King Arthur’s Court; or, The Feasts of Camelot: with the Tales That Were Told There

by: Mrs. T. K. Hervey (Author) , Renee Ward (Editor)

from: The Camelot Project  2013

This edition of The Feasts of Camelot is based on the text originally published as King Arthur’s Court; or, The Feasts of Camelot: with the Tales That Were Told There (London: Bell and Daldy, 6, York Street, Covent Garden, and 186m Fleet Street, [1863]).

Contents
 
Part I
Whitsuntide
 
Chapter
I.        The Whitsuntide Feast
II.       Merlin’s Tale of a King and a King’s Son
III.      Sir Tristram’s Tale of Mad King Mark
IV.      Of a Strange Damsel and of Three Questions
V.       Sir Urien’s Tale of a Wild Wood-Ranger
VI.      Eliot the Harper’s Lay of Gwenelda of Wales
VII.     Sir Percival’s Tale of Bruno the Pitiless
VIII.    The Pilgrim’s Tale of the Mountain Voices
IX.      Sir Dragonet the Fool’s Tale of a Purfled Mantle
X.       The Lady Angelides’ Tale of the Terrible Horn
 
Part II
Christmas
 
I.        The Christmas Feast
II.       Sir Gareth’s Tale of the Moorland Mystery
III.      The Lady Lynetta’s Tale of a Pleasant Masque
IV.      The Danish Knight’s Tale of the Heathen Priest
V.       The Tale of Sir Gawain’s Bride: The Slave-Queen
VI.      Sir Gawain’s Tale of a Danish Princess
VII.     The Old Knight’s Tale: The Lady’s Secret
VIII.    The Roman Minstrel’s Ballad of Gabrielle of Gaul
IX.      The Christian Convert’s Tale of the Iron King
X.       Sir Baldwin’s Tale of a Wonderful Vision
XI.      Queen Isond’s Tale of the One Good Deed
XII.     The Boy Alisaunder’s Tale of the Forgiving Heart

Part I
Whitsuntide
 
Chapter I
The Whitsuntide Feast
 
It was the Feast of Whitsuntide, at Camelot, in the court of Arthur the good king.
       Custom was in those days, that ever as the time of that feast came about, King Arthur would desire to hear some adventures, and chiefly those of his goodly and chivalrous Knights of the Round Table.
       Mostly, there was no lack of strange encounters and romantic passages; for at that time brave knights went forth to seek the oppressed, and those who asked aid of others stronger than themselves; and, especially, damsels that were any way distressed, found ready help in the stout swords and courteous bearing of the knights of King Arthur’s court.
       At this special feast of Whitsuntide, there were present all of King Arthur’s chosen knights, save one; and that one was his own nephew, Sir Gawain, called the Courteous. Those of greatest renown were Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Tristram, and Sir Gawain. But Sir Gawain, by reason of some dispute, had departed from Camelot.
       Sir Launcelot of the Lake had beside him his young bride, pale Elaine. And next to Sir Tristram was his wife, the gracious Isond. As King Arthur looked on the happy faces of these his chosen knights, the thought came to him that he would gladly have seen also his favourite nephew Sir Gawain there in place, and happily wedded too: for Sir Gawain was to him as a son.
       When all were met together, and the dial showed the hour after which none were looked for to arrive, unless it might be strangers and pilgrims from afar, who, together with foreign minstrels, were admitted at all hours, the harpers strung their harps to good tune, and the hall rang with many a merry peal.
       As no knight seemed ready with fitting tale of adventure, and no stranger guest had yet appeared to satisfy the custom of the time, King Arthur turned him to his old friend and ever-wise counsellor, Merlin, and begged of him a history.
       “For,” said King Arthur, “never had king better friend than thou art, or wiser counsellor in peace or war, and it would glad me much to hear the story of thy youth.”
       “My lord King Arthur,” answered Merlin, “it shall be as you wish. I will tell the story of my young days as best I may, and as it is already written down in the books of my uncle Bleise. Only, I pray you that no man may stop me till my tale is said out.”
       Thereupon he began, as you shall hear.


Chapter II
Merlin’s Tale of a King and a King’s Son
 
I was an orphan, that never knew father or mother. But my uncle Bleise took me into his care, and taught me early and late; so, in time, I became a great help to him, for his labours were heavy. Many a year it had been his custom to write down all the chief events, such as battles, tournaments, and jousts, that anywhere came about in this kingdom of Britain,—or Logris, as it is called on the Welsh border. A great king in those days ruled the land. But this king had some vices that mightily marred his greatness. None knew this better than my uncle Bleise, though he loved him well; and, like an honest and true friend as he was, alike to high and low, he ever counselled him for good, even at some risk of his displeasure.
       About the time that I had reached manhood, it fell out that this king set his liking on a fair and virtuous lady. Her name was Igerna. But the lady loved Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall; and suddenly came news to the king that they were wedded. Then the king bethought him how he might make excuse for war against the duke, Gorlois; “for,” thought the king to himself, “if he should be slain in the battle, I might wed the beauteous Igerna.”
       The king kept his own counsel closely; and, in order to hatch a cause of quarrel, he made a show of friendship, and caused a great feast to be proclaimed, to which the Duke of Cornwall and his wife should come.
       Now the lady Igerna was as wise as she was fair; and because she knew well that the king’s love had been set on her of old, she prayed her lord to stay away from the feast. But he was strongly minded to go, and would in no wise hear of her staying behind.
       So, to the royal board went Igerna and Gorlois. But Igerna was right. Some words spoken by the king roused her lord to anger; and, forgetting he was all unarmed, he made action as if he would lay hand on his sword. The light touch of his wife restrained him so well in time, that no man saw his hasty movement, save only the king. When the guests left the table, Igerna drew her husband aside, and spoke entreatingly to him.
       “I fear much,” she said, “that we were brought hither for some unworthy cause. Wherefore, husband, I counsel you that we depart hence secretly, so that no man shall know of it, and ride all night, never stopping till we reach our castle of Tintagel; for if we abide here, you will surely be slain.”
       This time Gorlois listened to the words of his wife; and the two departed privily.
       When the king knew that they were gone, he was mightily wroth. He called his council, and told of the sudden departing of the duke and his wife, and of Gorlois having made action as though he would have laid hand on his sword, at some words the king had spoken. The council advised the king to send again for them to come to court by his command; and, if then they came not, it was ruled that there was good cause to make war upon the duke.
       A messenger was forthwith sent. But he brought short answer back, that neither the duke nor his wife would come.
       Then was the king more wroth than before. He sent again another message, bidding the duke make him ready for battle, for that he would fetch him out of the strongest castle that he had.
       When the duke had this warning, he furnished his strong castle of Tintagel for a siege. Thither went the king with a great host, and pitched many pavilions beneath the walls, and laid siege to the castle. And there was a great war, and much fighting on both sides, and many people were slain. Among many more was slain Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall.
       Thus far the king had his evil will. But it seemed that it served him but little. For a long, long while the lady Igerna shut herself up for pure sorrow, and would not be comforted. The king knew not what to do. He turned him to a noble knight of his court, Sir Hector by name, and prayed of him advice.
       “My lord,” said Sir Hector, “indeed I know not how you should win the lady, since you have slain her lord. I will seek the old man Bleise; it may be that he shall be able to tell you what to do.”
       My uncle knew well all that had befallen, for he had seen the battle with his own eyes from a hill-top some way off, and had already written it down in the chronicles of the realm. He guessed well the sore strait the king was in, for he knew that he truly loved the virtuous Igerna, and had done all this wrong in the hope to have her for his wife. But my uncle Bleise was sick at this time, and could not travel so far to speak counsel to the king; for he lived in Northumberland, by Humber Bank, and the king held court at Caerleon on Usk.
       “But go you, Merlin,” he said, “unto the king, and say to him as I shall tell you; and it may be that he shall yet have his will, and repair in some sort the ill he has done.”
       Thereupon, without more delay, I rode towards Caerleon, and met Sir Hector on the way, seeking my uncle Bleise.
       “Go no further, sir knight,” said I; “I know well whom you seek. I am Merlin, the nephew of the old man Bleise, whom he sends in his stead. When the king shall know through me what he has to say, if he consents to the will of my uncle, it shall be to his honour and profit, and he shall have the desire of his heart. Therefore, sir knight, ride you back the way you came, and I shall not be long behind.”
       When Sir Hector got back to the king, and told him whom he had met, then was the king well pleased. He vowed, if all should fall out as he desired, that he would keep me in his court, and hold me dearly in his favour.
       As I reached the door of the king’s privy chamber, I heard him say to Sir Hector in his impatience,—”Why tarries he so long?” Thereupon Sir Hector came out to see if I were on the road, and found me there where I waited outside. He brought me to the king, who welcomed me and spoke me very fair, and asked me kindly of the health and of my good uncle Bleise. Then he stuttered, and knew not how to speak what was on his mind.
       “My lord king,” said I, “I know all your heart right well; and so that you will be sworn to fulfil the desire of my uncle Bleise, you shall have your will.”
       The king gave me his royal word thereto.
       “This, then,” said I, “is my uncle’s desire. If by all fair and honourable means he can bring the lady Igerna to cease from her mourning, and to listen to your suit, and thereafter to consent to become your wedded wife, he desires of you a boon in return. What he asks is this: that the first child that is born to you, if it be a son, shall be delivered over to him, to be nourished and brought up as he shall see fit and wise, to the great weal and good of this land, over which he shall some time be king.”
       The king answered that it was a great thing to ask: but that he would keep the word he had vowed full kingly and knightly, and all should be as my uncle would have it.
       Then I took leave of the king and Sir Hector, and journeyed into Cornwall, to the castle of Tintagel, where was the lady Igerna in her sorrow.
       To get speech with this gentle lady was no trouble to me, for she ever held my uncle Bleise in much honour, and revered his grey hairs as a child does a father’s.
       “Lady Igerna,” said I, “my uncle Bleise greets you well by me, and would have me treat with you of a great matter, touching the good of this great realm of Britain, so long troubled by wars.”
       “Merlin,” answered Igerna, “next to my dear lord, I love the land he loved, where he lived and did battle like a good knight and true. Tell me, what says your uncle Bleise?”
       “He bids me say, lady,” said I, “that he has been sorely pressed by sickness; and more, by heavy dreams that came upon him as he lay. He dreamed two dreams, the one after the other; and one was sorrowful, and one was glad. In the sorrowful dream he saw the king that rules this land of Britain crazed for your love, and, through his sore need of your tender womanly love and pity to bless and guide him, committing outrages that are not of his nature, and making a dry desert of this once smiling land. He lived unloved, and died unmourned; and, after him, strangers from other lands seized on his heritage, for he left no son to come after him. In the other and glad dream, he saw you with a crown on your head, and with a young king’s son by your side. He knew that you were wedded to the king, for all the king’s face was changed. He smiled on his people, and his people smiled on him; and his young son after him was the best and wisest prince of this or any other time, and a great champion of Christendom.”
       The lady Igerna bowed down her head awhile in deep thought. When she raised it again, it was still sorrowful, but queenly.
       “Go, Merlin,” she said, “back to Humber Bank at this time. But come hither again when the leaves fall.”
       When the leaves fell it needed not that I should go. The king himself went in humble guise to that castle of Tintagel, where two winters before he had come in proud array with a great force of arms. He made the lady Igerna believe that he had never meant any treachery towards her lord Gorlois, but had met him in open battle in fair and knightly manner; so that the duke’s death lay not on his conscience. He was so handsome and so courteous, and so frank in his bearing, and so truly loved Igerna, that it was not long before he won her for his bride; for the words of my uncle Bleise had already sunk deep into her heart.
       So there was great rejoicing in the land; and the bridals of the king with Igerna were held with great state; and a tournament was proclaimed, whereto many knights, kings, and princes came from afar to contend for the mastery. The greatest of all was King Ban, of Benoic, a tributary prince of Gaul, the father of our own Sir Launcelot of the Lake, one of the best knights of my lord King Arthur’s Round Table.
 
       Now, Sir Launcelot of the Lake, when Merlin came to this point, could not help interrupting him.
       “Surely,” said he, “you speak of the bridals of the great Uther Pendragon? Often, when I was a child, did I hear my father, King Ban, tell of his deeds, and how he was sire to our good King Arthur.”
       “I pray you, Sir Launcelot, interrupt not my story,” said Merlin, “nor any knight present, or I shall never reach to the end.”
       “Go on,” said King Arthur.
 
       After the marriage days of rejoicing were over I left the king’s court and returned to Humber Bank, and helped my uncle Bleise to note down every event of the kingdom as it befell. But I came back to Caerleon from time to time, that I might see things with my own eyes, as the keeper of the records of a great kingdom should do.
       So passed the time till the leaves fell once more. At that time a son was born to the king and Igerna. Then I departed out of Northumberland, and went to Caerleon to ask for the child to be given up to my uncle Bleise, as had been agreed. The king was sorely troubled, and so was the child’s mother. But my uncle held the king to his pledged word; for he did all for the good of this kingdom, that the young prince might be brought up far away from the court, and grow to manhood where he should know nothing of those vices that marred his father’s greatness. All that the king could do was to demand that the child should be well and carefully nourished, and dealt with as best might befit a king’s son.
       “Sir,” said I, “my uncle has well cared for his welfare. The good knight Sir Hector has a castle north of Humber, near to my uncle Belise [sic]. He has a wife and a young son but newly born; the two children shall be bred up together, and trained so that in time they shall become good and valiant knights.”
       Then the child was wrapped in cloth of gold and given up to me. I took it, and left the court. Outside, not far off, waited the lady of Sir Hector, on a white palfrey, and a damsel on another palfrey. But Sir Hector’s lady would not have me give the babe to the damsel’s keeping; she took it, and folded it closely to her own bosom, as a mother might do; and the babe smiled up to her, as though she had been his own.
       Years passed away. Wars broke out in the realm of Britain; and at St. Alban’s there met the king a great host from the North. But the chivalry of Britain, with the help of King Ban and his Gaulish knights, put the northern host to flight. When peace was come again, the king was minded to visit the land of his friend King Ban, who had helped him in his wars. So he took ship, and passed the waves to Benoic.
       As the king was parting from these shores, I stood on the bank to watch how gallantly he bore him on the good ship’s deck, playing with his huge sword; now tossing it high in air, now clutching it again as it fell glimmering down. All at once, a sudden wind stirred the shoreward waves, and the ship heaved and reeled over the surges. Unmoved stood the giant figure of the king; but the sword never reached his hand. With a plunge, the huge blade fell over the ship’s side. The waters closed over it; and the famous sword of Britain’s kings, Excalibur, was lost for ever to the mighty Uther Pendragon.
 
       “How can that be?” broke in Sir Tristram.
       “Methinks the sword Excalibur hangs even now above the seat of my lord King Arthur.”       
       “I pray you silence, Sir Tristram,” said Merlin. “Be patient, and hear me to the end.”
 
       As I have said, the famous sword Excalibur was for ever lost to the father of King Arthur, the renowned Pendragon.
       While I stood on the sea banks, watching to catch the last sight of the ship that bore my mighty master from his own land of Logris, I saw how the sword fell into the wild waters. There seemed little hope that ever eyes should look on it again. But I did what I could. I bethought me that the waves of the sea ever go as the wind goes. The wind blew from the west; and, slantwise, curved the waves from west to east. Through all the day I walked the shore with my face turned eastward, to see if by chance the waters would cast up the drowned blade. And so it was. Towards evenfall a huge wave rolled over at my feet, and as the waters were sucked back again into old ocean, there, sure enough, on the bright sands lay the lost Excalibur.
       I dried the shining blade, and covering it from all eyes, bore it home to my uncle Bleise, meaning, when King Uther should come back to Logris, to surprise and gladden his eyes with it once more. But Heaven would not have it so.
       Home came the ship, and home came the great Pendragon; but he came with a heavy sickness on him. All the chief lords were summoned to receive his last wishes, and to hear whom he would have to come after him to rule the land. But before they could be got together, the king was speechless.
       “What now shall we do?” cried all the barons. Some said “Ask Merlin.” Then they questioned me.
       “There is no remedy,” said I; “Heaven will have its way. Yet, look well that all ye, the barons of this realm, stay by him. Please God, he may yet speak his mind to you.”
       What made me say this was, that I saw a strange light in the king’s eye; and I thought that as he drew near his end he would find both his mind and his voice. When I saw this this was so, I spoke to him.
       “Sir,” said I, “do you will that your son Arthur shall be king of this realm after you?”
       Thereat, the king raised him up where he lay; and he cried out so that all might hear his words:—
       “I give him God’s blessing and mine, and bid him righteously and truly claim the crown of this realm!” Therewith he died, smiling.
       But now a great trouble came upon the land. By reason that the young Arthur had been bred up away from his father’s court, and no man knew his face, those rebellious lords who would have served their own ends at their country’s cost, sent about a story that they could not be sure he was King Uther’s son, but might be any other man’s son for what they knew. Upon this, my uncle Bleise made me seek the Archbishop of Canterbury, to consult with him what was best to do. The archbishop, first of all, made me swear upon the holy Evangelists, that the boy Arthur, then fifteen years old, was truly the son of Pendragon. This I did with a safe conscience.
       “Then,” said the archbishop, “we must devise some means, even though it should seem a miracle, to overcome the scruples of these rebel lords and the people they are leading by the ears.”
       “My lord archbishop,” said I, as a bright thought came into my head, “if you shall see fit to leave this matter in my hands, I think I can contrive it so that it may be as we and justice would have it, and no man the worse, without bringing scandal on the Church. Do you but call together all the best men of the land. Let a tournament be proclaimed, with jousts and games of all sorts; and let it be given out publicly that on the same day a king shall be chosen, and that he only shall reign who may bring good proof that he is the true heir of Britain.”
       To this the archbishop was well agreed, and left the rest to me.
       The day of the great tourney, which was New Year’s Day, came duly round. All the land came flocking to see the sports; and, above all, eager for some proof or sign by which they might know their own true king.
       That day, there rode with the rest the good knight Sir Hector, with his son, Sir Kay—the youngest that ever was made knight,—and young Arthur, Sir Kay’s foster-brother.
       Now, as they rode towards the jousts, all at once Sir Kay found out that he had no sword in his scabbard. He must have left it—so he thought—at his father’s lodging. But, sooth to say, I had privily taken it from him for a reason that I had. As I guessed would happen, Sir Kay prayed young Arthur to ride back for his sword.
       “That shall I, with a good will,” said young Arthur. And he rode, as fast as horse could go, after the sword. But when he reached home, Sir Hector’s lady and the chief of the household were all gone to the jousting; and no one knew anything about the sword.
       Very sorrowful was young Arthur to go back without a sword for his brother, Sir Kay. As he went on his way again to the tourney his road lay through the churchyard of St. Stephen’s; and as he drew nigh to the graves, he heard a low moaning, as of one in much pain. He followed the sound, but could see no living thing. This grieved him; for he was ever ready to find out and to comfort the oppressed, young though he was.
       While he was yet searching about, here and there, behind the tombstones, all at once his eyes lighted on a mighty big sword sticking upright in the cleft of a time-broken stone. His eyes glistened with surprise and delight.
       “Here,” said he, “is what I crave above all things. Heaven be praised! my dear brother shall not be without a sword this day!”
       Thereupon, he drew the sword out of the stone, and starting off like the wind, was soon out of sight.
       Now came I out from my hiding-place, some way off, and followed after, to see what should come of it. I had ever a power of throwing my voice out of me, so that it seemed to come from another place than that I was in. By this means I had led the young Arthur far from my hiding-place towards the rent tomb where I had stuck the sword—which sword was in truth his father’s sword Excalibur, which all men deemed to be fathoms down in the bed of the great ocean.
       When the young Arthur came to where stood his foster-brother, Sir Kay, he put the sword in his hand, with a right glad face. Sir Hector was close by; and no sooner did he see the sword in his son’s hand than his surprise was so great that he cried out with so loud a voice that all the chief lords who stood by turned to hear.
       “Here surely is a miracle!” he exclaimed. “This is no other than the sword Excalibur!”
       “Then,” said his son, Sir Kay, “shall I be king of this land?”
       “How came you by the sword?” asked his father, Sir Hector; for he had not seen that it was given to him by Arthur.
       “Truly,” said Sir Kay, “my brother Arthur brought the sword and gave it to me.”
       “Arthur,” then asked Sir Hector, “where found you the sword?” And when he heard that it had been found in a cleft of the rent tomb he asked again, “Found you any knights about the sword?”
       “No,” replied Arthur; “no man was near.”
       “Now,” said Sir Hector, “all is well, and as it should be. Yours, Arthur, is the sword by right, since you found it, as yours in the kingdom by right. Understand, therefore, that you shall be king of this land, and no man shall dare gainsay you.”
       “I be king!” cried young Arthur, in great amazement; “and for what cause?”
       “Sir,” said Sir Hector, “because Heaven will have it so; and it was your father’s before you.”
       Then Sir Hector kneeled down on the earth before him, as did Sir Kay also, and took their oath of fealty to him as their rightful king.
       “Alas!” said Arthur, “my own dear father and brother, why kneel you me?”
       “Nay, my lord Arthur,” said Sir Hector, “it is not so. I am not your father, nor is Sir Kay your born brother. Your father was the great Uther Pendragon, king and ruler over all Britain. It is the sword of Pendragon, which by miracle you have found this day, that was lost fathoms down in the deep sea when your father crossed the waves to the land of King Ban.”
       When Arthur heard this, he bowed down his head and wept.
       “Alas!” said he, “then am I not in truth your son? You are the man in all the world that I owe the most to; and as much do I owe to your wife, my good mother, that like her own son has fostered and kept me. If ever I be king, as you say, you shall desire of me what I may do, and I shall not fail you. God forbid that I should fail you!”
       “Sir,” said Sir Hector, “I will desire no more of you but that you will make my son, your foster-brother Sir Kay, your seneschal.”
       “That shall be done,” said Arthur, “and, more than that, no man shall ever have that office but he, while he and I live.”
 
       Here Merlin’s story was again broken in upon; and this time by Sir Kay, the seneschal, who, like Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram and the rest, was a knight of King Arthur’s Round Table.
       “And faithfully he kept his word,” said Sir Kay; “seneschal have I been from that day to this; and good friend and good brother has my lord King Arthur been to me, though I be not of his blood.”
       Then turned the good king to Merlin.
       “Old friend,” said he, “it seems to me it is the story of my own youth, rather than thine, that thou hast been telling.”
       “The life of a good subject is bound up in the life of his king,” answered Merlin. “But my story is wellnigh done.”
 
       When it was told to the archbishop how and by whom the sword had been found, he asked no questions; but he caused Arthur to be proclaimed king.
       No man dared to oppose himself to this, since the finding of Excalibur was held to be a miracle. One only, a hot-brained knight, Sir Ulfius by name, raised his voice against the king’s mother, the lady Igerna. My lord Arthur had sent for Igerna, King Uther’s wife, for his heart yearned to his true mother. Then Sir Ulfius spake openly, so that the king and all that were present might hear.
       “The lady Igerna is much to blame,” he said, “as traitorous to the king’s person.”
       “Beware, Ulfius,” said the young Arthur; “beware what thou sayest against the lady Igerna, my mother.”
       “I speak but the truth,” returned the hot-blooded knight. “This lady has been the cause of all our trouble, so that we have run the risk of a great war because we knew not our rightful king. Had she brought up her son in her own and his father’s court, openly before all men, this mischief could not have come about. Wherefore I accuse her as false to motherhood, to God, and to you; and I cast down my glove in token that I will do wager of battle to prove it against any living.”
       Then spoke the lady Igerna.
       “I am a woman,” she said, “and may not defend myself. But, if it be needful, I doubt not some good knight will take my quarrel on himself, and do battle in my cause. Merlin knows well, and you also Sir Hector, how my lord Uther prevailed over all my tears and entreaties, and removed my dear young son away from the court; and that I could do no more, but only obey my good lord, and pray kind Heaven to watch over my son.”
       At this Sir Ulfius was moved, and he turned to me.
       “Merlin,” he said, “you were more to blame than Queen Igerna; for you bound King Uther by a promise, which as a loyal man and a true knight he might not break. I repent me that I have spoken discourteously to the right good and virtuous lady Queen Igerna, who acted but wifely and well; and I am ready now to do battle in her cause whenever and wherever she shall call upon me.”
       King Arthur thereupon withheld some words he was about to say to Sir Ulfius, since the hot knight had repented of his hasty speech; but he took his mother Igerna in both his arms, and kissed her tenderly; and either wept over the other.
 
       “Thanks, old friend, for they tale. But now enough,” said King Arthur; for he saw that his lady mother, who sat there beside him in her fair old age, was much moved; and he would not have her put to pain. “By the laws of our Whitsuntide feast, thou, Merlin, hast a right to choose whose tale of adventure shall next be told. Speak, that the tale may go round.”
       “Truly,” answered Merlin, “an old man’s history is best followed by a young man’s tale. Therefore I call on Sir Tristram.”
       “With right good will,” said Sir Tristram; for he had ever a good faculty of reciting histories and making ballads of all that befell. “With King Arthur’s good pleasure, I will tell the tale of him whom Sir Launcelot calls ‘King Fox;’ but I call him my uncle, mad King Mark.”


Chapter III
Sir Tristram’s Tale of Mad King Mark
 
Never in all the world, I think, was there knight or king so mad as my uncle King Mark. While I was yet but a young squire I was sent into Cornwall to receive knighthood from my uncle; and sorry am I that I received it not rather from any man living; for there was neither honour nor courtesy to be learned from him. Though he calls himself King Mark he is really no king at all, save only by the sufferance of my lord King Arthur, who has forborne him these many years only for my sake, and because of his being kin also to dead Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. Because of the mystery of King Arthur’s early fostering, and the rebellion that came out of it, he seized that corner of land to himself, with all the estates thereto belonging, and would have all men call him king. And there he reigns and raves; and what he cannot do by the strong hand he will do by sleight and cunning; and for that cause has Sir Launcelot of the Lake ever called him “King Fox.”
       While I was yet but a new-made knight, my uncle’s right of kingship was called in question by one Sir Maurice of Ireland, brother to the queen of that country. To end the dispute it was agreed that the matter should be decided by single combat, between Sir Maurice of Ireland and that knight of King Mark’s court who should be of the best lineage. Thereupon, my uncle called me to him, and broke the affair to me.
       “Fair nephew,” said he, “this encounter falls to you by right of birth, and you must have to do with this knight of Ireland whether you be so minded or no.”
       “With your leave, Sir Mark,” said I, for I never would call him king, “I must forbear to do battle in this cause.”
       Then my uncle looked at me askance from under his brows, and, said he, “Fair nephew, why so?”
       “Because,” I answered, “no true knight will fight but in a just cause; and well you know there is no king in all Logris but only my lord King Arthur.”
       “Say you so?” said King Mark; “we shall see!”
       He said no more at that time; and I thought I was well out of the risk of shedding innocent blood in a wrong cause. But I was young then; and King Mark was more than a match for me.
       It was soon spread abroad that I was afraid of Sir Maurice, who was a noble and approved knight; and that I had refused to meet him in single combat. For this cause Sir Maurice took occasion to taunt me as recreant from my vows of knighthood, perjured, and false. My blood was hot; and I threw down my glove, and dared him to meet me in mortal fight. So here were we two come to be deadly foes for no cause save an evil mind and a lying tongue.
       We met full savagely. Twice I broke spear on Sir Maurice’s hauberk, and twice he hurled at me, so that I had all but been unhorsed. But to make a long story short, I overcame him in the end; and though he never cried me mercy, yet I gave him his life; as Heaven forbid I should not, both because of the just cause he had come to do battle for, and because I began to see that I had been slandered to the knight. He now confessed me to be a worthy foe; and we embraced as friends and brothers, though we were both sorely wounded, and might not bear harness for many a day to come.
       From that time my uncle seemed to grow all at once very kind to me. He gave it out that I had fought for his right of kingship; and made it be understood of all men that henceforward none should question it. It was in vain that I denied the tale; I was in the mesh, and I could not get out of it.
       Disgusted and sick at heart, I resolved to leave Cornwall, and to set out, in company with Sir Maurice, for the court of King Anguish, of Ireland. My uncle did not oppose me; but as I was on the point of setting foot on shipboard, who should ride up to me, as I stood on the shore with Sir Maurice, but my uncle, mad King Mark!
       “Fair nephew,” said he, for so was ever his way of speech when he had some end of his own to serve, “I would that you should take this packet, bound with silken cord, to my brother-king, Anguish, of Ireland, and greet him well from me.”
       I took the packet, bound with silken cord, and making, as may be guessed, light leave-taking, went on shipboard with Sir Maurice. As I mounted to the deck I heard a low chuckle behind me, and, looking back, saw cunning King Mark go smiling away.
       We made good voyage, and soon reached the domains of King Anguish. There I first saw the beautiful Isond. But little did I think what sorrow was in store for me through the crooked dealings of sly King Mark.
       At first I was courteously received by all; and was especially happy in the kindness and favour of the beautiful Isond, to whom, the first day of my coming, I began to teach the music of the harp, in which from my earliest youth I had delighted, even more than in hunting. But full soon I saw and felt a change. King Anguish looked askance at me; even Sir Maurice began to slacken in his friendship; and it became clear that the letter I had borne from King Mark was at the root of it all.
       Still, though all others looked coldly and suspiciously upon me, Isond remained kind and gentle as ever. So one day I thought I would take courage and ask her the cause of why I had grown in such disfavour. Then she told me how King Mark had written to her father to bid him keep me closely watched that I should never return into his country of Cornwall, for that I had plotted to usurp from him his lawful lands; and that when I had pretended to do battle in his cause it was only done to prove his right to possess them, in order that I might, as his nephew, claim them in turn, as he had no sons to come after him. But this was not all. He had the cunning to give some colour to his falsehood by saying that my object in seeking the court of King Anguish was to ask the aid of that king to dispossess him at once of his crown.
       For all this I cared little; the worst was to come. King Mark had asked for the hand of the beautiful Isond in marriage, and her father had consented to give her to the ruthless man. This was the greatest misfortune that could have happened to me, as I thought then,—for I was beginning to love, with all the devotion of knighthood, that gentle lady.
       Sorrowfully did the beautiful Isond weep as she told me of her father’s mistaken pledge to King Mark. But she was dutiful as she was fair; and I, as a good and true knight, was bound in honour henceforth to regard her as the promised wife of my uncle.
       Bitterly grieving over her probable fate, I at once determined to depart from that court. By the advice of Isond I arranged to steal secretly from Ireland, lest, in any attempt to detain me, I might be forced to come to open war with her father; and this, with many tears, she earnestly entreated me by all means to avoid.
       Just then it so happened that the distress I endured at hearing of my uncle’s new treachery against me, together with the sorrow of losing Isond, caused an old wound to break out afresh. What gentle and good thoughts for my happiness were then in her mind I knew not at that time, though I did later; but the kind Isond, though skilled in surgery beyond most of her degree, yet said she was quite unable to attempt my cure.
       “Sir Tristram,” she said, “your wound has been made with a poisoned arrow; it can only be cured in that country where you received it. The shaft that struck you flew from the bow of one of the band of heathen marauders among the mountains of Wales; so at least a minstrel sang the tale to me. I pray you go now into that country, to the court of the good King Howell, who is my kinsman. His daughter, my cousin and name-sake, the gracious Isond, is well skilled in leech-craft. Greet her well from me, and say I would that she would set herself to cure you of your wound. We two are so closely likened to each other, save that my cousin Isond is the fairer, that it may be you shall think the fair hands of Isond of Wales are the hands of the poor Isond which you have taught so well to draw forth the sweet music of the harp. Go now, Sir Tristram,” she added, as I would fain have lingered over that sad leave-taking, “and God speed you for a good knight and true!”
       Whether our secret talk had been overheard, I know not but that very night I was seized while asleep, and hurried, bound, to a dungeon below the castle keep. There, for some days, I lay without hope of release; but the gentle Isond was busy devising means for my escape.
       The first thing she did was to desire her damsels to spread abroad a report that I was greatly learned in magic arts, so as to put my gaolers in bodily fear of me. Next, she ordered that her harp should be wrapped in cloth of cloth [sic], and borne with great care into my dungeon to while away the hours of my captivity.
       There were at that time in Ireland, as there still are in this land, man people curiously fond of keeping dwarfs, who were brought over from the East. One of these frightful creatures, the smallest and most hideous of his kind, Isond procured. She caused him to coil himself up within the framework of the harp, for which purpose she took care to have the strings removed; that done, the harp, carefully swathed and bound, was brought into my cell, and there left; the dwarf having his orders what to do.
       When next the gaoler brought me food and water for the night, I hid myself behind the harp; while the hideous dwarf rushed forward, and soundly rated the gaoler for coming so late with my supper, howling out in his ears, “If you do not go to the foul fiend for this, my name’s not Sir Tristram!”
       Horror-struck at what he conceived to be my abominable transforming of myself into an imp of Satan, the gaoler rushed out, at his wits’ end, leaving the cell door open. Through it I slipped like lightning; and, aided by the dwarf who held the key of the postern gate, where my horse and good sword awaited me, I soon found myself in perfect safety.
       Glad enough was I to reach the shores of Wales. There all fell out as I truly believe the virtuous Isond intended that it should. In the court of King Howell my happiest days were passed. His daughter, the gracious Isond, as she was called to distinguish her from her cousin and namesake of Ireland, was the sweetest lady in all the world. Under her loving care all my wounds, both of body and mind, were indeed cured; and here at my side she sits, King Howell’s daughter, and the good wife of a poor knight, by name Sir Tristram.
 
 
       “And now, Merlin,” said Sir Tristram, when he had ended his tale, “I want to know why you smiled when I told of the poisoned arrow? I verily believe you put faith in nothing but God and knighthood.”
       “Truly,” answered Merlin; “I am not so simple as to believe the story of a poisoned wound being only to be cured in the country where the wound was dealt; though there is a sort of truth at the bottom of that foolish saying, doubtless. Perhaps he might be nearer the mark who should say, that it would be most likely of cure in the land the poison came from; since it has been said that the wise men among the Saracens, which people make much use of such unknightly weapons, ceased not in their search till they had found out an antidote to the poison with which they tipped their arrows. Be that as it may; as to your bodily wound, Sir Tristram, depend on it there was no poison at all in the case, let the foolish minstrels sing what they may. Mischief take the bards! They will leave nothing as they find it; but are for ever stringing of rhymes and twanging of strings, to the utter confusion of all true history. It matters little that they have set me down for a wizard; but they have ever dared to call our gracious lady Morgana, the ‘Fay-lady.’”
       “Nay, Merlin,” said Queen Guenever, who was wife to King Arthur, “blame not the bards so greatly; you yourself are half the cause that my lord King Arthur’s sister is accounted more than mortal wise. You found her apt, and taught her so many learned things that women seldom know of, that rumour has fixed upon her the blame of dealing with unlawful magic.”
       “Right, honoured lady,” replied Merlin; “but that all men may know truly in the end, I keep the books of my uncle Bleise, as well as all that I have written down myself, fast locked in the great pyx in the church of St. Stephen. Heaven grant they never be lost; or a sorry history will be given of us all in the ages to come!”
       Before any one could reply, suddenly a stir was heard at the lower end of the hall, and a cry of surprise broke upon the ear. In a moment every eye was turned in the direction of the tumult.


Chapter IV
Of A Strangle Damsel and of Three Questions

The noise and stir at the end of the great hall was caused by the sudden entrance of a strange damsel. As she approached, every eye turned towards her; for the damsel was of graceful bearing and stately presence. Though simply robed, every movement and gesture betrayed that she was come of gentle blood. At her side she wore a sword, richly jewelled at the hilt, but sheathed in a plain scabbard. Other ornament she had none, save her long glossy hair, that rolled over her shoulders in many a waving link.
       Having saluted King Arthur and Queen Guenever, and being desired to tell on what manner of errand she had come, she glanced round the hall for a moment, as if in search of something which she missed and would gladly have found, before she answered, in a voice passing sweet.
       “I come,” she said, “from my sister, the lady of the West Moorlands. She dwells in a strong castle, bordering a goodly river; but her right to hold the same, with the lands thereto belonging has been called in dispute by a neighbouring baron. He is the lord of the sterile region adjoining my sister’s lands, and covets for himself her fairer domain. On account of the many islands he has won and held for his own, he is named Sir Brian of the Isles; but in our country, because of the blood he has spilled, he is called the ‘Red Reaper.’
       “This is the cause of my [q]uest. My sister, finding that Sir Brian has become so powerful that she can no longer hope to oppose him without help from the chivalry of Logris, has sent me to this court to desire of some good knight that he will come to her help and rescue, according to his vows. She bade me be the bearer of this sword, and to say that if, as is likely, the Knights of King Arthur’s Round Table should dispute among themselves as to who should have the honour of the adventure, she desires that the choice shall fall on him who can best answer three questions touching the sword.”
       “And prithee, fair damsel,” asked King Arthur, “what may these three questions be? For I see that my knights, and even yon silent young squire, whose name is here unknown, are all alike eager to do battle in the lady’s cause.”
       “The three questions,” replied the damsel, “are these:—first, How should the sword be borne? second, Where did the sword come from? third, What is the best quality of the sword?—He who shall answer these questions better than any other, to him shall the adventure be adjudged.”
       The first question of “How should the sword be borne?” seemed so simple and easy to answer, that the knights laughed among themselves, and thought it a very poor matter indeed. One answered, “Across the left thigh;” another said, “Hanging from the baldric;” and all made such guesses at random as left no one answer better or worse than another. At last spoke out the silent young squire.
       “The sword,” he said, “should be borne valiantly, yet humbly: aloft in the press of battle; but lowly at the altar’s foot.”
       All were at once agreed that this was far the best answer of all. But the damsel looked haughtily at the young squire, and seemed much displeased that he should have outdone all the knights present.
       When it came to the next questions of “Where did the sword come from?” some said from Damascus, some guessed from Toledo, and others said from different places noted for such things. But none could answer truly save again the silent young squire.
       “The sword,” he said, “came from the anvil of the armourer who forged it; for it was no sword at all till it came out of the hands of the smith.”
       At this answer, much was the mirth of Queen Guenever and all the ladies present, save only the strange damsel. This time she regarded the young squire still more haughtily than before. But she said not a word.
       To the next question of “What is the best quality of the sword?” the answers were just as bad as ever. No one could think of anything but its sharpness, its toughness, and such plain meanings. As before, the silent young squire bore off the palm.
       “The best quality of the sword,” he said, “is its honesty; for it never takes life without giving death in exchange.”
       Then the damsel looked much disquieted.
       “Never,” said she, “shall my sister’s cause be taken in hand by an unknown squire, who has never yet proved himself worthy of knighthood; and who, it may be, is of ignoble birth and breeding, since he is nameless in King Arthur’s court.”
       “Nay, fair damsel,” said King Arthur, “you must confess that the peril of the adventure is his by right of answer. As to your objections, pardon me if I say I see no force in them. This young squire has worthily passed his noviciate, and is ready to receive knighthood at whose hands soever he may choose. With regard to his birth and lineage, methinks I could well answer for the same, although for reasons of his own he may choose at present to remain nameless. Since, however, you have such scruples, let him now declare at whose hands he desires to receive the most noble order of knighthood, and if he be willing to confide to his knightly sponsor what blood he is come of. Say, sir squire,” added the king, “from whom do you desire to receive the accolade; and are you willing to confide to the same the secret of your lineage until such time as you shall see fit to declare it openly before all this court?”
       “My liege lord, King Arthur,” answered the unknown squire, “right willing am I to do all that is required of me. But I am loath to choose, for this one cause:—many a time have I been heard to say that I would only be knighted by the best of your Knights of the Round Table; and who is the best, where all are mirrors of valour and courtesy, is a question far more difficult to answer than any which yonder fair damsel has put to me. When I prayed knighthood of Sir Gawain the Courteous, he referred me to Sir Tristram as a better knight than he; and when I begged the same boon of Sir Tristram the Just, he made me over to Sir Launcelot as the best of all. Sir Launcelot the Wise said, ‘On no account can I take upon myself to perform that duty, since you seek it of the best knight in Christendom; for the best of all for valour, justice, mercy, and courtesy, is that knight who is the head and crown of all that dwell in this land or any other, and he is no other than our liege lord, King Arthur.’”
       “Nay,” said the damsel; “if only, sir squire, you can prevail on King Arthur himself to give you your knighthood, there is an end of the matter. Yet I would that one of some renown had taken my sister’s cause in hand, rather than an untried youth like thee.”
       “Despise him not,” said King Arthur; a goodly champion will he prove, or I am much mistaken. Come hither, sir squire, and reach me down Excalibur. And now whisper truly to my ear alone what blood you come of; and say what is the name that I am to give you.”
       The young squire did as he was commanded. As he spoke low to King Arthur, a bright, glad smile shone on the calm face of the goodly king. He then lightly struck the kneeling youth with the flat of the sword.
       “Arise, Sir Gareth,” said he; “thou hast received the first and last blow that must be dealt thee with impunity: I will be thy bond that thou never wilt take another. Damsel, I approve him of noble blood, the noblest that may be. Will you accept him for your champion?”
       “My lord, King Arthur, since better may not be, I will,” was the scarce gracious answer of the haughty damsel.
       “So be it,” said the good King; “and with tomorrow’s dawn, Sir Gareth, our new-made knight, shall set forward on the enterprise. We doubt not it will be well achieved before the next Christmas-tide, when we shall hope to hear him recount how he has fared. And now, fair damsel, it rests with you to call on some knight present for a tale of adventure.”
       “Then,” said the damsel, turning to one of the two old knights between whom she had seated herself, and to whom she seemed to be known, “I would, Sir Urien, you should relate the tale of the Wild Wood-Ranger.”


Chapter V
Sir Urien’s Tale of a Wild Wood-Ranger
 
In my young days, Sir Segramore was my fast friend and brother-in-arms. His home was in the east fen country; mine lay westward, towards the Welsh border. As we both grew in years, and wedded, and brought up sons and daughters of our own, the old tie of brotherhood held us still; and though of necessity we lived parted lives, seeing how wide away stretched our lands each from the other’s, yet ever and again news reached us of our several fortunes. No joy was ours which we did not share, and no stroke of ill fortune befell Sir Segramore that did not strike me with as keen a thrust as if it had been dealt at myself.
       One heavy time, after a long season of swamping rains, the marsh lands about the fens where Sir Segramore’s lands were, became a scene of ill-hap from a slow fever that was bred there. My brother, as I ever called him, and all his house fell sick. News reached me of the mischief, and sorrowful and fearful enough it made me. But in a short while brisk winds began to blow, for it was the March tide of equal day and night, and gale-weather; and the storms that threatened the poor mariners at sea, blest the livers on land with free air and freshening breezes. The swampy fens dried up, the overflowed rivers shrank within their own banks, and the spongy soil crusted hard. Then men rose up again from sick beds and set their armour anew on their backs.
       When this better news reached me, the fear in my heart was past and gone; and the passing trouble faded out of mind.
       Some moons after these good tidings, it so happened that I was deep in some worldly cares. A clerk, learned in the laws of the land, had come to join counsel with me, touching some danger I was in of losing my vast possessions through the villainy of another.
       We were both tugging hard at the fast-knit knots of the law, when a servitor appeared before me to say that a strange man had come to offer me service as forest-ranger.
       I was chafed at being broken in upon, and answered testily: “Not now,—not now; I am busied. Who is he?—whence does he come?”
       “From Sir Segramore,” answered my man; “who begs you to take him on, for he has lost all in the fen-fever, and is stricken by the sight of the place.”
       “Let him abide, then,” said I; “but trouble me no more just now. I will see him to-morrow.”
       With that, I dismissed the whole thing from my mind, and stuck to the hard work before me.
       Soon after, we were called to meat. The learned clerk I made to be placed beside me; and the meat cooled while still we two chewed the hard cud of quip and crank, double and turn, worry and wile, of the law.
       The scarce-tasted meal over, we sat apart,—and at it again.
       At last, having come to some sort of conclusion, late at night the clerk took his leave to ride back to his monastery; and I, thankfully enough, betook me to my bed, casting myself down wearied and worn with hours of such brain-work as I was little used to, for a night’s sleep.
       Sleep I did, with a vengeance; but never do I hope to pass such another time of darkness. Night-mares and night-demons I had heard tell of; but I had ever laughed at such idle bugbears. However, that night I knew what it was to be ridden by the night-hag.
       I dreamed that I was wandering one long, dreary, never-ending night through the densest and gloomiest forest that ever haunted the sleeping sense. I was beaten by the boughs of it; I was lost in the mazes of it. My breath came short and catching, for I could not breathe for the thickness of the leaves. My horse stumbled at every second step over the bared roots that stretched like knotted chords across the uneven paths. With every footfall he scattered and sent whirling into the air the fine pine-fronds, whose splinters strewed over all the way; they came down upon me in a shower, tickling, piercing, and plaguing me, till I shook and shivered like a steed stung by the horse-fly.
       But there was another and a fiercer trouble than all these in that wild dream-wood.
       As I strained my eyes to catch sight of some opening which I hoped to find from out the endless linking and twining of boughs, I was suddenly startled by seeing the figure of a man dodging behind the tree-boles. A strange and grimly figure of a man it was,—as ugly and ill-looking a varlet as ever I beheld. His head was like a new-budded pollard, and stood up upon his neck like a mop on a mop-stick. He was bleared, too, of one eye; and, as if the other half of his face wanted to be even with the blind-side for ugliness, a great crooked scar crossed the high cheek-bone on the left side of his face, and, slanting down to his upper lip, left its dent there too.
       Had this grimly man-form stood still, I might have borne his company, and passed on out of sight of him. But, hang the fellow! if he didn’t keep dodging behind the tree-boles, slipping and darting from one to the another [sic], still ever in advance of me as I moved forward. To add to my terror and disquiet, ever now and again he kept flourishing high over his head a sharp woodman’s axe, that seemed to glance and shine with its own brightness, like a diamond in the mine, among those dusky alleys where no sun ever shone. At every flourish he seemed threatening to cleave my skull in twain.
       Again and again I pressed my horse forward to get past the ruffian; but, each time I did so, the beast reared with affright at the sight of him, and fell back on his haunches. Seeing my horse he would not go forward, I wheeled him round, and rode him back the way we had come. It was in vain. There was the grimly axe-man all the same, dodging from bole to bole along the backward way, with the uplifted weapon glimmering in his hand.
       This was not to be borne. I shouted to him; but there was no answer. I lashed at him with my sword; but my sword was only blunted against the axe. Still I hacked and hewed, and hewed and hacked; but all to no end.
       At last, just as I felt my sword-arm losing all power further to battle with the strange phantom, suddenly he sprang out upon me, and clove my arm in two. As my sword dropped, still clenched in my severed hand, the fiendish axe-bearer shouted an exulting shout.
       “Aha!” cried he, “it was for this I came. Aha! simple Sir Urien, have I caught you in a trap? How like you your new forest-ranger?”
       As he shrieked out these words in a voice like the roar of a wild beast, he once more flourished the axe above his head. By the rush of cold air that it caused as it came cleaving down, I felt it was descending on my neck. Another moment and I looked to feel the quick, keen, biting stroke. At that instant, what was my horror to behold my daughter Feloly slide down from the top of a tall pine-tree to the place where I stood, and glide between me and the axe. The agonized cry that burst from my lips at once awakened me.
       That such a dream as this should impress me vividly, may well be believed. My first thought—and it shot through my mind like a lightning bolt—was of the strange man who had come so oddly to offer himself for my wood-ranger. Not much was I given to fancies, for my life had been one of hard buffets in many wars, and the only thing I had ever been taught the fear of, even from my mother’s knee, was sin. Yet, for once, I conceived a sort of dread of my strange woodman. The dream brought the thought into my mind that the whole story of the man’s having lost all in the fens, and of his having been sent to me by my friend Sir Segramore, was a pure fiction; and that the axe-bearer’s intent was a secret design against my life.
       Thus, moved by a night-fancy, I judged and condemned the man.
       “Now,” thought I, “here am I saved by a dream. But I will give this strange comer one chance before I set my fellows to bind him hand and foot. I will see this grimly woodman. I have never yet looked on the fellow’s face. If it bears no likeness to the scarred and blear-eyed visage of my ugly dream, why I will let him off quit of blame, and turn him into the wood-shaw, and see what he is made of. But if, when I set eyes on him, I find the shadow of a resemblance to my axe-flourishing friend, why then, to the dungeon he goes.”
       Satisfied with my strict justice—as at the moment I thought it—I ordered the man to be sent into my presence.
       Never shall I forget the shock I endured when I looked on the caitiff rascal! There stood the creature of my hideous dream, to the life. There was the bleared eye,—there the ugly gash from cheek-bone to lip. To complete the picture, he came right up and stood straight before me, not only with the axe in his mischevious hand, but actually flourishing it aloft, as if in impudent defiance, before my very face!
       “Hither, my men!” cried I; “bind this fellow forthwith;—away with him to the dungeon. Hold him well; he is stalwart, and bent on evil.”
       The astounded woodman never stirred or moved a muscle, so aghast was he. My men bound him as easily as a lamb led to the slaughter. They were already hurrying him away, when my daughter Feloly, who had seen all that went on, came softly up to me, and bade me think what I was doing.
       “Father, you do wrong,” she said; “I pray you bid them unbind the man.”
       “By the mass! but you are bold, child,” said I. “What know you of this churl?”
       “All that is good, father,” she answered me, “and nothing that is evil.”
       While she said this, seeing my men pause at a sign from Feloly, I looked on the man anew. By all that was horrible, he had wrenched one arm from the men-at-arms who held him, and was once more flourishing the axe high in the air!
       Now my child Feloly had a will of her own, and a way with her that I defy any man to gainsay. She saw the axe go aloft as well as I. But instead of opening her eyes as I did—like a great fool that I was—she went direct up to the fellow, and without more ado took the axe from his hand.
       I must own I thought the girl was bewitched. But she soon made all clear to me, for she ever went as straight to her mark as a shaft from a bow.
       “Here, father,” she said, “is a letter from our good Sir Segramore. It is writ to me rather than to you, because this man Gurth has need of woman’s tender and piteous dealing. He was a cherished servant to Sir Segramore, who is loath to part with him. But he has sent him hither for his own good, to take him out of the sight of his old home in the fens, which made him sad even unto death. Poor Gurth! he lost his wife and child in the weary fen-fever. He nursed them both like a woman. Then he himself took the fever he strove so hard to lift from those he loved. You see him; he is so shaken even now in the fine nerves that his right arm works restlessly every now and then again with the strong convulsion. Pity and unbind him, father!”
       Of course, I had the man unbound instantly; and sorely ashamed of myself I felt.
       But now, how was I to accou[n]t for having dreamt of a man I had never seen; and who proved, when I did at last set eyes on him, the very living image of my ugly phantom of dreamland?
       This seeming mystery was cleared up, too, by my Feloly.
 
       As Sir Urien paused a moment, partly to take a breath, and partly to enjoy the looks of amazement and curiosity on the faces of his listeners, there was a very slight interruption.
       The stoppage was caused by only two words, and those two words were not intended to be heard. They were softly whispered to himself by the young Sir Lavaine, and would not have been heard at all but for Sir Urien’s sudden pause in his tale.
       The words were—“Sweet Feloly!”
       Sir Launcelot looked at Elaine and smiled; and Elaine looked at Sir Launcelot and smiled. Perhaps they were both thinking that their young brother Lavaine’s merry heart was caught by the sweet, kind daughter of Sir Urien. Sir Urien went on as if nothing had happened.
 
       “Father,” said my child Feloly, “do you remember how deep you were in talk last eve with that learned clerk when you were called to meat?”
       “Ay, child,” said I, “that do I truly; and a more weary business it was never my ill fortune to have to do with. But what has that to do with your man Gurth?”
       “Everything, father,” says the young malapert. “I scarce could take my eyes off your face, so rapt and lost to all the world you seemed. All the while you talked with the clerk, you fixed your eyes,—seeing nothing, or only half-seeing,—on the lower end of the hall. Thither Gurth had come with the rest of our people that feed below the salt. He took his chance that you should see and speak to him before the meal was done; for he was anxious and heavy of heart, and had half a mind, as you did not care to see him when he first arrived, to depart again the way he came, rather than to be a trouble to you. All the time he stood there, and after, when I rose up and whispered to him to sit down to meat, he kept many times raising his arm with the axe in it, and flourishing it over his head. Poor Gurth! we much comfort him, and make him forget his sorrows if he may.”
       Then, with a flash, it all burst upon my mind. Just as we hear and hear not, when a voice breaks in upon our mood in waking-dreams, and only makes itself heard when we have gathered up our scattered wits and forced them back to the world before us; just so the woodman’s face, at which I stared and stared while my thoughts were elsewhere, had forced itself upon me afterwards in my sleep.
       And now I recalled, too, clearly enough, that I had seen Feloly rise up and steal down the hall, as was her wont, speaking to this one and to that, in her own gentle, loving way; now kindly asking after the sick, now filling the cup with her own hand for the old and palsied. And out of this, too, came the dream-fancy of her sliding down the pine-bole between me and the axe.
       So to Feloly I owe it that I did not do a great and miserable wrong in binding a sick and sorrowing creature like a malefactor. And never from that hour have I had other answer to a dream-ex-pounder than—pshaw!
 
       So ended the tale of Sir Urien.   
       “You made indeed a cruel blunder, old brother-in-arms,” cried the other old knight, Sir Segramore; but all came right in the end. Some wrongs are done in hot blood, and some are done in cold. Doubtless the minstrels can furnish us with ballads setting forth other examples?”
       Then rose up the old minstrel, grey-bearded Eliot, who had been in his younger days the most renowned harper in the court of Uther Pendragon. Though the frosts of age were on him, he struck the chords with no feeble hand.
       “There is one old, forgotten song,” said he, “which I made in my youth, when my blood beat warm and strong, and my heart throbbed at a tale of wrong. Does any one here recall the lay of Gwenelda of Wales?”
       “I do,” answered Merlin. “Well do I remember the piteous tale of how Sir Bruno of the Tower tested the love and endurance of his gentle lady, because he had wagered to prove her more loving and obedient than any other dame of Uther’s court; even taking her young children one after the other, to be given up to death to save their father’s life, at the supposed command of King Uther.
       “Th[i]s much is known,” said Eliot; “and the wager, with its cruel carrying out, together with the restoring of the children to their mother, has been sung to the music of the harp in more countries than one. But few know what was the issue of it. It was of this that I sang in my young and strong days; for I was present in King Uther’s court when Gwenelda was summoned in proof that Sir Bruno had reported truly of her.”
       Therewith Eliot touched the strings and sang.


Chapter VI
Eliot the Harper’s Lay of Gwenelda of Wales
 
All games that knighthood’s soul delight,
   Let knighthood’s soul approve;
But woe befall the luckless wight
   That wagers on his love!
 
None ever in Uther’s royal court,
   None ever in hall or bower,
Made gracious womanhood his sport,
   Like Bruno of the Tower.
 
Uther, the King, he gave sign;—
   “A test—a test!” he cried:
Brim in the goblets stood the wine,
   And down the harpings died.
 
Save Bruno’s voice, no sound awoke
   That silent banquet hall;
Between the cruel words he spoke,
   You heard the rose-leaves fall.
 
“Ho!—summon, by the herald’s breath,
   Her who, for love of me,
Gave up to swift and bloody death
   The babes upon her knee!”
 
Low murmurs;—then a silence deep;
   Tongues dumb for wonder’s sake:
You gaze like those who walk in sleep,—
   You hear the harp-strings break.
 
“Though deaf to yonder herald’s call,
   Methinks she’ll hear another;
Stand forth! speak ye, my children all,
   And summon quick your mother.”
 
Apart, a warrior-bard did kneel,
   His thrilling harp held high:
His sword was sheathed, but the true steel
   Was flashing from his eye.
 
And amidst the minstrel throng,—
   He was a youth in years,
’Gan touch a low, unequal song,
   Like droppings of the tears.
 
She heard each voice whose life she gave,
   Drowning the herald’s call;
And, like a spirit from a grave,
   She stood amidst them all.
 
“Mark where she stands, with weeping blind,
   The woman of my choice!—
A woman of steady mind,
   And of a lowly voice.
 
“Speak out, Gwenelda! Never fear
   Thy tale of woe to tell:
King Uther he is fain to hear,—
   Say, have I judged you well?”
 
Fair forms around her knees arise,—
   Soft looks, of them that died;
But, not to meet her children’s eyes,
   Her own are turned aside.
 
And slowly, with a solemn peal,
   Her voice to music rose:—
“How deeply I have sinned, I feel;
   How much repent, God knows!
 
“Sinned ’gainst the holy right of home,
   Whose threshold I have trod;
’Gainst earth, and ’gainst the heaven to come,—
   ’Gainst motherhood and God!”
 
“Peace, peace, good wife!—the trial o’er,
   The peril and the pain,
Come to this beating heart once more,
   Back to these arms again.”
 
But with a look—half fear, half pride,
   She slipped from his embrace;
Nor dared upon his bosom hide
   The blush upon her face.
 
“Alas! for me!—to those dear arms
   Full lovingly I came:
Alas, alas; from those dear arms
   That I should shrink with shame!
 
“God knew my heart, and gave me grace
   A holier state to fill:
I dare not stand before His face
   The bond-slave to your will.
 
“True wifehood hath a soul;—’t is gone!
   You knew it;—you forgot.
The love I gave you once is flown:—
   Alas! you loved me not!”
 
An old man, bowed with age and pain,
   Drew slowly to her side.
“Good father, take me back again
   To the old home,” she cried.
 
“And when full soon an angry God
   Claims back this barren life,
Grave deep these words above my sod:—
   False mother, and no wife.”
 
 
       “A woeful issue of a cruel test, truly,” said King Arthur. “I call to mind now that Sir Bruno was ever afterwards called ‘The Pitiless.’ All true hearts were turned against him; and there went a report that he departed from this land a sorrowful man, and journeyed into distant countries to do battle against the Saracens in defence of the Holy Sepulchre.”
       “That may have been,” said Merlin; “but my uncle Bleise knew something of his after-history, and that of his sorely-tired wife Gwenelda; and, if I mistake not, their lives are written down in the chronicles. Since Eliot’s lay stops short so soon, and as I see the fate of Gwenelda has deeply moved many here, I will take good heed to search the records, and we shall see, when the Christmas Feast of Camelot comes round, how the tale really ended.”
       “Pity we should wait so long,” said Queen Guenever. “Is there present no knight or minstrel who can tell us of the after-days of Bruno the Pitiless and Gwenelda of Wales? Sir Percival, you first breathed the air among the mountains of Wales, so I have heard; what tale of Sir Bruno is told on the border?”
       “Gracious lady,” replied Sir Percival, “well I know the tale you speak of; and glad am I to give the close to old Eliot’s touching history. Eliot the harper was indeed ‘a youth in years’ at the time that cruel scene was played before King Uther’s court; but there were younger than he; and it was from one of these—the children of Gwenelda—when grown to manhood, that I heard the tale. The end was this.”


Chapter VII
Sir Percival’s Tale of Bruno the Pitiless
 
When Gwenelda of Wales turned to leave the hall of that castle of Uther Pendragon, at Caerleon-on-Usk, homeless, loveless, and withal bitterly reproaching herself with having set up in her heart such a poor clay-idol as Bruno of the Tower, who could for his sport and pastime so wring her mother-heart, fortune played no worse with her than to give her children back to her arms. As she leant on the aged monk, and looked her last on the court of Pendragon, quick light steps sounded behind her, soft fingers caught her robe, tears fell warm on her hand, and climbing loving forms twined about her waist.
       Sir Bruno had started up in his lordly might. Perchance he would have called the children back, but that, ruthless as he had been, heedless as a wild savage that robs the forest bear of her cubs, a touch of nature and manhood struck home to his heart. Moreover, at that moment, he caught the amazed and angered glance of the great Uther Pendragon, who had known nothing of the cruel masque he had been playing, till he boasted before all the court of his submissive lady, and called her before them in proof that he had counted truly on her obedience. Something in that glance of King Uther’s eye he liked not: he felt sure it boded him no good. When the kingly blood was up no man could meet that glance and not rue it. There was a pause; a silence none dared to break. Then the pent-up scorn in great Uther’s breast found words.
       “Sir Bruno, Knight of the Tower,” he cried, “our court and banquet-board methinks are somewhat too full; your place is wanted.—Hence! and, ere you go, break in twain your forfeit sword; you are unworthy to bear it. Go; and go unchallenged: no knight of Uther’s court shall stain his brand by crossing it with yours!”
       Well may it be guessed that Sir Bruno of the Tower was seen no more at the court of Pendragon. When Gwenelda heard of the king’s scorn, and how her lord was a banished man, and that so the greatest penance was laid on him that he could know, for his unknightly sin of cruelty to her, then her true woman’s heart melted within her for very pity. She remembered only how he had wooed and won her, in her orphan home, when she had but newly left the convent where she was brought up; and her old love pleaded for him till she could find no rest for her great sorrow. Up and down, by wood and fell, by sward and by river, she sought him; but no one knew whither he had gone. Her thoughts turned to Eliot the Harper. When she had departed from the court, with her young children clinging about her, with none to support her but the aged monk, the boy-minstrel had risen from the banquet-board, and flinging down his harp, had followed, sword in hand, to guard from danger a wronged lady and her helpless children. But now she learned that after he had put her in safety he had wandered away into other lands to try his skill in music-matches with foreign minstrels, and she knew not who else might aid her in her search. At last she bethought her of the good lady abbess of the convent where she had passed her young days, and where she had been taught and cared for. To her she went; thinking to herself, “If she may not help me to find my lord, yet ghostly comfort will she give me.”
       But comfort she got little, ghostly or other. The lady abbess, though she had never known children’s love, had a warm heart and a quick judgment, and both alike condemned Gwenelda. When she heard what had happened she questioned her rigidly.
       “You gave your children to death for the love of Sir Bruno?”
       “Alas! yes,” was the answer.
       “But first, when you were told your lord’s life lay in the danger of the king, you threw yourself at great Uther’s feet and pleaded for your lord?”
       “Alas! no,” replied Gwenelda, “my lord said his life were surely forfeit, and no prayers would King Uther hear.”
       “But you essayed it, none the less?” persisted the abbess.
       “Alas! and again, no,” said Gwenelda; “my lord forbade me: he showed me that I had vowed him obedience, and held me to my bond. Only could he be saved, so he said, by giving up the heir to his lands.”
       “And you gave the boy?”
       “Spare me!—I did—I did!”
       “And Uther, not yet appeased, desired the next son, so you were told? And him, too, you delivered up?”
       “Mercy! mercy! lady abbess,” cried Gwenelda; “I shall go mad again with the thought!”
       “Child, cease they sobbing,” said the abbess; “I do but probe the wound to bring thee heal the sooner. The blame is mine. Thou wert ill taught indeed to render up thy soul to this man when thou didst give they heart into his careless keeping. Was he a god, that thou shouldst offer up thine Isaac twice over, without a word, at his bidding? Child, thou hast sinned; yet art thou less blameful than I. My penance shall be heavy for my heedless guardianship of the orphan given to my care. And for thee, thou must shrive thyself. A holy man shall confess thee forthwith.”
       When next Gwenelda sought the abbess, she was asked what penance had been accorded her.
       “Ah,” she answered, “a penance all too light for sin like mine. I am but bidden to go on foot, bareheaded, to yonder forest, and there to tend night and day a sick knight who dies a slow death in a lazar-house, being possessed by an evil spirit; and who is forced ever to keep his visor closed to cover his face, so loathly is he to look upon; and who speaks never human word, but only howls piteously like a wild beast.”
       “Thou may’st find thy penance harder than thou deemest,” was the grave answer of the abbess; and her words proved true in the end.
       Gwenelda took her way to the forest. It blew a fierce gale, and wild to the winds of heaven her fair hair was blown, like rays of the golden sun when he dies in the west. The thorny ways wounded her tender feet; yet on she went, looking neither to right nor to left, but thinking only of the dear ones in the old desolate hall of her dead father, who would need her circling arms and miss her again who was so newly found. It was true that the lady abbess had promised they should be well cared for; but her mother-heart was sore for them, and she wondered more and more when she thought of that madness of love for their lost father which had once made her yield them up to death for his sake. She welcomed her hard penance, for she thought that by wearing out heavy days and nights in a work of mercy and healing, she might become more worthy of her rescued treasures.
       As she entered the lazar-house, the possessed knight, who lay stretched on the bare ground, turned his barred visor towards her, and a dismal groan burst from his lips. From under the closed helm it rang with an unearthly sound. But void of all fear for herself, Gwenelda set about such offices as are needful of the sick. That done, she sank humbly on her bended knees and prayed for the lost soul that had wandered from its earthly dwelling.
       At midnight, when she deemed the knight slept, so still and powerless he lay, he slowly rose up to his feet, and, looking at her long through the bars of his visor and grinding his teeth as sick men do in troubled dreams, he took her by the arm and led her forth from the lazar-house to where the forest was thickest and most sombre.
       He was clad in a leather doublet, without other armour than his helm; but from his baldric hung a sword, and a dagger was thrust beneath the belt. Still no fear for her life troubled Gwenelda, for she thought not of herself. Yet the wood was wild and the hour dreary; and, by degrees, dreadful thoughts of unknown horror began to mingle with the calm of her penance-trial. She recalled the words of the abbess, “Perchance thou may’st find thy penance harder than thou deemest.” But to take her life at once seemed no purpose of the possessed knight; he paused often, and glared at her long with fixed and fiery eyes, as if doubtful what manner of agony to inflict upon her.
       Now the wood-path opened, and glimpses of a watery moon, with a ring as of blood around it, showed the path more clearly; and the winds of heaven, released from the hold of the clasping boughs, once more blew freely upon the wandering golden hair and floating robe of the penitent Gwenelda.
       But whither was the evil knight leading her? Before her lay her father’s castle, with its many towers rising above the chestnut-trees; that tower, from whose narrow loop-hole window her lord had leaped to save her favourite hound that was being worried to the death; and this with the wider casements, where safe in their warm nest her children were lying,—the darlings of her love and sorrow. A strange quiver ran through her frame. She dared not think what new trial might await her.
       The possessed knight, still leading her on with no gentle hand, paused before a low door which led down to the vaults below the castle chapel, which by some means he contrived to unfasten, though it was ever kept securely barred. Here descending the dark stone steps, green and slimy with long disuse, he had led, half dragged her after him, till they came to the wide and lofty vault which contained the dead of all her race. A dim lamp that burned at the far end of the vault showed her where the last coffin—her father’s—was set. Here a sudden fury came over the possessed knight. Still grasping her with one hand, with the other, as if all at once endued with more than human strength, he began to hack and hew the coffin with his sword, till the splinters flew far and wide, and rattled on wall, roof, and floor.
       Horrified at the fearful sacrilege, and powerless beneath this sudden show of malice, for a moment Gwenelda had no power to act. But now a new terror lent her force and courage. An overmastering dread seized her lest the knight’s next attack should be on the children sleeping above in the old tower-chamber, which stood next to the chapel, and in the direction of which was a door leading upward from the vault. With a sudden spring, she tore herself from the grasp that held her, flew wildly through the door, firmly barred it on the outside, and, with the speed of life and death, gained the turret-chamber.
       She gathered the sleeping innocents in her arms, and [fled] down to the great portal, and out into the night, never staying her steps till she stood, all pale, panting, and with bleeding feet, by the bedside of the lady abbess. Terror and flight had left her breathless; but sinking on her knees, and still clasping beneath either arm a rescued little one, she appealed with craving looks to the good mother.
       “It is well,” said the abbess; “they shall be cared for.”
       Gwenelda stayed but to print one thankful kiss on the hand that was stretched out to comfort her, and hurried back to the fearful scene of her penance. As she neared the vault once more, all seemed still as death. She entered cautiously;—but what a sight was there! Her dead father’s coffin lay bare, and white and cold lay the dead within it; while the flickering light from the distant lamp seemed to give motion and life to the senseless clay. The possessed knight stood motionless, fronting the body. A piercing shriek from Gwenelda woke him once more into fury. Again he lifted his sword as if to hack at the lifeless form before him. With another piercing shriek, which made the vault ring, Gwenelda seized his sword-arm and strove to stay the horrible sacrilege, which made her very blood freeze. But this served only to turn his fury on herself.
       Nerved with unnatural strength, he wound his arm about her. She felt powerless as a child in his arms. In vain she struggled and writhed in his grasp. Maddened and possessed indeed, as it seemed, with the passions of a fiend, there was now no escape from his fury. What new horror was he about to inflict? Her senses almost forsook her. She could not think; she could not cry for mercy where mercy there was none. Out of that dreary vault no shriek of hers could reach her sleeping household.
       She had struggled against his might till faint and sick, when an old toothless hound she well knew bounded in at the open door of the vault and threw his whole weight on the uplifted arm of the knight. Though the hound made no show of tearing him, the creature’s presence gave her new strength. It was Bruno’s hound. Oh that her lord could hear her! Filled with the forlorn hope that he might be near, she cried in her agony, “Oh, Bruno, lord and love, help me! Beloved of my soul,—dearer than life,—precious as heaven,—come to my rescue! Kill me,—let me die upon your breast,—but save, oh save me from this monster!”
       The knight suddenly loosed his hold and started back. The hound dropped to his feet, and fawned and licked them in dumb devotion. The knight raised his visor, and the stern mad passion in his eyes grew calm. It was Bruno himself.
       One glance at his face, and Gwenelda sank down before him on trembling knees. She threw wide her arms, and bared her true breast to the stroke she looked to meet, as she cried, with lips that smiled in their deep joy, “O my lord,—my love, my love,—strike,—strike, and give me rest! Sweet will death be at thy hand, sweeter than life where thou art not! Strike, my Bruno,—strike!”
       But the dagger with which his hand had played dropped from his hold. He took his sword and flung it from him; and he stood and gazed till his soul was satisfied.
       It was enough: Gwenelda sprang up and flung her arms around his neck. So ended her sorrow and trial. Sir Bruno took her from Uther’s lands, and their children with them. Doubtless she fell to her old idol again.
 
       “It was better so,” said a knight-pilgrim, who, having laid aside scrip and staff, had found a welcome at the court of Camelot. “It is likely the lady Gwenelda loved more wisely for the fiery trial she had gone through. In my journey towards the far East, I recall having heard of a pilgrim of the name of Sir Bruno, who had once been a man of a stern life, but had afterwards become noted for sundry acts of grace, and was the founder of the pious [O]rder of the Carthusians. It may have been the same.”
       “Methinks, sir pilgrim,” said King Arthur, “those journeyings Eastward must have furnished you well with adventures. Have you no tale of the lands you passed through in your way towards the holy city of the Sepulchre?”
       “One adventure,” replied the pilgrim, “and of a strange kind, I encountered, which impressed me much at the time, and I am not likely to forget it. It happened among the Black Mountains, a wild and dreary region, as I shall show.”


Chapter VIII
The Pilgrim’s Tale of the Mountain Voices
 
In journeying towards the land of the Holy Sepulchre, pilgrims from many countries wind their way across a chain of mountains of giant height, known in those parts by the name of the Black Mountains. The people who dwell at their feet, among the low-lying valleys set between the lofty hills, are a strange wild race. When well governed, they are capable of deeds of much nobleness and generosity; but tyranny they cannot endure; and under a hard rule they become fierce and revengeful.
       Some while ago, when I was yet young, and went on my first pilgrimage to the Syrian land, I found the dwellers among the Black Mountains suffering under a state of bondage to the will of one man. His name was Talmor. For many years, in wars against the neighbouring hordes, this man had fought bravely for his country. But, after a time, elated by the favours and honours that were showered on him, his ambition knew no bounds; and not only did he crave the supreme rule for himself, but he grew reckless what means he took to compass his ends, or what misery he inflicted on the country of his birth, which he had once so gallantly defended.
       This fierce mountain-chief had one day been called to a feast given by the sovereign king of that country. He entered the hall in gorgeous apparel. No man saw that beneath his richly furred mantle he carried weapons more than one. A number of those who were asked to the feast had fought side by side with him in many a gallant battle for their native land. They loved the man and would have followed him in any enterprise he undertook. They followed his lead now like blind men led by the blind.
       When the feast was at its highest, and the cup was passed, and no man dreamed of ill, at a covert sign from the mountain-chief agreed on beforehand,—which was the dashing down of the cup at the moment lifted to his lips,—those of his band who knew the game that was afoot, leaped quickly from their seats, and, rushing towards the royal throne, struck down their king.
       In an instant every guest sprang to arms. During the wild slaughter that followed, Talmor, the chief, made his way into an inner chamber where the queen had taken refuge with her son, then little more than a child in years. Her he harmed not; but he fell on the heir to the throne, and left him for dead.
       But the boy, though wounded, lived. His mother, the queen, fearful that this should be known, lest the boy’s life should be again in peril, gave him over secretly to the care of a faithful vassal. This devoted servant she charged to bear the child beyond the mountains, and there keep safe watch over him for the few years that remained till he would reach the age of early manhood. To the boy himself she spoke with a firm voice and tearless eye; and, holding up before his eyes his father’s blood-stained mantle, bade him remember well the deed of massacre, and whose work it was, that he might one day be its avenger. Fain would she herself have fled away with the boy; but such a course she rightly judged would but have served to expose him to new danger.
       No sooner was he safely withdrawn from the palace, than the queen hastened to prepare a solemn burial for the dead king, and, as it appeared, also for his heir; and her bitter weeping over her beloved lord seemed indeed as the weeping of one who had lost all that was most precious in the world.
       The grim chief, Talmor, had seized all the strongholds of the capital, where he had placed his devoted followers in such force that none dared to set themselves against him. But the people, though they feared to act openly, muttered between their teeth, and lived in the hope of some chance which might enable them to thrust the king-slayer from his place. As time wore on, these stealthy whispers grew to open words and threats against the usurper. Henceforth, Talmor, who feared neither sword nor spear in open field, began to look furtively around him, like one who sees a secret foe in every branch stirred by the wind. His life became one long and weary watch for the enemy that sits at feasts with the dagger under the furred mantle.
       At last he hit on a scheme to quiet the mutterings of the angry people. To the queen, who lived apart in a retired portion of the palace, from which he had never ventured to drive her, and of which, for reasons of her own, she resolved to hold possession, he had ever shown a great respect. One day he appeared before her in all the state that befits a king; and a king, indeed, he called himself,—King Talmor of the Mount. Never deeming that his will could be questioned, he told her he had determined to make her his wife, and that the bridals should take place without delay. He did not tell her that he had come to resolve to still the tumult among the vassals of the late king, her murdered lord; but her woman’s wit glanced the truth at once.
       “Robber!” cried the queen, “dare you offer me a hand red with my son’s and my husband’s blood?”
       “Beware, proud queen,” answered Talmor; “beware, lest I add your name to the roll of the dead!” He saw that he had taken a wrong step, and now strove to gain by terror what he had failed to win by soft words. But he little knew with whom he had to deal.
        “Take my life if you will,” said the brave queen; “but only touch one hair of my head, and your last of battles has been fought. My people love me. One word from my lips would raise the whole land against you. But the lives of my loyal vassals are dearer to me than revenge. Yet, I warn you, insult me no more. Leave me to mourn my dead.”
       He took her at her word, for he could do no other; and the queen bided her time.
       Things were in this state when I passed on that pilgrimage of which I spoke. The snow lay thick on the Black Mountains. High up in the haunts of the white eagle stretched shelf above shelf of barren rock, as if a sea of giant waves had flowed and frozen there. My way lay along a narrow rocky ledge. The steep hill-side was on one hand; on the other, deep down, roared the restless flood of a mountain torrent, which the ice-king had never chained. Clear as the crystal water was the sharp wintry air, and silent as footsteps on the snow.
       As I turned an angle of the rock, full in my path stood a woman. She was of majestic bearing, but no longer young. Her dress was a long white robe, bordered with red, and richly embroidered with golden threads; the long loose sleeves, bordered and worked in like manner, descending to her knees. On her head she wore the red and gold-embroidered cap of the country, with its matron band of black above the brows, making their pale hue show paler still. Across her breast was a baldric befitting a king; and thrust within a girdle thickly studded with rich red stones was seen the death-dealing yagatan,¹ a sure and ready friend in time of need. Such was the vision that broke upon my astonished sight, and brought to mind the tales of old Rome and its Amazons.
       “Sir pilgrim,” she demanded, “whither are you bound?”
       “To the Holy Sepulchre itself,” was my answer.
       “Are your sins so heavy they brook no delay, sir pilgrim?” she asked; “or may you turn aside for a brief space to win a smile from heaven for a good deed done?”
       “Whither, lady, would you that I should journey?” said I; “the way shall be long and the peril sore that holds me back from doing your bidding.” For she looked queenly, and her brows were knit with a long life-sorrow.
       “Well said, sir pilgrim,” were her words. “Journey, then, whither I shall direct you. When your travel is ended, and you have found whom you seek, give this baldric—it was once a king’s—unto the youth, and bid him be worthy of his country and his race.” She then gave me all needful direction for my guidance; and, passing me on the narrow rocky ledge with the sure step of one used to the mountain way, crossed like a shadow over the snow.
       As I journeyed on, the air continued motionless. Not a breath of heaven’s wind stirred the smallest snowflake that lay poised on jutting crag, or fringed the narrow track I trod with slow and cautious step. Yet something around me—so strange, so viewless-caused me to stop and listen. Yes! There it was; a whispered sound, a murmur as of a human voice on the air. At first I could gather no meaning from the sounds. They seemed to come faint and fitful, as the soft rushing of summer breeze-notes among the shaken aspen-boughs; but, as my ear became accustomed to the tones, gradually they shaped themselves into words—the words of that mountain-land. I knew enough of its language to catch up the shreds of meaning, and to piece the whole, till I became lost in wonder.
       “Irwan, shepherd of the hills,” murmered the mountain tones, “send thy voice across the waste, towards the thrice-rifted rock by the shattered pine, to the hut of Stanisha, keeper of mules. Wake the cry for Vlademir—Vlademir the Avenger!”
       All was still again. My blood crept with a mysterious horror. Yet on I went. I listened—it came again; the same cry, the same words. Again and again were the sounds repeated; now dying away, now ringing on the air like far-borne echoes of some hunter’s call. But this was no chase of the dumb mountain prey:—the cry was for human blood.
       How far I had gone I know not. All the dreary way the voice pursued me. Now for a more lengthened time all was hushed. Then again a new voice sent the murmered message on.
       “Stanisha, keeper of mules, turn thy face south to the three-circle above the valley of stones. Hail there Juro, the sledge-driver. Bid him pass on the cry for Vlademir—Vlademir the Avenger!”
       Verily it seemed a demon-land, where even the mountains cried aloud for blood! As I held on my way, still pursued by the sounds, once more the fitful murmurs changed their tone, till it seemed as if each succeeding cry was more hellish than the last.
       “Juro, driver of sledges, muffle the bells of thy deer, that thou mayest be heard. Shout, and cease not; shout far across the level mountain for Vlademir—Vlademir the Avenger!”
       Lost in amaze, I continued my journey. I reached the far village I was bound for, beyond the mountains. I found the ancient vassal. I too, like the mountain-voices, whispered, but only into the old man’s ear, the name of Vlademir.
       “He is already on his way,” said the old man. “The voice of his mother and queen has sent the cry from mountain to mountain. Like a young roe he leaped to the call. He is gone—gone to avenge the blood of his sire. Woe, woe to Talmor!”
       “How can that be?” said I; “one only path lies across these desert wastes. No foot save mine has left its track on the snow.”
       “There are two paths,” was the answer, “from the point where the descent towards this village begins. You, sir pilgrim, must have taken the one, and Prince Vlademir the other.”
       “And the voices?” I cried, still scarcely able to comprehend the mystery of the mountains.
       “The mountain-voices,” replied the old vassal, “are known only to these wilds. By deepening the tone of the human voice in a peculiar way, messages may be sent from point to point across the hills. As one dweller in the huts above hears the call, he repeats it to the next, in the same deep tone through the still, unmoved air. When the winds are lulled, and especially when snow and frost set in, the sound has a power to traverse long distances. It is repeated by each hill-dweller for a length of time, to ensure its reaching the point intended; thus you whole journey has doubtless rung with the cry for Vlademir. He is indeed the Avenger. By the laws of our people the blood of those who die by assassin must be revenged by him who is nearest of kin to the murdered man. Vlademir is son to our slain king.”
       “’Tis a pity he is already gone,” said I. “Behold this baldric. I bring it for the youth; his mother bade me bear it, praying him to be worthy of his country and race. I will return and follow in his track. Some meaning, perchance, more secret than could be borne by the mountain-voices, lies beneath the gift.”
       “No,” said the old man; “rest content. Your errand was but to make the message more sure. It happens sometimes that the dwellers in those far-scattered huts are removed by death or accident; and, in that case, the transfer of the message is doubtful. Tarry with me. You are weary and travel-worn. Here is a bed of rushes for needful rest, and bread and goat’s milk to appease your hunger. Be refreshed; and await with me the issue. They will not fail to send the old vassal news how the Avenger has fared.”
       And so it was. Ere very long the mountain-voices spoke again.
       “Irwan, faithful shepherd, lift the cry;—Talmor has fallen: hail Vlademir your king!”
       “Stanisha, loyal muleteer, send on the welcome news: Talmor is no more; our Vlademir is king!”
       “Juro, happy guider of the deer-drawn sledge, shout!—then set they bells atune: Talmor has fallen for ever;—hail, hail King Vlademir!”
       Each after each, the voices stirred that silent mountain-land. The last only reached our ears, dwelling as we did in the far valley. It was enough. The aged vassal clasped his withered hands, and, looking up to heaven, cried, “Now have I lived long enough; the blood of the king, my master, is avenged!”
      
       The pilgrim ceased. Many said they liked this tale more than most, it was all so new and strange. But King Arthur was of another mind.
       “It is a sorrowful think,” said he, “that a people who, as you say can bear witness, sir pilgrim, are capable of more noble and generous emotions, should cherish for years a thirst for vengeance such as you describe. A chivalrous race would have rallied round their sovereign lady on the instant, and put down the usurper. The wrong was a great wrong, doubtless; but such hoarded and unsleeping hate was a wrong too,—a sin against the justice of God,—unknightly and unchristian.”
       To fill up the pause that followed King Arthur’s words, Sir Dragonet, who ever made the hall ring with his merry moods, offered to relate a queer adventure that had befallen him at the court of Orkney, before he was known to King Arthur. This queer adventure had to do with a Purfled Mantle.


Chapter IX
Sir Dragonet the Fool’s Tale of a Purfled Mantle
 
At the telling of tales a fool is as good as another; for if he telleth a touching tale, and he that hears it wastes tears upon the tale, then I say that the hearer is a greater fool than the teller thereof; whereas, if the fool telleth a merry tale, and the listener’s ear be tickled till he rends his sides with laughter, then it follows that the merry tale-teller is no fool at all.
       When I was in Orkney at the court of King Lot, playing the fool in good enough earnest by falling in love with an armourer’s daughter, there went a tale that the king of Arran Isle had sent a villainous message to the court of Orkney, by way of defiance. A herald brought this missive to King Lot of Orkney, greeting:
       “Forasmuch as I, king and lord of Arran Isle, have caused to be made a full fair mantle of the white fox fur, and forasmuch as it has pleased me to tuft and purfle the same with kings’ beards after the manner of ermine-tails; and whereas I have conquered by the might of my arms sundry and several kings of known repute, and have taken their beards to purfle my mantle withal, I, king and lord of Arran Isle, do send this message to King Lot of Orkney, greeting. Forasmuch as one place in my mantle of the white fox fur is wanting of a beard, it is my will and pleasure to receive or take, by fair means or foul, the beard of King Lot of Orkney to purfle the same. And if in the space of ten days I receive not the beard from King Lot’s chin, I purpose and pledge myself to call together my arms and following, and to come and take the beard from his chin perforce, if I pluck it thence with mine own right hand.”
       When I heard of this message, I forthwith quitted the side of the armourer’s daughter, and betook me to King Lot; and, without more ado, I besought him to dub me knight.
       King Lot said, “Fellow, how may that be? ’Twere a shame to give knighthood to such as thee.”
       “Your pardon, kingly sir,” said I, “if I be but a poor fool, yet am I come of good and brave blood by my father’s side; though, I grant you, my mother was but a cowherd’s daughter.”
       “Then,” said he, “on your knee I bid you stand. Now arise sir knight of Tom Fool’s Land!” And, added King Lot, “There, Sir Dragonet, if ye be not made knight be reason, ye are by rhyme. Heaven grant you a sharp wit that shall serve you as well as a sword, and, may be, better.”
       “Amen!” said I, for I was as good a clerk as I was a Christian. “And now I have two more boons to ask of your grace.”
       “What may they be?” asked King Lot.
       “Only this,” answered I; “since I am a dubbed knight, I would beg leave, firstly, to have a hand in the wording of the message that is to be borne back to this villainous king; and, secondly, to be made the bearer thereof.”
       “With all my heart,” said King Lot; “a fool’s answer to a fool’s defiance. All I desire is that it may be done out of hand, before this beard of mine shall have grown a day older. But what message wouldst thou send, sir fool?”
       “This,” said I, “is the answer I would send:—’I, Sir Dragonet, fool at King Lot’s court, to my brother-in-wit, to wit, the lord and king of Arran Isle, greeting: Whereas I, having and holding sole right and mastery over all beards at this the court of Orkney, by reason of my causing the same at all times and seasons to wag with sundry and divers pleasantries and broaches of wit, do answer for my liege lord King Lot, that his beard may not be well spared at this time. But I, his born fool, do hereby pledge myself that this my own proper beard, now merrily wagging to the sound and tinkle of the cap and bells of his foolship of Arran Isle, shall be held duly forfeit by me to my liege lord King Lot, if, before the ten days of grace be run out, my wit contrive not to prove a match for that of my brother-in-motley, even though it should come to the pulling of beards.”
       “Well said and well writ,” said King Lot. “Now take thy way, and good speed be with thee.”
       All things being got ready and fitting, I took sail for Arran Isle. About my body I bore all such gear and blazonry as heralds use, which would ensure me a safe pass, and so leave me at large to do my will as occasion might serve.
       When I reached his kingship’s lands, as fortune would have it, his graceless was sick-a-bed. “Well,” thought I, “this chance may serve my turn as well as another.” So, having given it out that I had come with greeting from King Lot, and could in nowise deliver what I had to say save and except only to his high mightiness the King of Arran in person present, I was told I might keep my missive till the king could rise to give me hearing. I asked no better than this; for now I saw my way to shame the boastful sinner.
       No sooner was I told to bide my time, than, affecting great concern for the king’s malady, I gave it out that I had on board ship a renowned leech who could cure the king of his humours without pain or risk to life or limb. The leeches of Arran were notably bad; for, like the blood-suckers they are called after, they had a trick of draining a man’s body of its life-juice for each and every disorder, and so doing death’s work for him at first hand. It came about, therefore, readily enough, that the offer of service from a wise man who knew how to let nature have her way, and only helped her with a crutch when she limped and stumbled, was thought worth a king’s ransom at the court of Arran.
       Disguising myself now in a learned gown, and putting on a face as dismal as need be, I made my way to court, and was led to the king’s own bedchamber. King as he was, a fever had got hold of him,—that was plain to see. Here was an unlucky turn. I had not thought things were so bad as that. How was I to work my merry will on a man who, for anything I knew, might be at death’s door—knocking hard to get in? “Well, now,” thought I, “what is to be done? If I leave him to the leeches of Arran, he will never need to knock twice at that door.” So I even made up my mind to do the best I could for him, and save him in very spite.
       The first words the king spoke were, “Sir leech, you may do what you will, if you do but keep from letting my blood.”
       “I shall take none,” said I; “the blood of kings is good blood, and not to be poured like water.”
       “You are a man after my mind,” said the king; “do your worst, then.”
       My worst was better than some people’s best. The first thing I ordered was the shaving of his head. That I knew was a safe remedy and a good. Truth to tell, I did little more. I gave him water from the well; and as I perceived that those about him looked that I should put into it some rare balsamic mixture, I bowed myself over he cup. Then raising my hand above it, as if to drop some costly tincture therein, I thought no harm to bless the cup, and pray heaven heartily that it might bring the sick man comfort and heal,—though I had no priest’s office to do it, but only a poor fool’s will. What the tall, stoled priest who stood there solemn and helpless would have said to the measure was another matter, and no business of mine. I kept my own counsel;—the first fool that ever did.
       Much to the surprise of all, the fever came soon to an end. The skill of the leech of Orkney was lauded on all lands. The king knew not how to be grateful enough, and would have me loaded with gold and honours. But I would have none of either, for I could not but recall that, though I had perhaps been the means, under heaven, of saving the king’s life, yet I had come but to work sport and mischief; and so many men are paid for such things, I liked not to eat other folks’ bread, especially since I had not yet earned mischief-money. But soon my turn came round.
       Seeing the king was growing well, I made it seem that, unless great caution were used, some mischief might even yet ensue. Though I had shaved his head, I had not yet touched the sacred beard of his kingship. As good luck would have it, he asked me to what purpose I had shaved his head. It was true that I had ordered that to be done chiefly to keep his head cool when the fever ran high; but I answered vaguely and mysteriously, as doctors do; and it ended in his taking it into his head that the hair thereon was the prime cause of all the mischief. Then he took panic about his beard, which I took care to hint ought to have been shorn off long ago, as such things hold infection; and I added, as was true enough, that fevers sometimes set in anew, and the last state is worse than the first. Greatly troubled, he appealed to me to know what he was to do. I told him that it was not yet too late. Then he mused, and pondered, and stroked the beard, and could not make up his mind to so awful a sacrifice; for that beard of his was the grandest beard that ever was seen, and he prized it above all things. To comfort him, I told him I knew of a way, after it should be shaved off and well purified by fire and by drugs, of setting it upon his chin anew, with the help of a skin the gold-beaters use, and a choice Arabian gum, in such a sort that no man should know it had ever been severed.
       “By Calidon the woody!” cried the king, “thou art a treasure of treasures. Half my kingdom would I give for such a leech as thou art.”
       With that I took his beard. As the matter to be a great secret from all, I undertook to do the barber’s office myself; and very hard I found it to keep my grave looks, with the poor fool’s beard a-dangling in my hand, and his chin as clean and smooth as the day he was born!
       Now at last had I got what I came for. But alas! I was little the better. At the moment when I most rejoiced at having played the fool’s game of reprisals to the full of my bent, it came into my mind that I had pledged myself to restore the beard to the chin whence I took it. It was true I could easily have stolen away in the night, and taken the beard with me, and hung it up as a fool’s trophy in the palace of the king my master at Orkney. But then, was I not dubbed knight? And, though I was given that honour but in quaint sport, yet it was my right earnest intent to deserve it, and to be worthy of my father’s name,—who was a good knight and a valiant,—by true and honourable dealing; and by the practice of all that belongs to knightly arms, to win my spurs yet in noble earnest. And how could I ever dare to betake me to King Arthur’s court, and bed the grace of knighthood anew, if I held not my plighted word true and unbroken?
       So I forewent any further malice, content with the mischief I had already done; and determined on the morrow to render back the beard to its master. But, as it fell out, the beard was yet to put to shame its boastful owner, as shall be seen in the end.
       The next day, my promise having been kept, and the beard restored to its place by means of the gold-beaters’ skin and the Arabian gum, I forthwith took my leave; leaving the king well refreshed and pleased, and feeling strong enough to receive the herald sent to his court from King Lot, of Orkney.
       Disguised once more, and arrayed in the sacred garments of a herald, I appeared before the court. When the king had caused the answer to his defiance to be read openly in presence of all the grey-beards of his counsel, and other great men of note, well may his wrath be conceived. Forgetful of all else than his anger, he started up from his seat in a mighty fuss and fury.
       “Haste,—prepare,—gather my forces!” he cried, quite beyond himself. “Away! this insolence shall be punished. Back, sir herald! and thank your sacred office that ye bear your head with ye. Tell your king I will make good my words. Tell him I come with all speed. By Calidon! shall I bear this rebuff?—Tell him that as sure as my foot presses his soil of Orkney, so sure will I bring ruin on the city where he abides: not one stone shall be left upon another. By this beard I swear it!”
       So saying, he laid hand on his beard, and plucked at it manfully. But so great was his wrath, that he pulled it too sore. Off came the beard in his hand, before all beholders!
       The amaze and shame of the king, may well be guessed. I had got my dismissal, and I turned to go. Well was it for the honour of the crest-fallen king, that I made good my way to ship-board before he well knew where he was; or he might have forgot what was due to my office, and brought worse shame on himself than the losing of his beard—or of his head either.
       As it turned out, there was no war for that time. Whether he surmised that some sly trick lay under the apt coming of so wise a leech, and was thankful to have come off no worse at my hands; or whether he came to see that he had done a folly too great for even the stomach of a fool, is not to be known. But he got his life; King Lot got his revenge; and I got fooling enough to last me for the rest of my days.
 
       As Sir Dragonet ended his tale of queer adventure, amidst much laughter and merriment, now again there was heard a stir and tumult lower down in the hall, where the great entrance was, and every eye was turned that way to find out what new adventure was come about.


Chapter X
The Lady Angelides’ Tale of the Terrible Horn
 
Suspense was soon ended. A lady with pale cheek and trembling steps, but with a firm and trustful gaze fixed on the royal seat which held the Most Christian King, advanced up the hall. She led a young boy by the hand; and on the other side she was supported by a stranger knight of a most noble aspect.
       No sooner was the lady recognized as Angelides, wife to King Mark’s brother, Sir Baldwin of Britain, than all present saw well that some new calamity must have brought her for refuge, thus almost alone and unattended, to the court of King Arthur in the height of the Whitsuntide feast.
       With courtly ceremony, mingled with a kindly interest ever ready to sympathize with distress, the new guests were at once placed near Queen Guenever. But the young boy was softly stolen to the sheltering bosom of Sir Launcelot’s bride, Elaine.
       When the Lady Angelides was sufficiently refreshed and composed, all looked eagerly for an account of the cause of her sudden appearance there in such unwonted guise.
       “If it shall please you, gentle lady,” said King Arthur, “gladly would we hear the tale of your wrongs, in order that I and my good knights may do what we may to redress them. I fear much our old enemy King Mark has to answer for the distress which is but too visible on the face of the lady Angelides.”
       “Most spotless knight of Christendom,” answered the lady, “it is indeed from the cruelty of King Mark that I and my young son have sought refuge and protection at your court of Camelot—the abode of honour and of truth. If, then, you will graciously listen to my tale, I will narrate in as few words as may be all that has befallen us at the hands of a ruthless king.”
 
       It is well known that my lord, Sir Baldwin of Britain, held under his brother, King Mark, full command of all the forces pertaining to that small kingdom of Cornwall of which King Mark still persists in keeping possession. Not long since a report was spread abroad that certain ships from Saracen lands, under the pretence of dealing in merchandise, approached the Cornish coast, heavily laden with men and arms for the conquest of that country. My lord, Sir Baldwin, as in duty bound both to his brother and to his native land, lost no time in getting at the truth of this rumour; and, finding that all was just as it had been told to him, he gave orders at once for the rout of the enemy while it was yet dark night. He caused wild-fire to be put into two ships, which were then driven into the very midst of the Saracen fleet. He caused also the ports to be well garrisoned with men-at-arms. At break of day, when the whole armed Saracen host hastened to land, but half-armed, and in wild disorder from the burning fleet, the men-at-arms fell upon them and destroyed them.
       When King Mark heard of this, instead of being well pleased that the threatened invasion was so quickly put an end to, he was wondrous wroth that his brother should have won such renown; and, because Sir Baldwin was better loved than he in all that country, and because my lord had ever esteemed and befriended Sir Tristram, he thought to slay him.
       Full of this evil design, he sent a messenger to him, bidding him repair without loss of time to the castle of Tintagel, there to give an account of what he had done. No sooner did he arrive than King Mark questioned him angrily:
       “Brother,” said he, “what is this that I hear? How dared you to act in so weighty a matter without making me of your counsel? Your part was to have sent word to me in order that I might have been present, so that the honour had been mine, which you have stolen for yourself.”
       “Sir,” answered my lord, Sir Baldwin, “indeed there was no time. If I had waited till I sent to you, these miscreants would have set food in the country.”
       But this just defence was of no avail against the envy and treachery of King Mark. He made at that time a fair show of being persuaded of his brother’s truth and honour; but soon you shall hear what befell.
       In the court of King Mark there is a strange custom. A certain man amongst the King’s retainers has given into his keeping a trumpet of brass, which of itself has a fearful sound, and which, from the use it is put to, fills the hearts of those that hear it with terror. About the country of King Mark it is called the Trumpet of Death.
       When any lord or knight is held deserving of death, it is the duty of the man who holds the trumpet in keeping, to go and stand before his door, and to blow long and shrill blasts. Then it is known that judgement has been given, and that there is no hope of pardon. Moreover, the horn continues to blow, and never stops till the condemned man comes forth. It is in vain to hold the gates against this fearful plague. No one ever yet could hold out against it; for either he yields in despair, tortured by the ceaseless din of the terrible horn, or his senses give way before it; for it stops neither day or night.
       Three days had scarce gone by since my lord was called to account by King Mark, when one morning at dawn we both were suddenly startled out of our sleep by the clanging of the dreadful trumpet. Then, too surely, Sir Baldwin kew that he was condemned by his brother, and all hope was over.
       All the day, and all the long, long night, the terrible horn rang in our ears. Sir Baldwin made his last will and testament; and, bidding us array ourselves in deep mourning as for a burial, me and our young son, he, too, clothed himself in deep black. Then, at the dreadful, never-resting summons, we departed out of our happy home, and shut behind us for ever the gates of peace and joy.
       So we went forth together; my beloved lord to his death, I to my forlorn and wretched widowhood, and our young son to his orphan days. So, at least, we thought at that time. But there is yet a hope,—and we cling to it,—a hope that some gentle knight will raise his sword in behalf of Sir Baldwin, for the love of God.
      
       “That task be mine,” said Sir Launcelot, warmly.
       “Nay, rather mine, Sir Launcelot, with your leave,” cried Sir Tristram. “He is my ancient enemy; it is but meet that I should deal with him.”
       “Hold!” interposed King Arthur. “For once I must claim my right of battle, even before that of the best of my knights. This cause of Sir Baldwin’s is sacred to me; the young and the hot blood shall find other fields for the display of its prowess. To you especially, Sir Tristram, the combat is forbidden, not only as near kinsman to King Mark, but because your anger is moved against him for other causes. Tell me, gentle lady, where is your lord, and how fares he?”
 
       Wounded nigh unto death, Sir Baldwin lies hidden in a little grotto hard by a hermit’s cell. There he awaits that succour which I have not sought in vain. Meanwhile the good hermit tends his wounds.
       It happened thus: when we reached the castle of Tintagel, I threw myself at the feet of King Mark, and pleaded hard and long for my dear lord’s life. Sir Baldwin, too, himself once more assured his brother of his duty and loyalty towards his person and power, telling him most truly that all he had acted had been done for the honour of his brother, King Mark, and for the safety and welfare of the land. But it was all of no avail. King Mark broke out fiercely against him.
       “Thou liest, false traitor!” he cried. “Thou art ever seeking to win renown from me, and to put me to dishonour; and thou cherishest all those that I hate,—ay! even Sir Tristram.”
       With that, he struck him with his dagger; and my lord fell heavily to the ground, without life, as it seemed. Then his evil work done, King Mark fled from the sight of my anguish and from the bitter sobbing of our child Alisaunder.
       While I yet searched for any sign of life in my wounded lord, there entered Queen Isond. Her heart was filled with pity and horror. By her means Sir Baldwin was conveyed secretly from the castle, and placed under the hermit’s care, where he showed signs of recovery; for his wound, though deep, was not mortal.
       As soon as Sir Baldwin was in safety, and all had been arranged as it best could for his comfort and healing, Queen Isond warned me to flee away privily, before King Mark should return. Loath was I to go; but when she showed me that the life of my young son might be in danger from King Mark, as she guessed from some words he had let fall; and when she told me that my presence there would surely lead to the discovery of my lord’s retreat, I at last consented, and with my young son set out on our journey to this court.
       But a short way had we passed in safety, when, resting for a moment beside a forest well to drink, I perceived a horseman, whom I at once recognized for a noble Danish knight, coming swiftly towards us as if in pursuit.
       “Lady Angelides,” said he, as he rode up to where we stood, “I am sent by King Mark to bid you turn again, both you and your young son, and to place you under his good keeping.”
       “Alas! sir knight,” said I, “what shall you win by my young son’s death and mine? Have I not had over-much harm and loss already?”
       “Lady,” returned the Danish knight, “be at rest for me. I were no true knight if I did not protect the weak and the guiltless. From Queen Isond I learned the route you had taken in your flight; and though it is true that I am the bearer of King Mark’s message of woe to you, heaven forbid that I should betray you into his hands!”
       No time was to be lost. The Danish knight assisted me to remount, and placing my boy in my arms, sprang again on his own steed. Thus we pursued our way hither. While journeying on, Sir Humbert (for that is the name of the Danish knight whom you here behold) told me how fierce had been King Mark’s wrath when he found that I had fled away with my son; how he had, when we were first missed, sought us himself, sword in hand, from chamber to chamber; and how at last he bade the terrible horn be sounded once more, and hurried to and fro like one possessed, dispatching messengers in quest of us. By good fortune we fell into knightly hands; and sorrow and care seemed to wing the moment we entered the gates of Camelot.
 
       Here, as the Lady Angelides ended her tale of wrong, the young boy, her son Alisaunder, who had been looking impatiently towards the Danish knight, Sir Humbert, broke forth:
       “O prithee, gentle Sir Humbert,” said the boy, “tell us now the tale you promised me as we journeyed hither; the wild tale of the strange northern land,—of the heathen priest and the wolverene.”
       “I will not fail you, young sir, at the fitting time,” answered Sir Humbert; “but I must away, with the gracious leave of King Arthur. Thy father is in peril, young boy, and hath need of me.”
       “Truly the hours wane,” said King Arthur. “Our Whitsuntide feast draws to a close. With the earliest dawn it were fitting every foot were in the stirrup, and every sword ready at the service of the oppressed. My guests, farewell!” added the king, now rising to leave the hall. “Merlin, to council. Gentle ladies and noble knights, God’s benison on each and all! And may our high Christmas feast, this year to be held at Camelot, find ye all once more in presence. Come, my Queen.”
       So saying, King Arthur led forth Queen Guenever. And all the guests, save those who by desire of the king had their abode in the palace, departed from Camelot.


Part II
Christmas
 
Chapter I
The Christmas Feast
 
Six moons had waxed and waned. It was the Christmas Feast of Camelot. Over and above the many who had been present at King Arthur’s feast of Whitsuntide, all of whom were here in place, many more, ladies, knights, and minstrels, came now to this the greatest, pleasantest, as well as the most solemn feast of all the year.
       Among those of King Arthur’s own kin there and then assembled, the nearest to him in blood, after his mother Igerna, were his two sisters Morgana and Maud, the twin daughters of Igerna, born to her in the days when she wept for her first lord, Gorlois. Morgana was unwedded, and was she whom Sir Launcelot ever loved to call his fostering mother, since she saved him from the waters, and gave him the name of Launcelot of the Lake. Maud was wife to King Lot of Lothian and Orkney. This last was mother to Sir Gawain, who is renowned through all lands as the Knight of Courtesy.
       Sir Gawain, much to the surprise and gladness of King Arthur, had returned to Camelot; bringing with him a young bride, lovelier than Elaine, and more gracious than Isond.
       Now, when the king’s sister, Maud, wife to King Lot, took her place at the feast, whereto so many knights had come full of adventure, she was in no way surprised to see there her son Sir Gawain. But, looking towards a young knight who sat near him, she cried on a sudden,—”My son Gareth! can it be he?”
       “Ay, mother;—your pardon!” returned the young knight, who was no other than our silent young squire of the Whitsuntide feast.
       “The holy time be your pardon, my son!” said his mother. “Since you live, and I see you once again, all is well. But I pray you tell me are you wedded; or who may be the lady that sits beside you?”
       “All in good time, dear mother,” replied Sir Gareth. “Every guest here has a tale to tell, and mine shall not be wanting at the fitting time. But first, all are eager to know of the quest of my uncle King Arthur, from whom I received my knighthood at the feast of Whitsuntide last past. To none of his knights would he yield the task of chastising King Mark. He went forth alone; and none know the issue.”
       All eyes were turned towards King Arthur. But a deep silence fell upon the king. Many thought he must have slain King Mark, and that he felt ruth for the deed. The secret depths of that great soul few could fathom. To Merlin only was it known whether the true king or the false had been the conqueror; or what weapons Arthur of Britain had brought against the wrong-doer. The sage caught the calm glance of his master’s eye; and, reading its meaning, answered for him.
       “It is not the custom of knights,” he said, “to speak much of their own deeds; nor do great kings boast of their conquests. When our lord King Arthur sees fit, the fate of King Mark will speak for itself.”
       “So be it,” said Sir Baldwin of Britain, who, as we know, was brother to King Mark, and who was now fully recovered from the wounds the mad king had dealt him; and was seated, happy and forgiving, between his wife, Angelides, and their son, the boy Alisaunder.
       “My nephew Sir Gareth,” said King Arthur, now first breaking silence, “let your history open our Christmas feast. I was your pledge that you would bring no stain on your knightly order. But you have played truant; and your mother has the first claim to know the secret of your wanderings.”
       It was a question who was most eager to hear the tale, as Sir Gareth now gave it, of the silent young squire, and of the proud damsel with the jewelled sword, and of her whom she called her sister, the Lady of West Moorlands.


Chapter II
Sir Gareth’s Tale of the Moorland Mystery
 
It is already known how, at the coming of the damsel Linet, bearing the jewelled sword from her sister the Lady of the West Moorlands, I received knighthood at the hands of King Arthur.
       On the morrow, when I set out on my quest, thinking that the damsel would bear me company, I was grieved to find that her displeasure at being granted no better champion still kept her aloof from me; and it was only after proceeding some way that I found the damsel had mounted her palfrey while I was yet arming, and was already some roods² on before.
       When I rode up my horse beside her, scarce a fair word would she give me; but praised ever the prowess of the Knights of the Round Table, and almost wept with vexation to think that she could bring to her sister’s succour none but a new, untried knight, who could not hope to match with the strength and skill of that terrible scourge of the Moorlands, Sir Brian of the Isles, known as the “Red Reaper.”
       It was in vain I spoke to her of comfort; bidding her be of good cheer, for that if I failed, it was but my worthless life that would be the forfeit—doubly worthless since she despised me,—and while would be willingly lost in her cause. Moreover, I assured her that, if I fell, better champions would arise eager to do battle for a lady distressed. Still she upbraided me for undertaking what was beyond my powers, and coldly bade me return again whence I had come.
       Full sadly I followed on my quest; not that my heart misgave me lest I should suffer defeat, but because of the scorn of the beautiful damsel, from whom one kind word would have given me strength to meet a host. But so we journeyed on, side by side; and never kind word or gentle glance she gave me from sunrise to sundown.
       Soon, however, other thoughts began to stir within me.
       Nearer and nearer we drew towards the goal to which I looked with kindling fire; for I burned to discomfit the scornful damsel, and to prove before her face that in my young veins ran the blood of worthy sires.
       Not long had I to wait. As our journey drew to a close we came near to a certain bridge, spanning the Eden water. This bridge, as we learned, was held against all comers by a knight who laid claim to all the country round about. On inquiring further, it turned out as we had surmised. He who held the bridge was no other than Sir Brian of the Isles, who challenged to single combat any who should dispute the passage.
       Just beyond the bridge, on the verge of the moors, embowered and hidden by towering woods, stood the castle of the Lady of the Lands.
       “Now,” said the damsel Linet, “yonder is my sister’s castle. Win, if thou canst, to the walls where she lies besieged; from within, thou mayest help her, by putting thyself at the head of such forces as she can command, so as to make a sally against the besieging party. But the passage of the bridge is the trial of thy strength. If thou canst fight thy way towards yonder postern, succour may reach thee there;—if not, farewell, poor youth! for I will not stay to see thee slaughtered before my eyes.”
       “By God’s grace, fair damsel, that you shall not!” returned I; “for—though Heaven forbid that I should boast, whose spurs are so newly buckled!—it is my hope to win yonder bridge, and to free your sister and her lands. But turn thou aside out of harm’s way, lest evil befall thee. Yet, before thou goest, deign to bestow on me some slight pledge that if I chance to win the day, as truly I hope to do, I may earn from thee better grace and gentler favour than thou has ever yet dealt to me.”
       “Take this jewelled sword in pledge,” said the damsel; “and give me thine in exchange. If thou winnest this battle, keep the sword; it is thine. If the victory be with Sir Brian, then return it to me if thou art able.”
       With that, gravely and with downcast eyes, she turned away, and I saw her no more; for now Sir Brian himself was seen advancing towards me, daring me to the encounter.
       It becomes not a young knight to make much of his own deeds. It is enough that I so prevailed over Sir Brian that he sank to the ground, disabled and at my mercy. I granted him his life, for he was a valiant foe, on condition that he surrendered forthwith all claim to the domains of the Lady of the Lands. To this he could do no other than agree. Therewith I left him, well pleased to have seen the good end of that adventure with the “Red Reaper.” Calling to my side the dwarf Saladin, who had accompanied me, and who had remained seated on the parapet of the bridge, rubbing his yellow hands with frantic glee at every stroke I had dealt, I bade him care for my horse while I approached, not for succour, but as a conqueror, the postern gate towards which the damsel had directed me.
       What was my surprise to find the postern closed, and doubly barred! All was still around the castle. Not a human face was to be seen; not a single man-at-arms upon rampart or wall. So silent and deserted seemed the place, and so mysteriously had the damsel disappeared, after giving me the sword, that I began to think that, either I must be made the sport of the mocking maiden, or the fabled enchanter was indeed a truth, and that a spell was on all things around and about me.
       Not choosing to give credence to an idle superstition, and caring still less to yield myself the butt of a mocking jest, I turned proudly away to where my horse was browsing under the charge of the dwarf Saladin. My steed neighed a welcome as I sprang into the saddle; and I was soon deep in the shades of a neighbouring wood. Somewhat sad at the abrupt ending of my adventure, and wearied with the hard buffets dealt me by Sir Brian, I once more dismounted; and, laying me down at the root of a spreading beech, sleep soon overcame me.
       I was awoke by the sound of crashing boughs, and by the unearthly yells of my dwarf. The first object that met my eyes was a mounted horseman bearing off my dwarfish servitor, who was struggling to free himself from the strong grasp that held him. In hot haste I mounted, and fell to the pursuit. But my foot was scarcely in the stirrup when the retreating figures, from which I had never for a moment turned my gaze, suddenly disappeared. Spurring my steed up the rising ground before me, I again caught sight of the horse, that had been for a moment hidden from my view.—But saddle and stirrup were empty; neither horseman nor dwarf was visible!
       Bewildered by this new wonder, and doubtful if I were not lost in the maze of some wild dream, I followed the riderless steed, turning my reign once more towards the seemingly deserted castle; impelled by a conviction that there, and there only, was to be sought the unravelling of all this mystery.
       Approaching once more the same postern gate, I found my course was no longer impeded. The gate stood wide open. Beating loudly with the hilt of my sword, and receiving no answer to my summons, I entered without further ceremony.
       For any sign there was of life to greet me on my entrance, I might have walked among the tombs! Passing through a large hall hung round with trophies of the chase, I wandered from chamber to chamber; but found all alike deserted. Here and there, however, were signs where fair hands had been, even now perchance not far distant. A lute lay, newly strung, in the deep recess of an oriel window. On the rush-strewn floor lay the rich bud of a Damascus rose, in half-blown beauty. I stooped to possess myself of the rose, and found it bound to a silken string, so long as to traverse the room. Pondering a moment, I carelessly swept my hand across the strings of the lute, awaking a few opening chords. Instantly another lute answered the music of that which I touched, completing the imperfect air. The rosebud I held stirred visibly in my hand, the silken string attached to it drawing me gently onward in the direction of that mysterious harmony. Dreamy hopes and tender memories played about my heart, as, glancing at my jewelled sword, I thought of the scornful giver, who, in blessing me with the first gentle words I had ever won from her, had exchanged it for my own; and, eagerly looking to the end, I followed the silken clue.
       After groping my way along a vaulted passage, which seemed to lead towards some tower adjoining the main building, and turning at last at an angle with the arched gallery through which I had advanced, a sudden and brilliant blaze of light dazzled and almost blinded my gaze; so that it was a moment or two before I could fully realize the fairy scene before me.
       At the far end of the noble hall, on a raised daïs, arrayed in a robe of white samite bordered with miniver, her hair descending in a shower of gold over brow and bosom, her face half hidden beneath the folds of a bridal veil, sat the Lady of the Lands. Around her, on every side, stood groups of fair damsels, all robed, like their lady, in garments of purest white, but of less costly stuff. On either hand sat a grey-haired knight; while squires and pages stood near, ready to obey the slightest wish of their youthful mistress.
       As I paused on the threshold, more daunted than by the presence of a hundred Sir Brians, a sweet voice, that thrilled to my heart, so much did it resemble that of the damsel Linet, broke the bewildering silence.
       “Welcome, Sir Gareth of Orkney!”
       Surprised to find my name and lineage known, so carefully had I guarded the secret, and disturbed by the voice that addressed me, which sounded from the raised daïs, I stammered forth some strange reply, scarce knowing what I said.
       “Speak for me, Sir Segramore,” said the Lady of the Lands, turning to one of the old knights; “Sir Gareth is amazed, as well he may be. Speak, and let him know the heavy conditions my father’s will has imposed on me.”
       Then spoke Sir Segramore. “Be it known then to the noble knight Sir Gareth of Orkney, son to King Lot, the ruler of the northern kingdom, that an old friendship between that king and the father of this our gracious Lady of the Lands, led the latter to make a strange will. He willed that his daughter, the heir to his wealth, should be wedded to King Lot’s youngest son. All other suitors were forbidden to seek her in marriage till the day when King Lot’s son should attain to twenty-one years. If then the youth, Gareth, should prove unwilling to fulfil the contract made for him, he further willed that his daughter should wed that knight, and no other, who should render her the greatest service in her sorest need. Failing these conditions, both lady and lands were to pass to the convent. Sir Gareth, what say you? Though her veil conceals her, believe me, the lady is fair. Your fathers fought side by side in many a sharp contest. Shall the old bond of kindness descend to their children?”
       In amazed silence I heard. Now, clearly I saw that I stood, indeed, in the renowned castle of Pendragon, once King Uther’s own, and bestowed by him on the famous West Moorland knight, Sir Thorold of Kendal-mere. In the dread that seized me, lest I should be considered bound in honour and courtesy to wed where I loved not, I quickly found true words.
       “Sir knight,” I answered, “however discourteous I must seem to this gentle lady, I should shame my knighthood and do her foul wrong if I spoke not out from my heart. Pardon, gentlest lady,” I added, turning to the Lady of the Lands, “too late I took upon your beauty and grace; already my secret vows are given to another. Would I could say she were not scornful, but gracious as thou art! Win her I never may; yet, for her sake, I must be wifeless.—Pardon, oh, pardon!”
       “Gramercy!” cried the older knight, Sir Urien, who had not hitherto spoken; “then must the lady be mateless too. Her father left her but one other choice; and, by ill fortune, thou art that other! The conquest of Sir Brian of the Isles has done her the greatest service in her sorest need; and, unless thou shalt espouse her, it seemeth to me she must even change her while veil for a black one at the shrine of Our Lady, in the convent hard by. Beshrew me! but it is a pity such beauty should fade in a cloister.”
       At this pass I was more than ever distressed. While I in vain sought for words, my confusion was increased by a new difficulty. The lady, from beneath her veil, cast her eyes on the jewelled sword I wore.
       “At least, Sir Gareth,” she said softly, but in the tone of one who is wronged, “restore me yonder sword; I prize it above all things, for it was the gift of my father, Sir Thorold, who had it of thy sire, King Lot of Orkney!”
       “Unhappy that I am!” cried I, “why must I still seem so uncourteous? Lady, pardon me yet again. This sword was the gift of one I hold far dearer than my life: in death only can I part with it.”
       “A gift, Sir Gareth,” she returned, “can only rightly be bestowed by the owner of the thing given. Sir Urien,—Sir Segramore, is not the knight bound to restore the sword?”
       “Without doubt,” cried both the old knights at once.
       “Lady,” I admitted, “it is but just. Take then the rich and jewel-hilted sword; but leave me, I pray you, the scabbard, which is plain and unadourned. Let me, at least, bear with me to the last the most precious part of the gift,—that which has been touched by the fairest fingers in the world.”
       “Be it so,” was the soft answer; “and here is a sword in place of the one surrendered. I pray you take it; methinks it will well fit the coveted scabbard.”
       So saying, she drew from amidst the folds of her robe, a blade which too well I knew; it was the same I had but lately borne, and which the damsel Linet had accepted at my hands.
       “Farewell, then,” I cried; “farewell my youthful dream! She who could so lightly part with my gift to bestow it on another, is cold and cruel to the last.—Farewell, lady. One only boon I ask. If ever again thou shouldst need succour, grant me that I may do battle in thy cause for thy sister’s sake.”
       “My sister!” cried the Lady of the Lands in a tone of surprise; “I never had a sister.”
       “Alas, lady!” I exclaimed, “more and more am I bewildered. Pardon me that I hasten from this castle and from the strange magic that hangs over it.”
       Without more words I strode down the hall. Before, however, I could reach to the further end, a low voice called softly, “Sir Gareth, will you indeed depart without one word of farewell to the poor Linet?”
       With a start, I turned. No form of all those round the daïs resembled the one my eyes so eagerly sought. But, descending from her place and drawing aside her veil of silver tissue, spoke the Lady of the Lands; now, for the first time, in a voice unmasked and unrestrained,—the true voice of the damsel Linet!
       “It is my turn to crave pardon, Sir Gareth,” she cried, as I knelt at her feet and received once more the jewelled sword she tendered. “Take again the gift I gave; and leave me still the sword of the unknown squire. My masque is played out. Why for a time I seemed to trifle with a true heart, you shall one day know. Say, is there pardon and peace between us?
       What words followed, I see by the blush on my lady’s cheek, are not to be the subject of an idle tale.
 
       As Sir Gareth ended, the face of the boy Alisaunder suddenly wore a look of deep disappointment.
       “But the magic,—the mystery of the castle,—the horseman and the dwarf that vanished in the forest,—oh, Sir Gareth, tell us, what did it all mean?” cried the boy.
       “Nay, child, you must ask my lady wife,—the best mistress of magic,—the sweetest, wildest witch that ever took captive the senses of errant knight.” So answered Sir Gareth.
       “Indeed,” said Queen Guenever; “we must ask to have the tale complete; for as it stands it is but a fragment.”
       “The magic was simple enough,” said the Lady Lynetta; for that, and not Linet, was her real name. “And since my lord, Sir Gareth, looks to me to make clear the riddle, I will do so in a few words.”

Footnotes
[1]           A style of Ottoman blade, short and slightly curved.

[2]           “The action or an act of riding on horseback. Also: a period of riding; a journey on horseback, a ride. Obs.” (OED “rood” 1.a.).

[3]           The only substantial change between the 1863 and 1877 editions occurs here. The 1877 edition replaces “His course lay alone for some length” with “For some time he saw no one.”