'Will my love ever be in vain?' he asked, gasping painfully as he spoke
and steadying himself by the walls of the arbour. 'It is for the last
time that I ask it; but if you deny me, my life is done, and I die, I
die!' And indeed it seemed as if he were already dead, for he sank in a
swoon at Felice's feet.
Her screams brought one of her maidens running to her. 'Grammercy, my
lady, and is your heart of stone,' cried the damsel, 'that it can see
the fairest knight in the world lying here, and not break into pieces at
his misery? Would that it were _I_ whom he loved! I would never say him
nay.'
'Would it _were_ you, and then I should no more be plagued of him,'
answered Felice; but her voice was softer than her words, and she even
helped her maiden to bring the young man out of his swoon. 'He is
restored now,' she said to her damsel, who curtseyed and withdrew from
the bower; then, turning to Guy, she added, half smiling:
'It seems that in my father's court no man knows the proverb, "Faint
heart never won fair lady." Yet it is old, and a good one. _My_ hand
will only be the prize of a knight who has proved himself better than
other men. If _you_ can be that knight--well, you will have your chance
with the rest.'
The soul of the youth leaped into his eyes as he listened; for he knew
that this was much for the proud Felice to say. But he only bowed low,
and with new life in his blood he left the castle. In a few days he was
as strong as ever he had been, and straightway sought the earl, whom he
implored to bestow on him the honour of knighthood.
'Right gladly will I do so, my page,' answered Rohand, and gave orders
that he would hold a solemn ceremony, when Guy and twenty other youths
should be dubbed knights.
Like many young men, Sir Guy thought that his first step on the road was
also to be his last, and instantly sought the presence of Felice, whom
he expected to find in the same softened mood as he had left her. But
the lady only laughed his eagerness to scorn.
'Think you that the name of knight is so rare that its ownership places
you high above all men?' asked she. 'In what, I pray you tell me, does
it put you above the rest who were dubbed by my father with you to-day?
No troth of mine shall you have until your name is known from Warwick to
Cathay.'
And Sir Guy confessed his folly and presumption, and went heavily unto
the house of Segard.
'O my father,' he began before he had let the tapestry fall behind him,
'I would fain cross the seas and seek adventures.'
'Truly this is somewhat sudden, my fair young knight,' answered Sir
Segard, with a mocking gleam in his eyes, for Guy's father had not been
as blind as fathers are wont to be.
'Other knights do so,' replied Guy, drawing figures on the floor with
the point of his sword. 'And I would not that I were behind them.'
'You shall go, my son,' said Segard, 'and I will give you as companions
the well-tried knights Sir Thorold and Sir Leroy, and Héraud, whom I
have proved in many wars. Besides these, you shall have men-at-arms with
you, and such money as you may need.'
Before many days had passed, Sir Guy and his friends had sailed across
the high seas, and had made their way to the noble city of Rouen. Amidst
all that was strange and new to him, there was yet much that was
familiar to his eyes, for there were certain signs which betokened a
tournament, and on questioning the host of the inn he learned all that
he desired. Next morning a tourney was to be held by order of the
emperor and the prize should be a white horse, a milk-white falcon, and
two white greyhounds, and, if he wished it, the hand of the princess
Whiterose, the emperor's daughter.
Though he had not been made a knight a month ago, Sir Guy knew full well
the customs of chivalry, and presented a palfrey, scarcely less
beautiful than the one promised as a prize, to the teller of these happy
tidings. Then he put on his armour and rode forth to the place of the
tourney.
In the field over against Rouen was gathered the flower of Western
chivalry. The emperor had sent his son, and in his train came many
valiant knights, among them Otho duke of Pavia, hereafter to be Sir
Guy's most bitter enemy. The fights were long and sore, but one by one
the keenest swordsmen rolled in the dust, and the prize was at length
adjudged to the youngest knight there present.
Full courteously he told all who might wish to hear that he might not
wed Whiterose, the princess, for his faith was already plighted to
another across the sea. And to Felice and to her father he sent the
falcon and horse and greyhounds as tokens of his valour. After that he
and his friends journeyed to many lands, fighting tournaments when there
were any tournaments to fight, till the whole of Christendom rang with
the name of Sir Guy.
'Surely I have proved my worth,' he said, when a whole year had gone by.
'Let us go home'; and home they went.
Joyful was the welcome bestowed on him by every one he met--joyful, that
is, from all but Felice.
'Yes, you have done well,' she said, when he knelt before her, offering
some of the prizes he had won. 'It is truly spoken among men that there
are not twelve knights living as valorous as you. But that is not good
enough for me. It matters not that you are "one of the best"; my husband
must be "the best of all."'
In vain Sir Guy pleaded that with her for his wife his strength would be
doubled, and his renown also.
'If you cannot conquer all men for my sake _now_, you will never do it
after,' she answered; and Sir Guy, seeing his words were useless, went
out to do her bidding.
The wrath of his father and mother was great when their son came to tell
them he was going to seek a fresh quest, but, though his heart was sore
rent with their tears, he only embraced them tenderly, and departed
quickly, lest he should make some promise he might not keep.
For long he found no knight whose skill and strength were equal to his
own, and he was beginning to hope that the day was drawing nigh that
should see him stand without a peer, when, in a tourney near the city of
Benevento, his foe thrust his lance deep into his shoulder, and for many
days Sir Guy lay almost senseless on his bed.
Now Otho duke of Pavia had neither forgotten nor forgiven his overthrow
by the young knight at Rouen, more than a year agone, and he resolved to
have his revenge while his enemy was still weak from loss of blood. So
he hid some men behind some bushes, which Sir Guy would needs pass while
riding along the road to the north, 'and _then_,' thought he, 'I will
cast him into prison, there to await my pleasure.'
But though his plans were well laid, the fight went against him, and in
the end Sir Guy, nearly fainting with weariness and loss of blood, was
again the victor, and Otho's best knight, Sir Guichard of Lombardy, owed
his life to the swiftness of his horse. His victory, however, was to Sir
Guy as sad as many defeats, for his constant companions lay dead before
him.
'Ah, Felice, this is your doing,' said he.
* * * * *
Long were it to tell of the deeds done by the noble knight Sir Guy; of
the tourneys that he won, of the cities that he conquered--even at the
game of chess he managed to be victorious! Of course many men were
sorely jealous of him and his renown, and wove plots for his ruin, but
somehow or other he contrived to escape them all.
By this time Sir Guy had grown to love wandering and fighting so well
that he had well-nigh forgotten who had sent him from his native land,
and why he was not dwelling in his father's castle. Indeed, so wholly
had the image of Felice faded from his memory, that when Ernis emperor
of Constantinople, under whose banner he was serving, offered him the
hand of his only daughter and half of his dominions, Sir Guy at once
accepted his gifts.
The sight of the wedding-ring brought him back to his allegiance. He no
longer loved Felice it is true, and he _did_ love a younger and gentler
maiden. But he must abide by the oath he had sworn, though it were to
his own undoing.
His grief at the loss of the princess Lorette sent Sir Guy to his bed
for many days, but as soon as the fever left him he felt that he could
stay at court no longer, and began to make plans to seek other
adventures in company with his friend Héraud and a lion which he had
saved from the claws of a dragon.
Since that day this lion had never quitted his side, except at his
master's bidding, and he always slept on the floor by his master's bed.
The emperor and all his courtiers were fond of the great beast, who
moved among them as freely as a kitten, but Sir Morgadour, the chief
steward of the emperor of the West, who was visiting the court, had ever
been Sir Guy's mortal enemy, and one evening, thinking himself unseen,
gave the lion a mortal wound as he was sleeping quietly in the garden.
He had just strength enough to drag himself to Sir Guy's feet, where he
died, and a damsel who had marked the cruel deed proclaimed loudly that
it was done by Sir Morgadour. In an instant Sir Guy's dagger was buried
in his breast; but when he grew calmer he remembered that his presence
at court might bring injury upon Ernis, as the emperor of the West would
certainly seize the occasion to avenge the death of his steward. So the
next day he left the city, and slowly turned his face towards England.
It was some months before he arrived there, so many adventures did he
meet with on the way. But directly he landed he hastened to York to
throw himself at the feet of Athelstan the king.
'Ah, welcome indeed, fair son,' cried he; 'the fame of your prowess has
reached us these many years past, and we have just received the news
that a fearful and horrible dragon, with wings on his feet and claws on
his ears, is laying waste our county of Northumberland. He is as black
as any coal, and as rough as any foal, and every man who has gone out to
meet him has been done to death ere he has struck a blow. Go, therefore,
with all speed and deliver us from this monster, for of dragons you
have slain many, and perchance this one is no more evil than the rest.'
The adventure was one after Sir Guy's own heart, and that very day he
rode northwards; but even _his_ well-proved courage failed somewhat at
the sight of the dragon, ten times uglier and more loathsome than any he
had ever beheld. The creature roared hideously as he drew near, and
stood up at his full length, till he seemed almost to stretch as far as
Warwick. 'Verily,' thought Sir Guy to himself, 'the fight of old with
the great Dun Cow was as the slaying of a puppy in comparison with
this!'
The dragon was covered thickly with scales all over his body, his
stomach as well as his back. They were polished and shiny and hard as
iron, and so closely planted that no sword could get in between them.
'No use to strike there,' muttered Sir Guy, 'a thrust down his throat is
my only chance.'
But if Sir Guy knew this, the dragon knew it much better, and, though
the knight managed to jump aside and avoid the swoops of his long neck
and the sudden darting of his sharp claws, he had not even tried to
strike a blow himself for fear lest his sword should break in two
against that shining horny surface. This was not the kind of warfare to
which the dragon was accustomed, and he began to grow angry, as anyone
might have seen by the lashings of his tail and the jets of smoke and
flame that poured out of his nostrils. Sir Guy felt that his chance
would soon come, and waited patiently, keeping his eye for ever fixed on
the dragon's mouth.
At length the monster gave a sudden spring forward, and if Sir Guy had
not been watching he could scarcely have leaped out of the way. The
failure to reach his prey enraged the dragon more than ever, and,
opening his mouth, he gave a roar which the king heard on his throne at
York. He opened his mouth; but he never shut it again, for Guy's sword
was buried in it. The death struggles were short; and then Sir Guy cut
off the head and bore it to the king.
After this, his first thought was for his parents, who, he found, had
died many years agone, and having said a prayer over their graves, and
put his affairs in order, he hurried off to Warwick to see Felice, and
tell her that he had fulfilled the commands she had given him long years
ago, when he was but a boy. He also told her of the ladies of high
degree whose hands he had won in fair fight--won--and rejected. 'All of
them I forsook for thee, Felice,' he said.
He had kept his word; but he had left his heart in Constantinople.
Perhaps Felice did not know this, or perhaps she did not set much store
by hearts, and cared more for the renown that Sir Guy had won throughout
Christendom. Anyhow, she received him gladly and graciously, and so did
her father, and the marriage was celebrated with great pomp, and for a
space Sir Guy remained at home, and after a time a son was born to him.
But at the day of his son's birth Sir Guy was far away. In the quiet and
idleness of the castle he began to think, and his conscience pricked him
sore, that all the years of his life he had done ill to many a man
And slain many a man with his hand,
Burnt and destroyed many a land.
And all was for woman's love,
And not for God's sake above.
'The end should be different from the beginning,' he said, and forthwith
he put on the dress of a pilgrim, and took ship for the Holy Land,
carrying with him a gold ring, given him by Felice.
Once more he came back, an old man now, summoned by Athelstan, to
deliver the city of Winchester out of the hands of the Danes, who were
besieging it. Once more he returned to Warwick, and, unseen, watched
Felice training her son in all the duties of knighthood, and once more
he spoke with her, when, dying in his hermitage, he sent her the ring by
his page, and prayed her to come and give him burial.
[_Early English Metrical Romances._]
_HOW BRADAMANTE CONQUERED THE WIZARD_
Many of you will remember reading of the death of Roland, fighting
against the Infidels in the Pass of Roncesvalles. Well, there is another
book called 'Roland the Wrathful,' or in Italian (in which it was
written), 'Orlando Furioso,' telling of the adventures of the great
Paladin when he was a young man, and those of his friends. It is of one
of these stories about a lady named Bradamante that you are going to
hear now.
* * * * *
From childhood, Bradamante had loved all feats of arms, and her chiefest
joy was to mount the most fiery horses in her father's stable. She grew
up very tall and strong, as well as fair to see, and soon put on man's
armour, and began to take her part in tournaments, and it was rare
indeed that she failed to carry off the prize. In truth, it was not long
before her skill was said to be equal to that of Roland's cousin, the
renowned Rinaldo.
* * * * *
Of course so wise and beautiful a maiden had no lack of wooers, but
Bradamante listened to none, save only to the brave Roger, who had
quitted the Moorish court to seek adventures in the lands of Charlemagne
the emperor. But she kept silence as to her love, and was content to
wait till such time as Roger should think fit to claim her as his bride.
Suddenly the tidings came to her that Roger had vanished from among men,
no one knew whither. As was her wont, Bradamante heard, and said
nothing, but the next morning she sharpened her sword, and looked to
the fastenings of her helmet, and rode off to seek him if perchance some
ill had befallen him.
In this quest she met with some adventures of her own, but of these we
have no time to tell. Bradamante, we may be sure, did not linger over
them, but pushed on till she crossed a mountain, and reached a valley
watered by a stream and shaded by large trees.
On the bank lay a young man with his head buried in his hands and
seemingly in a state of deepest misery. He had flung his horse's bridle
over the branch of a beech, and on the same bough he had hung his shield
and sword. His looks and posture were so forlorn that Bradamante was
moved to pity, and he himself was nothing loth to confess his woes,
pretending the while to take her for a man, though he knew well she was
a maiden. He was journeying, such was his tale, to the court of
Charlemagne with a company of spearmen to aid the emperor in the war he
was waging with the Moorish king of Spain. In the company was riding a
damsel whom the knight had but lately freed from the power of a dragon.
The beauty of this damsel had fired his heart, and as soon as the
Infidel was crushed he hoped to wed her. But as they rode along by the
side of a rapid river a winged horse guided by a man in black was seen
hovering in the air above the troop. Swifter than lightning he swooped
down upon the maiden; the rider bent low and snatched her off her
palfrey, and was out of sight in the heavens almost before he knew that
she was gone.
'Since that day,' continued he, 'I have sought her through forests and
over mountains, wherever I heard that a wizard's den was to be found.
But each time it was a false hope that lured me on, and now my horse is
spent and not another step can he go, though at length I know that
hidden among yonder rocks is my captive maiden.'
'If it is there she lies, I will free her,' cried Bradamante; but the
knight shook his head more grievously than before.
'I have visited that dark and dreadful place,' he said, 'which indeed I
think seems more like the valley of death than aught on this fair and
lovely earth. Amidst black and pathless precipices stands a rock, and on
its top is a castle whose walls are of steel. It was built, so I have
since learned, by a magician, and none can capture it.'
'But did you see no man who would take pity on you, and tell you what to
do?' asked Bradamante.
'As I lingered, unable to tear myself away from that loathly prison,
there appeared a dwarf guiding two knights whose faces I had often seen
upon the battlefield and at court. One was Gradasso king of Sericane,
the other and more valiant was the young Roger.'
'And what did they there?' asked Bradamante, casting down her eyes.
'They had come to fight the wizard who dwells in the castle, so said the
dwarf,' replied the knight, 'and I told them my sad tale, and they
answered in knightly fashion, that as long as their lives should last
they would fight for the freedom of my lady. Little need have I to tell
how my bosom was rent as I stood aside waiting for the combat to begin.
'Each good knight was eager that the first blow might fall to him, but
it was Gradasso who seized the horn and blew a blast which rang through
the castle.
'In a moment there shot into the sky the winged horse bearing his
master, clad as before in black armour. He hovered for a little space so
high that even the eagle could scarcely have followed him, then darted
straight downwards, and Gradasso felt a spear-thrust in his side. The
knight struck sharply back, but his sword cleft the empty air, for the
horse was already far out of reach. Roger ran to staunch the blood and
bind up the wound, never thinking of what might befall himself. But, in
truth, how could mortal men fight with a wizard who had studied all the
magic of the East, and had a winged horse to help him? His movements
were so swift that they knew not where to smite, and both Gradasso and
Roger were covered with wounds and bruises, while their enemy had never
once been touched.
'Their strength as well as their courage began to fail in the stress of
this strange warfare. The blows they dealt grew ever wilder and more
feeble, when from off his shield which hung upon his arm the wizard drew
a silken covering, and held the shield towards them as a mirror. As I
looked and wondered, behold the knights fell upon their faces, and I
also, and when next I opened my eyes I was alone upon the mountain.'
'And Roger?' said Bradamante.
'Roger and Gradasso had doubtless been carried by the wizard to the dark
cells of the prison, where my fair lady lies,' answered the knight, and
he again dropped his head upon his hands.
Now the knight was count Pinabello, the false son of a false race, and
woe betide the man or maid who trusted him. But this Bradamante knew
not, and thinking that the end of her quest was come cried joyfully:
'Oh, take me to the castle, sir knight, with all the speed you may, and
I shall be beholden to you for ever!
'If you so desire it I will lead you there,' answered the knight; 'but
remember that I have warned you that the danger is great! When you have
climbed those walls of steel, you will find yourself a prisoner like the
rest.'
'I care nothing for that,' said Bradamante.
* * * * *
So they set forth, but it was not by the road to the castle that
Pinabello led the maiden. Wrapped in his gloom begotten of treachery and
hate, he wandered from the path into a wood, where the trees grew so
thickly that the sky was scarcely visible. Then a dark thought entered
his mind. 'She shall trouble me no more,' he murmured as he went; and
aloud, 'The night is at hand, and ere it comes it were well that we
found a shelter. Rest, I pray you, here a short while, and I will climb
that hill and see if, as I expect, there is a tower not far off where we
can lie. To-morrow we will proceed on our way.'
'Let me go with you,' answered Bradamante, 'lest you should never find
_me_ again, or _I_ the wizard's castle,' and, so saying, she guided her
horse after his.
Thus they rode for some way, when Pinabello, who was in front, espied
among the rocks a deep cavern with sides so steep and smooth that no
mortal could have climbed them. He jumped off his horse and peered to
the bottom, but no bottom could he see. Then his heart leaped at the
thought that now, once and for all, he would be rid of Bradamante.
'Ah, good knight, you did well to follow me,' turning to greet her, as
her horse came panting up the steep hill.
'A damsel lies imprisoned in that dark place, and it is foretold that
only a knight with a white mantle and a white plume in his helm can
deliver her. Now I think that you must be that knight, and if you have
the courage to go down into that cavern as I went, you will get speech
of her, as I did.'
'I will go right willingly,' answered Bradamante, and looked about her
for some means of descending into the cavern. Near the mouth was a stout
oak, and Bradamante cut off a branch with her sword and plunged it down
the mouth of the cave. She gave Pinabello one end to hold fast, and
lowered herself carefully into the darkness.
'Can you jump?' asked the count suddenly, with a laugh, and, giving the
bough a push, it fell with Bradamante into the pit.
But the traitor triumphed without a cause. In the swift passage down the
cave the branch struck the bottom first, and, though it broke in pieces,
Bradamante was saved from being dashed against the floor, where she lay
for a while bruised and shaken.
When she became used to the darkness, she stood up and looked around
her. 'There may be some way out, after all,' thought she, noting that
the cave was less gloomy than she had fancied, and felt round the walls
with her hands. On one side there seemed to be a passage, and going
cautiously down it she found that it ended in a sort of church, with a
lamp hanging over the altar.
At this moment there opened a little gate, and through it came a lady,
bare-footed, with streaming hair.
'O Bradamante,' she said, 'long have I awaited you, for Merlin, who lies
here, prophesied before he entered this living tomb that ages hence you
would find your way hither. He bade me come from a far-distant land, and
be with you at the hour when his spirit, though dead, should tell of the
glories of the race that will spring from you and Roger.'
'I am not worthy of such honour,' answered Bradamante, casting down her
eyes, though her heart beat with joy at the thought that though she and
Roger might be parted now, yet in the end they would be united. 'Let my
lord speak, and I will hearken to him.'
At that a voice rose from the sepulchre where Merlin had lain buried for
many hundreds of years.
'Since it is decreed that you shall be the wife of Roger, take courage,
and follow the path that leads you to him. Let nothing turn you aside,
and suffer no adventure to ensnare you till you have overthrown the
wizard who holds him captive.'
The voice ceased, and Melissa, the kind magician who went through the
world seeking to set wrongs right, showed from a book the glories that
would attend the children of Bradamante.
'To-morrow at dawn,' she said when she had finished and put away the
magic scroll--'to-morrow at dawn I myself will lead you to the wizard's
castle. Till then it would be well for you to seek of the wisdom of
Merlin guidance to overcome the dangers bestrewing your path.'
Next morning Melissa and Bradamante rode out from the cavern by a secret
way, and passed over rushing rivers, and climbed high precipices, and as
they went Melissa held discourse with Bradamante how best to set Roger
free.
'No man, however brave, could withstand the wizard, who has his magic
mirror as well as his flying horse to aid him. If you would reach Roger,
you must first get possession of the ring stolen from Angelica by
Agramante, the African king, and given by him to Brunello, who is riding
only a few miles in front of us. In the presence of this ring all charms
and sorceries lose their power; but, take heed, for to outwit Brunello
is no easy task.'
'It is good fortune indeed that Brunello should be so near us,' answered
Bradamante joyfully; 'but how shall I know him from other men?'
'He is of low stature, and covered with black hair,' replied Melissa;
'his nose lies flat upon his face, and his skin is yellow, as the skin
of those who come from the far lands beyond Scythia. You must fall to
talking with him upon magic and enchantments, but beware lest he guess
who you are or what your business, and lead him on till he offer himself
your guide to the wizard's castle. As you go, strike him dead, before he
has time to spy into your heart, and, above all, before he can slip the
ring into his mouth. Once he does that, you lose Roger for ever.'
[Illustration: BRADAMANTE DEFEATS THE WIZARD WITH THE RING]
Having thus said, Melissa bade Bradamante farewell, and they parted with
tears and promises of speedy meeting. Forthwith Bradamante entered an
inn hard by, where Brunello was already seated, and if she at once
marked him amongst other men he no less knew her, for many a time he had
seen her at jousts and tourneys.
Thus, both feigning, they fell into talk, and held discourse upon the
castle and the knights who lay imprisoned therein. 'Many an adventure as
perilous have I dared,' at length said Bradamante, 'and never have I
failed to trample under foot my foe. So, if our worthy host will but
give me a guide, I myself will challenge this wizard to deadly combat.'
But Brunello would suffer no man to be her guide save himself, and
together they climbed the mountain till they stood at the foot of the
castle. 'Look at those walls of steel that crown the precipice,' began
Brunello; but before he could say more a strong girdle was passed round
his arms, which were fastened tightly to his side; and in spite of his
cries and struggles Bradamante drew the ring off his finger and placed
it on her own, though kill him she would not.
Then she seized the horn which hung from a cord, and, blowing a loud
blast, waited calmly for the magician to answer.
Out he came on his flying steed, bearing on his left arm his
silken-covered shield, while he uttered spells that had laid low many a
knight and lady. Bradamante heard them all, and was no whit the worse
for the blackest of them.
* * * * *
Furious at his defeat, the wizard snatched the cover from the shield,
and Bradamante, knowing full well what was wont to follow, sank heavily
on the ground. At this the wizard covered his shield once more, and
guided his steed swiftly to where the maiden lay. After that, unclasping
a chain from his body, he bent down to find her. It was then that she
lifted her ringed hand, and there stood before her an old man with white
hair and a face scarred with sorrow.
'Kill me, I pray you, gentle lady,' cried he; 'yet know before I die
that my love to Roger has been the cause of these heavy woes to so many
gallant knights and fair damsels. I am that Atlantes who watched over
him in childhood, and as he grew to manhood he was ever the first in all
deeds of chivalry. So reckless was he, that many a time it needed all my
magic to bring him back to life when seemingly he lay dead. At length,
to keep him from harm, I built this castle, and filled it with all that
was beautiful, and, as you know, with knights and ladies to be his
companions. When everything was ready I captured Roger himself.
'Now, take my horse and shield, and throw open wide the castle doors--do
what you will, but leave me only Roger.'
The heart of Bradamante was not wont to be deaf to the sorrows of
others, but this time it seemed turned to stone.
'Your horse and shield I have won for myself,' she said; 'and have you
lived so long in the world without learning that it is idle to war
against fate? It is fate which has given you into my hands, and it is
useless to strive against it. Therefore, lead the way to the gate, and I
will follow.'
They climbed in silence the long flight of steps leading to the castle;
then Atlantes stooped and raised a stone on which was graven strange and
magic signs. Beneath the stone was a row of pots filled with undying
flames, and on these the wizard let the stone fall. In a moment there
was a sound as if all the rocks on the earth were rent, the castle
vanished into the air, and with it Atlantes.
Instead, a troop of knights and ladies stood before Bradamante, who saw
and heard none save only Roger.
[From _Orlando Furioso_.]
_THE RING OF BRADAMANTE_
When Bradamante had freed Roger and his companions from the enchanted
castle, she thought that henceforth they would never more be parted. But
she forgot that she had to deal with a wizard, and that wizards are not
easily outwitted.
On a little plain beneath the mountain the winged horse was grazing, and
when the knights and ladies came gaily down the path Bradamante left the
rest and went up to take it by the bridle. Atlantes, however, had laid
other plans, and had thrown a spell over the horse, so that directly
Bradamante was close to it the creature moved away to a little distance.
At this the knights, thinking to help her, gave chase, but the horse led
them up and down the mountain, over rocks and through streams, till one
by one they dropped behind, and in front there remained only Roger.
As it had been taught by Atlantes, the horse stood still, while Roger,
with a cry of delight, seized the bridle and jumped upon its back. With
a bound it sprang into the air, and, though Roger tried to guide it
downwards to the earth, it was all in vain, for so the enchanter had
willed it. Below stood Bradamante gazing up; her joy turned quickly to
despair, and when the traces of Roger had vanished she rode sadly away,
taking with her the horse Roger had left behind.
Meanwhile Roger was flying through the air swifter than an arrow or the
lightning. Since he could not make the horse swerve an hair's breadth to
the right or left, he ceased his useless efforts, and let himself be
carried this way or that. Suddenly he felt that, instead of going
forward they were gradually dropping down, down, down; and soon the
horse stopped on a lovely island.
Where the island might be Roger did not know, nor could he tell how long
he had been on his journey thither. In truth, he was content to feel
himself on solid ground once more, and to smell sweet flowers and eat
delicious fruits, for how could he guess that this also was devised by
Atlantes--that these sights and sounds might lull his senses, and keep
him safe from war? Atlantes was a great wizard and wise beyond most, but
he had never learned that it was a better thing to die in battle than to
live only for pleasure.
On reaching the ground Roger was careful to hold fast the bridle, having
no mind that the horse should fly up into the air and leave him helpless
on the island. Then, looking round, he saw a strong myrtle, and he tied
the reins tightly to it, so that he himself could roam about as he
would.
At length he grew tired of wandering and returned to the place where he
had left his horse, which he found champing and struggling to shake
itself free. As he drew near a voice cried in melancholy tones:
'If, as I think, you are a knight, and bound by the rules of chivalry,
release me, I pray you, from this monster, who only adds to the pains
which I myself endure.'
Startled at the sound, Roger looked around, but nought could he see save
the myrtle to which the horse was fastened.
'I crave your pardon,' answered he, 'for having unwittingly done you
wrong; but tell me who you are, and what has caused your present
plight?'
[Illustration: Roger borne away from Bradamante]
'I am Astolfo, peer of France,' replied the tree, 'and I was enchanted
by the fairy Alcina, who thus rids herself of her friends and her
servants when they have ceased to please her. Even this island is not
hers by right, but was stolen from her sister Logistilla, who is as wise
and kind as Alcina is wicked. But so beautiful is Alcina, that none can
withstand her if once she looks on them, therefore fly while you may and
ask counsel of Logistilla if there is aught that you would know.'
'Oh, tell me, good tree, how I can escape without crossing the path of
the cruel Alcina?' cried Roger.
'There _is_ a way,' answered the tree, 'but it is rough to the feet, and
beset by fierce and ill-tongued men, placed there by the fairy. He who
would quit Alcina's isle needs open eyes and deaf ears.'
'I will have both,' said Roger.
But, alas! he boasted overmuch, as young men are wont to do. He was
indeed in no wise affrighted at the strange shapes that met him and
sought to bar his progress. Some had heads of apes and feet of goats;
some rode eagles or bestrode cranes; while the captain of all was
mounted on a tortoise. They swarmed on him like a crowd of flies, and
Roger was so sore bested that he gave no thought to his magic shield,
which perchance might have saved him.
For into the _mêlée_ came two maidens of such wondrous beauty that Roger
dropped his lance and stood without defence to gaze his fill. Two
snow-white unicorns bore them from the city gates, and, at their coming,
the noisy rabble vanished as if they had never been. Then the ladies
stretched out their hands, and prayed the knight to follow them into the
city.
'We have need of your brave heart and mighty arm,' they said, 'to
vanquish a giantess who guards a bridge which none can pass'; and well
they knew that, if Roger was to be ensnared by them, it must be by slow
degrees, for not all at once would he drop into the idle life of the
dwellers on the island.
So, nothing loth, Roger gladly did their behest, and went forth to meet
the giantess.
The fight did not last long, and soon the monstrous creature lay
stretched on the ground at Roger's feet; but her life was spared at the
request of the damsels, and at their bidding he followed them over the
bridge and up a hill. On the top was a large meadow full of flowers, in
which maidens were playing at ball or singing sweet songs on the lute,
while others were dancing.
In their midst was a damsel so fair that the rest, even the guides of
Roger, looked swarthy beside her, and she came forth from among them,
and held out her hand for him to kiss.
Vain it were to seek to tell Alcina's charms, but even as his eyes fell
on her Roger felt that everything said by Astolfo in her despite was
false. Even Bradamante was forgotten, as if she had never lived at all;
yet for this Roger was hardly to blame, for how should he stand against
Alcina's magic!
* * * * *
It was here that Melissa, clad in the form of Atlantes, found him after
many months had gone by, during which Bradamante had sought him vainly.
At last fate brought Melissa again across her path, and from her the
forsaken damsel learnt who it was that kept him from her.
'Be comforted,' said Melissa, when she beheld Bradamante's tears. 'You
yourself have the ring which can free him from those evil spells, and
bring him back to your side. So lend it me, I pray, and by to-morrow's
dawn I will be with him.'
Roger was lying on a bed of soft moss, when Atlantes, for so he took her
to be, stood before him.
He lifted his head lazily, and smiled, but the face of his old master
was grave as he said sternly:
[Illustration: THE TWO DAMSELS RESCUE ROGER FROM THE RABBLE]
'And is it _you_, Roger, whom I find thus, your hair curled and scented,
your neck circled with jewelled chains? Was it for this you passed your
boyhood in waging war against fierce beasts, fearing neither hunger nor
thirst as you tracked them to their lair? But, as I loved you once, I
will give you a chance to shake off this shameful life, and to become
once more worthy of Bradamante. Take this ring, and when next Alcina
comes this way mark well the change that is wrought in the queen of this
fair land.'
With shame and repentance burning at his heart, Roger slowly drew the
ring upon his finger; and by its virtue he beheld not Atlantes but
Melissa.
'Yes, it is I,' she said, 'and it is Bradamante who sent me hither, to
save you by means of the ring which she took from the hand of Brunello.
It will break the strongest spells that wizard ever wove, and open wide
the eyes that have been longest blinded.'
With that she vanished, and Roger rose and followed the path which led
to the palace.
On the marble steps he saw, as he went, a troop of ladies standing.
Their clothes were rich and made of shining stuffs, and well became
their golden hair or curly raven locks; but who was she in their midst
whose form was unknown to him? Her back was bowed with age, and scarce a
hair remained upon her head, while all her skin was shrivelled and
yellow. Roger gazed in horror, expecting, as he looked, the lean body to
crumble into dust before him. Yet something, what he knew not, seemed
not wholly strange in that pale and shrunken figure--something that, in
spite of all, spoke to him of Alcina. A thrill of horror ran through
him, but he remembered in time the counsel of Melissa, and, trembling
though he was, he greeted her with fair words.
Dreading lest he should again fall under the fairy's enchantments, Roger
never parted from the ring, and kept guard over himself, lest perchance
Alcina should guess what was passing within him. To gain possession of
his armour, long laid aside, he feigned a wish to prove if his life of
idleness had unfitted him to bear the weight of it, or if his chest had
grown too broad for the clasps of his breast-plate to meet. Then,
laughing still, he strolled carelessly to the stables, calling back as
he went that perhaps his horse might have become as fat and lazy as
himself. But when he reached the stables he passed by the winged steed
which had borne him to the island, for he bethought himself once more of
Melissa's words: 'Beware of the hippogryph,' she had said, 'you will
never wed Bradamante if you mount that.' So he left the great creature
flapping its wings with longing to soar once more into the sky, and led
out a strong black horse. Vaulting on his back, he touched him with his
spurs, and dashed through the guards at the gate before Alcina knew that
her captive had won his freedom.
When the fairy found that the knight did not return, she sent a
messenger for tidings of him, and so great was her wrath when she
learned that he had passed the gate, and was far on the road to her
sister, the good Logistilla, that she ordered all the guards to be put
to death. Then she commanded her ships to be got ready, and put to sea
herself, thinking by that means she might bring him back. But all was
vain, and at last she was forced to believe that Roger had shaken off
her yoke for ever.
[From _Orlando Furioso_.]
_THE FULFILLING OF THE PROPHECY_
For a long while Bradamante waited quietly in Marseilles, thinking that
every day Roger would come to her, but as time passed and he gave no
sign she grew heart-sick and impatient. Some evil must surely have
befallen him, she whispered to herself, yet where to seek him she did
not know.
At length one morning, when hope had almost left her, the enchantress
Melissa stood by her side and smiled at her.
'Have no fear for Roger,' said Melissa; 'he is safe, and counts the
hours to your meeting. But once more he has been taken captive by
Atlantes, who ensnared him by putting on your form and face, and
entering his palace, whither Roger followed eagerly. Never look so cast
down, Bradamante, but listen to my counsel and abide by it, and all will
be well.'
Then Bradamante sprang up, grasping tightly her sword and shield.
'Whatever you tell me to do, I will do it,' cried she; and Melissa went
on:
'This time Atlantes will change his shape for that of Roger, that you
also may fall a victim to his wiles. Beware lest you be deceived, or
instead of saving Roger you will find yourself also a prisoner in the
castle. Harden your heart, and slay him as he stands before you, and
Roger shall be free for evermore.'
So spoke Melissa not once, but many times, before they drew near the
castle, where she bade farewell to Bradamante, dreading that the wizard
should see her and take fright. The maiden rode on till she reached an
open space, where two fierce giants were pressing Roger sore and
well-nigh overcoming him. In a moment all the words of Melissa were
forgotten, or rather she deemed that jealousy or revenge had prompted
her words. And, as these thoughts ran swiftly through her, a cry for
help sounded in her ears. Slay Roger? Melissa must have indeed been mad
when she gave her this counsel, and, spurring her horse, she galloped
after the wounded knight, who, pursued by his foes, was riding at full
speed to the castle.
When they were all four inside the courtyard, the gate swung to and
Bradamante was a prisoner.
Now it was written in the magic book carried by Astolfo, the knight who
had been changed by Alcina into a myrtle tree and restored by Melissa,
that if a stone on the threshold were raised, the whole palace would
vanish into smoke as the other castle had done before. Though he knew it
not, Melissa stood by his side as he rode through the wood, many weeks
after Bradamante had entered the castle, and whispered to him that the
time had come to prove the truth of the prophecy. First blowing a blast
with the horn which affrighted all that dwelt within the walls, with a
mighty heave he raised the magic stone. In an instant the earth rocked,
and he was thrown flat upon the ground, while with a roar the castle
crumbled into dust. The knights and ladies imprisoned therein ran forth
in fear, and it was not until the ill-fated place was left far behind
that they stopped to look about them.
It was then that Roger and Bradamante beheld each other once more, and
in the joy of meeting forgot the pains they had endured since they had
parted. But one promise Bradamante asked of Roger before she would be
his wife. 'I cannot wed an infidel,' said she. 'You must become a
Christian first.'
'Right willingly,' answered Roger, and it was agreed between them that
they should set out at once for a fair abbey, so that the rite might be
delayed no longer.
Thus they talked; but not yet were they to be united. On their way a
distressed damsel met them on the road imploring help, which both knight
and lady readily granted. But, alas! in seeking to give the aid prayed
of them they strayed unwittingly down various roads, and it was long
before fortune again brought them together. For hardly had Roger brought
to an end his adventure than he learned that his liege lord, Agramante
king of Africa, was hard pressed by Charlemagne the emperor, and needed
his vassal to fight by his side. So Roger turned his face to the west,
first bidding his squire ride back to Bradamante and tell her that, once
the war was finished, nothing further should delay his baptism.
The war went ill with Agramante, and many a time Roger was sore wounded
and like to die. Far away, in the house of her father among the
mountains, tales came now and then to Bradamante of Roger's doings in
the fight. Bitterly her soul chafed at not being by his side to help and
tend him; but, if she could not fight against him, far less could she
fight in the ranks of the infidels. Thus, weary at heart, she waited and
sat still, or wandered about the forests, hoping to meet someone who
could bring her tidings of Roger.
For long no one came through the thick dark woods, and Bradamante was
almost sick with despair, when a Gascon knight rode by.
'Are you from the war, brave sir?' asked she, springing up from the bank
where she had cast herself, and going eagerly to meet him. 'Are you from
the war, and have you news from one Roger?'
'Alas! madam,' he answered, 'but a month since he was sore wounded in
fight with one Mandricado, and has since lain in his bed, tended by the
lady Marfisa, who wears a breast-plate as easily as she does a woman's
gown. Had it not been for her skill, Roger would long have been buried,
and when he is able to bear arms again doubtless he will offer his hand
to the damsel in marriage. At least, so say all in camp. But the sun is
low and time presses. I must begone.'
He went on his way, and when he was out of sight Bradamante turned and
loosed her horse from the tree to which she had tied him and rode back
to the castle. Without a word she mounted the stairs to the tower where
she dwelt, and, throwing herself on her bed, gave vent to the torrents
of jealousy which possessed her soul. Then, rising up, she bade her
maidens weave her with all speed a sad-coloured mantle, and when it was
ready she took the lance of gold belonging to Astolfo, which had (though
she knew it not) the gift of unhorsing every warrior whom it touched,
and, going to the courtyard, led out and saddled her horse.
Alone, without even a squire to help her, Bradamante began her journey
to Arles, where the army of Agramante lay encamped. On the road thither
she met with many an adventure, but by the aid of the golden lance
always bore down her foe. After one of these fights she fell in with the
Lady Flordelice, who was herself riding to Arles in the hope of gaining
news of her husband, now a prisoner in the hands of the Moors. By her
Bradamante sent a message challenging Roger to come forth to meet her in
single combat.
'And if he asks my name say it is unknown to you,' she added, 'but that
the stranger knight had bidden you take this horse, and prayed that he
might bestride it in battle.'
Flordelice was careful to fulfil the trust laid upon her, and no sooner
was she within the gates of Arles than she sought out Roger and
delivered him the message and the horse. The young man, perplexed at the
defiance of the nameless knight, sought counsel of his father, who bade
him accept the challenge and prepare for battle without delay. While he
was making ready other knights were not slow to seize the chance of
giving the haughty Christian a lesson, and went out to fight in the
plain beyond the walls. But a single touch of the magic lance was enough
to unhorse them all, and one by one Bradamante sent them to their lord.
'Tell him I await a better man than you,' said she.
'And what is his name?' asked Ferrau of Spain when he rode before her,
having craved permission to try his strength against the stranger.
'Roger,' answered she, and, as her vizor was raised, Ferrau could not
but see the red that flushed her face, though he feigned to notice
nothing.
'He shall come to you,' replied Ferrau, 'but first you must cross swords
with me,' and, spurring his horse, he rode to share the fate of the
rest.
Right glad was Roger to hear that the peerless knight Ferrau had been
borne down like those who had gone before him, and that it was he and no
other whom the victor wished to fight. But the courtiers of King
Agramante now thronged around Ferrau, asking if perchance he had seen
the face of his foe, and knew it for having beheld it elsewhere.
'Yes, I saw it,' said Ferrau, 'and it bore something of the semblance of
Rinaldo. But since we know that it cannot be, and that the young Ricardo
has neither the strength nor the skill to unhorse so many well-proved
knights, it can be none other than their sister Bradamante. Truly she is
mightier even than Rinaldo or her cousin Roland the Wrathful.'
At that Roger started, and his cheeks reddened even as those of
Bradamante had done. He stood silent and awkward under the eyes of the
whole court, for he feared to meet Bradamante and to read in her face
that during the long months of his absence her love had given place to
anger.
While Roger waited, uncertain whether to accept or refuse the challenge
of Bradamante, Marfisa buckled on her coat of mail, and rode out in his
stead to meet the foe. Bradamante felt in her heart who the knight was
with the plume of blue and shining golden corselet, and hate burned in
her soul as fiercely as in the breast of the other.
Thrice the magic lance stretched Marfisa on the ground, and thrice she
rose and sought to avenge herself by a sword-thrust. At this point a
body of knights, with Roger in their midst, arrived upon the field,
while a band of pagan warriors approached from the opposite side. Blows
were soon struck, and Bradamante, caring nothing for her own life,
galloped wildly about seeking to catch sight of Roger.
The silver eagle on a blue shield was hard to find, but Bradamante found
it at last, and crying, 'Traitor, defend yourself!' dashed wildly at
him. Yet, in spite of herself, the arm which had been strong before was
strangely weak now, and Roger could, with one thrust, have borne her off
her horse, but instead his lance remained in air; she might slay him if
so she chose; she had the right, but every hair of her head was safe
from him.
So the day that began so badly ended happily for them all. Roger renewed
his vow and became a Christian, but once more declared that by all the
laws of honour and chivalry he could not desert Agramante in his dire
straits. Fate again divided him from Bradamante, and sent him to join
the army of Agramante, which had been worsted in many battles. The king
had broken a truce with Charlemagne, and was trying to collect men and
ships in Africa, and Roger felt that he was bound in honour to go to his
aid. He put off in a small barque, but a violent tempest drove them up
and down all night, and cast Roger at dawn upon a barren shore. But, so
exhausted was he by his fight with the waves, that even yet he must have
died from hunger and cold had not a hermit who dwelt in a cave close by
come to his help. Here Roger rested till his strength came back to him,
and before he bade farewell to the hermit he had been baptized a
Christian.
No sooner was Roger healed from the hurts given him by the winds and
waves, than he watched eagerly for a passing boat that might take him
back to France. He waited and watched for long, but at length a ship put
into the island, having on board both Rinaldo and Roland. Right welcome
did they make Roger, whom both knew to be the flower of infidel
chivalry, and when they heard that, Agramante being slain in battle,
Roger was free to swear fealty to the emperor, and had besides been
baptized a Christian, Rinaldo at once promised him the hand of his
sister Bradamante.
And now it may well be thought that the time had come for the prophecy
of Melissa to be fulfilled, and for Roger and Bradamante to receive the
marriage blessing. But their happiness was to be delayed still further,
for the old duke Aymon declared that he had chosen a husband for his
daughter in the son of Constantine, emperor of the East, and not all the
tears and prayers of Bradamante and Rinaldo would move him one whit. By
the help of her brother, Bradamante contrived once more to see Roger,
who bade her take heart, as he would himself go to Constantinople and
fight the upstart prince and dethrone his father, then he would seize
the crown for himself, and Bradamante should be empress after all. At
these words Bradamante plucked up her courage and they embraced and
parted.
After Roger had set forth the days hung heavily at duke Aymon's court,
till one night, as Bradamante was lying awake, wondering if the vision
of Melissa would ever come to pass, she saw suddenly a way out of her
distresses. So the next morning she rose early, and fastening on her
armour, left her father's castle for Charlemagne's camp. Craving speedy
audience of the emperor, she besought him as a boon that he would order
proclamation to be made that no man should be given her for husband till
he had first overcome her in battle. To this Charlemagne consented,
although duke Aymon, who had followed his daughter, prayed the emperor
to refuse her this grace, and the old man, waxing very wroth at his
defeat, shut up the damsel in a strong tower between Perpignan and
Carcassonne.
* * * * *
While these things were taking place at home, Roger had reached the
shores of Constantinople, and learned that the emperor of the East was
engaged in a fight with the Bulgars, and that his army was encamped in a
field near Belgrade. Thither Roger rode with all the speed he might, and
finding that the king of the Bulgars had just been slain by the hand of
Leo, son of Constantine, he offered to be the leader of the army, and
soon put the Greeks to flight. Indeed, such were his mighty deeds, that
Leo himself, rival (though he knew it not) of Roger, could not fail to
wonder at them. When the battle was over, the Bulgarian army begged him
to be their king, so sure were they that victory would follow his
banner; but he declined, for the secret reason that he purposed to
follow the prince, and slay him in single combat.
But instead of killing each other these two brave knights ended in
becoming friends and brothers, for Leo delivered Roger from prison,
where he had unjustly been thrown by the sister of Constantine, and they
both journeyed together to France, to enter the lists for the hand of
Bradamante.
Although they travelled with all the speed they might, they only arrived
at the appointed place outside Paris on the day of the combat, when
Bradamante was arming herself for the struggle. The prince knew well by
this time that it was hopeless for him to think of winning for himself
the love that had so long been given to another, and he prayed Roger to
do him the grace to wear his arms and to bear his name in the tourney.
It cost Roger somewhat to lay aside the arms and the name that had stood
him for many a year in such good stead, but he owed the prince too much
to say him nay, although to bid farewell to Bradamante when he had won
the prize in fair fight would be bitter indeed.
* * * * *
With a double-headed eagle on Leo's crimson shield, and Leo's velvet
surcoat over his coat of mail, Roger did obeisance to the emperor and
then walked into the lists. He had chosen to give battle on foot, since
Bradamante was riding his horse Frontino.
All day long the combat lasted, and, as Bradamante had been unable to
bear down her foe, she was proclaimed vanquished. But of what value was
the victory to him, seeing that he had gained the reward for another?
So, hastily stripping off the armour belonging to the Greek prince, he
left the tent unseen, and, catching sight of Frontino grazing quietly
among some trees, sprang quickly on his back and plunged into the
forest.
'Let death come soon,' he said to himself, 'since life is worthless.'
Meanwhile the court in Paris rang with the name of Leo the prince, and
duke Aymon informed his daughter that the marriage feast need no longer
be postponed. But to this Bradamante turned a deaf ear.
'I will wed none but Roger,' she cried, and though her parents taunted
her with her broken vow, and threatened her with the wrath of the
emperor, she would give no other answer.
'I can always die,' she thought to herself.
The court was all confusion and perplexity; the emperor loved
Bradamante, but he did not wish to offend either her powerful father or
the still more powerful Constantine. The test had been proposed by
Bradamante herself, and how could he give permission that she should
break her plighted word?
It was Melissa who once more set this tangle straight. She appeared to
Leo, who was standing idly at his tent door, and told him that Roger was
dying in the depths of the forest. The prince, who had grieved sorely
for the loss of his friend, heard eagerly her tale, and consented gladly
to go with her to seek him.
The Roger whom they found at last was very different from the Roger who
had entered the lists but three days agone. His face was pale, his hair
was damp, his clothes hung loosely on his body. Leo's heart smote him as
he gazed, and, sinking on his knees beside Roger, he pulled his hands
gently down from his face.
It was not long before he had drawn out from the young knight the secret
which Roger had hidden so carefully when he had thought that honour and
gratitude demanded it. Leo listened in amaze and took shame to himself
that he had never guessed it sooner.
'Oh, Roger,' he cried, when at length the tale was ended, 'sooner would
I give up a thousand Bradamantes and all I possess in the world than
lose a friend so noble and generous as you. So rise quickly and let us
hasten back to where Bradamante awaits us.'
And so the prophecy was fulfilled in the end, and everyone was made
happy. Yes, even duke Aymon and his wife Beatrice; for before the
wedding rejoicings were begun an embassy arrived from the Bulgarian
people, begging leave from the emperor Charlemagne to offer their crown
to his vassal Roger. And nobody grudged Roger and Bradamante their
happiness, for they had waited so long for it, and worked so hard for
it.
[From _Orlando Furioso_.]
THE KNIGHT OF THE SUN
Once upon a time two little boys were born, and the elder had on his
breast the image of a sun, which shone so brightly that the ladies who
were waiting on his mother, the princess Briane, were forced to shut
their dazzled eyes. On the breast of the younger one lay a pink rose,
and it was hard to believe that the flower had not been newly flung
there, so fresh was its colour and so vivid its green.
So the elder baby was called in after years 'the Knight of the Sun';
while his little brother was known as Rosiclair.
Now it happened that their mother, the princess Briane, had been
secretly married to Trebatius, emperor of Constantinople, who had
courted her under the name of prince Theodoart. Soon after their
marriage her husband, while riding through the forest, had been
astonished at the sight of a magnificent chariot which dashed furiously
along the road, and, as it passed, he felt sure that his wife, the
princess Briane, was seated inside. Without losing a moment, he turned
his horse instantly round, and followed the chariot, but, spur his steed
as he might, it was impossible to overtake it. However, he rode on as
fast as the thick creepers and fallen trees would let him in the
direction in which the chariot had disappeared, and at last he left the
forest behind him and entered a beautiful meadow.
Here the emperor paused in surprise, for in front of him stood the
greatest and finest castle he had ever seen, which would have held
thirty thousand men with ease. At each corner was a large tower, while a
wide moat of clear water would have kept a large army at bay. Happily
for the emperor's curiosity, the drawbridge was at the moment let down,
so he knocked at the door, which straightway opened to him, and boldly
entered the castle.
He looked around the magnificent hall to see some traces of his wife,
but, instead, a powerful odour stole gradually over his senses. At the
same instant a golden curtain was drawn aside, and a lady whose beauty
dazzled his eyes glided up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.
'You belong to me now,' she said, as she led him away; and twenty years
went by before the emperor again left the castle.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the little boys were carried away in the night by one of the
mother's ladies, whose name was Clandestrie, and taken to her sister's
house, where they lived freely and happily for some years till they were
old enough to be brought to the convent where the princess Briane still
remained, and taught the duties of pages. Rosiclair was always good and
quiet, but his brother gave his teachers a great deal of trouble, though
that did not prevent their loving him dearly. He was so tall and strong
and high-spirited, that it was difficult to remember he was only a child
after all, and the moment he was left alone he was always seeking some
adventure.
One day, while Rosiclair was learning from his mother to play on the
lute, the Knight of the Sun--for so they called him--had gone with his
nurse to the banks of the broad river, and was amusing himself with
scrambling in and out of a boat that lay moored to the side. There were
no mirrors in the convent, and the boy jumped hastily back with dismay
when he saw some one dressed like himself looking at him from out of the
water.
He grew red with rage and struck out with his fist, and the arm in the
water struck out too. Then the prince sprang forward, but, as he did so,
he began to perceive that it was nothing but his own image that was
looking at him and imitating his movements. 'How could I be such a
baby!' he said to himself, and turned to leave the boat, when, to his
dismay, he found that the rope had got loose and he was gently floating
down the stream.
At this sight his courage began to fail him; he called loudly to his
nurse, who had been talking to some friends and had not noticed the
child's danger. At his cries she rushed into the river a little lower
down, hoping to catch the boat as it danced by, but the current swept
her off her feet, and she would certainly have been drowned had not a
wood-cutter, who had watched her from above, held out a long stick which
she was able to reach.
Very soon the little boat was a mere speck in the distance, and, now
that there was nothing to be done, the boy took heart again and thought
of all he would have to tell Rosiclair when he came back--for come back
he would some day, he was sure of that.
By-and-by the grass and the trees, and even the big mountains, vanished,
and all around him was the blue sea, with not even a sail to look at.
How long he remained in that boat he never knew, but one day, just
before sunrise, when the air is clearest and you can see farthest, he
was roused from his sleep by a shout. At first he took it for part of
his dream and did not move; then the shout came again, and he jumped up
and waved his hand, for sailing towards him was a large vessel. At the
prow stood a man in a beautiful purple tunic edged with gold. This was
Florian prince of Persia.
Oh, how glad the little boy was to be amongst friends again, and how
hungrily he ate the food they put before him! When he was quite rested,
they brought him a child about the same age, whom they had picked up
from a wreck a few days before; and then the ship's head was turned
towards Babylon.
It took them a long while to get there, but at last they entered the
great river which flowed past the gates of the city, and the sultan,
hearing of their approach, came down from his palace to greet them. He
had lived as a youth at the court of prince Florian's father, and was
delighted to meet his old friend once more. As for the boys, he took a
fancy to them at once, and kept them in his palace till many years had
gone by and they were almost men.
When the Knight of the Sun was about sixteen he was taller than any one
in all Babylon, for he took after his father, the emperor Trebatius, who
was fully eight feet high. The youth was also very strong, and was
afraid of nothing and nobody, and in many ways was different from his
companions, especially in liking to ride and hunt alone instead of with
a troop of merry young men. His friends were all fond of him, but rather
afraid of him, as people often are of those who are quicker than
themselves.
* * * * *
One morning the sultan arranged a great hunting expedition, which was to
take place in some huge forests a few miles from Babylon. The sun was
hot, and the sultan was old, so he soon gave up the chase, and returned
to join the princess and her maidens, who were lying under the shady
trees, with a stream rippling by to make them think they were cool.
Suddenly, without any warning, a band of giants sprang upon them from
behind a rock, and, seizing the sultan and the ladies, bound them
rapidly with silken cords. Their shrieks brought a few knights who were
within earshot to their aid, but these were soon overpowered by the
strength of the giants, except one, who managed to make his escape, and
plunged deep into the forest.
He was flying along, half mad with terror, when a voice cried out:
'Sir knight, look well to it, or you will lose your spurs in your
unseemly haste.'
'Fair youth,' replied the knight, 'do not, I pray you, waste the moments
in idle talk; for the sultan and the princess have but now been attacked
by an army of giants, and are being borne captive to some unknown land.'
But before his tale was ended the youth was riding fast down the path
along which the knight had come.
* * * * *
He was just in time: the tallest and strongest giant had laid hold of
the sultan, bound and helpless as he was, and was carrying him off to a
huge coal-black horse that was picketed to a tree close by. A blow on
his helmet forced him to drop his burden, and he turned rapidly on his
assailant.
'Bah! a boy!' he cried disdainfully; but the 'boy' struck him another
swinging stroke, which almost cleft his shield. Then the giant drew out
his great double-edged battle-axe, but the champion sprang aside, and
the axe crashed harmlessly on a rock, while a well-aimed throw from the
javelin pierced the joints of the giant's harness, and he fell heavily
to the ground.
'It is an earthquake,' whispered the people of Babylon, as the houses
shook and the swords rattled.
After this the giant's followers, who, big though they were, had no mind
to face such a fighter, fled into the forest, and were seen no more.
The first thing to be done was of course to cut the cords which had been
carefully wound round the arms and legs of the prisoners, who, seizing
the champion's hands, shed tears and kisses over them. As to the sultan,
he was well-nigh speechless from gratitude, but when he was able to
speak he begged the youth to ask for some boon that he could grant,
even if it were the half of his kingdom.
'That I will tell you to-morrow,' said he.
By this time the evening had come, and the chariots and the horses were
made ready, and the company returned to the palace in Babylon, though
neither the princess nor her ladies felt very safe till they were within
the gates of the city.
Early next day the sultan sent the grand vizier to bid the youth await
him in the great hall, that he might declare in presence of all the
court what guerdon should be given him for saving his master's life.
And a right noble company was gathered together, for the victor was well
loved of all, and every man expected that he would ask the hand of the
princess.
All stood up and bowed low as the sultan swept down between them clothed
in his royal robes, and wearing his golden crown on his head; for he
wished the goodly assemblage to know how priceless a service the young
man had done him. Nay, he too thought, like his people, that there was
only one boon that the youth could fitly crave.
When he was seated on his throne, he signed to the chevalier to draw
near.
'And what is the reward that I shall give you?' he asked with a smile as
the young man knelt before him.
'O mighty sultan, grant me this, that with the sword which slew your
enemy you will make me a knight'; then he paused and grew red, as a
cloud came over the sultan's brow.
'By all the rules of chivalry----' But the sultan's words were drowned
by a tumult in the hall, and pushing her way between the crowds came a
richly clad maiden, closely pursued by a huge black king.
'Save me!' she cried, looking wildly on the company of knights that
stood round. 'I am the daughter of as mighty a monarch as you, and was
carried off from my father's island by this black man whom you see
before you. One grace he has given me, that for the space of a year I
may wander where I will, seeking a knight to be my champion. But,
despite their mighty names, not one has ever managed to pierce his
armour.'
And again she looked on the knights, but not a man stirred from his
place.
Then the chevalier rose to his feet and spoke out boldly.
'Make _me_ a knight, O sultan, and _I_ will fight this man who is feared
by all the world! Oh, I know what you would say, that I am yet too young
to bear the weight which has sometimes proved too heavy for many a
goodly knight. But, if my years are few, my deeds have proved that I am
no whit behind the doughtiest knight of your court. So grant me my boon
or this day I will leave you for ever.'
'Be it so,' answered the sultan at last, 'though I would rather have
given you the half of my kingdom or the hand of my daughter. But watch
this night beside your arms in the temple, and to-morrow you shall be
admitted into the order of chivalry.'
* * * * *
Now the sultan had a brother named Lyrgander, who was wise in every kind
of enchantment, and, though he was at this time in a far country, he
learned by means of his arts what strange things were happening at the
court of Babylon. Without losing a moment he went to the room where his
treasures were kept, and opened a large chest, from which he took two
suits of armour. One, which was all white, he meant for the chevalier,
and the other was for his friend Claberinde. Then he poured a few drops
of a yellow liquid into a glass and drank it, wishing, as he did so,
that he was in Babylon. Before the glass fell from his hand he found
himself there. Very early after the youth had ended his watch, Lyrgander
came to him and girded on him the suit of white armour. Led by
Lyrgander, and followed by all the knights and nobles of the court, the
chevalier entered the presence-chamber, where the sultan was sitting on
his throne awaiting him. Once again the youth knelt, and the sultan,
drawing the magic sword from its sheath, struck him three times lightly
on the head with it. Afterwards, the sultan put back the sword in the
scabbard and buckled it on the side of the kneeling youth.
Then, stooping down, he lowered the vizor, and said slowly and solemnly:
'I dub you knight, and arm you knight. May the high gods have you in
their care!'
'Amen!' said the chevalier, and he rose from his knees and went out to
the place where the lists had been prepared. And the court sat round to
watch the fight, while in the midst of them all, her eyes fixed on her
champion, was the captive princess, who was resolved to kill herself
with her own hands rather than fall into the power of the black king.
The Knight of the Sun had chosen the best horse in the sultan's stables,
and was waiting in his place till the signal should be given.
At the other end, the black king bestrode a huge black horse, and the
moment he caught sight of his foe poured out a stream of abuse, which
only ceased when the sound of the trumpets drowned his voice.
'I have never been conquered by mortal man,' said he, 'and shall yon
wretched beardless boy, who should now be sitting with his mother's
maidens, the child who but an hour ago was dubbed a knight by special
grace of the sultan, have strength to do what the hardiest knights have
failed in doing? By the eyes of my fathers! he will make fine food for
the vultures before the sun sets.'
And the young knight heard, and the blood flew to his cheeks under his
vizor, and his fingers closed more tightly on his sword.
With the first blast of the trumpets he spurred his horse, and his
onslaught was so fierce that the giant reeled in his saddle.
'They have tricked me,' he said to himself, as he righted himself again.
'That blow was never given by the boy I saw; they have put someone else
in his place. The battle will be harder than I thought, but the end is
sure'; and he reined his horse back for a second rush.
* * * * *
The hours passed by, and the sun grew high in the heavens, but the
flashing of swords never ceased, and the watchers of the fight could
hardly breathe. Once the chevalier was thrown right on to his horse's
neck, and was forced to cling to it lest he should fall to the ground.
Once again--and here a murmur of terror could be heard in the crowd--a
blow on his head rendered him sick and dizzy, and the charger carried
him three times round the lists while he sat grasping the bridle,
unconscious where he was and what he was doing. But after all, the swift
rush through the air brought back his senses, and, by the time the black
king was expecting that one more thrust would gain him the day, the
knight spurred his horse quickly to one side, and, taking his adversary
unawares, swept him dead from his saddle.
Then at last the silence was broken, and a roar of triumph and relief
burst from the crowd.
Slowly the young man turned and rode along the lists, pausing before the
lady Radimere as she sat by the sultan.
'You are free, princess,' he said, as he lifted his vizor; and with
those words he disappeared in the crowd, before anyone had time to stop
him.
It was whispered, perhaps truly, that the princess Radimere would fain
have made him her husband, and have given him lordship over her island;
but all we know for certain is that she returned there alone, and soon
after married the son of a neighbouring king.
[_L'Histoire Admirable du Chevalier du Soleil._ Traduite de l'Espagnol
par Louis Douet.]
HOW THE KNIGHT OF THE SUN RESCUED HIS FATHER
When once the youth had been made a knight by the sultan of Babylon, and
had slain the black king, he set off by himself in quest of other
adventures, desiring greatly to see the world. For the next few years
the young man wandered from court to court, fighting giants and
delivering enchanted damsels, till at last his feet led him to a kingdom
where Rosiclair his brother happened to be.
Now Rosiclair was scarcely a whit behind the Knight of the Sun in manly
deeds, and not long before had done such good service to the king of
England that Olive, the king's daughter, had, at her father's bidding,
clasped a collar of gold around his neck, and held out to him a crown
studded with jewels. Rosiclair bent gladly to receive the collar, and
then taking the crown from the hands of the princess he placed it on her
head.
'Lady, I am evermore your knight,' said he.
This tale and many others had come to the ears of the Knight of the Sun,
and he longed to see his brother again, and to break a lance with him in
good fellowship, but some time had yet to pass before they met, and then
it fell out in this wise. After the combat in the lists in London, where
Rosiclair had cut off the arms of the giant Candramarte, the giant's
daughter had brought him by her wiles to the island in which lay her
father's castle.
[Illustration: THE GIANT'S DAUGHTER REPROACHES THE TWO BROTHERS]
No sooner had he stepped on shore than the damsel pushed off, crying as
she did so to her brothers and their knights to avenge the giant's
wounds. In a moment all the little island was alive with men, whirling
lances or swords or axes above their heads, and all pressing forward to
the spot where Rosiclair awaited them. Luckily he had time to place
himself with the sea at his back, so that he could not be attacked from
behind, and, covering himself with his shield, stood ready.
Never was there such a dreadful fight, and Rosiclair seemed to have a
hundred arms, and to be able to strike fifty ways at once. He hardly
knew himself what he did, so great was the stress of battle, but hour by
hour the ground slowly reddened round him, and there looked to his
dimming eyes to be fewer men in front. But by this time his strength was
fast failing him, and he felt he could not hold out much longer. A
mighty blow from an axe made him reel, and well-nigh fall; another such,
and he would be rolling on the sand among the dead men lying at his
feet. Suddenly the upraised axe flew from the hand of the giant in
front, and with a cry that echoed through the island he fell backwards
on the shore.
Rosiclair was still too hard beset to turn and see from whom help had
come, but he took fresh courage and his sword no longer hit so wildly as
before. The other sword was even stronger and surer than his own, and
soon the few men who were left alive ran off and took refuge within the
gates of the castle.
Then the two knights looked at each other.
'Who are you, and whence do you come?' asked Rosiclair. 'I owe you my
life this day.'
'I am called the Knight of the Sun,' replied the other; 'this shining
star upon my breast has given me my name. And I come from wandering over
the seas in a little boat that just holds me and my horse. I descried
you from afar, and hastened to your help. Of a truth, it is the noblest
fight that ever I saw.'
Now, when Rosiclair had seen the emblem of the sun on the new knight's
breast he wondered if this might indeed be his brother. But being warned
by his mother not to hold converse with strangers concerning private
matters, he began to tell of the fight with Candramarte in the lists of
London, when a cry from the sea caused them both to turn. On the prow of
a boat stood the giant's daughter, pointing with her forefinger at the
bodies which lay upon the shore.
'O cruel and bloody wolves,' she called, 'the ocean will give me the
pity which I have been denied both by heaven and earth. And the god of
storms will avenge me.' With that she jumped into the sea, but, instead
of sinking, was held up by the waves. This the Knight of the Sun beheld,
and, forgetting the evil she had done, jumped into his boat, and pushed
off to her aid before Rosiclair had time to get in after him. However,
the Knight of the Sun was never able either to reach the damsel or to
return to his brother, for a furious wind sprang up, which drove him
before it, in some direction that he did not know.
In his hurry to reach the side of Rosiclair, the Knight of the Sun had
forgotten to place his oars in the bottom of the boat, but just left
them loose in their holes, so that they had floated away; now he had no
means of directing his course, but was forced to go wherever the waves
took him. For many days he drifted past the shores of strange countries
and saw from afar the gleam of white cities, but though he fain would
have landed, he could not, but was bound to remain where his adventure
carried him. At length, to the joy of his heart, the boat stopped of its
own accord on the beach of a beautiful island, and the young man once
more felt soft grass under his feet, and heard the sound of trickling
streams. Close by was a forest, and from between the bushes peeped the
heads of little goats and tiny deer, all gazing with wonder at the
stranger. From the look of the place it was plain that seldom indeed did
man come to disturb their lives, and the Knight of the Sun felt he must
go further inland if he wished to meet with any adventures. So, breaking
through the creepers which hung from tree to tree, he struggled on
bravely, and at last the trees grew less thickly, and he came out upon a
wide open space in front of a big castle.
This castle was quite different from any he had seen, either in Babylon
or in the other countries he had visited. It seemed to be made of
nothing but towers, and every tower had a steep pointed roof, so high
that you would have thought it reached up to heaven itself. In the tower
nearest him was a door of shining steel, and on top of a row of steps
above it was a column, from which hung a horn of ivory edged with gold.
Under the horn some words were cut deep into the column, and mounting
the steps the knight read:
'This is the castle of the peerless Lindarasse, whose door will never
open save to him who blows the horn. Yet let him beware who seeks to
blow it, for if the door _should_ open he will find it is guarded by
fierce and cruel porters, and his life will pay for his rash curiosity.'
The Knight of the Sun laughed out at the thought that any such threats
could stop his going wherever he pleased, and, seizing the horn, blew so
powerful a blast that the sound rang through the whole island. In an
instant the gates of steel burst open, and between them stood a giant
with an iron club in one hand, and in the other a chain which was
fastened round the neck of a serpent. Now in all the world there was no
serpent more horrible than this, for it did not wriggle along the ground
as serpents generally do, but advanced erect, its head higher than a man
seated on a horse, while it trailed besides a tail ten feet behind it.
At the sight of the young man it lashed its tail so violently that the
earth trembled as if with an earthquake, while its forky tongue darted
in and out with a deafening hissing noise.
The few knights who had dared to blow the horn had been so frightened
at this terrible creature that they had stood as if frozen, and thus the
giant killed them with his club without any trouble. He, of course,
expected this knight to behave like the rest, but to his surprise the
young man remained quietly where he was. Then the giant dropped the
chain and the snake began to mount the steps, opening its mouth wide
enough to swallow a man and showing its long and yellow fangs. The
Knight of the Sun swung his sword in the air and let it fall on the
serpent's neck with a force that seemed as if it must have severed its
head from its body; but to his amazement the weapon bounded back as if
it had been made of wood, though the snake was for the moment half
stunned and was unable to throw itself on its prey. However, in another
moment it had reared itself high and was preparing to fling itself
forward, when the knight leaped behind the column and from its shelter
struck again at the serpent's head. This time the horrible creature sank
to the ground, though the sword glanced off harmlessly without
penetrating its skin; but it became more angry than before, and glided
rapidly towards the column, hoping to seize his enemy in his gaping
jaws. The giant meanwhile stood planted, club in hand, at the bottom of
the steps, ready to receive the young man when the serpent should have
done with him.
It was not long before this happened. The Knight of the Sun was so
intent watching the movements of the head of his horrible foe, that he
forgot everything else till a violent blow from the serpent's tail cast
him to the ground and sent him rolling down the steps to the place where
the giant stood. Before he could raise himself, the iron staff had split
his helmet in pieces, and, as it seemed, his skull with it. Luckily for
him, the giant felt sure he must be dead, and thus the knight was
enabled to lie still for some minutes till his senses and his strength
came back to him, and, springing to his feet, he snatched his sword from
its sheath and sent half of the giant's body flying one way and half
the other. But before he was able to rejoice at having slain one foe the
serpent was upon him for a second time. The knight had proved that the
sword was useless against it, so seizing the club of the dead giant he
struck such a blow that its head fell in pieces.
[Illustration: THE KNIGHT OF THE SUN FIGHTS THE SERPENT]
Then he took the ivory horn, and entered the door of the first tower. As
soon as the Knight of the Sun reached the second tower, he found it was
shut by a door of steel, just as the first had been. He sounded a blast
on his horn, and the door flew open with a grating and horrible noise,
which might have filled the heart of the bravest with terror, and
another giant stepped forth, no less horrible to look upon than his
brother, with a club in one hand and a huge chained lion in the other.
The great beast was larger than any bull that ever was seen, and each of
its nails was as long as the foot of a man. Directly its chain was
loosed, the lion reared itself up and sprang upon the knight, who
awaited it as calmly as if it had been only a sheep. But after the fight
with the serpent the attack of the lion seemed quite easy to parry, and,
without pausing till they came together, the young man turned nimbly
aside and felled him to the earth with the iron staff. After that he
turned to meet the giant.
This time the battle was soon over, for the giant, like many very big
people, was heavy and clumsy, and the Knight of the Sun stepped past his
dead body to the third gate, which flew open at the blast of his horn.
Behind it stood a fresh giant taller than the last, and all covered with
thick wiry hair, that looked as if it would resist the keenest
sword-blade which had ever been forged in Damascus. The young knight
felt much more afraid of him than of the two tigers which he held on a
chain, and which showed their teeth and snarled wickedly. But before
long the knight had stretched them both on the ground, and summoned all
his strength for the struggle with the giant.
This was much harder than any he had fought yet. The wiry hair turned
the edge of his sword, and he felt he might almost as well try to cut
through a fence of iron. Besides, in spite of his great height, this
giant was much quicker of eye and of hand than the last, and several
times the young champion was brought to his knees, though he rose again
before his enemy could deal him a second blow. At length the Knight of
the Sun noticed a place on the giant's neck where the hair seemed less
thick than on the rest of his body, and, dropping his sword, he seized
his dagger and drove it home.
* * * * *
Thus, step by step, fighting giants and beasts every inch of the way,
the Knight of the Sun at last reached the hall of the castle, where the
emperor Trebatius sat by the side of the fair Lindarasse. The spells she
had woven round him were so strong, that for years he had not only never
been outside the castle walls, but had ceased to wish to see the world
again. But, powerful though Lindarasse might be, the Knight of the Sun
did not fear to meet her, as before he had left Babylon the wise
Lyrgander had given him a ring, which preserved him from all
enchantments.
At the entrance of the young man the fair Lindarasse looked up; she knew
who he was and why he had come.
'What is the matter, Wonder of the World?' asked the emperor Trebatius,
raising his head from her lap, where it had been resting.
'I am a dead woman, my good lord,' answered she, 'unless you will slay
me that knight who has forced his way into my castle.'
These words filled the emperor with fury, and the spirit awoke within
him from its long sleep.
'I will teach him manners,' he said grimly, and stalked proudly to the
gallery where his arms had hung for many a day.
Meanwhile the fair Lindarasse, who, in spite of her haughty bearing,
bore a sinking heart, tried both by threats and soft words to persuade
the Knight of the Sun to leave the castle.
'Not till the emperor goes with me!' he answered steadily. 'You took him
from his wife, and if you will not give him back to her I will take
him.'
And Lindarasse ground her teeth, and held her peace for a few moments.
Then she broke into tears and sobs, thinking to move him by these means;
but this method fared no better than the other.
Thus were they standing when the emperor entered the hall, armed
_cap-à-pie_.
Now the knight knew that Trebatius's skill in fight had grown rusty from
want of use, and that as long as he remained inside the castle the
spells which the fair Lindarasse had woven round him would weaken his
arm and confuse his head. So the youth refrained from striking, and with
his shield and sword defended himself the while from the blows which the
emperor dealt in all directions--for his hand no longer followed his
eye. And all the while the Knight of the Sun stepped gently backwards,
drawing Trebatius with him till, after twenty years, the emperor stood
outside the walls, and the enchantment fell from him like a cloak. Then
with a rush the remembrance of his wife, the princess Briane, came back
to him, and in that very moment, though he knew it not, the fair
Lindarasse fell dead in the place where he had left her. For, evil as
she was, she had loved him truly, and felt that he had gone from her for
ever.
So Trebatius was set free by his son, and became a man once more. And
the two journeyed back towards Hungary, to the monastery where the
princess Briane still lived. But on the road an adventure claimed the
Knight of the Sun, so that the emperor alone stood before his wife,
whose heart was almost broken with joy at the sight of him.
As for their two sons, the Knight of the Sun and his brother Rosiclair,
who was also known as the Knight of Love, no such deeds had been wrought
as were done by them since the days of Lancelot and the Round Table.
[_L'Histoire Admirable du Chevalier du Soleil._ Traduite de l'Espagnol
par Louis Douet.]
Transcriber's Note
The use of parentheses and brackets around the sources for the stories
was inconsistent. The original usage has been maintained.
The following changes were made:
Page Error
Frontispiece HALGERDA changed to HALLGERDA
50 his own deathblow changed to his own death-blow
119 unwillingly, but changed to unwillingly, 'but
159 and tell the changed to 'and tell the
179 answered Sancho Panzo changed to answered Sancho Panza
191 men, but we changed to men, 'but we
191 off his back changed to off her back
204 to one side. changed to to one side.'
215 be so worth changed to be so wroth
257 marvels; but changed to marvels; 'but
271 head of Sir Murdour. changed to head of Sir Murdour,
289 of news awating changed to of news awaiting
335 and mighty arm, changed to and mighty arm,'
346 safe from him changed to safe from him.
356 half of his kingdom.' changed to half of his kingdom.
364 avenge me. changed to avenge me.'
The following words had inconsistent spelling:
knight-errants / knights-errant
WERWOLF / WER-WOLF
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